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Cloudburst Wine

The Vineyard as Organism

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The Vineyard as Organism

When I discovered powdery mildew in the Chardonnay I was in shock. I cascaded through the stages of grief, all in the course of an afternoon. After denying it was anything significant, I got angry with myself for letting the canopy junglify, bargained with my trusted vineyard workers about it, got depressed and eventually accepted the unthinkable – that something unwanted had found it’s way into my precious pristine temple of a vineyard. Immediately I reconciled myself to a course of action.

First, radiation. I lopped off the tops of the vines and vigorously hedged, shoot thinned and leaf-plucked, exposing the grapes to the intense direct rays of the sun. Truckloads of vine material were heaped on the compost pile and an autumn of leaves carpeted the floor of the Chardonnay. Having let the sunshine in, I watched as here and there grapes became sunburned, shriveled up and dropped off, casualties of the treatment. You kill some good cells along with the undesirable ones…

Next, chemo. I upped the frequency of sulfur treatments in the hopes of creating a climate that the powdery would find undesirable. After a while, it smelt positively volcanic. I smelt positively volcanic! I’d walk the vines in freshly laundered work clothes and return home smelling like Old Faithful. Swimming in the sea, showering with Dr. Bronners cut it somewhat, but always the faint odor of Hades lifting off my skin. My clothes, despite repeated washings, had the stench of, well, skunk. And miraculously, the mildew was dialed back -- it didn’t spread.

So I flagged the grape bunches that had it, decided to watch them, to see if it proliferated, and checked the vineyard to see if it metastasized elsewhere. The sun did its work. The hot winds dried the tender grapes. The sulfur, sulfurated. And the powdery was stopped in its tracks. But it remained in those flagged lumps of grapes.

So today I got radical, and pulled on my surgeon’s glove, beginning the process of cutting out the afflicted bunches, sob. And in farmer mind, I’m assessing, second guessing, remembering, postulating, hypothesizing – had I done this, seen that, if only this, but what if that… In the final analysis my vote is for getting radical, for an immediate unemotional surgical strike. After all the effort, expense and anxiety, I’ve ended up cutting it out, leaving nothing but healthy vibrant, delicious fruit. I’m a radical at heart.

 

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Seeing Ain't About Believing

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Seeing Ain't About Believing

A brilliant friend brought me relief in the vines in the form of the welcome gift of his iPod, replete with an outstanding collection of songs. He was responding to my text that I had resorted to listening to ____, as I had “run out of” music. I hadn’t of course -- my iPod boasts about 12,000 songs, but after months of shifting through my sounds, it felt like I had heard it all. So we plugged his into the truck and floated cool sounds out into the hot green, chatting happily while I trimmed and shoot-thinned the lusty vines.

I explained what I was doing, at some point averring that I think myself unskilled. His biting protest about my “false modesty” considering our cult success, stopped me in my tracks. I hold it that I’ve got heaps to learn, and that I don’t always get it right. I was saying that I was still discovering how to “see” the vines. Despite book study, a fair bit of direct hands on experience, I’m still learning. I’m often surprised by things and frequently miss critical details. I’m continuing to work to “get my eyes in” –-to be able to see all the components and trajectory of each vine, to read what is expressing and to act appropriately in delivering what is needed in the proper time frame.

Where does this knowledge come from? Some certainly comes from science and book learning, some from direct experience, and some comes from the expressed experiences of others. But a large bit comes from an awareness I’m striving to cultivate, and at heart, this is one of the “holy grails” driving the vineyard and the entire Cloudburst process.  

I’m talking about being able to receive, interpret and act on crucial tidings that come from “somewhere else” -- those dead-on otherworldly insights that represent a critical intuitive leap… This type of information arrives through meaningful coincidences or riddles or talismans and through seemingly unimportant occurrences that turn out to be portents. Occasionally I catch them.

Last year I was far from the vines and found a feather from a Darlmoorluk (the indigenous nickname for the Western Ringneck Parrot, Barnardius zonarius). I picked it up and had an instantaneous flash of absolute certainty that there was a parrot in the vines. I raced there and sure enough, a Darlmoorluk had punched a hole through the net and was cheerfully lopping off bunches of grapes. I chased him out, patched up the gaping hole and was struck by how opportune the sign of the feather had been.

