A wise man once wrote that “the most important ingredient in any successful endeavor is preparation.”

OK, so that wise man was me. But I’m sure a quick Google search would reveal that many more celebrated and better documented wise men have said something similar—especially when you consider that it’s a pretty bland sentiment.

Preparing for this trip involved a lot of secondary research: reading about travel trailers, looking at campground maps, pinpointing the exact location of Oregon’s best microbreweries, etc. But I also engaged in a bit of primary research, finding an even smaller and more crowded tin can to squeeze myself into than the R-Pod we’ve rented for the next three weeks.

My friend Richard is a pilot with a 4-seat Bonanza aircraft. Another friend, James, is the wine-buyer for a chain of Bay Area supermarkets. It’s less clear what special skills I could contribute, but fortunately Richard and James have known me long enough to have limited expectations, and they invited me along for a flight to the Paso Robles wine country.

We left San Carlos airport on a recent cool and foggy Friday morning, emerging from the clouds over Salinas and enjoying a smooth descent into warm and sunny Paso Robles. As Richard taxied to a stop, a limo pulled up next to us on the tarmac and I briefly felt like a major celebrity (or at least like a minor Kardashian).

James had planned a full itinerary of wine-tasting for us, and we weren’t flying back until noon the next day so the overindulgence started quickly and escalated even faster. (But hey, that was also important research for the next three weeks of vacation, right?) We got the ball rolling at Tablas Creek, which produces Rhone-style wines using cuttings imported from Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Adding to the “Frenchness” of the experience was the icy glare and contemptuous sniff our Parisian pourer gave us when we started munching a bag of pistachios at her station as we sampled. We had little choice but to placate her by buying a bottle of rosé to enjoy with a picnic lunch on their patio.

Next, we moved on to Daou for a VIP tasting on their hilltop terrace. The views and wines were both lovely, and we took ample advantage of the offer to “revisit anything you like.” (“Revisit” is such a wonderfully pretentious wine euphemism for “barkeep, I’ll have another.”)

Our third stop was Justin, where we got a private tour of the facility and a complimentary tasting of some great Bordeaux blends. And this is where things start to get a bit hazy. I know we left Justin with several bottles. I know we enjoyed two of those bottles at dinner. And I know we were all back in our hotel rooms by 8:00 pm before the sun had even fully set. But any concrete details about the end of that day would would require piecing together fragmented memories, forensic analysis of our iPhones, and perhaps a careful reading of the local police log.

The next morning came way too early, breakfast at the hotel diner was way too greasy, and the flight back was way too bumpy. It was a while before I even wanted to look at wine bottle again (a condition, I’m happy to report, which eventually subsided). But it was a fun day and a great way to kick off a summer of adventure—one that continues today when we hitch up our trailer and head north.