“What makes the ride so good?” they’d ask.

“Just go do it. You’ll see,” I’d say.

In 2008 Bike Magazine picked it as the best trail in the U.S. Suddenly there were fewer people asking about it and more people just riding it. Back then, an all-day trip to the MRT had to happen on my one day off each week, so it always started with an early-morning mad dash to the trailhead, then a full-speed charge through the forest, followed by fast food on the late-night drive home. But now that I can sometimes take entire weekends off, my girlfriend, Katie, and I devoted two days to the trip, giving ourselves a chance to ride like we had nowhere else to be.

The MRT is best ridden in late summer and early fall, once the Forest Service has finished clearing trees blown down by winter storms and the river is low enough that you can access the trailside hot springs. The ride is a 26-mile (one-way) endurance test, so any attempt at the whole thing begins with a car shuttle from McKenzie Bridge. That’s three hours from Portland, so rather than get up at 4 a.m., we did our driving the day before, picking up wine, cheese, pasta and pesto for dinner from Marché Provisions and cheesecake from Sweet Life Patisserie in Eugene.

The MRT parallels the McKenzie River, which is lined with rustic, riverfront cabins. We booked two nights at Caddisfly Resort, one of a handful of family-owned vacation properties on the river, says owner Dick Lauer. The Caddisfly has three redwood cottages tucked into the forest with a stretch of sand leading to the water. Ours was cozy and felt like home before we’d even dropped our duffel bags. It’s the kind of vacation spot that’s a perfect base camp for outdoor adventure, but a place you’d happily pass a lazy day playing boardgames. The cabins are also located hardly a mile from the lower trailhead, so it doesn’t take much in the way of logistical gymnastics to end the ride at your front door.

If you don’t want to run your own shuttle, which means driving two cars (we didn’t), McKenzie River Mountain Resort near Caddisfly (another great lodging option) will drop you at the start and pick up at the finish. They also rent full-suspension bikes that seem like overkill on the first few miles of trail, which run smooth and fast toward the bright-blue water of Clear Lake. But then the trail splits, and the left fork wanders through an optional, experts-only lava field on the east side of the lake. The right fork, meanwhile, winds to the west, past the cabins at Clear Lake Resort. There it rejoins the other route, taking riders into a section of quick climbs and technical descents that make the full suspension seem very necessary.

Opinions vary on the MRT’s level of difficulty. Generally speaking, the trail gets easier as you go, and there is 1,500 feet of elevation loss over the length of the trail, so you’re rolling downhill even though it feels mostly flat. But the sheer length of the trip prohibits most beginners from completing the entire ride.

About nine miles down the trail, you’ll come to the Tamolitch Pool (aka the Blue Pool), a recommended lunch spot and where the McKenzie River resurfaces after several miles underground.

For two miles afterward, the trail is a momentum-killing squiggle through skin-hungry lava rocks, where even the macho often dismount to walk.

If you can manage this section, the rest of the trail feels almost simple. But even though the trail zooms flat and fast over spongy pine needles here — the section is called Speeder Bikes in homage to “Return of the Jedi” — this is where many riders start to run out of gas.

We cruised along to an alternating soundtrack of rushing water and the muted susurrus of shins against leafy underbrush — but most of all, we heard the sound of our own breathing.

This is how we arrived at Deer Creek (aka Bigelow) Hot Springs, a bathwater-warm pool mixing with the McKenzie River just a few hundred yards off the main trail.

With 10 miles to go, we took a soak, hopping between the cool river water and steaming hot springs. The only controversy was whether we were getting some therapeutic benefit from the mid-ride marination or whether it simply felt so good we didn’t care. So we sat, waiting for some spark to return to our legs. We stayed for a very long time.

“It’s a lauter tun,” says Paul Arney, owner of Ale Apothecary, a boutique brewery tucked away in the woods on the outskirts of Bend. “Its job is to separate the grains from the wort.” Arney recently felled the spruce on his property, hollowed it out and layered it with spruce boughs to infuse an ale called Sahati.

Arney’s approach might sound unusual, but it’s typical for Bend. Since the founding of Deschutes Brewery in 1988, Central Oregon has enjoyed a serious tradition of craft beer making. The industry now counts 11 breweries in Bend proper, five under development and half a dozen in nearby towns (including Prineville’s Solstice Brewing Company and Shade Tree Brewing, Smith Rock Brewing and Phat Matt’s Brewing Comany in Redmond). With Bend’s population at just 78,000, that’s a lot of suds. Yet the beer economy continues to grow, fueled by the creative curiosity of Bend’s brewers.

