Ferments Away!

Maintaining a vigorous fermentation in your bedroom can be a bit challenging. Especially without such luxuries as central heating. Much similar to keeping my baby carboy beers cold in the dead of winter in Western New York I have employed several methods to keep the Cabernet Sauvignon kicking along at just a hair under eighty degrees Fahrenheit: electric blanket, aquarium heater and space heater at night. Who needs stainless steel tanks with temperature adjusting jackets right?

Monitoring a red ferment is much like having a pet. Let me rephrase that statement, a pet that never sleeps. Jonny Oakes called me at the ass crack of dawn a few days ago and I could only roll over to see his name and roll over once again for a bit of shut eye grumpily groaning 'It's fucking 5 am for Christ sakes!' Please remember folks that unless you are drunk-and-dialin' time zones are in full effect and this princess needs her beauty sleep.

Two hours later I got the message, "Your wine's awake, why the hell aren't you?" Luckily a healthy ferment can go with little to no supervision. Yeast food, two punch downs a day and a bit of heat and shelter goes a long way. Wake up and punch the cap and do it again when you arrive home from work and repeat. Now that I think of it its much more like a house cat.

The Cabernet is down to 15 degrees brix and the Syrah is floating around 11 setting us up for a weekend of pressing. We are crossing our fingers that we have enough for three barrels and toppings. If we are lucky we will escape with enough wine only by my peach hair covered chin.

***

Today wasn't all about exciting micro-vinification projects. No, no it was back to work as usual. This time setting up straw filled waddles for erosion control at a vineyard outside Geyserville. For each 10 foot drop in altitude we marked a level line outlying the route of the waddles. The process was tedious to say the least. Moving the tripod, recalibrating the laser's level, marking the lines with the help of beeping sensors and repeating the process on down the hillside.

I officially take back my comment today that I chose to pursue a career in the wine industry because every day is interesting. Not today however. Humpday was a tiny glimpse into hell: a laser burning my eye atop a breezy hill and static top forty softly playing while an alarm ring blasted away at my ear drums. I officially hate auto-tune.

Thoughts of my own piece of land bounced around in my head: 'when do I get to do this for myself?'

Taste of Buffalo

Slow Party Movement

Guests, and traveling kids in particular, can often times be compared to a bothersome case of crabs (yes those crabs): you never know when they are going to show up and how long before you can get rid of them. Luckily, however, visitors from Buffalo are almost always the complete opposite, bringing tidings of cheer, fragrant body odor and a disposition that makes one long for home.

Thursday night Jimbob rang me and I awoke out of a dead sleep. "Yo dude, we finally made it to Santa Rosa. Were at the corner of Sebastopol Rd. and Dutton. Is there a good place to meet you?"

In my groggy state I could only think to ask "Do you like tacos?"

***

Choosing a better place to rendezvous, we met up at the Safeway parking lot not blocks from my house. "We're parked next to an ambulance" was my only indicator of Jim's location. Upon my arrival I saw two ambulances and imediately walked to the lime-green hatchback hiding behind a pair of EMTs, chilling as per usual. 'Where the hell are they?' I wondered swinging back around to see a sleeping bag being unfurled out the back door of the first rescue vehicle. Ahhhh...hippy van. Now things were starting to make more sense.

"Jim, what the fuck is up" I greeted, turning to see another Buffalonian. "Hey, Tim." Then Nugget jumped out the back door. "Nugget, what the hell is up?" Damn, the Buffalonians were multiplying by leaps and bounds. Kids that call the Queen City home almost always travel in groups or in numbers much like geese, antelope and if you it hadn't popped into your head before, lemmings. I don't think there is such a thing as a city with only one Buffalo ex-pat. We migrate in groups.

***

Quite naturally I offered my people a place to stay, a bed to crash on and happily bought a case of beer to warm our spirits and lubricate conversation. I've been gone for a good eight months and honestly, let's not kid ourselves, who couldn't use a dose of the latest gossip.

Jim, crooned me the latest dope, ala the lyrics of a late eighties Bon Jovi song: moved out-living alone, waiting for approval of mortgage loan, moving on for greener pastures above the tree line, holding down the fort at the retired punx home, playing in new blazing two minute song hardcore band, etc, etc.

I was satisfied and proud. Yes, my friends have all grown up. It had to happen some time. The real question is who is still keeping it real in the band? Or maybe we are all still keeping it real, we have all splintered and moved on to our own deals.

***

Josh and prized Fungus

Josh, a good friend of Janet, also arrived in town early this week from Seattle leaving no room at the inn on Augustan. My housemates have taken the increases foot traffic (up 500%) pretty well.

A week of visitors. A week of little to no sleep. A week of birthdays and crappy Himalayan food. A happy week nonetheless. I can't wait to visit Buffalo in December. Hope y'all have your drinking shoes ready!

And HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Scavenger Cellars

When I see fruit dropped on the ground, ripe fruit, tears well up in my eyes, wavering on the brink of unleashing a tapped fire hydrant and then I realize, it's the business. Wineries chose to drop fruit for a variety of reasons. Most of the times fruit is dropped pre-harvest to lower yields and concentrate flavors but often times bunches are dropped if the fruit isn't up to par or heavily damaged, ie. rot. On Wednesday, however we were dropping bunches with shriveled and unripe berries alike. Reason being is that the winery is seeking quality over quantity and unripe cabernet sauvignon berries might give off unwanted "green" flavors and overripe berries will jack up the alcohol.

Wine grape berries in sunny California often shrivel if exposed to too much sunlight and are not fully shaded by the canopy.

If there is a maxim in the fine wine industry it is balance. Even a wine with high alcohol, say 15 or 16%, can be balanced if it has the fruit and acidity to match. This is California after all where bigger is better is the current trend.

In an attempt to maintain low alcohol levels our client ensured that no shriveled berries would sneak by the fondling fingers on the sorting line. Mouth agape I marched along the rows in the throes of agony thinking about the amount of fruit laying prostrate at its phenological height.

Coming up the vine row with long strides, my boss Dave approached expressing the same sentiments. "Man when I saw you looking at the fruit on the ground I could only think 'Tom must be pissed they are dropping all this fruit'" he ruminated. Right he was. "You should ask Ben if you can pick up some of the fruit," he casually mentioned. The idea of picking up the eighty-sixed cabernet began to twist and turn in my mind like a far fetched Almodovar plot. I couldn't think about abandoning such great fruit to decomposition, no matter how natural the process might be.

After clearing the clean up with the V.P. of operations, the machinery was put in order to pick up the pieces.

Three Nosepickers

Chowing down on four tacos and washing it down with a tall boy of energy beverage my picking crew(all gabachos...what was I thinking?) showed up to Lytton Springs Road and we were on our way north. It was already four o'clock and I knew we were racing against the clock, the sun already beginning its rapid descent below the coastal range.

"Let's go, let's go," I shouted and we paraded up to Cloverdale at warp brushburn speed. The worst part of picking up all the grapes was the fact that they were scattered across the block here and there.

