Harvest starts at sun up so it is important to be out and on the road early. Cente's (pronounced chen-tay) crew was on board for a Chardonnay pick back on top of Pine Mountain outside Cloverdale. Our caravan sped North up the 101 until we were nothing more than a disjointed dragon, the brushburn breathing diesel fire up front as the four cylinders behind it snaked and chugged along.
Well before arriving at the gate to the ranch I am sure the crew was envisioning something of a mountain top Deliverance, the vineyard sitting some 20 minutes off the beaten path. A bit bewildered and shaken from the last dirt uphill portion of our journery (mazda's prefer asphalt) we were set to harvest at 6:30 am on the dot.
The pick was nothing short of a party. If I were blind and ignorant I would have imagined the hooting and hollering could only come from grown men taking body shots off of greasy dancers at a stuffy Tijuana strip joint. "Look at that set. The clusters are HUGE!" The vines in fact did yield a heavy set and the boys sang the praises of their good luck. Unfortuntely we were only picking two of the 20 odd tons available on the ranch.
As the picking knives swung loose I stood stoic aside the picking bins deleafing and removing any visible signs of mildew/rot. As the bins came in I made it clear that I wanted the fruit clean much like....er...my laundry. Yep my laundry. The shouts came back at me "Ya voy. Nada de ensalada Tommy!" Ensalada of course is a blanket term for foreign debris in the bins. Leaves can create off flavors during maceration of reds and have potential to contribute the same vegetal flavors to a white during a short press cycle. We aim to keep our winemakers and clients happy so the shouting went on:
"!Nada de ensalada porque no soy vegetariano ni quiero comer como un conejo!" Oh, how the vegetarian rubber band has snapped! Whaaapiiicchh.
***
Mid-afternoon I saw a pair of young, dirty touring cyclists riding south on River Road and my heart sank. To be young and free or at least unattached to responsibility. How sweet it is. I wanted to pull over, ask them where they were going, maybe they needed a place to crash, hell I have been in those shoes. Part of me wanted to see if maybe, just maybe I might have known them or hand friends of friends. They certainly looked awful familiar to a couple of ladies I know.
Wanderlust, I am, and the sight of the cyclists reminded me that this will be the first year in many that I have not set off on any lofty or long winded adventure. I am a little upset but also a bit proud that I have been able to sit tight and focus on one thing for what is now going on my ninth month.
Who knows Central America might be a possibility this spring! I'm keeping my fingers crossed, an eye on my checkbook and averting my eyes from the wine shelves...
***
No Friday is complete without a change of plans and heavy commutter traffic. Why always on Friday? Where are people going on Friday that they weren't going Monday night?
So, Murphy's Law, two trailers of compost were running late to a new vineyard we are currently developing. Playing my rookie card to a 'T', I offered up my services to stay late and guide the truck to the development.
The compost was soft, fluffy, moist and virtually odorless. I wanted to jump on top and take a nap. My new organic comforter.
All said and done not really a big deal, but as I cruised home lifting to Hank and the Drifting Cowboys I began to wonder what I was going to do. It's Friday after all and the only thing I could come up with was hitting up a taco truck. After a minute or two of contemplation I realized that my social life is non-existant.
This hermit needs to hit the town.
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