Endgames and the Rocky Road Ahead

Harvest has come to a sputtering, jerky halt in the foothills of Anderson Valley. A number of late harvest frosts forced many growers and producers to expeditiously cut fruit from the vines and haul it in to be crushed. The race was on at Navarro with much of the 150 acres of estate grown berries arriving in roughly three weeks time. A slick stream of sweat is still racing down my oft-times furrowed brow. Harvest is not always easy and can sometimes test the most well restrained nerves. The most vicious period during the day is somewhere between five and seven when punchdowns take place, depleting the body of sugar stores and making for a chaotic and scatterbrained finish to the day.

Now the hard part is over, for us at least. Gurgling airlocks bombarded with fruit flies echo in the oval room. Flatbeds lined with foaming red barrels rumble off to be neatly stacked in the warehouse. The hopper and crusher are give a final pressure wash to be put to rest in anticipation for next years harvest. The remnants of fleshy burgundy hued wine gushes from the Europress for once last time. All of which are the endgames of harvest. The crush pad has slowed to a standstill and soon all finished wines will be banished to the vaults, many to mature and some to undergo malolactic. Ah!, the slow steady pace of winter in Anderson Valley.

An ominous signal of a blazing finish to harvest were the toe curling frosts in mid-October. When you sign up to work a harvest you're aware the work and your position are finite and includes the danger of coming to an abrupt end. In Anderson Valley the spring frosts thinned this years harvest creating an exceptionally small crop and short vintage. Likewise fall frosts have forced the leaves to die off at an alarmingly exponential rate; the withering canopy has abandoned its dutiful job of glowing a radiating yellow in favor of turning a ball-scum brown and dirtying the vineyards natural beauty. A site not too many touring samplers will find too appealing. Even the car ride to work seems less appealing in the early hours of dawn. In the cellar a rushed vintage means less hours for the visiting interns and a slower work place in which 'looking busy' will become a learned skill that however important, will not be finding itself in block letters in any jaw-dropping resume. That is until of course you have taken stock in the robotic empire and Jeremy Rifkins' ominous piece The End Of Work. I digress.

A slowing pace in the cellar can also mean moving on to more menial jobs that however unbelievable boring can provide cash in your pocket for a few more weeks while you scour the web and network locally for gainful employment. In Marlborough cellar hands were given the chance to stay on for the expected full eight weeks by working three weeks in the vineyards, clipping in irrigation wire that sat lifeless on the barren soil beneath the vines. Eight hours clipping drip irrigation however monotonous improved my hammer wielding skills tenfold. The stainless hammer become an extension of my arm and I began to challenge the French Walloon to stapling competitions, nailing away down some 250 rigidly trellised Sauvignon Blanc rows with 60 posts a piece. In the morning I would rouse from my vintage camp styled bunk, cradling my right hand as it lie in a tense arthritic fist. Seasonal labor always has a price. (Later I found out from George the Nailer that I was holding the hammer too tight; a blatant rookie move).

Closing out vintage at Navarro meant helping with the pre-release packaging which consists of seven new wines being shipped out just before the holiday season. So when Cubs Dave, the tasting room manager, asked if I was on board to help with pre-release, I enthusiastically agreed, looking for a change of pace and an opportunity to lend a hand where it was needed. My gleeful sentiments were soon whisked away when I discovered the repetitious labor that awaited along an assembly line that screeched as the protective Styrofoam inserts trundled along rollers and raucous vineyard workers made light of their menial tasks poking fun at one another's questioned masculinity. For starters I was given the job of stacking addressed boxes on a pallet for the truck but was then transferred to breaking down boxes. A hulking cellar hand, Jessie the Body laughed ghoulishly from the line as he inserted Brut into the packages while he encouragingly mused in a oh-so laid back Northern California accent "your hands are going to get soooo bloody dooode." It's always comforting when you receive the support of your peers.