Splitting up we scrambled to gather as many bunches as possible in our picking bins and from five rows over I heard Janet scream "This is just like dumpster diving...except these our grapes." And she is kinda right. Sometimes there is no better price tag than free, but if bumper stickers have taught me anything over the past years it is "Freedom isn't Free". Scratch that Glenn Beck bullshit. What I meant is that even if something is free there is not way to procure it without doing the dirty work.

Do you really think that pizza sitting on top of the dumpster by its lonesome is going to grow legs and walk its deliciousness to your drunk ass's house at 3 am in the morning? I don't think so. You gotta go out and get yours!

De-stemming by Lantern Light

De-stemming. This was a chore I greatly underestimated. I thought 'Hell, a quarter ton. It'll take us two maybe three hours. Max'. I sounded super Californian.

And I was planning on doing it solo before Janet, Lynette and Josh volunteered to give me a hand. Literally. In kind I re payed them with porter and stout. A fair trade I believe.

Four hours latter and I realized the beauty of the machinery. With the help of modern technology we could have finished in a little under ten minutes, but instead we sat on the flat bed shooting the shit for hours in the company of good friends. Maybe it was worth it after all although next time I might wait 24 hours and rent a destemmer from the local homebrew store. Sometimes a good night's sleep is worth more than gettin' er done and a pair of jittery hands in the morning.

A Sticky Situation

The following day I phoned my business partner and spoke of the good news. "I picked up a quarter ton of Cab last night. Thinkin' it might be a good idea to blend with the extra half barrel of Syrah..." I announced to a what seemed a dead line.

"You picked up Cab? What the fuck is going on with you? First Chardonnay and now Cabernet? Maybe you should go get a job in fucking Napa Valley!" Shaunt taunted, half kidding.

And it was true. First, I picked Chardonnay, a grape I swore off for lacking uniqueness and submitting peacefully to oak's evil tricks. Now I was gonna to ferment Cabernet Sauvignon, a grape I abandoned in my early twenties for the allure of the more seductive Pinot Noir and sturdy Rhone Syrahs.

But the fruit! The fruit of this cabernet was too good to give up. Bright blue fruit and dark blueberries, ripe and round, soft, velvety tannins. I am stoked about this wine! Currently it sits in a cold soak outside my room, with three submerged frozen gallons of water taking in the crisp Santa Rosa air and starry sky. At 27.5 degrees brix this baby is gonna be a big wine. Tomorrow or the next and my baby will be inoculated and on its infant march toward winedom.

Being back in ferment mode never felt so good!

Debutantes' March

Old Gregg aesthetic/Old World spirit

Waking up in Boonville is never easy. Maybe it's the Mendo bush weed smoke wafting about the valley, hanging heavy like city smog, slowing the reflexes and desire to pull oneself up, out of bed. Or perhaps it's the drafty, makeship cabins that double as housing units that fail to disguise the cool morning temps. The most likely reason, however, is that I am a lazy pile of shit. That and knew damn well our fruit was not going to arrive at the winery until at least noon.

Ahhhh, Anderson Valley! Preparing a quick breakfast, I could taste the steely pioneer spirit in a couple slices home-baked caste iron bread and a cup of gritty burnt joe. Off to the winery to throw on a pair of gum boots and sort some fruit...

***

Los Pinche Debutantes

What fruit you might ask? A ton of Syrah coming from a reputable vineyard in Laytonville, CA. Northern Mendocino county for those unfamiliar with Californian geography. Our goal was to create a food friendly, acid driven wine with the ability to age for the next 5 to 10 years.

Let's backtrack shall we. Sometime during last year's vintage, perhaps over dinner, I overheard Shaunt (my collegue in this endeavor) casually mention that he was planning trying his hand at making a barrel or two of wine in the upcoming fall. Keeping quiet and not quite sure of where I might be in a year, I tucked the omission away in the back of my head.

After frolicking for months with Kiwis down under, Shaunt returned to los Unite and I contacted him through via a high traffic social nettworking site. My message was sweet and simple: you want to make wine, I want to make wine, let's make wine together. Thus, our plan for a fermented baby was born.

***

Picking a varietal was our first chore. Pinot Noir would have been my preffered choice, but astronomical prices and a desire to focus on less worshiped grape varieties led us to pursue other varietals. My collegue had other designs. Shaunt mentioned he was impressed by a number of Syrah based blends on Waiheke Island. "Not a bad idea," I offered. "Let's see what we can find." Hell, I loved Cotes du Rhone Village blends. Pepper, dark brooding fruit and well structured bodies at affordable prices made the Rhone one of my favorite wine regions.

A summer passed by and I didn't hear from Shaunt, who apparently spent a summer eating frozen lentils and taking pre-requisite classes at a community college in the Bay Area. Meanwhile, I was caught up moving tractors and turning irrigation valves that I didn't have a moment to check into the possiblity of purchasing grapes. If anything I became more apathetic than proactive, leaving our project up in the air.

Finally, in August Shaunt emailed me and expressed renewed interest. We began the search for our Syrah in various Sonoma and Mendocino County appelations: Dry Creek, Bennet Valley, Petaluma Gap, Spring Mountain and finally Northern Mendocino. Due to the shape of the economy and a decrease in luxory wine sales, many wineries have dropped existing fruit contracts, freeing up highly sought after grapes that would be unavailable in any normal vintage. Two months, multiple incidents of presidential flip-flopping, and a bottle of wine later we settled on our Syrah. We made an offer to a highly prized vineyard at half the going rate, they accepted and of course we couldn't refuse. It seemed to good to be true.

***

No berry left behind

Then the rains came, oh did the heavens piss down! Five inches of rain fell on October 13 and it continued to fall on and off for the next week. With the rains often come the increased chance that rot will form on the bunches. Syrah, however, being a thick skinned grape, is typically rot resistant.

***

D-day arrived and our grapes paraded into the cellar on Friday afternoon. A quick glance into the picking bins saw no signs of rot and what seemed an increased incidence of creepy crawlers. For the real test we popped a few berries into the mouth...then a few more. Just as I had suspected; the rains had done their dastardly deed of dilluting the grape flavors. Instead of bright blue fruit I had tasted in the 470 clone at Los Leones, our grapes boasted only subtle nuances of red fruit. Sabotage? Well maybe, but no vintage would be unique without the finicky hand of Mother Nature.

If anything, I think the fruit will be a great learning experience. Our original plan to make a formidible wine fit for long-term ageing quickly needed to be re-drawn. Low sugar levels, less flavor and watered down acid levels have assured that an imperfect vintage. Shaunt made a good point that instead of trying to craft the wine we want to make we have to work with the fruit we recieve. That means, including little to no whole clusters and a shortened maceration period; essentially less tannin extraction. In the end we will be shooting to create a wine that drinks earlier and has less structure rather than a big behemoth that will take years to open up.

To break it down in more simple terms, if you are reading this you can expect to be drinking our wine sooner rather than later.

