When President George W. Bush arrived in our valley Thursday for a private fundraiser at Harlan Estate, a score of national journalists descended on Napa County.

From the moment their helicopter touched down with the Bush entourage, an energy exploded on the Napa Valley. Reporters sprinted from their chopper hoping to catch a glimpse of Bush emerging from Marine One.

With cameras and notepads, they came closer and closer into view as I stood my ground as close to the President as the Secret Service would allow.

Immediately, Bush was whisked away in the motorcade and the press launched into vans at the end of the motorcade. We charged the vans, warned that if we lagged behind they leave without us.

As the presidential motorcade snaked through the valley among vineyards and hills, and as this reporter scribbled notes about the cars and the sirens and the crowds of onlookers, our visitors from D.C. turned their eyes on us — the locals.

I was fascinated by the president. The reporters were mesmerized by the grapes.

Once we arrived at the fundraiser, we were herded into the cellar of Harlan Estate while the Republican National Committee fundraiser took place above our heads. Secret Service guarded the door behind us, and we plugged in our laptops up and down a table between rows of barrels.

I sat next to CNN.

The Washington Post was there, and journalists from the Associated Press and Reuters.

The atmosphere was lively.

Many had already filed their stories on Bush’s visit to the fire-ravaged areas in Redding, and the fundraiser was only a footnote in their articles. So as I logged onto “attpress,” the wireless service set up for reporters, they set in with questions about what it’s like to live in the Napa Valley.

No one bothered with Scott Stanzel, the White House deputy press secretary, who popped in and out of the press pool workstation. How blasé. They wanted to hear about Napa.

“You live here?” one reporter asked, amazed. When I insisted my home in south Napa County hardly compares to the exquisite Harlan Estate, he challenged my nonchalance by informing me that he lives in one of the less desirable areas of Washington, D.C.

One asked if the weather is always so beautiful, and after qualifying my statement by pointing out that this is, after all, July, I responded, “Well, yes.”

Another reporter demanded I come up with one bad thing about Napa.

The press sipped on Swanson Vineyards wine, presumably left over from Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s event the previous night at Swanson. We ate chicken with grapefruit and figs and cheese and sun-kissed veggies and other dishes with ultra-rich sauces.

So much for the aggressive herd of reporters charging toward me when their helicopter touched down. These journalists were fun, friendly, passing wine and Pellegrino and gushing — really gushing — about our Northern California microcosm.

To us, the locals, the president was the news. To them, we were just as fascinating.

We chatted for awhile about the ill-fated journalism business, reporters expressing concern over the direction the field will take.

A photographer said, “If I had a kid, and they wanted to go into journalism, I’d slap ‘em.”

One voiced his wish to retire to a smalltown paper in a beachfront community, though he admitted it will have likely morphed into a web blog by then.

Others debated about the coverage of the Middle East, noting that an emphasis on entertainment value often detracts from coverage of overseas events.

After about an hour-and-a-half, the door to the cellar opened and we waited outside the estate for the president to emerge. While I watched the front door for the president, the national journalists oohed and aahed over the landscape, some running their fingers over the Spanish moss that hung from the trees.