Vineyards, wineries, hilltops

Vineyards, Wineries, Hilltops

12/13/10

From Monterey, where I lived as a child in the 50’s. and Carmel we drove north still along 101 with the near term goal of cutting NE into Southern Oregon.  For this leg I took very little in the way of photos as my mind seemed to have drifted from the visual to the internal cerebral wanderings wherein  dealing with picking up all the loose strands precipitated by our imminent returning to the NW occupies my time.  So I apologize for the lack of photos for this and the next  blog of this journey probably being the last one.  

Connecting Cloverdale, California on 101 and Mendocino on the Pacific coast is 60 miles of Hwy. 128.  Its tightly curved and a roller coaster.  It goes through a vein of fabled Napa Sonoma Mendocino counties and even in the rain and the fog its beauty would not be hidden.  Coursing into valleys and dales were millions of acres of grape fields folding themselves into and over the undulating landscapes,  rows so symmetrical flashing by the road’s edge  in a whir with the regularity of railroad ties.  There was no green upon their branches but the woody architecture was still attractive to my eye.  

The wineries came in all sizes from thousand acre fields with warehouses and gigantic  stone chateaux with European formal gardens to small wineries in the smaller valleys of only 50 acres with small wood framed homes and stainless steel tanks in the back yards.

On this road last night the sun started to slip behind the hills by 5:00PM and not wanting to be caught like deer in headlights  on these curves  we pulled off the road at a wide spot on a rise. Better safe to just stay hitched up and dry camp.  Besides,  the view was grand, pure California.  Nothing in front of us save oak wooded hills with sloping meadow pastures, the sound of a stream somewhere close below, small rolling patches of winter vineyards and tops of hills holding the last moments of light in a blaze of chartreuse pasture and patches of black oak.  As darkness fell only a single small pin of light across the valley on the far facing slope hinted at some habitation.  One of the sweetest places we have stayed and it cost only the nerve to be disconnected.

This morning getting up early in the damp mist we continued along Hwy 128 to Mendocino.  Beyond the mellowing dreaminess of more and more rolling hills of grape vines we began to notice  evergreens amongst the hardwoods.  Soon, 

with about 25 miles from the coast of Mendocino, we entered large groves of redwoods.  The further we went the taller they got and the dimmer the light on the forest floors 200 feet beneath  A damp two lane road tightly wove  between and thru these massive dark sentinel trunks closely spaced.  It was a woolen gothic dampness, filled with longing like the songs of RoseAnn Cash of Fathers lost. Where shadows speak your name.

Prior to turning on to Hwy.128 we had spent two days in Fairfield visiting JoAnn’s brother and his wife Barbara.  I did not wish to write then.  A sense of writing fatigue or perhaps a general malaise of soul.  Perhaps it was the weight of a sense of a journey of circumnavigation nearing attachment to it’s beginning.  I want to write with information and entertainment.  I really want to write with some elegance and content yet I am angered and frustrated by my lack of skills and  words.  But is not now  the time to try ?  Time is flashing so quickly that I know I could never catch up to where I should be in writing.  That will remain a moving target of variable speed and forever out of range for the rest of my life.  So I will line it out however it comes  and trust with your indulgence you can allow me some small but cherished audience.  

It was a restful two days at Fairfield with Jo’s brother except for the dinner at the Texas Roadhouse - peanut shells on the floor from the barrels of free peanuts, smokey spattering grills, loud music, loud people, loud waitresses, screaming babies and drunken oafs.  Whew.  Got out of there with our meals only half eaten and undigested.   Otherwise we slowed ourselves down at Ash’s by diddling with 1000 piece puzzles and I powered through 300 novel pages in two days and nights at blur inducing speed..

While in Fairfield I kept Moochi the cat, that long haired shedder, company in the trailer about half the time.  She has started to tolerate me after more than 3 1/2 months  cooped in the same tube.  She seems to survive, nay thrive, on meanness towards me and others but snuggles right up to Jo.  I know its the lack of patience I emit whereas Jo is so gentle with her Mom’s old bitty cleaning her box faithfully every morning and tending to her needs and  feelings.  Who could resist that ? Unfair I say.  A cat must meet my human demands, right? are you with me? maybe?  no?...  thanks a lot.  Now I do stumble up to feed her most dark mornings myself but admittedly it is to silence her yowling beside my ear.  She has my number.  Now canned cat food such as slimy pated fish parts is made to stink.  It’s the stink that gets them cats going. They love the stink.   Ever try living with that smell in a 25’ trailer for 4 months?  Its your last sensory input, eight feet away from your nose,  as you go to sleep and the first input you awake to.   So I clang around the sink and bump my head on cabinets again and again to get the smell of a fresh hot pot of coffee going.  I intend to snort the coffee to counteract the latest most aromatic can of slick ground chicken tailings I had just opened.  Now I can’t seem to spoon it out of those little gourmet cans without getting it on my fingers the klutz that I have become.  I use to be so co ordinated, remember?  So to further convince myself that I really need to wash my hands so early in the morning what do I do.  Yes, I smell the slime on my fingers!  Aggh!  Whoweee!  I need to wash my hands!  I’m not too smart and don’t think very clearly 60 seconds after standing up from sleep and bumping my head,  hard,  again.  

Travels with Moochi.  Now that is a whole other story.

There are a lot more stories to tell.  Of other ventures to Europe, South America, Tahiti, New Zealand, Canada and Alaska and 40 years of motorcycle trips throughout the mountains, plains and valleys of our own West.  Piles of prose, poetry and photos spill onto my desk so I might as well harvest them here as  I enter my “golden years.”  I haven’t even started with stories about relationships yet.  That one really scares me yet we must face them, yes ?  I think I am still waiting for that level of maturity that will allow me to be honest without being  self serving.  As I said, scary.  It’s like the way I tell a joke, great with the build up but often confused about the delivery of the punch line.  Wait, wait, let me start over.  I can’t quit while I’m behind !  Please no pity laughs.

Don’t most of us think about doing something like this ?  Yet it is with much trepidation, akin to stage fright, that I would presume to embark on a path of story telling.  Although story teller is less of a presumption on my part than calling myself a writer.  How else can I deal with my insomnia.

See you down the road.