We're excited. Maybe not piss your pants excited. But excited nonetheless. Stay tuned...

Moondance Stomp

Simple Things

Fall has arrived and I'm elated. Not the busiest day overall, but a few things along the way made it worthwhile nonetheless.

Fall colors have begun to show their face in Russian River; pinot noir and chardonnay canopies are finally giving into senescence, providing a striking contrast to the greening grass and bright blue Californian sky. Simple things like leaves blowing across the road and crunching under the tires make me wish I could live the season forever.

The search for nematodes continued today. Apparently they love saturated soil and recent rains have made conditions perfect for colony counts. Just getting the chance to dig and wedge some soil under my nails brought a smile to my face.

Not just any apple, but a scavenged apple. Hanging lonely out on a limb I jumped up (three times) and pulled this painted lady down. Occidental seems to provide excellent growing conditions as the apple was not too sweet nor too acidic, right in the middle with a crisp crunch. And the color, the color! Incredible convertible red, brushed with magma orange. A fruit canvas Rothko might endorse and a perfect mid-morning snack.

Of course I could only think about upstate New York, Orleans County and my roots. Where I have come from and just where on earth I'm going.

That is yet to be decided.

Sopping Wet

Absolute drudgery. Picking in the rain is never fun. The ground collects under your boots as you trudge your way along the vine row, craned over picking as the rain pecks away at the nape of your neck.

This was a small snapshot of the scene atop Chalk Hill today as we picked at one of our estate vineyards. The elements caused a number of problems prolonging a simple pick into a six hour affair. First, a trailer's rear wheel lost all air as it rolled stubbornly on its rim. Due to soft ground tractors couldn't pass down the vine rows which forced they guys to carry out the fruit from each row. Then the estate liaison arrived to yell at a crew leader for dropping too much fruit the day before further exacerbating an already ugly situation.

To put the icing on the cake, our last block was a serious of terraces in which we formed a human chain to slide the picking bins down the side of the hill. The situation reminded me of other locations such as the Mosel or Gigondas where a pulley system is set up to hall fruit up the hill. No mechanical advantage today however, so la cadena humana pushed on.

At the end, we were soaked, freezing and blood sugar levels were at daily lows. Even the 200 plus Cabernet Sauvignon berries I ate couldn't stop me from a case of the shakes.

I've been begging for rain and I finally got my wish. It is that time of year to see Northern California's other face: saturated, baggy clouds and no shortage of tears.

Projects! Projects! Projects!

Overlooking Sonoma Valley

Roughly three weeks ago my boss Dave rang mid-afternoon. I picked up and Dave announced "Tom, I'd like to talk to you about something. Do you have a bit of time?"

'Shit', I thought, 'What did I fuck up now?'

Actually, Dave called to ask if I would be interested in making wine for a potential client that would like to see what they could do with a 70 year old vineyard they had inherited when they purchased their property on Sonoma Mountain. Would I like to make a few barrels of wine and keep a few cases for myself? Hell yeah! As if it was a question at all.

The real question was whether or not we had a place to process the fruit. After consulting my colleague Shaunt and making sure we had an acceptable place to make the wine, I called the owners of the vineyard back and told them we were interested.

Napa Gamay (Valdigue) or Gamay Noir?

This morning, I returned to the vineyard for the second time and meet with the owners, praying a little pray that rot had not hit the hanging clusters. On the up side the fruit appeared healthy and undaunted by the heavy rains. Flipping the coin over, two samples showed the fruit lagging behind at about 18 degrees brix, some 6 degrees lower than our ideal sugar levels.

My reservations lie in the fact that the vineyard has gone feral, or rather has not been given the necessary care during the growing season. After all we don't want to take in grapes from vines that have been overloaded with fruit and make a crappy wine.

Another variable factoring into our decision about when to pick and what kind of wine to make is determining what kind of wine we will make. Dave seems to think that the grape is Gamay Noir, long know as the main grape used in fruity Beaujolais Nouveau. Napa Gamay, or Valdigue, is a grape from the Languedoc-Roussillon region of France that was commonly planted in Northern Califronia in the post-prohibition era.

Needless to say, both grape varieties are create medium bodied, acid driven wines that have not received much respect in the wine world.

Maybe that is why I am so excited about this project. Not too many people are excited about these varieties as their physiological characteristics prevent them from creating deep, rich, heavy extracted reds that wine critics rave about. Perhaps the world needs a renaissance of low alcohol food driven reds perfect for pairing with fish, seafood, white meat and even vegetables! Vegetarians are people too after all.

I'm stoked! O.k. maybe just hope full that the sugars with shoot up a bit with the upcoming heat wave on the way or maybe we might have to get out the clippers and do a bit of thinning.

Updates on the way....

***

Pints of Doppel Bock make you strong

This afternoons activities, drinking to Octoberfest and carving pumpkins. Salud!

The Big Pick

International

Four years ago we pulled into Cape Girardeau, Missouri along the banks of the muddy Miss-uh-ssip. While some might recognize the sleeping city as the home to neo-conservative (read 'facist') shock jock Rush Limbaugh, the cape town will forever be etched in my mind as my first, ugly foray into poster sales.

Stepping out of our rental truck outside a Travelodge there was a mighty racket in the trees. A wild buzzing that infiltrated our ears and reverberated throughout the body. Pulling up to the counter we nervously announced we had a reservation. Not quite veterans of the poster tour circuit, Gaccess and myself approached every endeavor with child like timidity.

Seeking to brake the ice as we handed over the cold hard cash for a week in a luxrious two bed, poolside non-smoking room I asked what was making all the fuss in the tall conifers surrounding the city.

"Are those locusts making all the racket in the trees," I asked thinking back to a tamer chorus that ruminated along the banks of Lake Ontario durring humid, camp-fire lit summer nights.

"Oh, those, the cicadas. Yeah, they're pretty loud I suppose," he responded. "You get used to it after awhile.

"Right, cicadas," I echoed, using proper nomenclature the second time around. Cicadas are oft-times incorrectly called locusts, which is actually the name for the swarming phase of the short horned grasshopper.

Standing corrected I nodded in approval. Then the attendant countered in a thick, southern accent that hung heavy "But most people jus' call 'em the BIG bug."

Welcome to the South, or better yet the territory where the Mason-Dixon line becomes more of a fuzzy blur than a defined line; where counting Confederate flags and Natural Ice empties would give you a better indication of which side you were actually on. Judging from the slow drawl and arresting humidity I wagered that we were no longer among the ranks of the Union. We were in Jonny Reb's territory. We.... were... officiallly... sigh... carpetbaggers.

***

Flash forward four years, two months and a day. Around seven a.m. I pulled into the lot that seperates our home office from that of Sonoma-Cutrer, searching for a spot to park my bulky green Pontiac. Wedging it between a beat up Saturn and a Blazer I stepped out to hear a different sound altogether: a hulking Kenworth with a roaring engine that was being revved up at two second intervals. A beast of a machine, more akin to a dragon than an eighteen wheeler. Giant plumes of smoke blew out the stacks and the ground near the picking bags shook as we began to stage the pick. Not just any pick. Glenn's pick. The BIG pick at Cicada Vineyard.

