The Calm Before the Storm

An undisturbed sea of Pinot Noir

Any great vintage needs a lull before the harvest turns full tilt and your head begins to spin. Today, quite possibly was that day. Althought many trips were taken back and forth throghout the Russian River Valley, hauling tractors and tractors with light-towers and others with forklifts to and fro, overall the day chugged along at a steady union pace.

Tomorrow, however, will be a day of judgement. Six picks in the course of 8 hours. Two picks by night and four by the din of the rising sun. Four crews will work there magic, pulling Russian River Pinot Noir off the vines for a couple stand out producers. Think big, bold, 5 year wait mailing list Pinot!

My job: supervise a four acre pick off of Olivet Road. Picker's cant pick too quick, clones must be properly labeled and transport must arrive as soon as the vines have been striped to the bare canes. Responsibility had to knock sometime and I guess 28 years after keeping it at bay now is my time to shine.

Hasta manana! Te contare la buena!

Syrah sitting tight

R&R

Hat Trick

A good birthday weekend would not be complete without friends, food and tasty tipples. Saturday we hit the jackpot with these three ringers: 2008 Pey-Marin "the Shell Mound" Riesling which shined through dry, steely and citrusy, the 2005 Ridge York Creek Zinfandel bursting with vibrant dark fruit and tannins that say "I'm drinkable now, but I'll be smokin' in 10 years and a bottle of 1989 Anderson's Conn Creek Vineyard Napa Valley Pinot Noir which stole the show. The nose might have smelled a bit overripe what the body spoke of a busty 50 year old diva. Mouths dropped. And to think this wine was made when I was 8 years old! But honestly Pinot Noir didn't have shit on Thundercats back then.

Tramping at Armstrong Redwoods State Reserve

Sunday was slow and groggy, but an open faced over easy egg sandwhich on a bed of fresh arugula quickly changed our tune. Oh the sweet sizzle of greasy eggs and Sir Mixalot's seminal "Baby Got Back" music video was music to my ears. In the words of the Seattle rapper gone MIA "Side bends and crunches are o.k. but please girl don't lose that butt."

In the afternoon we explored the coastal redwood in Armstrong Reserve. Here 'lil Jan Jan looks out over the winding Russian River Valley as it snakes to the coast.

Barndiva Burgundy Bistro Birthday

Le Bistro

Hidden between the boutique shops on the northside of the plaza in Healdsburg sits Bistro Ralph. The food was delicious and the service top notch. Both Janet and myself selecting the Prix Fixe menus, my partenr picking the Salmon and myself the braised Pork Shoulder. Both entrees were cooked to a T, Janet's boasting fennel and figs with a white wine reduction and my braised pork bathed in a carmelized sauce swam in a sea of fava beans, thin garlic slices and minced chives. While my dish did not send me soaring into foodie euphoria, it transported me back to my grandmother's kitchen on a Sunday afternoon in the summer when we would all gather around to enjoy a roast that spent hours baking and filling the house. When it was time to eat the meat seemingly melted in your mouth. Rattatouille deja vu with yours truly Anton Ego leaving my criticism at home and simply basking in the moment.

Le Vin Rouge

Holy Crap! This Burgundy from Santenay smoked! For the last six months it has been seducing me at Bottle Barn in Santa Rosa, sitting on the shelf with SPCA puppy dog eyes, begging me to find it a good home. Finally(without doing my homework I must admit!) I took the plunge, hell it was my birthday after all so why not spend $35 (USD) and roll the die, take the plunge if you will. Produced by two brothers with a portion of the wine coming from 200 year old vines (what is the truth to this I could not tell you) the 2005 Lucien Muzard et Fils Primer Cru Santenay Maladiere was a bargain! The wine opened slowly showing herbaceous, maybe even tomato notes followed by perfumed red fruit. Subtle and alluring. The mouthfeel was balanced with great tart cherry acidity and a back end bolstered by an oak finish, which I imagine with fade and balance as the wine continues to show with age. Over the course of two hours the wine opened into a classic Burgundy style that vibrated in my mouth. Quite refreshing and a drastic departure from the voluptous, high alcohol, fruit forward Russian River Pinots the lined Bistro Ralph's wine list.

