Dispatches From the Dirt: A Long And Winding Road
Finding the drive to push onward.
Words and Images by Jillian Riley
It was Sunday morning. I was navigating the twists and turns of Alexander Valley Road making my way from Healdsburg to the St. Helena winery. The sun was already up, which delighted me, as it was a contrast with the pre-dawn drives that had been the norm in the week prior. I had planned to pick vegetables in the garden of a winemaker friend after finishing work, so there was a bag of Flying Goat coffee beans to give to him as a thank you perched atop my Patagonia fleece in the passenger seat. I had chosen the “Optimist” blend as a cheeky nod to 2020.
“I had chosen the ‘Optimist’ blend as a cheeky nod to 2020.”
My phone dinged. I glanced down to see a text from a friend in Sebastopol: “Looks like smoke rising between Sonoma and St. Helena. Do you have intel about it? Might be near your winery. . .”
As I looked for a safe spot to pull over and call into the winery, my phone rang. The assistant winemaker asked how close I was and told me to turn back. There was ash falling on the winery, and the air was filled with smoke. The fire had broken out 2 miles away. Our coworker was already evacuating from his home. When I hung up, I immediately popped into the giant group text thread my family keeps going and told them I was safe. The news had no doubt reached all corners of the country almost instantaneously; I could already picture the headlines . . . “Wildfires Ravage California Wine Country. . . Again.”
My intention to turn away from the fires and head back toward Sonoma changed almost on a dime. It was still safe to push forward into Napa, and I knew that if this fire followed the pattern of those previous, it soon wouldn’t be. I wanted to see what it was truly like when these events happened, and I was also picturing our assistant winemaker alone at a winery with CO2 levels increasing by the minute.
When I came upon the iconic Napa sign, the scene was indelible. Large plumes of smoke were rising from Glass Mountain and stretching Southwest. Cars had pulled off the road to stand witness.
As I drove further, the smoke became thicker, and it covered the sun. The way smoke covers and distorts sun is something you can never forget. It feels like the scenes in space movies when the hero is trotting around the surface of Mars-- downright otherworldly.
Police checkpoint
I drove up Deer Park Road toward the final turns into the winery. A police checkpoint had been set up. News photographers in fire resistant jackets were readying their shots. I would see more of these fire resistant jackets throughout the day. It seems the fires have become so common that reporters have them in their permanent wardrobe arsenal ready to go at a moment’s notice. I rolled down my window to explain where I was headed. The officer said I was still ok to head West toward the winery; I just couldn’t go North into Angwin.
When I walked up the driveway toward the sorting table, the assistant winemaker was on his phone consulting with the winemaker. He looked up to see me and showed absolutely no surprise, despite the fact he had told me to turn back. We couldn’t do the pump overs planned for that day because we would be pumping far too much smoke-tainted air into the tanks. We opened the tanks as briefly as possible to lay down a solid blanket of CO2 to protect the fermenting juice and headed out.
On my drive back, I stopped at the Napa sign. Plumes of smoke had doubled, and the crowd had tripled. Planes were now in the air, battling the blaze from overhead. Not only smoke was now visible, but actual fire. As I stood, simultaneously mesmerized and saddened, a nearby onlooker began to point out the specificities of the aerial orchestra above us. The onlooker David had worked for Cal Fire for 30 years. He knew each plane by name and why it was moving when. I asked him if he and his wife ever thought about moving.
“Well, we could go to Kansas and deal with tornadoes. We could go elsewhere and worry about hurricanes.” David thought of the fires as part of the new and inescapable terrain of our world. He seemed interestingly peaceful about this fact-- quietly, calmly determined to adapt.
I climbed back in my car and headed away from the fires toward Bodega Bay. I spent my day soaking up and appreciating nature as much as possible, now having faced a new sudden understanding of how quickly it could all change. I bought too much jam at the farmer’s market and sat by the sea, savoring the salty smell of the air.
I hoped the fires would soon be under control and not reach our winery. My hope did not come to fruition.