Salamandre Wine Cellars Fall 2007 Newsletter
Getting Woods’ed in the Meadow

 

I spent two weeks alone in the high country of the Trinity Alps early this summer, a sensory kaleidoscope of splashing water, swirling clouds, and golden reflections. I saw sundogs and rainbows, juncos and thin does, ospreys soaring and eagles glaring, meteors through the Dipper and shooting stars by the stream.

 

 

 

 

When it was time to leave, I walked slowly to salute the bonsai weeping spruces, taste the burbling freshets, and smell the alpine flowers as I dropped off of the high granite slabs into denser air. After a nasty 2 mile thrash through malicious chaparral, I finally caught the trail again, and by then it seemed like cheating. Below Emerald Lake , I rounded a bend and dropped into lush glade of nodding ferns and tiger lilies. There, in the dappled light, next to a gushing spring, perched on a boulder like a grinning gnome with a black hat and a bristly beard…sat Marty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hadn't spoken to another person in weeks. I asked Marty where he was from, and he smiled: “ Eureka .” I mentioned that every time I meet somebody from Eureka in the mountains, they always know my friends, Alan and Ann. “Oh, sure! You know Alan and Ann? We play with Alan and Ann all the time.”

“Play what?” I asked innocently. “Guitar.” Marty winked, then volunteered: “Our fiddle player is turning 50, and what he wanted was to make music in the mountains with his friends. Our whole band is going to hoe down in the meadow tonight…. You could join us if you like.” … So I did.

Morris Meadow was still wearing green velvet with a lacing of corn lilies. I found the grove, marked as promised with a red bandana. I dropped my pack and set off for a walk which devolved into a blissful nap by the creek. I awoke as the shadows stretched across the meadow. Five teenage boys returned from a 14 mile hike with Tom, the birthday fiddler. They were all spent, but still dashed across an imaginary finish line. As dusk enveloped the trees, the stoves fired up and a flask made its cheery way around. I wished I had some Primitivo to share with the people who welcomed me.

Then the instruments came out of their cases. Frisky riffs of mandolin and silky strands of violin drifted up through the fronds of fragrant Ponderosa. Curious deer peered in from the dewy recesses as the teenagers relentlessly stoked the fire. Women swayed, young boys laughed, and the old boys strummed into the night. If this were the face of true civilization, I was glad to return to it.

People seek different kinds of sanctuary in life. Occasionally on long road trips, I'll flip through the radio and hear some dour Jeremiah exhorting his flock to make certain their offspring are “properly churched.” The evangelists took a perfectly good noun, torqued it into a verb, then bent it into a dubious participle so they could use it like an adjective. That places a good deal of strain upon the Mother Tongue.

As I sat among gentle people in flickering light, my mind drifted to getting “churched.” That business about leading me to still waters and lying down in green pastures…sure. Singing odes to loyal dogs and old friends in a cathedral of incense cedars, finding harmony with wild creatures, sharing grace with elders, and offering comfort to scruffy strangers…I figured these boys were getting “properly woods'ed” instead. That gave me soaring hope for the future of both humans and the wilderness.

 

Come visit us in the woods. We have plenty of Primitivo for you, and other blessings, too. You'll need to find peace, love, and happiness on your own, but we'll give you lots of encouragement.

Wells Shoemaker MD, Winemaker