La Barndiva

"PRETTY LITTLE CASUALTIES. IN TEMPORARY TRAGEDIES. BORN FROM THE SAME PLACE

SELF DOUBT GROWS. COLD AND HOLLOW RED CARPET READY POSE

BUT AROUND HERE 'DIVA' AIN'T MUCH OF A COMPLIMENT" -D4

I am still amazed I ended up at Barndiva on my birthday. A cross-section of the clientle floated somewhere between slick affluent metrosexual and indy fashion victim. Possibly Healdsburg's unofficial hipster haven. Confused by the neon lights and eurotrash I began to peg everyone as foreigners in town for this years crush. French, Spanish, German, Somoan. As I crept closer, hoping to recognize the dialect or an accent I am sad to report they were all locals. Everyone except the three Argentinians who were in town on "vaccations." And that is how I lost a $20 bet.

Just like every year, you win some-you lose some.

The Aftermath

The Brushburn

Act I

Sleeping in, however uncommon in agriculture, was the plan for Friday morning. That is if you consider rolling out of bed at 7 am sleeping in. But somehow things never work out as planned. Dealing with the aftermath of Thursday's early morning pick left us scrambling to get back on our feet. While Paco headed home in the 450 flatbed thoughtfully dubbed La Raspadura, or brushburn, by the boys and I finished the last move of the day with his pickup, which handles like a luxory sports car compared to the flatbeds jerky stick shifting.

The old switcheroo left Paco with an empty tank of diesel and no company cards to refill, so I ablidgingly met him at the Royal Petroleum station at seven, hauling ass out the door as dreams of preparing a fresh egg sandwich evaporated into thin air.

All good though mate as the empty tank provided the impetus for a crucially productive day of prep and irrigation. Healdsburg was my first stop fueling with a cup of Don Mayo Costa Rica at the Flying Goat and jetting out to Westside Road to handwater a Viognier block, then shoot back into the heart of Russian River to damn up a creek and purge an air bubble and then swing by El Walmart to lay down a few hours of water for a pinot block to be picked on Monday. Needless to say this busy beaver was making it happen.

Act II

As noon approached I switched gears, literally switching vehicles. I parked my Pontiac la tortuga verde and fired up the Brushburn. Similar to chess we began to strategically move our equipment for Monday. As a vineyard management company that farms vineyards across Sonoma County a crucial part of each pick is transporting equipment to and from each ranch beofre the crew has arrived and after the fruit has been harvested and hauled away.

This is the aftermath.

"Alright, we need two tractors, two trailers and a flatbed deliverd to Vicini. Am I saying that right Vee-chee-neee?," sounded Pacostani voice as the Nextell cut in and out,

"Yep, you got it" I assured

"And six macro bins and the tractor with the forks to Catalinni."

"Copy that chief," I sighed beggining to plot the moves out in my mind, feeling out the routes and contours of the roads. 'A real walk in the park' I thought to myself.

Before I started with Bacchus I had no clue how to back up a trailer let alone haul a six ton tractor across the county and up the backside of a mountain. For six years I lived carless, almost unheard of for an American and my stick shift my shoddy at best. Six months on and I feel comfortbable in the brushburn, a dualie with a mindnumbing engine roar. The hardest part of hauling in Sonoma is keeping all eight wheels on the road in county where roads are nailbittingly narrow and shoulders are at a premium.

Bing, bam, boom with a bit of teamwork and cooperation (and a Chimichanga from Mi Burritto) we successfully aligned our mechanincal pawns, knights and queens. Monday is a go!

Another 11 hour day, I'm off to wine and dine!

En La Noche!

The harvest moon shone brightly above Russian River Valley thursday night, although, not quite bright enough for our first night pick. As I drove in a dazed sleep deprived stupor along River Road I saw a glaring light from the hillside. Not just any light but an obnoxiously bright light. From below it appeared as if I was approaching a stadium lit up for the Rose Bowl or an AC/DC stadium show. Was that our site, Saint Raymond?

San Remo, a hilltop Pinot Noir vineyard, was in fact turned from a conspicous 5 acre ranch into Grape Stadium. Pulling through the gates I passed by Elias, widely known as the Mule, who angrily professed "Esta chingadera no sirve amigo!" "The tractor or the light tower?" I asked sipping my coffee. "The both of 'em" came his response.

He wasn't too far off the mark either. Technical difficulties once again threw a few curve balls at the pick as steep hillsides prevented some of the towers from initially entering the rows to illuminate pickers and then, blammo! one of our towers went down.

