Laird Foshay
 
March 1, 2011 | Laird Foshay

Confessions of a Winegrower 1.5

A Day to Remember 

I started this blog last year with the hopes of  keeping up a regular schedule. Now I notice that my previous post was last summer. It turns out that running a ranch as a family business and writing regularly are at cross-purposes. Ironically, after my first career in business, I saw myself as writer who occasionally trotted around on horseback and sipped my own wine from the terrace while overlooking nature's bounty. Ah, to be naive again.

Of course last year was one for the record books in our family, including: launching our Rangeland Wines label, beginning sales of our Adelaida Springs Ranch grass-fed beef, opening our Little Ranch House to paid visitors for the first time, graduating our second son from high school and getting him settled at UCLA,  and dealing with the illness (cancer) and death of my father-in-law late in the year. I'm not making excuses (ha) or seeking sympathy (whimper).

For those of you thinking of ranching or wine growing as an escape from the daily grind, it would be wise to remember that ranching and winemaking can be just a different kind of grind. Indoor tasks like marketing and paperwork compete with the outdoor time of farming life. Now this wine country grind has many deep and gratifying compensations, but sometimes the grinding overtakes the compensating, and it becomes hard to appreciate one's surroundings.

Anyway, last weekend offered a little break from the grind when we found no guests on the schedule, no wine tastings, no ranch tours and no tasks urgent enough to overcome our need to recuperate. Due to recent rains, it was a little too wet to tractor or ride. The weather was bright and clear due to a cold front sweeping through the area. Morning brought 50+ mile views the Santa Lucias all the way to the Ventana Wilderness above Big Sur. Juniperro Serra Peak, the highest point in the range at almost 6,000 feet, stood snow capped in the distance. Echelons of towering white clouds skidded over the ridge. The sound of running creeks tumbling off of steep hills quietly roared  in the background. Around mid day, my wife and I decided to tour the ranch and check cows, since our spring calving season is upon us.

We set out in my pickup with a beer in the cup holder. I shot a ground squirrel on the way for the sheer fun of it. My wife always comments on how romantic that is, like cruising with Elmer Fudd. Sometimes, however, she giggles from the infectious sport of it. Wicked girl. Deer trotted lazily away on the sunny hillsides. Fat, maturing cattle jogged near the truck, hoping for a hay treat that almost never comes, since we only feed our cattle a little to lure them when we gather them. We stopped in the at the Little Ranch House to pick up the laundry and crack the outdoor faucets to avoid damage in the coming freeze.

Continuing to the Hill Pasture where we keep our pregnant cows, we came across the first calf of the day. Newly born, it stood spraddle-legged under the oaks, across a clear-flowing creek, with its mother licking it in a devotional trance. Right then, all the cares and scars of the daily grind fell away for me and I found myself completely at home. I held my wife's hand like a schoolboy. Speechless. The mother had just graduated from heifer to cow. Because cows usually seek seclusion for their births, there were no other cattle in view. We had no camera with us, but we knew there would be dozens of calves and hundreds of photos to come. We were happy just to watch.

Up the hill and around the corner more calves started to appear. We used the field glasses to watch a mother cow chew lustily on her own afterbirth, shining pink in long tendrils from her mouth. Meanwhile the unsteady calf tried to work the colostrum milkshake machine at the other end of the cow. Pale yellow winter light flooded the scene, highlighting the shining black coats of the cattle.

Back at home, I sat on the terrace with a cigar and a glass of estate Cabernet, feeling mellow. The temperature was dropping fast, now in the 30s and I spread a wool blanket across my lap and wrapped my legs. Sunshine glinted intermittently under darkened clouds. I heard the racket of a chirping Kestrel, a little "sparrow hawk" and imagined it harrying a Red Tail Hawk, as they do every day. There, in the distance to the south, hundreds of yards down over the tops of the winter-naked oaks, I saw the Red Tail swoop and flare, its wings and wedge-shaped tail flashing iridescent against the charcoal sky as it landed in a tree top. I watched it sway and glitter on its perch while the Kestrel renewed the attack.

With the weather closing in, I heard a hissing sound in the oak groves to the west, getting louder. The dog sat alert facing the advancing storm. Soon the light hail arrived, sprinkling, then covering everything with dry spherical little corns of snow. A little flash and static flux in the atmosphere was followed by a short, rolling blast of thunder. Mudda nature was getting her freak on. After a few minutes the precipitation turned to fat, lazy flakes of snow, which began to accumulate on the gnarled scaffolding of the oaks, now almost luminescent in the darkening evening. It was time to build a fire and enjoy my rediscovered naivete.

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