Cicada pre-bud break

Cicada Vineyard, located just west of Fulton on River Road is home to an old vine, California sprawl, dry farmed Zinfandel vineyard that my boss purchased some eight years ago. Meticulously farmed and maintained, the vineyard stands out in the area among Chardonnay vineyards on the valley floor. Floored, might be the proper word to express my reaction upon first seeing the gnarly old vines post pruning and then watching the heavy crop load the vines have carried throughout the growing season.

Farming is and will ever be filled with risks, good days and bad, heartaches and jubilant harvests. There is no doubt though that a farmer must calculate his/her risks and make educated decisions. Due to heavy rains this past week and the emergence of rot on the tight bunched Zinfandel clusters, Glenn made the decision to pick on Saturday, even though sugar levels were still below the average of previous years.

Walking alongside a muddy patch of grass between the vineyard and the road I asked Glenn if he was a bit dissapointed by the result of this year's harvest. "Yeah, it's a bummer," he replied "a BIG hickey."

'A hickey, eh?' I thought to myself. No one wants to show off a hickey, but everyone wants to give one at some point in their life. Maybe it's a way to mark their territory or give an ephemeral reminder to a parting lover. Needless to say Glenn's hickey marred fruit was being picked before the botrytis could completely consume the fruit. When farming you have to roll with the punches and make educated decisions. Picking early and saving the majority of a vintage is better than loosing it all.

***

The big pick might be better characterized as the "big sloppy pick" due to a soggy topsoil that caked everything and anything. The Antonio Carraro (as seen below) chugged and fumed, sinking its tires deep in worn territory and picking bins wheels refused to turn as they were pulled behind tractors, skidding along like stubborn mules.

Halfway through the pick I could see the exhaustion in the boys eyes, their hearts yearning to haul ass while their legs heavy with mud began to fill with lactic acid.

Four crews descended like a plague of locusts upon Cicada

***

Much of my afternoon was consumed running fruit to the winery in Kenwood in the hulking International, the flatbed that chugs along at it's own pace setting off a furror among fellow motorists. Lightening the load on Dave, I hauled two truck loads of six tons to Sonoma Valley, banging gears along the way. The drive wouldn't have been so bad except for the fact that you have to cut directly across Santa Rosa and a stretch of strip malls on Farmer's Lane to get from one valley to the other.

Two picks, nearly fifty tons, one routed taco truck and five hours later we wrapped up at the vineyards. The crews were dragging but I can't imagine too unhappy as they made bank and chowed down for free.

I know I was deystroyed, my knees a-painin' and my stomach upset from the grease bathed, assorted pig part Torta Cubana I picked at between trips. Apparently fried hot dogs are an integral part of the sandwich. For posterity sake I will be planning a trip to Cuba in order to verify hot dogs are indeed an ingredient in the real deal.

Time for a whiskey on the rocks.

Pounding Rains

Good for the Garden, Not the Grapevine

The rains have returned to Sonoma County and they just won't stop. To the chagrin of farmers the meteorologists forecasted the rains dying off today to drying rays of sunlight. Unfortunately for vinters and vignerons alike the downpours continued this morning, increasing the chance of rot and plump, watered down fruit.

With only two vineyards left with Chardonnay, we braved the mists and sporadic cloudbursts this morning to salvage the what we could. The big question was whether or not we could use the Kubota Pak-fork in the vineyard with out sinking it along the way.

By 6:30 I was on the highway, a set of eight macro bins behind the cab and the Kubota on a tilt trailer, slightly swaying back and forth on a 2 and 5/8's ball-hitch. Roughly an hour later the crew showed up to lift up bird netting begin severing the umbilical chords.

The cyclical life cycle of vine to wine has begun again. Fruit to custom crush facility. Conveyor belt to shaking table and sorting line. Grapes crushed and destemed, destemed only or neither of the two before being sent to the press. Pressed juice flows to stainless fermenters or barrels for a cold soak and stabilisation period. After 24-48 hours must is innoculated with a cultured yeast strain and fermentation begins. For the next two to three weeks must ferments to wine with yeast nutrient, di-amonium phosphate and other additives entered into the mix. Following fermentation some whites continue in stainless while others, like Chardonnay (although not all, no generalizations please!), are sent to barrel which will be followed by malo-lactic fermenation. Four to five months later your wine could be bottled and be ready to shipped out to your local package store.

For a number of reasons, demand, back supply, ageing, etc, etc., you are more than likely not to see a new white vintage for upwards of a year after it is produced. After all, who wants to release a new vintage before they have completely sold out of last year's stock.

Arriving at the cellar, the receiving winemaker "apologized" for forcing us to pick his vintage in the rain. The idea that we actually worked in the rain was a joke. If this man wanted to see people harvesting in the rain he might want to take a trip to Burgundy, Marlborough or even Western New York. My first vintage it rained for two weeks straight and yes I was the guy in the vineyard harvesting the grapes by hand.

Oh, California! You've got it so rough!

Raging before the Rain

With torrential downpours looming on the Western horizon, we put in a solid effort on Monday to pick as much fruit still hanging on the vines.

California growers appear tormented by the appearance of rain and don't leave to chance the possibility of rot, chosing instead to pick the grapes a bit earlier rather than leaving them to hang.

My day was once again a wacky joyride around Spring Mountain, Chalk Hill and Russian River Valley. After hauling two tons to a custom crush facility outside Santa Rosa I staved off urges to swing by my favorite package store the Bottle Barn and headed up Chalk Hill Road to assist David with a pick at a small 4 acre organic Cabernet Sauvignon block. Picking out heavy I had to scoot to a nearby winery to pick up a few extra macro bins to fill. Maybe the first of our blocks to pick out higher than the estimated yield.

In the afternoon, we prepared for the rains at a new development covering the recently ripped and disked blocks with a quickcover seed mix and straw. Fall and winter monsoon like rains create ideal conditions for serious erosion and are a major concern in Northern California.

Hoping it might be an early afternoon was wishful thinking at best. How could I have guessed right? Rain also makes it hard to carry out certain vineyard jobs and therefore it was necessary to return a rental mini-excavator and then go back to the same vineyard to take soil samples before the cloudbursts.

By 6:30 I finished the nematode samples and heading home earger to consume choco-chip cookies and pumpkin beer.

***

Today! Rain!!! At long last and all day long! A great reprieve from the sun. I never thought I would be so excited to see it rain all day.

Expecting to be moving equipment all day I recieved a call at around 7 am this morning asking if I would prefer to take a day off rather than working in the rain. Hell yaaaaaah! Sleeping in to the pitter-patter of the rain never felt so good.