Little ale house in the big woods
I’ve come to town with my husband, Brendan, to check out the Bend Ale Trail — a collection of 10 craft breweries promoted as the “largest beer trail in the West.” John Flannery, owner of the GETIT Shuttle and unofficial ambassador of Bend, has happily agreed to show us the official trail and then some. The tall, gregarious New Jersey transplant is an unabashed beer lover. “I have no time for bad beer. Craft beer is something I have supported forever,” he says as we head toward Ale Apothecary.

Arney, a trim 41-year-old, founded the Ale Apothecary in 2011 after 15 years at Deschutes Brewery. Standing in his 500-square-foot operation, which feels and smells more like a tiny pub than the converted garage that it is, Arney explains that his techniques — using open fermentation, oak barrels and as few ingredients as possible — means he never knows quite what to expect. His intention is “to make process an ingredient,” he says.

He brews one barrel at a time and ages each for three to 18 months. Arney has brewed five ales to date, which are available through an ale club and a few local bottle shops, and Ale Apothecary can be visited by appointment. The Sahalie, which we’re trying, is mixed-fermentation ale with Champagne-like qualities, a lemony taste and 10.5 percent alcohol by volume (ABV). This is a special-occasion beer, one to be sipped and enjoyed with a crusty baguette and triple-cream cheese — Arney’s suggestion. And suddenly I’m starving.

Second stop at Broken Top
Back on the road, Flannery treats us to part of what he calls his “Art Safari” (in addition to beer tours, he does tours of Bend’s roundabout art installations, wineries and chicken coops, as well as family adventures). “I call it Man versus Nature,” he says as we pass “Migration,” a metal sculpture of birds taking flight. “Because if you look back, they are flying into the power lines.”

Our second stop is Broken Top Bottle Shop and Ale Café. With 250 bottled beers from around the world, Broken Top’s beer angle is international rather than regional. On this early afternoon, families and couples enjoy a late lunch in the sunny café space. Co-owner Andy Polancheck — a 33-year-old Johnny Depp look-alike with hair to his chin, a black baseball cap and thick-framed glasses — offers a tour of the beer case. Here’s Central Oregon, wider Oregon, Alaska, Utah and California, and there’s Germany, Belgium, Austria and Norway. When asked how he picks the beers to carry, he grins. “Whatever is hot right now. The unusual beers.”

Seated at the bar, we choose tasters from 12 taps. Polancheck says the offerings change every day. “People like variety,” he says. “You can’t limit yourself.” Among our choices: Tieton Cider Works Apricot Cider, Double D Blonde from Hop Valley Brewing Company, a Seizoen from Logsdon Farmhouse Ales and Boneyard Beer’s Aleias. With two stops to go, I settle on Pliny the Elder (8 percent ABV) from Russian River Brewing Company. I feel a little guilty with a swath of undrunk Oregon pours to go, but I leave them to Brendan.

Crux of the afternoon
Flannery zips back to our van en route to stop number three so we can dodge a parking ticket. When he learns that our elderly dog is napping while we tour, he insists on bringing her along. Our next stop, Crux Fermentation Project, loves four-leggeds, too. We park our Dizzy next to a bowl of water on the sunny patio, and Flannery points to the back of the property, where the brewery plans to have an off-leash area.

Located in an old AAMCO transmission shop, Crux has a warm, industrial feel. Four long common tables, hewn from a single piece of ponderosa pine, border one end of the tasting room, and the gleaming apparatus of the brewing operation is visible just beyond. Weathered siding, salvaged from an 1810 house in Terrebonne, lines one wall. Copper pendulum lights hang over the concrete bar. Original garage doors roll up in warmer weather for an unparalleled view of Mt. Bachelor, Broken Top and Three Sisters.

Crux is a working brewery with a “tasting room smack-dab in the middle of our operation,” says co-owner Dave Wilson. When the brewer opens the door to the hop room, a spicy aroma fills the air. “It turns heads,” he says.

Under brewmaster Larry Sidor, Crux experiments with methods like open fermentation, oak barrel aging, wild yeast strains and experimental hops. It has created 17 beers to date and is aiming for 20.