Such signs are everywhere. Can I tune myself to read them? Can I really listen? Can I cultivate seeing? Can I transmute that into the grapes, into the wine, into my life?

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Season's Greetings- Let the Sun Shine In!

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Season's Greetings- Let the Sun Shine In!

Seasons Greetings!

Yesterday I got an early Christmas present - I found several bunches of Chardonnay with the beginning traces of powdery mildew! I freaked, and immediately went on a tear chopping off the afflicted clusters, but I gave up after discovering, that it was mostly just a berry or two in scattered bunches along the Northern side of the block. It seems to have blown in at the heads of several rows, possibly the result of spotty sulfuring along the row edges. Either way, it is a big concern. 

We are days away from bunch closure and if the mildew gets inside the cluster, it will thrive in the dark, closed environment, eventually ruining the bunch. What are my options? If I let it take its course, it might flare up more intensely throughout the vineyard. The weather has been cool, there’s wind, and light precipitation is expected. These are the conditions favored by mildew. Not acting could lead to even more widespread infection. I could go around and cut out the afflicted berries, but I might miss some and that could lead to additional outbreaks.

My strategy for Chardonnay has been to keep a dense canopy in order to shade and cool the clusters. This shading strategy favors the type of flavors I am aiming for in the wine. Because Chardonnay is such a thin-skinned grape, too much sunlight, even reflected light, and high temperature, drive away chlorophyll and yellow up the berries, leading to sunburn. Sunburn, in turn, imparts a riper, more caramel flavor, something that I enjoy as an ingredient in the wine, but not as the main course.

But the dense canopy I’ve been developing blocks sunlight and wind. Were I to open it up I would reduce the mildew pressure –- the sun will help to clear it up and keep it away, and drying air will be able to blow through – but doing so brings the very real risk of sunburn and the possible loss of the flavors I am aiming for. Opening up the canopy will also insure that sulfur would actually get into the fruit zone, rather than merely ending up on the leaves when I spray.

It’s a quandary. The clock is ticking. The days have been cool. There’s been a fair bit of cloud cover, even some overcast. And the nights have had moist winds blowing off the ocean. Precipitation is on the horizon.

I live by signs and portents and a message arrives from a moldy odor in my washing machine. It has been idle for several days and the moisture in the closed dark space has been a breeding ground. I bleach the machine back to health and resolve to get radical in the vines.

I’ve been growing a jungle in the Chardonnay, allowing the vines to grow way beyond trellis height. There are places where they’ve crossed and tangled across the rows, and they are blocking the light and airflow. First up – topping the vines.

I head out in the early dawn covered from head to toe and plugged into music. A flock of White Tailed Black Cockatoos swoop dip across the edge of the vineyard, their conversation making crazy counterpoint to the song. I cut vine by vine with my secateurs, positioning the shoots to provide optimum canopy. I pause to pull away some laterals to let in more light, and notice some of leaves in the fruit zone are senescing –- they are yellowed and shriveling, indicating they are no longer acquiring nutrients for the vine. The shoots are also lignifying, another indication that the vines are far along.

After trimming back the jungle, I bring in a team of leaf-pluckers, having made the decision to expose the fruit to receive the morning sun. We are plucking specifically in the rows where I saw the mildew, plus a bit more. I figure that our close planting will serve to shield the grapes from the sun when it is overhead, as well as in the afternoon. The grapes will still be receiving lots of direct sun, although it will be the cooler morning sun, but inescapably this action will be inviting sunburn. When the nets go on, some of the light will be diffused, and perhaps that will reduce the sun’s effect.

I’ve tossed this decision around endlessly, concluding that this is what is being called for with these conditions. Some of the canopy will grow back in the lead-up to the hottest days of the summer, providing some shielding, the nets will diffuse some of the direct sunlight, and most importantly, we will end up with healthy fruit. There will be some sunburn, and depending on how much, I can drop fruit, vinify it separately, or let it flow and see where it goes. Our stunning 2012 Chardonnay has some rich glazed onion flavors that dance with mouthwatering nutty brioche. I didn’t expect we would achieve such richness, especially at a low alcohol, but I wouldn’t trade it – not for all the shaded grapes in the world.

