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.