We tried a range — Saison, Hefe, Outcast IPA, Flanders Red, Belgian and Nitro Stout. The chocolaty Nitro wins my vote. With one more stop ahead, we have a hearty snack, too: a beer pretzel and the pork quesadilla, with porter BBQ braised pork shoulder, Belgian ale cream mustard, cheese, tomato and ale-caramelized onions.

Sailing on to Silver Moon
With a nano-brewery, a bottle shop and an open brewery checked off our list, we head to Silver Moon Brewing. It got its start as a brewing supply shop, started doing tastings and eventually evolved into a brewpub with a mellow feel. “I always think this place feels like you’re hanging out in someone’s living room,” Flannery says. Taking in the decor from our vinyl booth — a disco ball, 1970s-era chandeliers, wall mural and scattered tables and chairs — I have to agree.

Head brewer Brett Thomas, bearded and in jeans and a T-shirt, looks like a man who’s been working hard all day. He smiles and mentions a tussle with a broken water line. Perched on a stool with a pint in his grip, Thomas is soft-spoken and serious when he talks about his focus on drinkable, European-style ales. “We go after technical beer styles that a lot of brewers don’t chase. More common these days are hoppy, high-alcohol beers that hit you like a fist.”

Thomas describes the feel of Silver Moon as “relaxed and eclectic,” a description that extends to the varied regulars — the after-work crowd, the partiers, young families and midday sippers. It’s also an apt description for the tasting tray we’ve ordered, which includes Pumpkin Ale, Hopnob IPA, Snake Bite Porter and Batch 1000 (made to commemorate the brewery’s 1,000th batch of beer). I’m caught between the pumpkin and porter when Thomas drains his glass and leaves us with this to think about: “The culture of craft beer is ingrained in the lifestyle here in Bend. It’s woven into our daily lives.” I’ll drink to that.

Eat and sleep
The Sparrow Bakery: Postage stamp-size bakery turns out enormous tastes — rich pastries, cookies, pies and éclairs, as well as fresh breads and delightful breakfasts.

5 Fusion & Sushi Bar: Creative cocktails, like the Angry Mango and Basil Collins, are just the beginning. The sushi bar delights, and an entrée menu blends Northwest and Asian flavors with an emphasis on fresh fish, unexpected twists and gorgeous presentation.

The Oxford Hotel: Spend the night at this green boutique hotel and you’ll want to stay forever. The clean, modern design has a distinctly Northwest feel. We loved the deep bathtub, the French press coffee in the rooms and the view out onto Minnesota Avenue. Stop in at 10 Below Restaurant & Lounge for a leisurely cocktail or intimate dinner.

It’s cold on this morning, and a hearty breakfast is a fine excuse to delay departure. No one I know does a better breakfast than Phil and Nancy at Wilson Ranches Retreat. It’s a meal served with a large portion of humor, as the banter between Phil, Nancy and guests rivals any comedy routine. Having stayed here once before, I consider them old friends, and I get the feeling everyone who stays here feels the same.

I’m here at the start of a four-day tour of my favorite part of Oregon, from the eastern slope of the Cascades to the Idaho border, a vast swath of endlessly curvy roads, incredible scenery and plenty of space to get lost in. The sun has warmed things up nicely by the time I strap on my gear and get in the saddle. Giddy-up.

Fossil to Halfway
I spend my morning on a leisurely ride along familiar state highways, unfamiliar gravel roads and sections of the newly minted Scenic Bikeways system through John Day River country. I pass through small ranch and farming communities with romantic names like Spray, Monument and Long Creek, climbing high into timber, then dropping lower in elevation to follow different forks of the river, occasionally stopping for photographs.

One of my favorite stops in Eastern Oregon is Austin House Cafe & Country Store, just off the junction of U.S. Highway 26 and Oregon Highway 7. It has served hungry travelers for 60 years. Current owners Jeff and Christy Keffer offer up a full menu for breakfast, lunch and dinner, as well as ice cream. The place has history, charm, huckleberry milkshakes and something on the menu called the Big Foot burger, which turns out to be a monster sandwich, terrifying to cholesterol-phobes.

