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It’s yet another blustery rainy spring day with deep cloud cover and the sun extending its vacation. I’ve returned to the winery to have a look at the 2013 reds. They have been maturing in 225 liter French barriques, for about four months and are ready for their first real racking.
It is breezy here in the open shed but welcome shelter from the rain slanting off into the gray green vines. I’ve shed my ubiquitous fleece for the comfort of a cozy sweater and my cold rubber boots for my seasoned blunnies. I’m outdoors, yet indoors, and today it’s a relief. I’m excited to have the chance to taste the developing wines – the last time I’ve actually scrutinized them was at the end of malolactic fermentation several months ago.
Today we are racking, or decanting the wine off of the lees, in order to clarify the wine. The process removes whatever sediments have settled on the bottom, which not only reduces its cloudiness but also lessens the chance of the wine developing “off” flavors, which sometimes arise from contact with those solids. Racking also enhances aromas and softens tannins, and hastens the progression of maturation by giving the wine a touch of oxygen.
Bucket of Lees
We begin with the 2013 Malbec, siphoning a taste into a glass with a “wine thief”, a hand-operated glass pipette. The color is a magnificent purple. I swirl and sniff and am brought into a fresh world of bright raspberry and black cherry with hints of saddle leather and mocha. It’s already showing some age and finesse. The next barrel brings a similar profile. Both of these barrels are older ones we’ve reused. But the next barrel is new and the tannin hit is far from subtle. I taste the fruit as well as cedar cigar box and some tar and I’m wondering if we’ve overpowered the wine. My skies are clouding over. The fourth and final barrel is also somewhat grippy, but in a more supple way and the fruit is still there and the acid is phenomenal. But the previous barrel has got me flummoxed.
Barrel by barrel we rack off the wine into a freshly scrubbed steel tank where their contents mix together. Each barrel is rolled so that the bunghole faces down and the lees drain out in purple splendor into a bucket. I insert a barrel washer attached to the power wash unit into each overturned barrel to give it a rinse. A tremendous bass whoosh, “see ehhh waaaaa sssshhhhaaaa“, is followed by a brilliant flush of purple bursting out onto the floor. It looks like a reverse geyser. In two minutes the water is running clear.
Power Washing
I right each barrel and notice veils of steam rising up through the bunghole. I have a sniff and smell wine and waterfalls in the forest. A sample of the mixed wine goes off to the lab to check sulfur levels. And while the alcohol burner heats it up, I sample the mixed wine.
The wine is clear and purple and smells profound. The taste is rich as if it’s magically drawn on all the best parts of its components. The tannic new barrel taste is absolutely gone, now providing a delicious baseline to a scrumptious chorale. It is clear that the combined wine has a depth and a structure greater than the sum of its various parts.
The wine is returned to barrel and each barrel is carefully topped up, an exercise that tests my reflexes. The object is to stop the wine flow just as it reaches the top. Any later and the wine spills. Needless to say, I’m not particularly skilled at it and I end up tipping more than a bottle's worth onto the floor. The stretch is judging the headspace near the top of the curved barrel in low light. My hands are purple and my clothes are splashed and the barrels are sporting splotchy stains. Next time I’ll bring a torch.
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...
It's storm time. The wind is setting up a delicious howl and the sky is every shade of dark. I'm wondering how those tender Chardonnay leaves and teeny grape bunches can stand up to pummeling rain and punishing winds and a flush of farmer's fear grips my chest. Then, a breathtaking flash followed by a sound like bedrock cracking open and we're plunged into twilight. I scramble for candles and my boys improvise flashlight games. I have a brief pang about still being connected to the grid, and therefore dependent, vulnerable. I dance around cooking supper to the frenzied drumming on the tin roof (din roof) as the day closes out.
