Wine Country

Seven days on the road, beginning and ending with the magnificent Oregon coastline. In between are the modest towns, some just settlements, existing off the traffic of highway 101 and logging, fishing, and farming. They are a hard working people who love their land. Their wealth is not measured by their possessions, but rather their pride in their chosen industry.

The winding road leads you deep into impressive redwood forest of California. The towering height and massive trunks of these giant sequoia sempervirens darken the earth below, allowing for mystical glimpses of big foots and gnomes. As quickly as you are swallowed into this fairytale land, it abruptly spits you out onto the golden rolling hills of wine country. Patches of green emerge slowly at first, increasing as you climb and fall over the hills, until you are completely saturated with vineyards, in the land of wine.

My friend Andi and I spend the next four days wandering the backroads of Russian River Valley; River Road, Dry Creek, and Bohemian Highway, discovering a new tasting opportunity around every turn. Names like C. Donatiello, Lambert Bridge, Arista, Porter Creek, Bella, and Zichichi jump out with their luring welcome signs.

Each winery is strikingly different in their landscape expression. Beautiful Japanese gardens, richly dense with manicured flower beds, herb gardens, artistic water pools and falls, olive trees, lemon trees, lime trees, rose bushes. Modern architecture, ancient design. Some grandiose, some simple. All breath taking.

It’s October. The warm air is pleasantly sweet. Leaves are rich with oranges, golds, and reds. The grapevines are exploding with fruit. Farmers are cutting free their precious harvest, preparing for the crush. The wineries are alive with activity and expectation.

By the end of the week, our vocabulary has been transformed to include descriptions of rich, savory, and sweet into our daily activities. We are quickly spoiled as we learn our personal preferences. Andi will exclaim, “It’s too much work,” and empty her glass into the dumping bucket if a sample does not agree with her delicate palate. Appreciation for a good Charles Shaw is a thing of the past.

Our evenings are spent down on the Russian River in the quaint town of Duncans Mills. Sitting around the campfire, sipping a Korbel sherry, we reminisce over the day’s tours. Night brings chilly temperatures and coyotes signing at the bright moon. Harley burrows in the safety and warmth of his sleeping bag.

We’ve only covered one wine region in Sonoma County, but I’ve decided to save the others for another trip. I am ready to head back to Oregon with a storm brewing on my tail wind. I met wonderful people, made new friends, expanded my knowledge of wine and boon-docking.

I travel back the way I came, wanting to become more familiar with the transformation of this land. Wild turkeys and a herd of elk make themselves comfortable in a farmer’s front yard along side Hwy 101. I know this 600 mile drive will be a route I frequent with the seasons, seeing something different every time, and worth every minute behind the wheel of my treasured Westfalia camper van.

Fresh Goodness

I was born in Portland, Oregon. When we lived in Salem, we had acres of corn growing behind our home. Our landlords let us pick as much as we could eat if we kept our eye on the crop.

Our neighbors, the Zelinski’s, had a large apple orchard where they hired pickers and boxed up their fruit right there. We consumed apples in every way; juice, sauce, pie, fresh picked.

Ms. Fernandez, who I really liked, had the most beautiful flower garden. When I was five, I picked all her spring blossoms on May Day and left them on her porch. I rang her door bell and ran away, just like your suppose to. Mom said it made her cry. But when she learned it was done out of love, she laughed. I think we both learned something that day.

Mrs. Utterback grew rhubarb. Her teenage son told me if I ate a stick a day, I’d learn to whistle. Only then could I play hide and seek with the big kids in the forest of corn. After about a week, I learned something then too.

My mom had a garden that she spent hours in. Everyday, she would rake, or pluck, or water, or fertilize, or pick. She could whistle and she’d whistle and hum to her garden. And it grew for her.

Every one grew something.

Then we moved to Southeast Alaska when I was six. Our basement wasn’t finished yet so we didn’t live downstairs. But it did have a huge picture window. My mom lined up as many pots and buckets on the plywood flooring as she could. She tried to recreate the garden she had to leave behind. Tomatoes, cucumbers, and zucchini grew like a jungle in that big lower window. But the harvest was minimal. The short summer season didn’t bring enough sun and heat to produce fruit. She fought with it for years; adding grow lights, trying different fertilizers, pollenating with her finger, but she could never reap what she once had in Oregon. She was in Alaska now.

Mom tried replacing her desire to grow things with the desire to catch things. She filled our freezer with salmon and halibut. Dad hunted deer and moose. It seemed to suffice but never replaced the longing for fresh from the earth vegetables and fruit that you nurtured from seed.

Now I understand that void in her life. A newbie to gardening, I first seek the shelves for herbs. Then I remember, “Wait, I have fresh rosemary right outside!” It’s a whole new way of thinking. You don’t buy apples and peaches at Safeway, you get them street side, at the plywood shelter, freshly picked, a whole basket for a dollar! And, you meet those who grew them. Onions and corn too! Cucumbers and zucchini! Berries and nectarines! Your dollars aren’t supporting a corporation, but a family. It tastes good and feels good all at once.

Even dairy is fresh. I recently bought a quart of milk with an expiration date six weeks away. That is unheard of in the far away country Alaska.

I can’t get used to the freshness of Oregon. Fresh fruits, fresh veggies, fresh dairies, lots of cattle if you’re into that. Chickens and eggs too. It’s all right here. That may seem a “duh” to many of you who don’t know any different. But, we from Alaska, know to appreciate these treats. Yes, we have fresh wild salmon, halibut, shrimp, crab, and more. But we don’t have garden fresh fruits and vegetables or sun light to keep us healthy. I’ve sure missed this. I am soaking it up like a bullhead at minus tide.