A bit farther east, I travel the Blue Mountain Scenic Byway, from Sumpter, past Granite and over Anthony Lakes. It’s a genuine biker’s dream with sweeping curves and elevation changes. Rounding a tight left just past Anthony Lakes, I catch my first glimpse of the majestic Wallowas, some 30 or 40 miles as the crow flies to the east. I’ll be spending the next couple of days exploring those mountains and Hells Canyon National Recreation Area.

Arriving in Halfway just as the last whispers of golden light kiss the ridgetops of the Wallowas, I check in to the Pine Valley Lodge and walk down to Wild Bill’s Restaurant and Lounge for a chicken-fried steak and a couple of cold beers. I walk off dinner, strolling through town and soaking in the quiet of this mountain hamlet. I like it here — a lot.

From Halfway to Enterprise
Sleep comes easy. Waking less so, until I remember where I am, and what’s in store: the Hells Canyon Scenic Byway. During breakfast, my hostess at Pine Valley Lodge suggests a few off-the-beaten-path side trips that you won’t find on main maps. I soon find myself traversing a steep side canyon to the confluence of the Powder and Snake rivers, with not another soul around and spectacular views rarely seen by car.

Travelers on the scenic byway are sometimes disappointed when they learn the Hells Canyon Overlook offers no view down into the Snake River gorge proper. What they find instead is an expansive view of ridgetops, chasms and the distant Seven Devils in Idaho that make up a section of Hells Canyon. It’s dramatic and sweeping, certainly, but to see the Snake, you have to go down.

More adventure-minded riders might choose one of the treacherously steep dirt roads, like Hess Road or Dug Bar from Imnaha. Take these routes at your own risk, as they are narrow and rocky with limited visibility around corners. There are no guardrails and no margin of error, so anyone choosing to take these roads needs to do so with extreme caution.

Riding solo on a 500-pound bike, I settle for Highway 86 down to Copperfield, the only paved route down to the river, with no regrets. Riding alongside the Snake River, I marvel at the steepness of the canyon walls and the undulating terrain.

Forest Service Road 39 winds through dense forest along clear rivers, connecting Halfway to Joseph and passing the Hells Canyon Overlook. My original plan was to ride to Imnaha and out to Hat Point, but on a suggestion from another local, I decide to check out the less well-known Buckhorn Lookout.

The road — 697 or 46, depending on which map you are looking at — is not well marked, but is well maintained as the gravel road that serves ranches and the national forest to the north and east from Enterprise. Crossing the Zumwalt Prairie, it offers spectacular views of the Wallowas to the west. Some 45 miles or so along, and shy of the overlook, I can’t resist a small, unmarked jeep trail that drops down, turns and ends at the canyon’s edge, offering the most spectacular view of this area I’ve ever seen. In the distance, some 5,000 feet below, I can see the Imnaha River as it disappears around one last corner before spilling into the Snake. The sun hangs low in the west, and shadows creep across to the ridges on the far side. It’s quiet up here, nothing but the wind whispering. Watching the sky change colors as the sun goes down is mesmerizing, and I can’t bring myself to leave, even though I know riding out here after dark can be dangerous. Finally, my sense of caution wins out and I head back to Enterprise, taking extreme caution in the dark the last dozen miles or so and narrowly missing suicidal deer.

Pulling into the Terminal Gravity Brewery and Public House, I find a grove of aspens twinkling with lights and scattered tables of diners and imbibers on the patio. Inside, a friendly publican pours me a pale ale and offers me the menu. I feel quite at home even though it’s my first visit.

Just north of town, I stop for the night at the Log House RV Park & Campground. It offers two luxury tents — full-size, safari-style canvas tents outfitted with wooden floors, king-size beds, sitting areas and gas heaters. This may be the perfect combination of camping and hoteling. Listening to the wind softly rustle the tent walls, I plan the next day’s ride back home and fall asleep staring at a new moon slowly sinking behind the silhouettes of the Wallowas. This is the end of a perfect day in perhaps the greatest place on earth.

In 1993, having missed the Alaska fishing season he’d had his heart set on, Bennett headed for Portland with his hospitality degree. But he never made it. Driving down I-5, he decided Portland wasn’t for him. He drove on and finally exited the freeway in Salem, where his uncle had once settled.

Bennett met his wife and business partner, Janel, at his first restaurant job in Salem. Throughout the ’90s, he streamed through a series of kitchens in the capitol on a mission to glean a well-rounded culinary education. “Janel was a little nervous that I couldn’t hold a job,” he says.

