Louis-Dressner imports a lot of youthful, sometimes funky wines – wines that I love, but that sometimes lack the austerity and gravitas I occasionally crave. In fact, much of the cult following surrounding Dressner is built around a host of inexpensive wines, funky natural wine, and heirloom grapes grown in uncommon places. And rightfully so. But they also bring in a few more traditional gems that are true values.

Tonight’s absurdly delicious Dressner import? Sancerre from Thomas-Labaille.

I’ve been in love with this wine since the first time I tasted it as part of the 2005 vintage. There’s no point in repeating what’s already easily available and accessible elsewhere, but in brief, the flagship wine from this producer comes from vines 30 years or older and the vineyard, Les Monts Damnés, is generally regarded as the top site in the entire region of Sancerre.

What’s always drawn me to this particular wine is the uncommon combination of a smooth, supple, round texture and an acidity in the finish that goes on for an eternity. Aging on the lees explains some of the weight, but still, this exceedingly pale sauvignon blanc is paradoxical in how it feels almost viscous but is actually light and tastes minerally but also incredibly tart. It just screams with natural, real fruit flavor, delicate early and puckering late.

Try it with goat cheese. I was introduced to the combination with perhaps my second bottle or so, and in reading up on Sancerre, I saw that Labaille is made near the village of Chavignol, a town famous for its crotin that doesn’t have its own sub-appellation of Sancerre but is obviously home to significant food and drink production. Once again, the rule of thumb that food and drink from a long-standing culture and geography probably work together.

The 2010 vintage just showed up here in Detroit back in December. Ask your local retailer for some. It’s not “cheap,” but it’s hardly a pricey bottle especially for the quality you get. The most intense but elegant sauvignon blanc I can think of for the money.

Before we reached the shelter of the cedar bank behind our cabin, four thirsty doe emerged from the woods. They drank and watched us paddle toward them and then leapt back into the woods when we were close enough. We grounded the canoes for the night. I rinsed my sweaty face in the cold water of the Rifle River and ascended the bank to eat.

A bottle of Cascina degli Ulivi Monferrato Nibio was opened while the pasta boiled on a camp stove. Though the sun had fallen behind the high birch that surrounded the cabin the air was still thick with heat. The Nibio knew no better. It could be thick too, thick with grapes and a sweetness that wasn’t really sweet but the memory of it, thick as it was and drinkable and even a healthy sip behind roasted chicken and pesto.

When the sun rose again we were in a meadow casting to slow rising trout. The tall grass behind us sparkled with dew. Warblers sang morning songs. Then a car spot and a long paddle down the river that was deep and sandy when it wasn’t flowing over gravel beds. The river made me think of wine.

It was a fine, long day and back at camp we devoured whitefish roe and smoked salmon on cream cheese and crackers. A crisp Duval-Leroy was popped. The cork was lost in the woods. The champagne was notably dry and clean and gone before the small tins of caviar. A Clos Roche Blanche Sauvignon finished the job. Out of the cooler it was tight and thin grapefruit. It warmed and bloomed into liquid applestones and yellow butterflies. Our backs ached in a satisfying way and we floated for a moment looking down at ourselves. We were obviously having fun.

Four pounds of Delmonico were thrown on to a white-hot grill. An Altos las Hormigas Malbec filled glasses. Rich and plum-fruit forward the Malbec synchronized with fat bites of steak. A Caprese salad built from homegrown basil and heirloom tomatoes tasted foolishly delicious after all. We slept like royalty on bare mattresses.

We spent the next day touring the Au Sable State Forest through Jack Pine wilderness, ate lunch at a south branch access noisy with drunken midday paddlers, and patted an orphaned fawn named Lucky. A Houghton Lake pizza dinner later we gathered fallen cedar for our last campfire.

2003 Duboeuf Fleurie Domaine des Quatre Vents made the rounds. Perhaps a bit too subtle for camping wine it nevertheless drank quite easily and offered aromas of purple flowers and cherry skins. The wine made me think of wine. A bottle of Chateau D’Oupia and a fire late into the night finished us off. The D’Oupia added pepper-spice to an assortment of olives and comradeship. Down at the cedar bank our canoes set for the morning and one final adventure. In an upstream pond two loons cried out into the night.