Day two I received a first hand glimpse at the birthing area of the packaging operation as I was commanded to the back environs to tape together rectangular boxes and stack them in anticipation of filling them with sleeping wines and a medieval mustard. There I stood, taping the base of recycled uniform boxes creating a fortress around myself, each column higher than the next shading my grimace from the otherwise jovial banter of fellow workers. Or maybe I was building a fortress to hide myself from a poorly educated selection of a collegiate program, an under skilled job resume, or wretched depression of hitting rock bottom. Two hours passed and I felt the futility of my job in the grand scheme of life. Two more hours passed and my elbow began to tense giving new meaning to tennis elbow; this time however I was experiencing a case of taper's elbow and my sagging diaper was beginning to leak. After enough repetitious motion your muscles tense and knot, telling you that carpal tunnel syndrome might only be a night's rest away. Just when you think that you can't sink any lower in the job chain you hit the cold shiny warehouse floor befuddled. How did I get to this point and where do I go from here?

For many, including the vineyard crew, the packaging line provides a respite from the laborious chores under the pulverizing sun or monsoon rains of the Anderson Valley. Many of the guys hail from the vast reaches of sunny Mexico (where everything is legal-Ole!) where the same jobs pay a small fraction of the salary in the states and languish in the opportunity to earn a fair wage. Unlike the others, my view of the job took on a much different perspective. The job provided for me a birds-eye view of the wine club and company's main source of advertisement and public relations. Each box is individually signed with a holiday greeting bestowing cheer or quoting an ancient biblical proverb embracing wines redeeming spirit and includes a newsletter detailing the events surrounding the current vintages. Endless hours of blood and sweat have gone into producing a quality product that however ephemeral will be celebrated with endless mirth and conversation (and hopefully killer food-no puns intended) in the months to come. As futile, demeaning and wearisome as it is to be working on the assembly line it is also rewarding; rewarding to know that when that package arrives you will have provided the impetus in making that person's day. Christmas in November for adults. Drink deep.

Likewise, the experience can be viewed from an optimistic standpoint. The bottle of Haute-Brion is half full rather than missing half a grand. In my case, when you start at the bottom you have no choice but to work your way to the top. The only question is how to get there? Advice has come from far and wide and flowed like nickel candy from a rustic fourth of July float oozing idealism and hard-knock experience. One mentor offered that my best bet was a barnstorming tour of Napa and Sonoma, knocking on well known producers doors along the way. Sounds ingenious but how should I acquire a magnanimous personality and sparkling pearly smile I have no clue. Pagan alchemy I suppose. Talking the talk is not always the same as walking the walk. On top of that wine country is rife with skilled cheap labor. Other options include the service industry, but pushing overpriced jammy Cab in stuffy tasting rooms is not really my thing and the stench of the backroom of the restaurant industry haunts me to this day. Another option is working alongside field workers during the rainy season but most crews are well stocked and tight knit no matter how tough and widespread the labor. Needless to say November through May are hard times for those trying to forcefully wedge their threadbare boots into the cellar door.

As the clock struck November the rains have begun to arrive in torrents. A relentless wave of showers hit the Anderson Valley over the weekend dropping an estimated four inches of rainfall. A much need respite from the summer drought that sparked off endless scorching wildfires throughout the summer. Another sign of the end of fall harvest and the sprouting of wild mushrooms and new growth of the giant coastal sequoias. Harvest finished out in the nick of time.

Personally, I feel the best option for the itinerant worker is to pursue vintage abroad as a skilled slave laborer enjoying the camaraderie of other aspiring winemakers while laboring away to the pulse of the harvester. Ah vintage! My dear friend and arch-nemesis. How I love and loathe thee! Australia's Margaret River and New Zealand's prominent Pinot producing region Central Otago are already in my sights. A double harvest, oh now that would be surreal (and taxing!) Time will tell if I have the right stuff and legal requirements to jump the pond once again and work down under with irreverent winemakers who've demonstrated they're the real deal.

Keep ya' posted. 'Till then no worries mate.