Senescence

The last few winters have provided some gorgeous vineyard scenery.

But there are enough pretty snow scenes on the vineyard blog: Janus, Vortex, Romance, Shadows.

Today's post takes us back to the golden glow of autumn.

October 29, 2014

2014 turned out to be an exquisite season of cane ripening, the benefits of which we are now seeing, after this, the coldest February on record.

Scrolling through four years of vineyard records and photographs, and two years of blog posts, it occurs to me that fully inhabiting each season, as it unfolds, is one of the great pleasures of tending the earth.

Each season, as you live it, seems so epic and permanent.

But, of course, scrolling through the photos tells a different story.

Aromella vines in the South Vineyard, October 21, 2014

Each season, of course, passes as it should, seemingly endless summer folding into languid fall.

But as you catalog one, two, three, four (and counting) rotations around the sun, on the same little patch of terrain, you also come to see that each winter, each spring, each summer, and yes, each mellow autumn, also differs markedly from those that came before.

It is easy to remember scorching dry summers and cool wet ones, mild green winters and frigid snowy ones.

Autumn, however, sometimes blurs into sameness.

But just because autumn may be a mellow season, don't assume it is dull: it is a time of dramatic and rapidly shifting light, of sudden gusts, of startlingly vibrant colors that increase just as the life force of a season slowly subsides.

And each autumn can differ markedly from those that came before.

Looking back, the autumn of 2014 was among the most lovely in the vineyard.

Sure, there have been seasons when the fence rows, bedecked with scarlet Virginia Creeper, buttery orange sassafras, and clear lemony cottonwood, have stolen the show.

Sassafras leaves, September 2012

But this fall, the vines themselves mellowed to their distinct varietal hue, with a vividness we haven't previously achieved.

In the South Vineyard, our four varieties, climbing a gentle slope from the mill creek, created a distinctive pattern of ascending horizontal stripes, as each variety, in its own time, shed its chlorophyll, to display inherent hues previously cloaked by green.

October 15, 2014

In the vineyard we always think a season or two ahead, and watching those colors stripe the hillside, we knew that this was a sign of nearly perfect post-harvest ripening conditions.

In the vineyard, each year we ripen not just that summer's grape crop, but more importantly, after the fruit is plucked, we ripen the canes themselves.

Future seasons' crops are latent in buds within those canes, as they mature through autumn from green to a fully ripened tawny brown.

Those vivid foliage colors we witness, and the more subtle progression of the cane's coloration, are senescence: the highly ordered and genetically regulated process through which an organism, or one of its parts, progresses after maturity.

In the leaves of the grapevine, we witness senescence in the mutable color of leaves, from green to lemon yellow (or russet or purple or crimson) as the variety's genetics dictate.

In the shoots that arose so rampantly over the course of an endless summer, we witness senescence in a progression from apple green shoots in the spring, to olive in autumn, to a tawny or rosy winter brown. We watch supple vegetative shoots ripen to become woody canes, a process called "hardening off," in preparation for impending winter chill.

Vivid fall leaf color told us that the leaves had supped an optimal amount of light, and created optimal fuel, for the permanent vine they feed.

This winter, those rosy brown canes we sliced open in the warmth of the vineyard office, to reveal the startlingly green and living bud within, told us the canes had luxuriated in an optimal autumn, preparing themselves to survive what turned out to be temperatures below what some of our varieties should be expected to survive.

Slicing open one dormant bud after another in the warmth of the vineyard office, we are pleased but not surprised by the vivid green within.

Those vivid autumn colors told us exactly what to expect, in the nadir of our coldest winter.

October 21, 2014

Tomorrow

Late summer days in a vineyard, the bounty borne by years of patient nurture drips from the vines.

Aromella clusters in the South Vineyard, September 2014

Clusters of amber, bronze, apricot, and deep purple bear a perilous, and transitory, prosperity.

With each passing day under a slanting September sun, the color deepens.

The fruit sweetens.

As the crop ripens, birds circle overhead, menacingly.

We worry about our perilous prosperity, borne as fragile fruit.

On misty vineyard mornings, a doe and her speckled fawns seek to breach the bird netting, and sample forbidden fruit.