Above the Fog Line

Camped above the fog on Pine Mountain

With torrential downpours forecasted for early next week, Saturday we needed "all hands on deck" to pull some 25 tons off Chardonnay from the vines atop Pine Mountain. Arriving just after dawn, the Alexander Valley floor remained blanketed with a soft sea of linen as the boys toiled picking the remaing Chardonnay.

With four crews, three tractors hauling picking bins and four trucks to transport the grapes were pulled down and hauled away in a little over five hours. Not to say there weren't a few squabbles. Each crew thinking itself faster than the others was not too keen on the equally distributed pay they were to recieve at the end of the day. Also, nearing the end of the pick, there was a minor fear of bin shortage which fissled as the plague of locusts clipped away at the remaining rows. A surplus of four bins allowed us to breathe a sigh of relief.

However, the heavy pick left us short on truck room, which forced us to rouse the head hancho to give us a hand hauling.

Descending into Napa Valley

While the pick went according to plan I nervously awaited hauling six tons of fruit in the International an hour and a half to Napa Valley. And it really isn't the 101 or the descent from Pine Mountain that makes my palms sweaty, but rather the steep climb up Mark West Station Rd. and down Calistoga Rd. into Napa Valley. Lacking any sort of huevos while climbing the International whines and parrots the Little Engine that could, huffing up hills at a snails pace as locals and uppity tourists curse in my general direction. What can I do people? I got the pedal to the metal! In the words of Dave Mustaine "Metal up your Ass!"

Descending is just as near slow as climbing with the truck in second gear, the engine roaring as it holds back the machines best intentions to rocket down the hillside. Pulling over for a convoy of motorists allows for a stunning look at the Mayacamas, a stunning landscape of jutting rock and conifers.

After dropping the Chard, Glenn sprung for lunch at Buster's, a famous local smoked BBQ joint in the heart of Calistoga. Eating little more than half a dozen grape clusters all day I made quick work of an open tri-tip sammy washed down with the finest Barq's flavored corn syrup north of the Mason-Dixon. Bloated and bulging I finally, kinda-sorta, felt like a trucker.

Buscando Nemo!

Sorpresa

At the butt crack of dawn on Friday morning, I pulled into Sorpresa Vineyard, which sits atop a small mount overlooking Dry Creek Valley. Alson, the proprietor and workhorse behind the vineyard, was out and about with a fresh cup of coffee and awaiting a translator.

I was the first 'manager' on the scene and the thick fruit set was beginning to make the boys anxious, a heavy drool beginning to drip from the side of their mouths. After confering with El Presidente I set the boys on their way hooting and hollering down the first few rows.

Although included in the Dry Creek Appellation the vineyard benefits from cooler nights and sunny days tempered with cooling late afternoon winds. This is not the plump fruit forward Shiraz of Dry Creek, but rather a rich, dark, brooding blue fruit Syrah much more akin to Kick ranch, with its own nuances of course.

Glenn pulled up shortly after me and then Paco, the man who could level with the guys in their own terms. No matter how much spanish you know, as a gabacho you will always be limited by a thick accent and an inability to speak in essence 'Mexican' spanish.

I pulled out first with the brushburn, hauling 3 tons of Glenn's Syrah to the local custom crush facility. The descent down from Sorpresa was long and winding and has been built up by Mondo as being a treacherous hellride. Aside from the descent came the fact that I was hauling the head hancho's fruit, which goes into his flagship vineyard designate Syrah. To put it succintly, these grapes needed safe passage to the cellar if I didn't want to be strung up by a barrel chested man from East Texas.

Coming down the mount was not much different from hauling out a 4 ton tractor on a tilt trailer. Quick like a rabbit I hurried the cool grapes to the facility. Pulling out back onto the freeway Paco rang asking me to give him my ETA. Responding cooly I replied that I dropped and was heading to my next appointment. "Damn man, that was fast" he replied.

Not known for my intrepid speed I had to crack a little smile.

***

Buscando Nematodes

When I lived in Chile it was a guilty pleasure for Dan Cross and I to grab a micro to the giant mall outside of Conce and grab a Sunday. Hell, the movies only cost a few bucks. In reality we tried to catch any of the handfull of Chilean feautures that came out during the year, but I would be lying to say that it wasn't just as entertaining to read the Spanish names of beloved features filmed in the United States and abroad. Although Buscando Nemo or Finding Nemo in the English speaking world was as direct of an translation as you can have, it still made my guata jiggle from laughter.

Friday afternoon, standing neck deep in a ditch, the image was rekindled as my mind swam in a sea of Spanglish. Collecting soil samples to gauge the nematode population at Susanna's Vineyard on Gravenstein highway I drifted back to the days of lazy afternoons, now well behind me. Diggin in the dirt is a way more fun anyway right?

And what the hell are nematodes you might ask? Nematodes, or "roundworms," have a can high concentration in areas of drought or with sandy, compacted shallow soil. Much like the conditions at Susanna's. In areas with high populations they can be responsible for poor vine growth and extensive root damage with will conversely have a negative impact on the vine's fruit quality. Samples are of course required at varying heights to determine if and how bad the infestation might be and chosing the best remedy for the situation.

Hence, my makeshift Indiana Jones glamshot. Trowell and plastic baggie in hand I am digging for the cause of liquid gold.

Melon is My Co-Pilot

Out with the old...

Falling behind on blog posts is much like falling behind on an online collegiate course or even worse remembering to fill out your time card every day....

Needless to say this past week has been a bit taxing with several trips back up to Pine Mountain, lying due Northeast of Cloverdale, the former capitol of Northern California's timber industry.

Wednesday we picked Chardonnay for Caputure Wines, which was founded by the proprietor of the Pine Mountain vineyard. With a French winemaker, an emphasis of gentle processing and their motto "Bordeaux Tradition, Frontier Spirit" it is no wonder that the pick was to require specail instructions. In an attempt to avoid any juicing the boys picked the fruit into individual FYB bins which were then placed on a pallete, plastic wrapped and hauled off to a custom crush facility some 30 minutes away.

Wooden picking bins are now a thing of the past. Too much potential for bacterial infection as wood is not as easily sanitized as food grade macro bins or metal gondolas.

... in with the new.

Hauling four palletes of the FYB bins proved to be another challenge. As the brushburn sped in and out of the curves of the 128 leading to Chalk Hill, the bins flexed and gave in to gravitational pull, giving me added impetus to drive a tad slower than my usual country pace. Offending speeding motorists seems to have become my new MO on the Sonoma backroads.

While dropping at the custom crush facility, which happens to be another vineyard we farm, the on site vineyard liason El Leoncito passed me a perfectly ripe organic melon. Not wanting to offend, but yet knowing there was a small chance I would actually eat the fruit I warmly obliged. My little melon sat shotgun all day, infusing the cab with aromatic musk melon smells as the day heated up.

