Growing Wine Grapes in Seattle? Part 3: Earth, Wind, and Wire

Part 1, Part 2

Hudson’s Bay Company, the PNW Vintner Pioneers

Viticulture reached the Pacific Northwest not with romance but with recordkeeping. In the 1820s, clerks of the Hudson’s Bay Company planted grapes at Fort Vancouver, a small colonial outpost on the Columbia, to see what might survive at the far edge of empire. Those first vines were little more than experiments in curiosity--half trading stock, half sacrament--but they marked the beginning of a long, stubborn question: Can the vine live here?

It would take more than a century for the answer to find shape. East of the mountains, sunlight was abundance itself. But on the western side, where rain and shadow reigned, every cluster required cunning. The coastal growers of the twentieth century learned to do what their European counterparts in Burgundy and the Rhine had done for centuries: work with restraint, not excess.

That spirit found a home in Mount Vernon, where Washington State University began its western grape trials in the 1970s. There, amid fog and field drains, the modern rules for maritime viticulture were written--row by row, wire by wire. From those trials emerged the quiet logic of cool-climate design: narrow spacing, upright canopies, air as medicine. The trellis wasn’t an accessory; it was the architecture of possibility.

Every vineyard west of the Cascades owes a debt to those plots--small, unglamorous, and endlessly instructive. They proved that wine on this side of the mountains would depend less on heat and more on structure. It wouldn’t be abundance that saved the grape, but geometry.

Modern Maritime Northwest Wine Making

Two hundred years after Hudson's Bay, the question remains the same, but our vocabulary has changed. We speak now in the language of degree days and drainage tiles, of clones and canopy density, but the principle endures: coaxing the vine to thrive where sun is rationed and rain arrives uninvited. The maritime Northwest is a region of subtleties--long twilight, mild winters, cool nights that preserve acidity, and soils that rarely forget the last storm. Here, success depends less on brute force than on precision.

Where eastern Washington builds vineyards by scale, the coast builds them by rhythm--rows aligned to the arc of the sun, vines trained in Vertical Shoot Positioning (VSP) to catch what light the season allows, and trellises engineered as both scaffold and compass. It is viticulture as craftsmanship: each wire stretched, each post sunk, each vine set not for conquest, but for conversation with the elements.

And so, establishment in this climate becomes less about planting and more about designing a dialogue—between root and rainfall, between leaf and wind, between earth, wind, and wire.

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The Purpose of the Trellis in Growing Wine Grapes

A grapevine in its natural state doesn’t stand--it climbs. Left alone, it will run wild through trees and hedges, throwing fruit wherever sunlight touches. In its earliest cultivation, that wildness wasn’t discouraged but adapted. The Romans trained vines into elms and maples, creating living trellises--arbustum--where grapes hung in the green shadow of trees. Later, peasants in Tuscany draped them over stone walls and farmyards. In the old villages of France and Georgia, they still grow overhead on pergolas, turning patios into green, fruiting ceilings.

You can train a vine to do almost anything you ask. Run it along hog fencing, weave it through an arbor, or let it sprawl across an apple tree if your heart leans toward chaos. The vine is infinitely patient and infinitely pliable. But to make fine wine--especially in a climate as mild and uncertain as Seattle’s--you must shape that generosity into order. Stop by Mijitas Mexican Kitchen in Eastsound and see for yourself how vines have been trained to crawl all over the patio.

Why We Use Trellises

A trellis is not just an aesthetic choice; it’s a tool of light and air. It holds fruit off the ground, protecting clusters from damp soil and fungal disease. It organizes the canopy, spreading leaves to maximize photosynthesis and airflow. It defines the vineyard’s geometry, setting the distance between vines, the height of the canopy, and the rhythm of labor from pruning to harvest.

Every wire, every post, is a negotiation between vigor and restraint. A trellis doesn’t grow grapes--it teaches them where to grow.

Choosing What Fits Our Climate

In the maritime Northwest, we grow under softer skies. The sun is scarce, the air is heavy, and the rain is punctual. Our trellis must therefore work like a lens--capturing light, channeling warmth, and keeping the canopy open enough to dry between storms.

