Salamandre Wine Cellars Summer 1997 Newsletter

The following are excerpts from the Salamandre Newsletter:

SALAMANDRES IN THE SKY

Ancient Man (and Woman) looked to the sky for indicators of the future, but they probably learned everything they knew from salamanders who figured that sooner or later it would rain. Hearing that El Niņo was brewing again in 1997, a prime number year and our thirteenth harvest, Modern Man and Woman and Lab and Salamandre also looked to the sky for omens, and we've been richly rewarded.

In January, I swam toward a white-capped volcanic excrescence with an unusual name 2 miles off the coast of Oahu, hoping to see a turtle on the way. In a deafening instant, a dumptruck squall roared over, churning the ocean into a beserk carwash. The fury passed onwards, bearing down upon the embattled island. The trailing clouds parted, and as I drifted in the living turquoise, a perfect double rainbow arched over Birdshit Island.

A few months later, four guys pitched camp high in the frigid Panamints, waiting for dawn. High overhead, unobstructed by dust and separated only by the cold flight of time, the Milky Way silently blanketed Death Valley. A single black cloud, a merciless star predator, drifted across the field, engulfing galaxies and leaving sparkles swirling in its wake. This would have seemed pretty neat, except the comet distracted us....

In May, our family hiked the Lost Coast in Northern California. Charcoal stratus clouds stacked quietly upon the western horizon at dawn, setting off the pastel ripples of the slack tide. The breeze freshened, oddly puffing the coffee vapor northward. About the time the whale spouted, the rain started. As we trudged 13 miles through jumbled driftwood toward the promise of a dry car and a fat burger, the mist and redwoods flirted and danced in each cleft in the severe coastline.

The 1997 almanac called for a full moon on the eve of the summer solstice, certainly a prime convergence beckoning us to climb. Perched on a granite slab jutting into a snow caped lake in the Trinity Alps, we were sipping Zinfandel, awaiting the moonrise through the firs on the shortest night of the year. As the earth's blue shadow slowly snuffed the distant volcanoes beneath the fading peach of the eastern sky, an osprey pierced the air with its cry, slicing within yards of us, undoubtedly rejoicing in the prospect of the extended fishing hours. Then the moon came up.

So far, beautiful things have come out of the sky this year, so this oracle proclaims the grapes will be fine. Get up early, take the curvy road home, ask an old man's advice, admire what the spider built, and maybe you'll find a rainbow over your spitty island, too. Then again, maybe the birds will get you. Enjoy your wine tonight.