I wanted to eat him, I really did but I was without knife or spoon and my hands as per usual were covered with dirt, rust, grime and a mixture of humic acid. Better off to let the melon be, my own make believe friend akin to Tom Hanks' 'Wilson' in the flic Cast Away. As the day grew long and my eyes heavy I began to batter the melon with a list of unanswered querries that dance through my head everyday: "Why can't this fertigation be over?", "Will Glenn Danzig ever return to front for the Misfits?", "the Sex Pistols or the Ramones," "punch downs or pump overs," "porter or stout," etc. etc.

Not wishing to respond I sought to ease the tension with a joke:

Q: What did the mama melon say to the baby melon's boyfriend?

A: You Cant-Eloupe!

No response.

***

Merlot: out of vogue

Once the one of the two poster children for Napa Valley Merlot sales have plummeted since the late 90s. While I am not a fan of the grape I can see the beneficial uses for blending and enjoyjment as a stand alone varietal. However, the green olive notes the fruit often gives off in the wine just don't do it for me.

Merlot in my opinion best reflects the whimsical nature of the American consumer. Today's treasures are soon tomorrows trash. That is to say it blows my mind that although a variety that has been popular and remains so today in Bordeaux for over 200 years can so easily be deemed undrinkable and banished from wine lists overnight by a country with a short and stunted wine history.

Another one bites the dust....but will it be 'retro' to drink Merlot in 20 years? If I were a betting man I might put a few clams in the affirmative's corner.

Thursday we returned to Pine Mountain to pick, as you might have guessed, the Merlot. Today I coasted solo as Mr. Melon sat in the cooler climes of the refrigerator awaiting judgement day. A straighforward day nonetheless with a trip to La Nalgona for a few heaping tacos. Stretch pants and tacos, what a combo.

Fertigation Hell

Saturday was a mess. One block left to fertigate (spreading fertilizer through drip irrigation) and I sprung a leak. Water spurting out a hose jutting out the side of a burm. My worst nightmare.

I called it a day and was about to head out to San Francisco when I crashed for two hours. When your body has had enough you really can't fight it.

The city was exactly what the doctor ordered or maybe a what your cool uncle would have ordered. Pizza, boatloads of Irish Whiskey on the rocks, white owl's, a sweaty dance floor and a seat next to John Waters. Yes, the man with the pencil moustache. One of the six cult filmakers that revolutionized cinema in the late 60s (Jodorosky, Lynch, Romero, Sharman and Henzell). Standing up uncomfortably I yelled at B$ to share the pleather couch "Let the man sit down for Christ's sake!"

Sunday, I recovered with a mimossa and a day in Golden Gate Park for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival. I watched in awe as Billy Bragg, Mavis Staples, Neko Case and Old Crow Medicine Show rocked a park filled with families and dirty hippies coexisting symbiotically side by side. Only in San Francisco.

Monday I returned to the grind and the one block yet to be fertigated. Instead of fertigating though I put on my plumbers cap and loosened my belt and fixed the actual leak. As it turns out the random pipe emitting water was a "dummy pipe" and once capped the real leak began to gush from underground. Shoes off, pvc cement on for the diy plumbing show.

Today, it was back to the drawing board. Building head pressure with the pump I finally had pressure and water throughout the block. Happy as a clam I began the fertigation. Two hours and an empty mixing tub later and the fertilizer seemed to be flowing backwards through the filter.

What the hell was going on? Was my pump pressure on the fertigation tank more powerful than the one drawing from the creek? Was I pushing the water back into the source I was drawing off of?

Scratching my head as I drove to procure dinner (Tina's burritos and veggie sushi) I could only wonder: 'Maybe block seven doesn't go through the filter I am injecting into, but rather draws from the pipe heading to the filter.' In essecnce, I am injecting towards nowhere, or more literally closed blocks, thus the back flow towards the creek.

Crap! Duped again and clueless as to the setup I am working with. Just when you think you have it figured out, you realize that some jackass fucked up your day five years ago when he set up the irrigation system backasswards.

The only way to solve this problem is going Back to the Future. I hated the movies but in theory the concept can't be beat. Now if only I can track down some plutonium and a DeLorean. Iran might be a good place to start.

Twelve Hour Day, Hold the Lettuce, Supersize the Compost

Another typical day at the office.

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.

Post Harvest Headaches

After a 14 hour nap I awoke with noticeable stubble (a surprise if you know me) and a splitting headache that felt as if someone had busted a two-by-four over the left side of my face. No girly smack either, but a smack worthy of Hacksaw Jim Dugan's approval. The verdict didn't come until after visiting the loo for an early morning tinkle, at which time my bright orange urine quickly tipped me off that it was indeed dehydration.

Today was supposed to be straightforward, painless and relatively easy. An all day post harvest fertigation of a few Pinot Noir blocks as well as a few timed irrigation at other ranches. Nothing I couldn't handle.

First I get a phone call asking when the Chardonnay blocks were last irrigated. "Over a week ago," I replied to disbelief. Apparently there was a misunderstanding between myself and my superiors and the water was to continue to flow on the aforementioned blocks. Headache one.

Then halfway into the fertigation and the pump quit. The same pump that has been giving me migraines and keeping me awake at night, scratching my head. Now, I am no pump specialist and after hours of troubleshouting and a dip in the "drink," or what's left of a dried up creek left me with no solutions. Tomorrow it will be time to get the boxers wet and the boys will retreat to their inner sanctum as we will attempt to get to the bottom of the problem.

Time for bed. I'm rightly fed up with irrigation and these damn blogs are more pain in the ass than they are worth. Yeesh!

Burning the Candle at Both Ends

Bed by 10 pm, awake by 1 am. Breaking your sleep schedule for a night pick is no easy chore. Normally I wake up in the middle of the night for a piss break because maybe just maybe I tied on one too many before bed, not to strap up my boots and head out to a vineyard.

Tuesday morning we picked for two parties at Los Leones, one of which being the owner of the ranch who was onsite to observe gentle handling of his grapes. This was only my second night pick and I played a bit of a different role pulling the light tower aside the picking tractor. Even though there were a couple tractor driver's on Eugene's crew, Dave preffered to have them focused on picking rather than jumping in the cockpit. I obligingly signed on for the job.

Needless to say I wasn't born in a tractor seat. First, I almost toppled a couple pickers as the tractor didn't shift properly into snail speed, then I tripped over a pair of post wires on a tight turn and finally the lights bumped into a pair of tree limbs as I pulled another turn too wide. Three mistakes into the pick and a finicky lightower out of adjustment and I was ready for the pick to be over. My legs were jello and Eugene's crew had nearly pushed me over the edge with smart ass comments.

As the sun came up it was off to a second pick on Chalk Hill with you guessed it Eugene's crew once again. Eugene is a hardworking boss and a solid dude but I was already fed up with his crew. Work is work so I pulled fruit up and down a Chard block and deleafed, hoping to get out as soon as possible.

Pulling into Windsor I began to feel the affects of my sleep or lack thereof the night before. Fading in and out, head bobbing I bolted to Healdsburg to refuel at the Flying Goat. Quite possibly the only thing that saved me.