For these reasons, the Vertical Shoot Positioning (VSP) system has become the standard bearer west of the Cascades. It was developed for the cool slopes of Germany and Switzerland--nearly identical in latitude and temperament to Puget Sound. VSP trains shoots straight upward from a low fruiting wire, creating a narrow, vertical wall of leaves. This structure allows sunlight to strike evenly on both sides of the row while air moves freely through the fruit zone, reducing mildew and improving ripening in short seasons.

The Anatomy of a VSP Trellis

Before a vineyard becomes rows of green, it is geometry and wire. The trellis is the skeleton of the system--the shape the living matter will later fill. In the Vertical Shoot Positioning (VSP) design, everything begins with proportion: how high, how wide, how far apart. These choices determine the balance between sunlight, airflow, and labor for every season that follows.

End Posts and Anchors

A trellis begins at its ends. These posts bear the tension of every wire and the weight of a year’s fruit. Use galvanized steel or rot-resistant wood, never untreated pine or lumber meant for dry climates. In the wet soils of western Washington, go deeper—bury at least three feet, sometimes more on heavier ground to prevent heaving after long winter rains. Note that using treated lumber does not comply with organic growing certification.

Each end post should be anchored, either with a screw anchor or a buried “deadman” brace. Clay soils hold tight; silts and sands will need deeper anchors. Overbuilding is cheaper than rebuilding.

In-Line Posts

Between those end assemblies stand the in-line posts, spaced about 24 to 30 feet apart. These carry the canopy and hold the catch wires that guide the vertical shoots. Metal posts with pre-notched slots are ideal for beginners; they let you lift or lower wires through the season without tools.

Each newly planted vine also receives its own slender stake--bamboo, fiberglass, or composite--tied to the lowest wire. That single stake, through the plant's apical dominance, guides the young plant upwards to the fruiting wire.

Example of a Vertical Shoot Positioning (VSP) vineyard system, with shoots trained upward along catch wires to form a narrow, vertical canopy that maximizes light and airflow.

Wires: The Language of Height

The VSP system uses two types of wire: one heavy, one light.

• Fruiting wire: This is the backbone. Stretch a 12.5-gauge high-tensile wire about 28–32 inches above the ground. Here the fruiting canes or cordons will lie, carrying next season’s clusters. Low enough to draw warmth from the soil, high enough for easy harvest.

• Catch wires: Above the fruiting wire, run two or three lighter (14-gauge) wires, each 8–12 inches apart. These lift the shoots as they grow, forming a narrow, vertical wall of leaves. Moveable clips or hooks let you adjust the wires through the summer, widening the canopy as it fills.

This simple architecture--a low fruiting wire and two or three catch wires--creates the signature VSP silhouette: a clean, upright plane of green that captures the low northern sun and dries quickly after rain.

Grape Row and Vine Spacing

Think of spacing as the vineyard’s breathing pattern. Seven to eight feet between rows allows for equipment and air movement; four to six feet between vines balances vigor and yield. The rule of thumb is symmetry: canopy height should be roughly equal to the distance between rows. This keeps one row from shading the next and ensures even ripening.

Proportion is everything. A trellis that’s too tall shades itself; one too short limits leaf area and fruit development. When in doubt, build for the light you have, not the light you wish for.

The Shape of Discipline

A finished VSP row looks almost austere: parallel posts, taut wires, an open corridor of light. But that restraint is its strength. It teaches the vine to grow upward, not outward; to trade chaos for clarity. In our maritime Northwest, where rain and shadow test every decision, the trellis is not merely support, it is strategy, precision, and patience made visible.

What's Next? The work so far has been about structure—posts, wire, and proportion—the architecture of possibility. But a trellis is only half a vineyard. In the next part, we’ll go deeper into how these dimensions meet the living plant: how spacing shapes vigor, how planting sets the rhythm of growth, and how the first years of training decide everything that follows.

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