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Weeding the Nightshade

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Weeding the Nightshade

They say you reap what you sow, and today, I am reaping acres of nightshade, an extraordinarily toxic plant. The new cabernet block is carpeted in the stuff, a consequence of our disturbing the ground at the time of planting. I bend to the task in the hot afternoon sun, along with a crew of five, and we barely progress. The nightshade resists our efforts at hand weeding, with tenacious roots gripping deep into the gravelly soil underlying the woody layer of mulch.

Flies have moved in as well, buzzing in for a drink of our sweat, getting in our eyes, adding an annoyance factor. I position the truck close by, open all the doors and blast classic rock and roll anthems, lifting our mood. Each of us frees a vine at a time from the nightshade’s chokehold, and bit by bit we gain ground. But it is extremely time consuming and I am resigning myself to the fact that this will be a major undertaking at a huge expense.

The only way for me to eradicate these unwanted guests is to remove them by hand, and there are tens of thousands of them. They are already well established, and in a matter of weeks they will get woody and put out more seeds, perpetuating the issue far into the future. With our thick mulch, we cannot cultivate, as the plants will break off at the roots and simply regrow. Anyone else would spray herbicide and be done with it in a few hours, but this is not the Cloudburst way.

Nightshade is a perennial shrub with a woody stem, big herbaceous leaves, and a five petaled purple flower with a fused yellow calyx in the characteristic shape of a tube. A member of the Solanaceae family, close relative of the tomato, potato, belladonna, datura, it is can be an extremely poisonous plant.  It puts out a generous crop of green berries, which ripen to a dark black, each filled with about 30 highly viable seeds. Just a little bit of its toxic alkaloid is all that’s needed to cause death...

I get a noseful of its distinctive deadly odor and notice my thoughts are going off on a sort of dark strange delirium.  I’m in the poppy field, it's The Wizard of Aus, and my limbs are feeling heavy and I’m lightheaded. A bit of juice has splashed on my bare arm, so I tromp off to the shade for my water, wondering if the juice itself has caused this, or my hours in the sun, or my soaring imagination.

We will take pains to remove every last bit of nightshade, scouring every square meter of the planting, until it is gone.  It’s a huge undertaking and I’m steeling myself to the need to remain vigilant for years going forward.  There’s no question in my mind that this is going to be an extraordinary block.  The Cabernet Sauvignon that was planted here just two months ago is thriving.  Perhaps 97 percent has taken, an astonishing and promising result.  Clearly the nightshade likes the spot as well--who wouldn't?  North facing, bordering a stream, nestled in the bush-- it's just a lovely spot.

I gobble water, splash some on my filthy arms, return to the field and bend to the task anew. The sun is drooping through scattered clouds and the light slants long. A kookaburra sets up a chuckle in the marris and is answered by a mate on the other side. I can laugh too. There’s always something to attend to in the vineyard, and there always will be. 

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Encouraging Fowl Play

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Encouraging Fowl Play

We have a broody duck, Peepling, who sat unsuccessfully on a clutch of eggs for over a month, but nothing eventuated. So a few weeks ago, I replaced the eggs with keets, which are newly hatched guinea fowl. I reached under her with a concealed keet and withdrew an egg, then switched another, then another until she had a brood of five. Presto--instant motherhood! Now, when I reach into the little coop housing her and her charges, she greets me with a cautionary peck on the hand, super watchful, proudly protective.  

Guinea fowl are notorious for being bad mothers, although they are said to be good “setters." Once their eggs hatch, they tend to take off, leaving the young birds vulnerable. As a result, they lose a high percentage of young. This is where Peepling comes in. The young birds really need to be in a warm place, preferably around 30 degrees centigrade, for the first week or so of their life, and her downy underside fits that definition. Today I am adding another 20 new ones, aging from one to three weeks old, in the hope that she will provide that same warmth to these new birds.

These particular birds come from three different bloodlines. My aim is to create diversity in the flock, and hopefully when they interbreed, the resulting flock will perpetuate itself with great vigor. I will continue building up their numbers for about a month longer, at which point I will shelter them in the vineyard, where they will be allowed to “free-range” during the day, but will be locked in at night. After several months, they will be turned loose to roost in the trees and they will be on their own.  