Finishing out the day I bumped into a roadie with a flat in front of one of our ranches. His bicycle cost close to three times that of my grandmamobile and his front wheel was lighter than my coffee mug. Attempting to offer help if that was what was needed I asked if I could be of assistance, my last semi-serious job being that of bike shop apprentice. Now normally I don't get too worked up if a customer doesn't know how to take care of a minor repair (hell, that's what keeps shops in business), but this guy couldn't open up his Mini Morph pump. When I mean open up, I mean the open the top arm that compresses the air, the arm you pump up and down.

So here I am in California, busting hump to get by in a state with an overpriced standard of living and there are hordes of filthy rich cyclists lining the backroads without a clue of how to swap out a tube and I am thinking to myself 'Where and at what juncture did I take a wrong turn?'

Then I ate an ice cream sundae for dinner and passed out. Why is it that you don't discover ice cream dinners until your late 20s?

Updates and a Full Plate

I awoke early this morning with a case of the Mondays. This weekend might not have been incredibly strenous but there was a lot of running around and although we arrived home late last night, I was hellbent on grilling a rack of spareribs and two should chops of sonoma county lamb. Deelish!

Arriving at the pick this morning I dragged at a sluggish pace, the boys yelling and prodding me all to no avail. I was beat. Glenn asked if I had been drinking last night to which I cooly responded in my noreasterly mumble "Jan and I split a bottla Pinot." Which we did, but that was business as usual.

Jan was suffering a bit more than myself this morning cursing her early morning shift and declaring that all human beings should sleep in until at least sun up. For some reason I have a sneaking suspicion a few AARPers might diagree with her.

Overall a typical harvest day. Glenn picked the Sanglier Syrah from Kick ranch along with Grenache and Counoise for his Rose. There is something a bit unsettling about carting your bosses fruit off to the winery; you tend to look both ways two or three times and take your curves at a cautious pace. Not to say I don't do that anyway. My grannymobile is a good indication of my driving style: a sunday stroll to the chapel.

Check out: http://blog.sangliercellars.com/ for more.

In the afternoon we prepared for two night picks: ten tons of Pinot out in Graton and more Syrah that will be coming down at Kick.

That reminds me it is about time to take a shower and hit the hay. Tomorrow is a 2 am start as I will be driving a tractor with a light tower for one of the night picks. The random hours make harvest all the more of an adventure.

***

In other news, the Chardonnay pressed out by this morning as the Coquard rep and his handyman fixed a number of broken buttons and blown fusses. I can now rest easy that our fruit is currently cold soaking and awaiting a healthy innoculation. We should get results back from the lab tomorrow and make decisions on how much acid we would like to add back. Up with ACID, down with OAK!

Now the hunt is on to track down a ton of Syrah! Can't wait...

Pressing On

Two trips later and we were back in Anderson Valley late last night, however not too late to grab a bloody burger and pint of Bont Amber at Loren's in downtown Boonville. The best part about the valley aside from phenomenel Pinot Noir favorite are the mom and pop eateries and water holes that reflect all things native: a slipping timber industry holding on for dear life, entrepreneural hippie culture and a general feel of isolation.

And then there is the Anderson Valley Advertiser, quite possibly the best small time local weekly periodical in the country. A few beers, a couple shots of Old Grandad and a glass or two of dry riesling and it was off to lala land. I was quite content to get a solid nights sleep too as a week full of five and six hour nights has left my engine running off of caffeine fumes.

***

Sunday, a day of reckoning, although in our case for non-religious reasons. Our moment to bask in the sun with our prize catch, a half ton of Chardonnay that I hauled into the valley the previous day. Not only we were basking in the sun, but baking as well as Anderson Valley thermometers East of Philo topped the charts at a cool 100 degrees Farenheit. Things were cooking...

Getting a late jump on the day we began to feed the crusher by hand, sorting the clusters one by one for shriveled berries and rot when we decided we needed to pick up the pace. After crushing and destemming we hoisted the Coquard basket into the press and set a two hour cycle while we headed for lunch. To imagine the newfangled basket press imagine a giant espresso tamp descending upon a stainless metal barrel filled with grapes, slowing crushing the trapped berries.

Returning from a French lunch break we soon realized we hadn't pressed out much juice at all and the juice we did have was heating up in a jackless stainless box. Then to make matters worse a second press cycle stopped in mid-descent leaving us with a half ton of trapped fruit. You might have heard of a stuck fermentation, but have you every heard of a stuck press!?!?

Our presonal investment in purgatory we started to make some calls. The owner of the winery first suggested to check the hydraulic oil. We did and decided it was a little low. After snooping around the garage we found a container of John Deere Transmission and Hydraulic oil and asked the winemaker if "hydraulic oil is hydraulic oil." An affirmative led us to fill the oil pan. No luck.

Continuing to attempt to remove ourselves from the sticky situation we called the Coquard press rep. Explaining our situation and attempts to fix it the rep could only respond "I weally vish you would not have done dat!" Apparently machine specific hydraulic oil does exist.

I left the cellar with a bit of a smile. If something does go horribly awry when attempting a new endeavor it is normally the first time around. You have to laugh it off and roll with the punches.

Taking a raw reading with the Anton Par before we left, the little juice we had pressed was already tipping the scales at nearly 25 degrees brix giving us a potential alcohol of 14.5 %. Nearly two degrees higher than what we had originally intended! Throw in some brand new medium toast oak and we will be well on our way to superstardom.

Ah yay yay. If you can't beat 'em, join em I suppose.

***

We left the valley with things up in the air. The press incapacitated, an electrician and french man en route to the winery and our grapes in purgatory. Hopefully with a little know how and luck we will be pressing on as planned...

Intern

Motivational Beverage


Anton never tells a lie

Rotting Skins and Wafting Ferments Abound

Atop the Mountain

While backroads filled with walking tractors, big rigs packed to the brim with fruit and motorcades of pickers moving from one vineyard to the next are all visible signs that harvest is upon us, it is our sense of smell that reminds us the rats are busy in the cellar.

Driving past any large winery in Russian River, Alexander or Napa Valley or even passing by Geyserville on highway 101 and you will notice the pungent aroma of fermentations blasting away; yeast happily consuming glucose and fructose and in the process producing alcohol and carbon dioxide to give off the various odors that waft about the valleys. Melon, rose petal, tangerine, banana, tomotoes and peach to name a few.

It is not uncommon to smell the ferments on one side of the winery or production facility and then notice the rotting funk on the other said, spent grapes skins most likely carted out into a back field to decompose undisturbed. With a giant heat spike upon us in late September the rotting skins produce a vinegar aroma that is not quite as pleasing to the senses as that of the healthy ferments.

The temperatures have been so hot that everything under the sun appears to be fermenting. Today I steeped inside a Port-a-John and although freshly cleaned the neutral blue solution below the toilet bubbled and fizzed to my surpise. There is just something unsettling about a solution fermenting below your botttom when you are taking care of business.

