Heatwave!

Northern California has been clobbered with a mid-spring heatwave, temps soaring into the low 90s in the valley and to the West at the foot of the Mayacamas. Needless to say, the unseasonable weather has thrown me for a loop, confounding my senses and triggering my body to go into summer mode; my cerebral cortex cooly asks 'Sleep, what's that?' To which my impulse response so often seems: 'Sleep when you die!' That's the advice I'd like to pass around to my kids at least.



Early this morning, I sipped a black mug of Sumatran Dolok Sangul, flavors of blueberry, citrus and mikly cocao blasting away at my tastbuds. NPR's morning edition droned on about the near-zero possibility of Kurdish statehood, so I decided to tune out. Freeway 101, just past Healdsburg, opens up into a patchwork quilt of Cabernet in Zin along the Alexander Valley floor and only a good soundtrack will save you from la-la-ing off into utter a vine row trance. Popping on Jawbreaker's first classic Lp "Dear You" I propelled myself into the future, fueled on uplifting heartache. Can your day really be that bad when it starts out with Jawbreaker?





Fifteen-hundred feet above the valley floor in what I presume to be the Cloverdale highlands, the temperature was rising, but the sheep were still out and about on the morning graze. Warm, but not too warm for a bit of breaky. I pulled up to the ranch overlooking the Ukiah and Alexander Valleys and sighed, catching my breath. "Never fails. Stunning every time." But enough gazing, I had a field report to do. Mounting the Mule, an oversized diesel golf cart, I zoomed in and out of blocks, the fresh mountain air simultaneously cooling and wicking away body odor marching out rank and file from my slimmy pores. Like most days I was greeted by a gallant Swan, wings raised as it charged across an upper irrigation pond to defend its territory and the honor of his fair maiden, who sat cool, calm and collected on the far bank. Near the pump house two mud turtles sunned themselves on a floating two-by-four, but as the roar of the Mule become apparent each belly flopped into the murky depths with a small "plop." Turkeys scurried as I whizzed by giving me yet another grin.

The ranch is alive! So are the vines. Two weeks ago, minuscule buds fought to expand and break and now many cordon arms are bristing with three inch shoots. The miracles of nature. I love it! Every minute of it.

On the way out the door the turtles reassumed their positions and the sheep took shelter in the shade under the gnarly oaks, bracing themselves for the sweltering afternoon to come.

Changing gears, from cruising to cursing, the afternoon was spent constructing a deer fence in Bennet Valley. At the base of the Mayacamas, thermometers rocketed to the clouds and sweat poured freely like a bum jug at the Palace Flophouse. I took on the duty of pounding in intermediate stakes with a heavy metal tool called El Nino. Why the Mexican guys call it "the little boy," I still have no clue. To the sensitive ear the name eriely rings of child abuse.

For every downward stroke, an ear piercing "CLING!" and another tablespoon of sweat emerged from my epidermal layer. After six stakes my shoulders whinnied and my bottled piss and vinegar sprung a slow leak. After another ten I was beginning to feel like a faltering Jon Henry. But hell Jon Henry would take one look at me and ask "What you doing nancy boy? Shake a leg, before I break it off!

My only question remains, when will the heat snap? Will it snap? Is this global warming gonna scorch us this summer? Maybe I will run back to WNY with my tale between my legs. One can only support so much.

Not to mention the vines, with most off to the races with a few vineyards with shoots already peeking at a foot and a half. It's gonna be a busy season.