I call them the pester-eaters--they thrive on insects, including ones like weevils that can potentially damage the grapes. They forage as a team, moving through the rows like search parties scouring the landscape. They also like to peck at weeds, but mercifully leave the grapes alone. And they are hardy, can live outside year round, roost out of harm’s way in trees, and are relatively disease free. What’s not to like?

Well, they are gregarious and they wander. The previous flock was fond of crossing the road, sometimes getting in the way of car traffic. They are also very “conversational” and keep up an incessant patter of honks and clucks, a noise which can be irritating. Generally though, they make me chuckle--they have these comical red wattles and amusing expressions and they frenzy up at the slightest provocation. And their feathers are so beautiful. 

I remember being interrupted in the vines by the screech of tires. A prolonged car honk and an unprintable curse were met by their unrelenting scolding. I can still hear them clucking, “Slow down why don’t you! You’ve got a lot of nerve to speed like that – I’m waddling here, I’m waddling here!”

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Cool Down?

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Cool Down?

A somewhat chill wind has blown into the shire, blessing my outside work with cooling relief. In the run-up to summer, I’ve set up a perpetual squint, despite hat- brim shading. The light has acquired a heated white resonance and the country is drying out. I can feel it on my bare feet and see it in how the grasses have dulled into gray brown and the leaves of the trees have dialed back from vibrant green to a taupe gray green. Heat radiates in visible waves off every object. My perspiration seems to disappear as it’s created. And it’s not even summer. This cool breeze is my nectar.

The vines respond happily to these conditions. Fresh tendrils reach for the sky. Baby new leaves arrive daily. There’s flowering throughout the vineyard and the bees are throbbing through in a lovely trance. There’s a vibrancy that lifts my mood, feeds my hope.

I’m plucking leaves to open up the dense foliage to light and air circulation. I’m aiming to slant some sunlight into the grape clusters. This will reduce the possibility of mildew arising. Light and moving dry air is the enemy of fungus. With the Chardonnay, my intention is to create dappled light, to give partial bunch shading. Chardonnay is a sensitive thin-skinned grape and subject to sunburn, which can lead to “jammy” and other off flavors. Full exposure is undesirable, so I’m only plucking the occasional leaf.

The Cabernet however, can handle more sunlight and I’m a bit more thorough in opening up the canopy to bring in light and air.  At the same time, I’m inspecting for any sign of disease or damage and have thankfully found none. So far we have a perfectly healthy crop growing beautifully in terrific balance. Everywhere in the vineyard I’m encountering ladybugs and spiders and beneficial insects. All leaves are intact and vibrantly green. And the fruit set looks to be tremendous.  

Could this possibly be another terrific vintage?

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Flowering Peppies in the Kambarang

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Flowering Peppies in the Kambarang

The Wardandi are the traditional custodians of the land in our region and their territory extends from the coast north of the Capel River to the Southern Ocean near Augusta, just to the south of us. In pre-contact time, they lived a life closely tuned to the cycles of nature impacting their lives. They recognized six separate seasons, characterized by cyclical events in nature, and foods that became available during those seasons, whose length varied yearly but were each about two months in length. They were a migratory people, moving seasonally to take advantage of the foods that became abundant at different times.

We are nearing the end of the warm season the Wardandi named Kambarang, characterized by an abundance of wildflowers. It is said that if the Western Australia Peppermint trees (Agonis flexuosa) flower abundantly during this time, it is a predictor of coming rains. This year the Peppies are in deep full blossom. If I squint, they appear to be covered in snow. It is a time where moisture is in the air, especially in the nights and dawn, with cool breezes shifting in from the Indian Ocean.

With the moisture arrives mildew pressure. Powdery mildew thrives in cool, damp, poorly ventilated areas. It loves shade and thus could possibly be an issue in our closely planted vineyard, where the distance between vines is only one meter and our cordon is only half a meter off the ground. Powdery mildew gets its name from the characteristic white powder that forms, along with a fuzzy mycelium that releases spores into the air, which in turn spread rapidly. Its presence reduces yield and quality and in some cases can lead to complete crop loss.