While a level headed radio call might have sounded "We have zero visibility in block three...over" the boys started to hoot and holler, anxious that the other team would soon overtake them in the amount of grapes picked. On the opposite side of the vineyard Beto's crew was in an uproar over the lighttower. "What good are those lights if I can't see a damn thing" and "We want the Mule to drive for us. We don't want Monton" in reference to one tractor drivers inability to proper light up the pickers.


Now why night picks you might ask? The answer is multi-faceted. When you pick at night the grapes are cooler and the skins a bit tougher making it less likely that the berries will break open and juice. As pinot noir requires delicate vinification mehtods to ensure the true expression of the grape it is of utmost imporance that fruit arrive to the winery as intact as possible. Upon delivery, most reds are immediately destemmed and then put through a multi-day cold soak to extract pigment from the skins and stabalize the grapes prior to fermentation. Also, higher temperatures are more likely to spark a wild fermentation before or shortly after the grapes arrive at the producers doorstep, which could ruin the possibility for a controlled ferment.

Roughly three hours after we began and we had 14 tons loaded and ready to haul out the door. As the night progressed, the pace steadied and the boys calmed and picked at a sustainable pace. Everyone picked their fair share even if they didn't think so. A simple harvest to some but these guys treat it like life an death.

After the pick I asked Beto how things went.

"Crappy" came his response.

"Yeah, why?" I asked

"I got here at 12:45 am and then that young kid comes along and stills the damn tractor out from under me." he replied. I think he was implying could have out picked the other team with the right tractor. Understandable, of course, everyone needs a decompression session.

I could only offer one piece of advice, the harvest is but a puppy and tomorrow is new day.

Patchwork

Humpday. Always a big hot mess. Woke up and whacked the alarm a few dozen times only to roll out of bed disheveled and still exhausted. No coffee either. Drats! The ptetradactyl was picking up a morning shift and the french press was already luke warm by the time I began to poke about the kitchen, harvesting the crush out from the corners of my eyes.

Instead of lending a hand with harvest I headed out to Bennet Valley for a beautiful sunrise to put some water down on a few Pinot Noir blocks that looked like they were on the verge of throwing in the white flag and shriveling into high end raisons. Well maybe not. I'm not so sure that anyone is ready to drop $4000 a ton for raisons. Now that might be a new luxory good. Any one want to test the waters on that market?

Drip irrigation for those out East, where there is normally plenty of summer rain, is commonly used to efficiently and strategically water grapevines in much of the New World (Australia, NZ, Argentina, South Africa). Tiny emitters are placed along a drip line and let out a specifc amount of water per hour, normally 2 to 4 litres. Ingenous and energy conserving no doubt, but never quite leak proof as I found out earlier this summer as I have routinely sprayed myself in the face and soaked my work clothes patching up drip line.

Much of the afternoon was spent battling traffic delays on River Road this afternoon and prepping for our night pick at San Remo. Pull a tractor here, schlep a light tower up a hill and pull a picking trailer out of storage.

Time to get some sleep. Five hours 'til the pick!

We Have Lift-Off

Day two was 'kicked' off at Los Leones the foot of the Mayacamas at a ranch known for its single vineyard Syrahs and hard to find Rhone varieties. But we didn't come for the Syrah! That pick is at least a good month away. Today was another pick devoted entirely to the illustrous Sauvignon Blanc grape, more specifically clones Savignon Musque and 317.

Technical difficulties highlighted the mornining as the tractors brakes gave out coming down a hill sending macro bin, cooler and paper cups flying as the machine catipulted down a series of water bars. A skiing yardsale for farmers. I held my tongue while stunned while Glenn anounced "The tractor must have lost it brakes."

Waiting for the a second trator the crew took advantage of the down time to deleaf the rows on deck for the day. Running to the designated rows the boys windmilled leaves and leap frogged one another to the front of the line. Each time a man finished and took to a sprint his name was called could "Vamos Seis! Si puedes! Eres el unico!" Deleafing had evolved into a what sounded like a football rally, or maybe even a practice run to get everyone pumped for the pick to come.

A standard pick on the whole that gave Eugene's crew a taste of the good times to come. Don Charlie and myself deleafed making social commentary on American consumerism in the downtime. "Who eats fresh fruit anymore? Who picks fruit from trees around here?" inquired el Don. "Well, I do. I grabbed three from Love yesterday," I replied. Ah, sometimes it's great to be the exception to the rule. Down with processed foodgoods or VAP's right!

The Musque clone tasted phenomenal with bright citrus and the 317 appeared a bit more green and acidic. If we open our minds we can not only learn to embrace but also enjoy the capsicum and mowed grass!