By 2001, the Bennetts were ready to launch a place of their own. In nearby Albany, they found a great space on historic First Street with a handsome downtown and a well-traveled clientele. “I really liked Albany because it reminded me of the small town I grew up in,” he says. The couple opened Sybaris Bistro that October, but the timing was terrible. “Those first months were kind of rough,” he says. Not only did the post-9/11 economy wreak havoc in the industry, Bennett had created a menu that shifted often with the local growing seasons in a time when most restaurants rarely changed their offerings.

As the notion of no tomatoes in January caught on and the economy rebounded, Sybaris Bistro thrived. In 2009 the Bennetts opened Clemenza’s, a family-friendly Italian eatery, and two years later they launched a little joint called First Burger to round out the eating options on First Avenue. Today Bennett is happy to report that there are now several other restaurants downtown, including a coffee shop they’d opened and recently sold to an enterprising restaurateur.

Does Bennett feel he’d have better access to raw materials if he were in a bigger city? Not a whit. He says he’s privileged to cook within arm’s reach of the best farms and to be directly on the seafood supply line from the coast. “I am backstage here, and I’ve got access to all this stuff,” he says. “Whatever I want, whenever I want.”

As a chef more interested in creating a solidly memorable meal than in molecular gastronomy, this locavore is in the perfect place. His most recent obsession (besides the breakfast cereals he eats in his off-hours) is culinary knowledge of the local Kalapuya people, who make up the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde. “I’m really intrigued by the wild plants and the story of the tribe that was here for thousands of years before,” he says.

In 2011, the two-time James Beard Award nominee presented a dinner at the famed Beard House inspired by the culinary traditions of the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde. The thoroughly modern menu featured nettles, acorn flour, venison and Bennett’s version of pemmican — one he’s replicated at Sybaris Bistro to local acclaim.

Ask Matt Bennett what it means to be an Oregon chef and he says, “If they’re good, you should be able to tell they’re cooking from Oregon.”

Lower on the Columbia River and up and down the Coast, countless rivers enjoy true winter-run steelhead. The fish arrive with Oregon’s autumn rains and climb the swollen rivers, ready to spawn. Fresh fish, in the vernacular, are both bright and hot. Hence my love of winter on the Hood — a river that spills into the Columbia not five minutes from home and carries these winter fish.

The Hood and I go back a ways. I’ve followed its creased and sometimes shape-shifting course from near the river mouth, below the I-84 bridge, all the way up to the old angling boundary where Copper Dam once stood. Along this route, I can note one run after another where I’ve hooked and landed steelhead. My home river for the past dozen years, the Hood has played a telling role in my careers as both a fly fisher and a writer, showing up under a host of aliases in my fiction, essays and magazine articles about the fly fisher’s craft.

Little wonder I’m so fond of the Hood. Less apparent are the reasons I harbor my fair share of ill will toward the river as well.

Let me be frank: For the ardent fly angler, especially those seeking winter steelhead, the Hood River can be an absolute heartbreak.

It’s not the walk that’s the problem. Steep and boulder-strewn between its popular and well-known lies, the Hood River must be fished exclusively on foot. Access points make for pleasant hikes into the river canyon and through vigorous stands of riparian woods. The floor of the canyon offers a contiguous wildlife corridor from near the confluence with the Columbia River to remote reaches high in the watershed. In waders, fleece and Gore-Tex, I make ready use of the riverside trails and catwalk atop the old diversion pipeline, searching for open water to swing a fly.

But I don’t expect to catch fish.

That’s a sad admission, but true. Of course, all winter steelheading with a fly rod is difficult. Show up on any Northwest river in winter and chances are you’ll get skunked — to be precise, skunked and cold. Fish for a week and you won’t surprise any fellow anglers should you report you failed to catch a thing.

You tell yourself it’s good to get out: fresh air, fine scenery, a bracing wade in a stern, cold river. Nobody actually believes any of this. It’s the talk generally made by fly fishers who’ve never hooked a true winter steelhead in the first place. And it’s the first one that ruins you. After that, a hundred — as the song says — ain’t enough.