The dryer it is, the less worry about powdery. Spore germination is optimal in temperatures of 22-31 C, typical of this season, and to counter it, I’ve been shoot thinning as well as spraying elemental sulfur on the foliage. Sulfur is a non-specific fungicide. Its presence reduces the microbial life in the soil so I use the bare minimum, but I use it.  It is only effective if applied prior to the appearance of symptoms – if powdery appears in the vine it is already too late. 

I walk past the snow-like blossoms and inhale a heady aroma from the Peppies bordering the vines. The promise of a cooling rain is enticing. And before it arrives, and after it leaves, I’ll keep the sulfur level up on the foliage, without which this lovely crop would be at risk.

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In the Gratitude Space

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In the Gratitude Space

I’m in the gratitude space as I walk through these magnificent vines in the golden dawn. Last night Cloudburst was awarded three trophies in the Margaret River Wine Show. The efforts of so many people figure into our triumph and I’m humbled by their love and dedication and support that have enabled this astonishing venture to bear such magnificent fruit.  

The wine began here in the vineyard, on these soils, from these plants. Their generosity overwhelms me, encourages me to do more to be present, to listen more clearly in order to discover what is called for, to enable me to mediate between worlds. I’m viscerally aware that this huge gift is not particularly earned by my efforts, attitude or skillfulness, that I’m not exactly entitled, that in some part it has been bestowed by the spirit of this place. In actuality there’s just a particular magic here that I’ve been exceptionally lucky to be around to experience, to appreciate and to learn from.

And so I’m making the rounds again with senses open. Can I follow the energy and get out of the way? Can I allow what is present to emerge and come forth? Can I step outside of myself enough for something unexpected, exceptional to arise? Can I get out of the way and let it happen? I’m so grateful to have come this far and to have the chance to continue.

That storied white tailed black cockatoo dips in with a greeting “caheeah” causing me to lift my head and catch a magic splash of bluegold light glancing off of a wobbling leaf shaking a solo dance in the dewstruck dawn, and for a moment I am able to see a field of tendrils talking to each other, before I tangle in a spiderweb and pause to extricate myself, then notice and bend to pull another weed.

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Canopy Management

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Canopy Management

Although it’s the middle of Spring, it feels like Summer to me - my Autumn trip through the US has de-acclimatized me. I’ve donned shorts and hat to work out in the vines, and the heat is pressing in on me. It is radiating off the vines causing everything to shimmer with a living curtain of green and yellow.

I am “suckering” or “shoot thinning” – removing unproductive shoots that are not bearing fruit, as well as closely-spaced shoots that are preventing air and light from reaching the vine. At this point in the vine’s lifecycle, dormant buds along the trunk and cordon have “pushed” and are growing vigorously. Their vegetative growth diverts the energy of the vine away from ripening the fruit, so by shoot thinning I am refocusing the vine’s energy back into the grape clusters.

Shaded leaves are less than one tenth as effective as exposed ones. So by removing unnecessary shoots, I am allowing greater light to reach the leaves, thereby increasing their efficacy. Removal of these excess shoots allows filtered light to penetrate deep into the clusters, which further helps the grapes to develop flavor. It also allows for airflow amongst the clusters, which reduces mildew pressure.

I am also removing water shoots, which grow from the wood of the stem as well as infertile shoots that lack visible inflorescences. And when two or more shoots grow from one bud, I retain the strongest, or the one that has a grape cluster. At this early stage it is possible to rub the shoots off, or to pull them off without causing any damage. Later in the season, this work will require a sharp blade.

When shoot thinning, it is imperative to avoid removing those buds needed for next year’s growth. Thus each decision requires careful attention and an understanding of what is actually growing. As with everything in the vineyard, each action has a consequence, intended or otherwise, well into the future. You can probably understand why I’m drawn to the philosophy that “less is more”.

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First Jetlagged Impressions

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First Jetlagged Impressions

I climb into the first of several silver birds that carry me across the world and after various marathons of sleeplessness and serendipitous adventures, emerge almost 48 hours later at my home. I embrace my family, smell the air and am greeted by birdsong and seabreeze across verdant paddocks. And thence commences a weeklong cycle of small sleeps and nighttime waking as I readjust to West Australia time and wait for the rest of me to arrive from the US.