As the poet observed, nothing gold can stay.

And that goes for September, which swept in with a blaze of goldenrod along the creek bed, and the transitory bounty of the crop this golden month bears.

Before we turn the page to October and autumn’s demise, all of the fruit, or that which does not succumb to the appetite of the creatures with whom we share this temporary paradise, will be harvested from the vines.

Frontenac Gris in the North Vineyard, September 2014

Our winged and hoofed friends sweep in to glean what remains.

There comes a day, after the last harvest, when we walk the denuded vineyard rows, where the jeweled tones of the crop we nurtured are replaced by lemon yellow leaves, with the first crinkles of brown fringing their edges.

The skeletal remains of rejected grape clusters, stripped clean by crows, litter the vineyard turf.

We’ll allow ourselves our moment of melancholy.

And then we shift gears to next year, the bounty of future harvests, the rich nectar now safely aging in winery tanks.

A sign on a piece of aged barn wood in my backyard reads: to plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.

In the vineyard it is perpetually tomorrow.

No sooner are the last grapes plucked from the vines, than attention turns to next year.

Furrows are tilled.

Bird netting rolled.

Nursery orders placed.

Canada geese, flying in a perfect wedge, migrate overhead. Their somber call dissipates into the horizon.

On these October days of fading goldenrod, something about the plaintive wail of migrating birds makes me think that they understand what we ourselves have come to know:

Each tomorrow brings us closer to another golden season, a tomorrow in which we dream of another bountiful harvest, dripping from the vines, in extravagant jeweled tones.

The bounty of our acres, on display at our harvest festival, September 2014.

Tonnage

A dewy Arandell cluster at veraison, culled from the vines.

Vineyard work is often solitary work. But that's not to say those of us who tend the vines don't enjoy visitors in the vineyard rows.

We absolutely love it. 

Sure, these 4,000+ grape vines and this bevy of swans can be amiable companions. But conversationalists, they are not.

This time of year, the most frequent question we get from guests who stroll into the rows: What are you doing with all of those grapes you are picking? 

Baskets and bins of them. Sometime a full Bobcat load.

No, we are not harvesting yet.

We are culling imperfect fruit from the vines in anticipation of harvest.

Since January, every decision we make, from dormant pruning to bud adjustment to shoot positioning to cane and cluster thinning, is aimed at reducing the size (and increasing the quality) of the eventual wine grape crop.

A bushel of Petite Pearl 

Right now we feel pretty good about the amount of fruit our vines bear. But from now to harvest, we will continue to pass through as time allows to cull under ripe, overripe, crowded, and damaged clusters.

Statistically, the amount of fruit we remove isn't huge based on the overall vineyard crop.

But with thousands of vines, even a few clusters pulled from each one, eventually adds up to TONS.

And so the work of the vineyard continues.

A productive vineyard day is a messy vineyard day.

In our wake, depending on the season, we leave piles of pruned canes, carpets of trimmed shoots, baskets of culled fruit.

The never ending attempt to contain the bounty of nature.

All of the extra tonnage, returned to the earth, composted and eventually feeding  another cycle of growth.

The second most common question we get from vineyard visitors: This vineyard is immaculate!

Well, perhaps not at the peak of our work day.

We always have to leave a little time at the end, to remove the tonnage of detritus produced.

If we do our job right, you'll never now we were here.

No one, except the swans, and the grapes.

And they usually keep all of our secrets.

Countdown

It's hard to remember an August quite like this.

The mornings greet us in the vineyard with dew kissed grape clusters, and overflowing rain gauges (four plus inches on a recent torrential night.)

Breezy afternoons where the thermometer hovers at 70.

Rain gear and jackets that normally wouldn't see the light of day until October are summoned from musty storage.

And so the pleasant work of Veraison, the season when the vines ripen their fruit, carries on in the vineyard.

Our six varietals, August 14, beginning to show their harvest hues.

Imperfect clusters are culled from the vines.

Clusters are gathered, weighed, tasted, and chemically analyzed to track ripening.

Bird netting is installed.

Normally in this season, our concerns are staying hydrated and watching for sun stroke, as we race the clock  to fully dress the vines for harvest.