The storm blows on through the night. I sleep intermittently, waking thoughts reaching out to the vines, the rain, the wind. In the blustery dawn I strike off to walk the power line. I'm greeted by the roaring wind and the wet kiss of rain. My rubber boots sqwump over rocks that are freshly scrubbed and full of color, lichens sponging out into the wet glory. New wildflowers push up through the grasses, sparks of color that contrast the dull dense greenness. I note hopefully, that the pounding rain hasn't harmed them, and I have a fantasy science moment to hypothesize about raindrop dodging adaptations. I mentally splice that particular adaptation onto the Chardonnay as I ford the little stream. I'm surprised at how swollen it is and at its velocity, since I know it mostly as the driest streambed on our land. To my mind this is mainly a dry defile. I also note that its flanks are now dotted by the moonglow of an invasive arum lily, Zantedeschia aethiopica, which is supposed to inspire a shudder to a caring landowner. But the creamy white blossom is so arresting, I can't hate this plant, despite how greedy it is to take over territory. It was introduced as an innocent garden plant from South Africa and “escaped”. Birds find its seeds delicious and it easily propagates through its vegetative roots as well. Arum lilies are nearly impossible to eradicate by hand. Years ago I spent hours digging out a patch and failed to remove every particle out of the ground, with the result that they came back the following year in greater number and density. As with the kikuyu grass, it is an ongoing concern and difficult to eliminate without herbicide. Even the local conservation groups suggest using Roundup on it, which is an option I will not entertain. I’ve been cutting them back before they seed as a strategy for knocking them back. It’s an ongoing campaign and I’m far from successful.
I climb into the rocks on the opposite shore and enter another landscape. Old grass trees and flowering wattles and ancient marri trees (Corymbia calophylla) carrying mysteries and timelessness. And then I see a downed giant - a Marri that must be hundreds of years old, tumbled to its final rest. I walk under it, into it, around it. It is so huge even though toppled on its side, that the driving rain is diverted by its sheltering arms. My eyes are wet from the sight and feel of this magnificent old being brought to its knees by wind and rain. It has a huge crop of honky nuts one of the critical food sources for the endangered whitetail black cockatoos. It’s demise is a big loss all around.
Like the endangered whitetail black cockatoo that’s dependent on it, the Marri is endangered as well. They are suffering from a canker (Quambalaria coyrecup) that so far has not been treatable. Every marri matters. Marris are also considered an indicator species for good grape growing soil and we are abundantly blessed in this regard. Cloudburst country is Marri country. The two go hand in hand.
Spring is movement, a quickening of the light, a steadying of muscles, a focus on what's coming. The energy has shifted again, palpable in the Chardonnay, already in budburst. The rain seems lighter, of shorter duration; it rolls in playfully bringing shimmer of rainbow amidst streaks of silvered light. Hatches of insects suspend like roiling clouds, enticing little birds. In the Marri’s canopy, the white tail black cockatoos ravish the honky nuts. And a very big surf growls a deep mantra, laced with an occasional crescendo roar of amen.
I go on weed-pulling jaunts. “Drop and give me twenty.” And then I push for perhaps a dozen more. Easier to remove them now, although they are already established. Their roots extend deeply, each variety a different form, a different level of resilience. The fullness of radish contrasts with the wiry spread of sorrel, and the milky spike of thistle differs thoroughly from the deep strength of dock that pulls back. There are grubs and beetles and a few toads hiding in their embrace. And then I’m crouched on my knees, reluctantly performing my ongoing kikuyu duty, the vineyard version of jury duty. Following the runners with fingers and hands that daily grow stronger. My back, however, needs to relearn how to straighten.
Virtually every cutting I planted is in leaf. I wonder if they are rooting, but won’t disturb them yet to find out. I’m replanting like crazy now, with the ground drying and the return of the warmth and the light – this is the enchanted moment. The mulch is generous with worms and grubs and spiders and beetles and strands of fungus. Here and there a mushroom dots the terrain. It’s the forest floor.
The Chardonnay is in full budburst and along with the first leaves, some berries are beginning to appear. Transformed from bare canes to baby green in a matter of a few warm days, they an awakened presence now. Pruning finished only yesterday and the vines just refuse to remain bare, they simply will no longer wait. I’m energized by the sight and feel of it, practically running up and down every row, examining the perfect baby leaves unfolding with green and reddish tints, remarking the first miniature grape bunches with teeny little berries emerging. The vines are in motion, headed on an inevitable trajectory leading to grapes. This is the magic.
I liberate a bunch of fifty cuttings from the nursery. Some are in bud, but none have calloused. I go to the uppermost chardonnay block, planted last year and begin replacing dead plants with these new ones. Occasionally I knock a bud off and wonder am I dooming the vine in the act of planting it? The rain sweeps by and moves past and the sun streaks in, and for a moment the whole vineyard is illuminated in springlight.