Still, it’s hard not to become a fatalist. Every winter I return to the Hood with new ideas, a fresh stash of can’t-miss flies, refined grain weights and tapers for my Spey rod lines, a clever cast I’ve been working on. And every winter I do about the same. A lot of casts. A lot of frosty dawns and biting winds. Now and then, a steelhead ends up on my line, going bonkers against a backdrop of pale alders or cottonwoods or the pumpkin-colored trunks of ponderosa pines.

What’s especially difficult is that it can all seem sort of random. Or a matter of mere percentages: More casts equal more fish? Difficult, because if that’s all there is to it, then …

Best not go there. Steelheaders, like writers, cling to the belief that with enough thought and enough practice, they can one day master the challenges they love. At least I have, even though my experience on the Hood River has taught me exactly the opposite, leaving me free to aim for nothing more — nor less — than graceful casts that swim my fly through familiar winter waters.

Off the River

Prone to chew on life’s big questions, winter steelheaders can leave the river and continue their musings at the Sixth Street Bistro on the corner of 6th Street and Cascade Avenue in downtown Hood River. Casual enough to enter in your wading fleece, the restaurant offers just the right combination of intriguing dishes at fair prices — along with locally crafted beer — to help any fly fisher face his or her own philosophical drifts. Phad-Thai, red curry, a fairly gnarly bacon-and-blue-cheese burger I often graze from the appetizer menu. Ordered during happy hour, a couple of these starters satisfy the need for both refinement and dirtbag economizing that so many wandering steelheaders search for along with their elusive prey.

And there’s plenty of the steep and deep: More than 40 percent of the 21 runs are rated black diamond, and harbor 900 feet of vertical. Back-country powder hounds love the snow cat access into bowls and glades. And Nordic skiers glide along 30 kilometers of groomed trail (including some dog-friendly routes).

But there’s something else about Anthony Lakes that sets it apart from most ski areas: This year, it enters its third season as a nonprofit, community-owned ski area. Alice Trindle, longtime resident and nonprofit board member, says locals have a strong sense of loyalty and ownership. “It is our ski area. It’s a family tradition. We grew up there,” she says.

Trindle, who has been making turns here since Anthony Lakes first opened, says the area has a physicality that has to be experienced to be understood. “The physical beauty of Anthony Lakes is a huge part of what makes it unique. It is something about the way the mountains surround you here.”

And, she says, the locals are pretty darned friendly. “You feel like you are skiing with friends even if you (came) by yourself.”

Birthday bonuses: This winter visitors can reserve a yurt for overnight stays. You can also rent the entire area for your friends and family with the “Own the Mountain“ program.

Turns out the rural backroads west of Medford lead to a foodie’s bonanza, from Rogue Valley wines to local cheeses, chocolates, meats and produce. After all, Harry & David built a famed food-gift-basket empire from these fertile valleys. Noted photographer and horticulturalist Peter Britt planted the state’s first wine grapes here in the 1850s. What better place to spend a weekend touring and tasting?

With well-mapped wine trails, it’s easy to explore Southern Oregon wineries on your own. But for a more “grape to glass” education, my friend Jennifer and I signed on with Southern Oregon Winery Tours for a daylong tour of the Applegate Valley AVA (American Viticultural Area, or wine-growing region) that included behind-the-scenes peeks into vineyards and barrel rooms. With knowledgeable Aaron Desilva at the wheel of a sleek black bio-diesel-powered Sprinter van, we were soon twisting along the Applegate River toward one of Southern Oregon’s oldest wineries, Troon Vineyard.

“Our whole area is crazy with microclimates,” explains Troon’s winemaker, Herb Quady, as we wander through rows of gnarled cabernet vines. “Our vineyards are on the lower flanks of very rugged mountains. The width of the valley, the slope and the angle all play a role in what grapes do well where.” With a sunny, dry growing season, the Applegate Valley can grow warmer climate varietals than much of Oregon; cabernet sauvignon, merlot, zinfandel and syrah dominate here.

Quady leads the way into a room with rows of oak barrels stacked three-high, the chilled air pungent with fruit. He produces what looks like a long turkey baster — called a “thief” — uncorks a barrel, extracts a sampling of a 6-month-old zinfandel, and splashes it into a glass. We’re essentially getting a sneak preview of a wine that won’t be bottled for another year, sipping as Quady explains the blending and aging techniques that will add layers of complexity to Troon’s award-winning vintages.