I rouse up in the predawn light and beeline it to the vines. I had been planting cabernet sauvignon on the day of departure and the job was completed while I was airborne.  Now, a full month later I am finally able to look it over and am encouraged to see virtually every plant is thriving. An extraordinary percentage of the cuttings are fully leafed out. Fantastic. This is an exceptional site for Cabernet Sauvignon and a very auspicious beginning.

And so thinking, I cross the drying creek, immersing one boot, bringing me right back to earth, and with this partial baptism squish up to the vines. I have the distinct feeling of being in different worlds at once as I inspect the careful hand-weeding that had occurred the previous week, noting a vast pile of weeds that need composting.

The vines are in terrific nick. The Chardonnay is over my head, reaching for the sky in full flower. I shove my nose into blossom after blossom and am drunk on the fragrance. It’s a super healthy abundant crop this year, testimony to terrific pruning and those amazing rains.

A lone white tail black cockatoo tips his wings as he stutters overhead. I start to anthropomorphize a whole sad story about habitat loss and the loss of a mate, then shift, thinking that he is greeting me, welcoming me back.  Which story do I wish to inhabit? I have a choice in how I view the world, don’t I? It’s possible that this is the same bird that was swooping me while I planted in the weeks leading up to my departure. Maybe he’s made one of these trees his home. Time to pay closer attention and leave morbid conclusions behind. One of my several summer resolutions…

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The green green terroir of home

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The green green terroir of home

I'm not exactly homesick, yet I'm drinking in terrain that I've been missing.

I'm visiting the States and have subwayed and sashayed across the island of New York, skipped through various crisp New England leafdoms (with borrowed dogs!), run barefooted amongst throngs of shorebirds along the Florida gulf, window-shopped with the tourists and homeless on Chicago's Michigan Ave. And in California, to paraphrase Paul Simon, I've been Golden-Gated, Napa-Valleyed till I'm blind. I miss all of this in Margaret River. America's landscapes and cityscapes live in me and I'm indescribably refreshed by being here.

And every day I open multiple bottles of Cloudburst and taste what is now home. And I'm wondering about the whole idea of that. Is it in the bottle, or in my head? I've met with some super-educated palates here, with long histories of tasting Margaret River wines, and everyone has claimed they taste my particular terroir and the various distinctive qualities of Margaret River. I drink and smell the bush, hear the ocean, see my children, my wife, the sky, the landscape. Am I delusional?

Can a random taster with eyes closed intuit, envision, get the lay of my land, the energy that enfolds my enterprise? I honestly don't know. I do know that wine connects in so many profound ways. And on this mad crazy whirlwind journey across the States and back again, Cloudburst is connecting me with my heart, my home, and my land.

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Out in the Rain, Again

I’m out in the rain again. I just have to see for myself – all this driving rain has had to have an impact. And so I’m walking through the Chardonnay, inspecting leaves and bunches. Overnight the leaf cover seems to have doubled in volume. Everything looks to be in top shape, with the exception of a few scattered leaves with tiny rips in them.  Was that caused by wind and rain?

The block I’m replanting is mostly soggy. I stay on the higher ground and replace about fifty plants. The rain intensifies and the wind starts to sting and then hailstones are snapping against my neck. I take cover under an ancient Peppermint tree and when it passes walk to the mini lake in the middle of the block. Everything is underwater and rain is forecast for several weeks to come. In a moment of desperation/inspiration I poke a dozen cuttings deep into the water, like I’m planting rice in a paddy. My bet is that the block will dry out and that they will take root. We’ll see.

The Chardonnay leaves have that vibrant early green color that only comes in the first flush of Springtime. They almost shimmer in the rain. They’ve survived this tiny fusillade of hail, the imperious gusting of wind, the relentless pounding of rain. They are way more resilient than I expected they would be, and are thriving.

And now the first flush of budburst is gripping the Malbec as well. Roused by the energy of Spring, this part of the vineyard is wakening. The smallest of leaves are emerging, delicate and perfectly formed. They are so different in aspect and color and energy and in the way they unfold from the Chardonnay, literally two meters away...

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