We were walking under a mosaic of sky, across a prominent granite outcrop pocked with pools of sky-reflecting rainwater and tufty mosses and gnarly tea trees (Melaleuca sp.). The silvered vault was split by curtains of rain blasting in and gusting away across the paddocks, feathering the trees. Another typical day filled with cloudbursts! We were on our weekly family trek exploring our land, which lately has brought us here to monitor the lifecycle saga of our indigenous frogs, amid the superabundance of water.
The boys darted up ahead to try to dam the flow above the waterfall. My tadpole catcher stalked tadpoles. At every step hundreds darted into the shelter of submerged mosses. A raft of frogspawn clung to a few spikes. Miraculous that a frog will grow out of these miniature beads of nutrient jelly! Thousands of eggs anticipating thousands of tadpoles, so many already visible across this wet expanse of rock. The tadpole hunter discovered a section of frogpoles, which is what we call them at the stage when they have both legs and tail. They are so tiny and so perfectly formed. They whirled off into the refuge of the mossy green.
Frogs are bioindicator species, thriving only in suitably clean habitats, and their abundance here is further testimony to the purity of this place. Our water is so clean, we “drink from our roof”. Where else can you drink unfiltered rainwater, knowing that it is untouched by any pollution including radioactivity? This very water will course underground providing sustenance to our non-irrigated vines. And frogs have established themselves in the vineyard as well. You can hear them chirumping away, in joyful counterpoint to the Indian Ocean’s thunder.
I had the opportunity to take some passionfruit cuttings from the arbors of the regional passionfruit expert. He instructed me to apply a root stimulant to create better root strike, which would encourage my cuttings to establish more quickly. Most root stimulants are made of plant hormones called auxins, and so I automatically and dutifully purchased a teaspoon- sized packet of auxin powder and some peat to serve as rooting medium. I trimmed the cuttings back to just a few leaves each and dipped the trimmed stems into the powder, just barely coating the ends and put each cutting into its own peat filled cell. Instant passionfruit orchard! How easy was that?
And then I thought about the grapevine cuttings I’ve been taking. So far I’ve planted about a thousand directly into the soil. And I’ve got at least another 5000 patiently waiting in the nursery to callous up. But there’s absolutely no guarantee that they actually will root, or that the cuttings I’ve put in the ground will actually grow. So I had the genius thought to trial the root stimulant on a row or two of cuttings and in my trance, trudged down to the vineyard, golden packet in hand.
I took the first cutting and thrust it into the powder and as it pulled out, a bunch of powder that had lodged on the bottom bud dusted onto my arm and it began to burn. Really burn. So I ran down to the stream and drowned my arm until the pain abated, and walked back to the pile of cuttings. It was only then that I took a close look at the packet, which of course warned me about getting it on my skin, and I realized that the substance was actually a synthetic auxin, indolebutyric acid! Yikes! Rather than stimulating the growth of these plants with a plant-derived hormone, I was giving them a chemical start! That earns an immediate no in the vineyard. Whatever is watching over this place has prevailed, fortunately. (Phew!)
But I had this plant dusted in hormone and ready to go. Without thinking too hard about it, I pulled back the mulch and prepared to plunge the dusted cutting in. Fortunately the cavorting of a couple of jolly earthworms frolicking around in the newly disturbed mulchy soil, along with the scurryings of assorted beetles and bugs and the leaping of a very quick spider got my attention again, and I thought, wait a minute, am I actually going to put some synthetic acid on these creatures, or near them, or somewhere that they might possibly contact it, as an experiment in viticulture? What the heck am I thinking? That it will wash away? That this piece of ground is in isolation from the rest of this land? Where would this miniscule bit of chemical go were I to put it in the earth? How much would it actually affect the future of the plant, or the soil, or the water, or the world?
Grapevines have rooted themselves in nature without artificial plant hormones for millenia. If I really needed to stimulate the roots, which I really do not need to do, I could trial many other substances near to hand. I’ve an orchard with lemons – lemon juice has acetic acid and that might kick things off. I also have several colonies of bees – and honey has all kinds of acids. Alternatively, I could make a root stimulating tea from willow or poplar, or other easily rooting trees. There are so many things readily found in nature that could serve. But the fact is that this entire vineyard has grown and is thriving without any chemicals whatsoever. This is not the moment for me to begin.
I’ve had a burn and a visual reminder to stop this misguided activity now. The packet is going in the trash. But if I throw the packet in the trash, ...