Next up is Serra Vineyards, where managing partner Liz Wan greets us in a T-shirt that reads “Southern Oregon: Bring a Corkscrew.” With a brand-new tasting room overlooking a hillside striped with vines, Serra is the new face of a longtime area vineyard. Wan’s ebullient personality and the striking rural view underscore the authentic, unpretentious nature of Southern Oregon’s wine industry. It takes wine back to its roots, I suggest — back to an agricultural product. “It doesn’t get any more real than what’s happening in Southern Oregon right now,” she agrees. “We’re real people with real pocketbooks trying to figure it out.” A sip of Serra Vineyards syrah, with spicy, smoky undertones, makes me think they’ve found their way.

The earthy Spanish grape tempranillo is the focus at Red Lily Vineyards, our third and final stop. I’m enamored with the bold and well-balanced releases produced by Rachael and Les Martin’s 6-year-old winery. But as terrific as these wines are, they risk being upstaged by Red Lily’s incomparable setting. Les leads us through a special events space that looks right out of an interior design magazine, an 80-year-old barn with huge hand-hewn beams, wine-barrel chandeliers and other rustic-elegant touches. The Applegate River burbles nearby, where guests often hang out at picnic tables along a sandy bank. A summer return trip is definitely in order.

We wind up the day back in Jacksonville, a historic gold-mining town filled with locally owned shops, galleries and restaurants. Happily, I have a cottage booked at the delightful Jacksonville Inn. Not only are the accommodations luxurious, the historic hotel’s Dinner House also showcases the local bounty — wild mushrooms, artisanal cheeses, Rogue Valley vegetables — and one of the largest wine cellars between Portland and San Francisco.

The inn’s downtown location also puts guests within strolling distance of the beloved Britt Gardens and the Woodlands Trail System, which rambles through forests of fat red madrones. Another must-stop for foodies — Gary West Smoked Meats — is just a few blocks away, too.

The next morning, Jennifer and I meet up early to explore the region on our own — but not as early as chef-turned-chocolatier Jeff Shepherd. He was casting for salmon on the Rogue at 5:30 a.m. before showing up at Lillie Belle Farms, named for his daughter and his wife. (“I didn’t think ‘overfed hippie chocolates’ would market that well,” he jokes.) “There is a certain lifestyle here for appreciating the finer, simpler things — true friends, the outdoors and quality food,” says Shepherd. “We’ve figured out that the good things in life are really good.”

Exhibit A: the silky, satiny chocolate whirring in vats and oozing into molds in Lillie Belle’s Central Point headquarters. Shepherd sources top-quality, heirloom cocoa beans from all over the world, which he roasts and grinds in-house. The result is an intense, rich, not-too-sweet bar that has nothing in common with that waxy stuff I ate as a kid.

Exhibit B: Lillie Belle’s display cases, where handcrafted chocolates beckon like intricate little jewels. Shepherd offers up samples of smoky blue cheese truffles, lavender fleur-de-sel caramels (a Martha Stewart favorite), poppy flower buttercreams and even little gin martini cups, flavored with juniper berry and garnished with a marzipan olive. “The more you play with chocolate,” Shepherd says with glee, “the more you want to!”

Next door, Rogue Creamery takes pretty much the same approach with cheesemaking. Its ramshackle assortment of old buildings belies a persnickety focus on top-quality, handmade cheeses. Rogue is most famous for its family of blue cheeses, still crafted in the 1957 facility designed to replicate the precise conditions of the caves used for curing cheese in Roquefort, France.

Cheese shop manager Tom Van Voorhees whittles off a slice of Crater Lake Blue from a dairy case of foil-wrapped wheels behind a chalkboard that proclaims, “THIS IS BLUE HEAVEN.” And to a cheese fanatic like me, it is — buttery and briny with a hearty tang. Just like wines, Van Voorhees says, Rogue cheeses are “totally about terroir,” reflective of the quality of the glacial water and the fresh grass consumed by the carefully monitored dairy herd that supplies the creamery’s milk.

It’s totally about the cheesemaking craft, too, on display in the stainless steel room beyond a large glass viewing window. Here, lead cheesemaker Jason Garcia monitors a 10,000-pound vat of milk that will slowly transform into cheddar. “We react to what the milk is doing,” Garcia explains. “It’s touch and timing. That’s what makes it an art, and not an industry.”

And what makes a tasting trip through Southern Oregon such a delicious pleasure.