Are We There Yet?

With all the anticipation, it would be nice if there was an exact date that declared the official start of harvest. But back to the expectant father analogy, delivery room will not be controlled, it tells you when it's time. You know it's coming, the signs are all around, stress levels rising, excitement and dread playing seesaw in your gut. Every day I drive to work in anticipation, wondering if today is the day. And if it is, what does that mean? I have no clue what to expect. Just that it's big.

When to drop the fruit - this is one of several huge calls that a winemaker is responsible for. Ideally we want high brix which means long hang time. But leaving them on the vine too long is risky in Oregon because you chance the rains. Dropping too soon though will give a wine that may be acidic, thin and astringent. If you pick unripe grapes there's not much that can be done. You have shit wine that at best can be bulked out. Again Oregon's unpredictable weather can be a huge problem when dealing with the challenge of producing a consistent vintage that meets consumer expectations year after year, whereas in California they glide by every year with reliable sun. Getting a vintage to express any individuality is the issue there.

So the decision to pick is largely a gamble here, and a little more than slightly stressful. The use of caffeine and nicotine are a given along with the frequent, unexpected and unprovoked outburst of profanities to release the high blood pressure valve. Gilles is on top of the atmospheric forecasts, but he also relies heavily on his gut, meaning that because he's French he knows better than the professionals. I keep expecting him to announce that he's getting in his plane to fly into the fronts himself to see which way they're going. The buzz is who in the valley has started harvesting already and who hasn't, immediately followed by a quick tisk or head nod indicating (I assume) the incorrectness of the decision. I keep my mouth shut and take it all in. The place feels like an anthill coming alive, busy and noisy.

Eberardo and Gerry fixing old crates and making new pallets.



He's hired two new guys for crush which means I'm no longer the only gringo, but still the only chica.


One of the things I disliked about the hair business was the heavy concentration of catty female dynamics, but being immersed in a pool of Y chromosomes has its own challenges. A small example: It's time to spray down the cellar to remove dust or random cellar beasties from the ceiling so that they don't drop into the open fermentation tanks later. This means moving all the tanks out, spraying down the walls and ceiling with the pressure washer, and then moving them back. There's a lot of finesse involved because while these tanks may be massive metal monsters, they are also incredibly expensive and easy to damage. Also re-aligning them must be precise, leaving exactly enough room for the forklift to maneuver as well as the exact spacing for rows of bins and barrels that will be living in here later.

(notice the guy in the rain coat behind the tanks being hoisted by the forklift to spray down the ceiling)


I'm convinced that there are extra nuts and bolts in men's DNA chain because predictably, EVERY TIME they take something apart and put it back together, there are left over pieces that somehow don't fit anymore. And while women are not known for being the logical gender, I'm thinking that if the parts were in there before they should fit in there after. So now imagine four guys going at this task instead of one. It's akin to seeing the oddity of the British Parliament for the first time and wondering how the hell they get anything accomplished with all the yelling, arguing and talking over each other (and because they all have Latin blood, the obligatory scratching of body parts). Anytime I tried to help in any way, I felt like I was being barked at by a pack of dogs. The key to this being amusing rather than annoying or hurtful is to let go of the "logical" impulse to be of use when there is an obvious problem.

At one point they were trying to slide the metal plates back under the feet of a tank that had been re-situated. 3 guys on one side lifting it while the guy on the other end tried to shove the plate under. I had to stifle the urge to ask the obvious - why not think ahead a little and position the plates in the proper place BEFORE putting the tank down? After watching multiple attempts, tank circling and arguing in English/Spanish/French I couldn't stand it anymore. I got on my hands and knees and crawled under the thing to check it out, ignoring the protective territorial growls. Well the problem was that there were three plates wedged under one of the feet to compensate for the uneven concrete floor, which meant that the tank was already level. In order to have enough room to slide the plate under, it might be useful to remove one from the other side rather than using muscle and might against concrete and steel. To which there was a moment of silence, then a mad scramble to fix the situation. Uh huh, you're welcome. The wine version of "how many guys does it take to screw in a light bulb".



One of the new guys came from Leonetti in Walla Walla, a top producer of premium reds, with a 7 year wait for their mailing list. He was there for six years and became head oenologist. But he gave it all up to move to Willamette Valley to learn Pinot Noir - the holy grail. His past experience is hardy Cab/Merlot grapes, very hot summers, drip irrigation and Rolls Royce level equipment. Now it's a rainy cooler climate, a finicky grape that is winemaking's biggest challenge and a mom-and-pop style in the cellar. He's going to have to start from the bottom and re-learn. I think his choice would be harder than mine. Even though I gave up a lot, it wasn't industry related, so the humbling nature of being at the bottom has less of a sting for me.

The cardinal sin right now is asking questions related to "why" I'm doing something. And the "how" questions should be kept to a minimum too. Figure it out. Gilles has warned me that it's army time now, shut up and do what you're told. I'm thinking mushrooms do well when kept in the dark and shit on... maybe if I try real hard I can aspire to truffle status? So having Preston on board is a boon because we run questions by each other and discuss possible "why" scenarios. It might look something like two mushrooms attempting explanations of the world at large. I feel like the middle school kid looking up to the teenager who knows everything. Still while the world of pinot may be new to him, his hands on experience and cellar training are invaluable and I'm constantly picking his brain. It's a workable arrangement, he gets to be the cool kid and I get to have at least some questions answered.

The other plus is that I'm pleasantly surprised that I have a broader knowledge base in terms of Old World and classic wines from classic regions, a general comprehension of wine outside production in small Walla Walla, Washington. I needed the affirmation because I've been concerned that my last two years of study have been a waste since they weren't production oriented. I've been a wee bit tortured (like that's anything new) over it. Ultimately the world of wine is vast and I don't know where exactly I fit (in keeping with my never ending "what do I wanna be when I grow up" theme). So the more I know the better. Education can never be a waste.

Here we are with our first wounds that required a bandaid. Yes it's on my lip, don't ask! It seems like everywhere I turn, there are random sharp objects sticking out of tanks, walls and presses, lying in wait to take out an eye or lip, or bust me across the nose and stop me dead in my tracks.