This year we have to remember to pack an extra jacket, and be on the look out for mold and mildew on the damp vines.

So while it makes a pleasant work day for the vineyard workers, the vines themselves would prefer it much hotter and drier.

If our previous harvest seasons in Canton, Ohio have taught us anything, it is to expect the unexpected:

And so it is: another unusual season among the vines.

But, what a beautiful season it has been.

Each day forward on the countdown to harvest, we will be posting here a picture or an observation  from the vines.

Labor that began among snow rollers in a Vortex-frozen January vineyard, continues its steady march through an unseasonably cool August.

Anything can yet happen:

Stay tuned, and watch it unfold.

Bushels of imperfect fruit, culled from the vines.

Change

For months in the vineyard now we've been surrounded by walls of solid green.

Tiny buds that seemed so vulnerable on those startlingly cold May mornings have since unleashed a torrent of growth.

We've trained, nurtured, and positioned those individual shoots.

Up through the trellis wires.

Forcing rampant nature into an orderly form it would rather not take. We've had a lot of intimate contact with acres of nothing but green.

So needless to say, something that is NOT green catches your eye.

Marquette cluster in the North Vineyard, July 21

As it did a few days ago.

The first few berries I assumed were wasp-stung or perhaps bruised by the tractor.

Then I'd see another.

And another.

From sour apple green to a slightly bruised olive, until finally pink, and ultimately purple.

So it wasn't an injury or an outbreak of disease in the vineyard, but rather the season unfolding exactly as it should:

The second-to-last week of July, amidst a rare stretch of startlingly pleasant 75-degree days, we have arrived at the season of Veraison.

Veraison is when the grape vines shift their energy from vegetative growth, to the ripening of the fruit.

The outward clue to this internal shift is the sudden arrival of points of color amid all of the green.

One by one, the berries (as each individual grape on the bunch is known) turn.

For a few days, which some call the party balloon phase, the individual berries on each cluster will vary: Greens and pinks and reds and purples happily co-mingle on all the same bunch.

Eventually, they will stabilize to the final varietal hue.

In the case of our our vineyard, our six varietals will produce clusters that will range from amber (Vignoles) to apricot (Aromella) to to bronze (Frontenac Gris) to dark purple (Arandell and Petite Pearl) to blue-black (Marquette).

Until these jewel tones settle into their final ripe color, we will enjoy the variety, and a palette that changes by the hour, with each subtle shift of the afternoon rays, with each berry that darkens and sweetens, exactly on cue.

Blackberries along the South Vineyard fence row.

This year, veraison struck the same day the wild brambles along the back fence row yielded their first glistening fruit, the same day the apples in the orchard acquired their first blush of red, the same day the poke weed along the gravel lane began to drip fountains of purple fruit.

The shortening of the days.

The approach of autumn.

All around us, the plants are responding, coloring the landscape, enticing the birds.

It's a beautiful scene, but one in which we can't linger.

Leaves must be pulled from the ripening clusters, exposing them to even light to ripen the fruit.

Vines must be trained.

Bird netting unfurled, hopefully in advance of ravenous migratory hordes.

It's the kind of day you pause at the end of, look down the neat green row you've just worked through, admiring the new hues, ignoring the rampant untamed growth (just for the moment) that lies ahead.

Our varietals in August (clockwise from top): Marquette, Frontenac Gris, Arandell, Petite Pearl, Aromella. Center: Vignoles.

Veraison

The season of veraison is upon us in the vineyard.

As the days grow perceptibly shorter, the vines shift their energy from shoot production to the ripening of the fruit. The color deepens, the berries soften, flavors and aromas develop.

In a challenging viticulture season, neither unusual late season frost nor ravenous geese nor periods of near biblical deluge can keep our resilient Marquette vines from bearing at least some fruit.

The view above is from the North Vineyard, after we removed excessive leaf growth encouraged by our abundantly wet summer, in preparation for installing bird netting.

This is the season we expose clusters to the sun so they can fully and evenly ripen, and do our best to protect the sweetening fruit from bird and beast.

All it takes now is sunshine and time. One by one, the berries turn. 

A simple thing, but startling and amazing nonetheless. One day the vineyard is nothing but green. The next day it is not.