A chubby Dalmatian and a scrappy black terrier tore down the
road, barking furiously. Driving slowly past lush rose bushes standing sentinel
at the ends of the rows of vines, we inched past the rambunctious welcoming
committee towards the trailer at the end of the drive. I could hardly wait to
spring out of the car and walk through the vineyards.
As a birthday present (it was a big one) my husband had
arranged for us to learn about winemaking from the craftsmen themselves, right
in the heart of Santa Barbara’s burgeoning wine country. A couple of vintners
graciously offered to show us around during crush, their hectic harvest time.
The early morning fog had burned away and the autumn skies over the Santa Rita
hills were speckled with only a few lingering clouds. The winemaker for Clos Pepe greeted us as we
bounded out of the rental car.
“Welcome!
You must be David and Carol. I’m Wes. Why don’t we head right out to the
vineyard while we talk.” A lanky man
with square shoulders and a brisk stride, he tromped over the occasional
tangled weed, and led us down a tidy row of carefully tended vines, their leafy
tendrils reaching out to us in a verdant greeting. He explained that the
east/west orientation of the coastal mountains formed valleys in Santa Barbara
County that drew the cool ocean breezes over the land, carving out distinct
microclimates ideal for producing classic wines like Pinot Noir and Chardonnay.
The faint scent of salt water still hung in the air.
Tenderly, he cupped a cluster of chardonnay grapes in his
coarse palm. “See the dusty bloom? This protects them from sunburn. Here, have
a taste.” He proudly handed them to us. A bright burst of fresh fruit puckered
my lips and made me smile. Such possibility brewing inside those busily growing
grapes.
As Wes went on to describe the growing process, we learned
more about the consistent, precise care that’s needed to nurture the grapes
throughout the season. There was a comforting orderliness to it that seemed to
suit him and he nearly shined with confident focus. Clos Pepe produced a very
low yield, which enabled him to micro manage each row of vines. In fact, he had
just completed a partial picking due to frost. Imagine- having your work tied
so intimately to the moods of nature. A delicious sense of rootedness began to
stir inside of me. Strolling through the tranquil vineyard, I could almost
picture dedicated winemakers from generations past bending over their precious
crops; their livelihood and their passion embedded in the land. After toasting Wes for generously sharing his time,
knowledge and glorious vineyard, we were ready to get back on the road.
Winding our way through miles of dusty farmland and dry
scruffy mountains, we drove into the criss- crossed hills of the Santa Maria
Valley. The whole county was swollen with miles of ripe grapes just aching to
be harvested. We slowed to a stop in front of an enormous warehouse on the
grounds of the Bien Nacido Vineyards. Once again, we hit the ground running.
These were busy guys.
“Hey, I see we have
visitors!” Brad, a newbie preparing for his first bottling, strode over to us
and extended his hand, adjusting the rim of his soiled baseball cap. “Have you
guys ever tasted free run wine?” I’d only vaguely heard of it, let alone tasted
any. Free run is the juice that’s produced from the de-stemming process before
the grapes have been pressed. He grabbed a glass from a nearby worktable and
carefully dunked it in the barrel, gently scraping the side to collect just the
bright ruby juice. The clean ripe taste was refreshing; it was the real deal.
Since this was his first bottling, Brad drew samples of wine
from his two barrels produced the previous year. He would taste each one, and
then, with the skill of a budding alchemist, he would blend them. What he
needed was some expert advice. We followed him to the vineyard’s makeshift
office where a man in his early thirties sat, examining the two glasses lined
up in front of him on a bottle strewn table. James, a 9th generation
Californian, whose family had harvested the land I was standing on for several
hundred years, not only grew his own grapes and sold them, but was a highly
regarded winemaker as well. Brad took a deep breath. I didn’t hear him exhale.
James swirled the first sample, then stuck his nose down
into it briefly. He straightened his spine and slowly brought the glass to his
lips. As his eyes closed, he took a deep sip and held the wine in his mouth
awhile before he swallowed. Eyes still closed,
he sat quietly, almost reverentially. I raised my eyebrows and looked at Brad,
who whispered that he was counting the time of the finish. Just then, James
opened his eyes and gave his colleague a slow, warm smile. He took off his cap
and ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. Thoughtfully, he suggested areas
for improvement, then blessed Brad with sincere praise. Eyes dancing, our new friend beamed and
extended a glass in our direction. We took turns enjoying the samples, giving
what we hoped were knowledgeable sounding impressions. Having witnessed a
baptism of sorts, I felt privileged.
We began to say our goodbyes when the owner of the winery
invited us to stay to be part of the toast given to the exhausted but satisfied
men who had brought in the harvest. At the end of the meal, James asked us if we’d like to try
some of his wine. It was as if da Vinci
had asked if I’d like to look at some of his sketches. Our day had come full
circle. From tasting grapes plucked off the vine to this. Lifting a glass with
a man whose veins pulsed with his family’s accumulated wisdom and skill. I
swirled mine gently in a small circle on the rough table. Lifting it to my
nose, I pulled in a deep breath. Hints of black cherry and vanilla drifted up
lazily. I took a healthy sip, letting the wine wash over my entire tongue. The
smooth, velvet texture wrapped the fruit in a creamy embrace. I swallowed
almost reluctantly.
In the end, it’s all about how it makes you feel. Rather than distracting me from my recent birthday, this
trip immersed me in the rhythm of the harvest, the fruitfulness to be found in
the passing of time. And that is well worth a toast.