***

Although temperatures have spiked many of our clients are still content to leave fruit on the vine, which in turn provided us with a Saturday off in the middle of harvest.

Taking advantage of the free day I awoke early, with a queasy stomach, and powered up to Cloverdale to pick a half a ton of Chardonnay which will become my first wine baby to date.

Last night I was gitty and anxious, but today I was all business. We attempted to pick the fruit early to keep it cold but were once again foiled by the hot temperatures. By the time I had arrived in Cloverdale the temperature had risen some 20 degrees from the time I left Santa Rosa. By 8 am the sun was pulverizing, forcing black coffee and last night's booze to seap through and clog my pores.

My co-worker/boss Paco and his father assisted me with the pick which allowed us to pick a heaping Macro bin in just a hair over an hour.

I guess I should speak a little about the fruit. The chardonnay we picked comes from a mountain top vineyard that was planted a year before I was born, a humbling feeling no less. We decided to pick from the easterly facing slope hoping our fruit might retain a bit more acidity and contain less sugar than the westely facing rows.

Our ultimate goal was to create a naturaly acid driven wine but giving the heat wave and inability to pick at the desired moment fell by the wayside this past week as Shaunt plugged away in the cellar and I in the field.

We will decide what path we want to take after we crush tomorrow. Our fruit tranquily awaits us in an air controlled cellar at 58 degrees.

It is off to the presses! Stay tuned...

Sampling Fever

Wednesday afternoon we got the results back from the lab. Sounds pretty official right. Not a medical lab but rather a wine lab that analizes grape samples around Sonoma county. The results were actually regarding the pH, tartritable acidity and sugar levels from a block of Chardonnay Shaunt and myself will be picking from this weekend.

The results, needless to say were a little disappointing. The brix levels are up two degrees higher than what we would have liked to have picked at. Twenty-four brix and rising putting our potential wine at a potential alcohol level of 13% plus alcohol by volume. That's it you might say? Low by California standards as most Chardonnays clock in somewhere between 14 and 15 % abv.

So what were we thinking? A white characterized by its acidity rather alcholic, new oak laden body. A sleek, bracing wine in lieu of a flabby oak bomb.

Not to say there aren't other variables involved. The fruit is not coming out of Sonoma Coast or Burgundy for that matter. The Cloverdale vineyard has a relatively warm microclimate with other blocks consisting of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Zinfandel. This past week has also seen a heat spike with temps hitting the mid to upper nineties and due to the fact that Shaunt runs a cellar and I am on the go six days out of the week we have but a few Sundays to pick from to get the fruit off the vines.

The joys and decisions in winemaking are only now making themselves apparent. Before it was so easy, fruit comes in and you deal with it. Now it is when, where, how and with what free time.

Not to say things are starting to get interesting...

Dillinger Four Stole my Virginity

Getting Things Sorted...

Before one can go out and play, they must first toil. Today's activities started with none other than, you guessed it another pick! Talk about excitement!

Our biggest challenge of the 5 ton chardonnay pick was to separate burned bunches and pieces of rot from the healthy clusters. No easy task as nearly every cluster had a portion of one or the other. Translating the fact that we had to toss clusters with heavy sunburn on the ground to the Mexican crew was no easy chore. The picking crews see each cluster as a lump of money as they are picking piecemeal. Thus, you can only imagine the grief I took as I ransacked the picking lugs throwing out clusters that didn't make the cut.

Up ahead of me I could hear loud and clear "What the hell is this gabacho doing? Trying to take are salary or what?" Needless to say I don't think I made too many friends on the vineyard floor today.

To complicate matters further the fruit was sold through a broker to a winemaker out of Napa from a vineyard managed by a fellow who used our company for labor intensive jobs, e.g. harvest. While the broker was friendly enough, the guy transporting the grapes exhibited the social graces of an angry showbiz chimp. Do people not understand that if they are affable they will recieve good service in return?

Cutting Out to Rock Out

By four pm we were on the road to the bay, double fisting cups of iced and hot Goat coffee and singing the praises of clean mid-western living. That is the fact that the mid-West could create a powerhouse of sweat and chub that composes the band Dillinger Four.

Entering Fog City

Before heading to Bottom of the Hill we swung by Grimm's flat in the Castro to polish off a few bottles of Zinfandel, the 2006 Limerick Lane Molly's Block Zin and a stuning 2007 Gravity Hills Zinfandel the Sherpa that knocked my blood pressure up a peg or two.

At the venue Chris, Tim, Steph and myself (Janet being our DD) got down to business sticking to champagne with a number of rounds of Miller Low Life. I quaked and slugged it back wondering what kind of mess my bowels would be in by the morning.

Dillinger Four as always did not disappoint. A majority of the set was comprised with songs from Situationist Comedy. However a few classics including "#51 Dick Butkus", "Doublewhiskeycokenoice" "Superpowers Enable Me To Blend in With Machinery" and my personal favorite "Maximum Piss and Vinegar." For a split second I was 18 years old again and standing crosslegged and nervous with hands in pockets at the Atomic in Buffalo, NY.

This time around I was dancing my ass off (quite possibly pogoing) and jumpkicking around a sweaty out of shape mosh pit. Homoerotic, just maybe. St. Patrick did shave his balls in front of a packed house. Nothing we haven't seen before.

Up and Over a Hill

Bouncing back into the swing of things is fantastic, especially if you can do it with a slight hangover after killing a beautiful bottle of wine.

A slow day nonetheless. Taking advantage of the day's grinding pace, Mondo gave me a quickie lesson on our new flatbed, the International. Exagerated gears, a single strap seat belt, a stearing wheel the size of a mid-sized car tire and 20 feet behind the cab to haul ripe grapes. By far the biggest beast I have driven to date as I seemingly inch further and further towards getting behind a three axled big rig. World, are you ready for me?

Punctuating the afternoon's activities was a trip (for the second day in a row) to Renard, a mid-sized winery outside St. Helena. Apparently there was a bit of mis-communication and when I dropped 2 tons of Viognier yesterday I was also meant to pick up some empties. So back up and over the hill I went on Petrified Forest Road, ascending once again into the picturesque Napa Valley appelation and welcomed but again by the boisterous sign just south of Calistoga that reads "Welcome to the World Famous Winegrowing Region Napa Valley."


By the time you reach the sing, you begin to realize that Napa is at least ten degrees warmer than Russian River and the sooner you get back over the hill the more comfortable you will be. And I am once again happy I live and work in Sonoma.

***

From dropping Macro bins I moved onto domestic goods as I swung by Jan's flat to drop a love seat. On my way over I happened upon a couple crust punks, quite possibly travelers but most likely locals; each holding a leash with their own toy mutt dog parading up front. Since when did the punks take an interest in toy dogs. Apparently thrashing to Oi Pollio alongside your shitzu is the latest trend. I'm baffled.

And that reminds me: Tomorrow...Bottom of the Hill...Dillinger Four!!! Hook or Crook be there or besquare. Fly in if you have to for Christ's sake!