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.