Russian River Valley, Sonoma County.
Morning sunlight seeped through the lightly misted valley, spreading out like a silver ribbon, a scene beautiful enough to be painted.
Dad, hands on the steering wheel, marveled at the view.
“Korea has its own beauty, but America really is on a different scale.”
“You’re right. The land is so vast that even looking at it feels different.”
“But how did this place manage to avoid the wildfire so well?”
“We’ll have to go and see first. There may not be any direct damage, but thin-skinned varieties like Pinot Noir are more vulnerable to smoke.”
“So we can’t completely trust it when they say there’s no damage. Is there a way to check?”
“Yes. It takes a few days, but it’s possible. First, we should go and take a look.”
“Let’s do that.”
When we soon arrived at the farm, the damp scent of earth mingled with a subtle fragrance of grapes in the gently blowing breeze.
The farm owner, Steven Hart, checked the car and came walking out. His sun-browned red beard and sturdy build were still striking.
“You came at one hell of a perfect time. If you’d been a few days later, you probably would’ve missed the window.”
“Let’s go take a look first.”
“Sure thing. Follow me.”
Dad and I followed him into the vineyard. Everywhere the eye could reach, clusters of grapes resembling pinecones hung densely packed, firm and well-ripened.
When we entered the block we had contracted for, Steven Hart immediately picked a cluster of grapes and placed it on a simple table he had prepared in advance.
“Check it.”
“Thank you.”
Before anything else, I wiped the skin of the grape cluster once with my hand and checked my fingertips with my eyes. Then I crushed a single berry and smelled it. At that, Steven Hart raised one corner of his mouth.
“Checking if it got hit by smoke? Pretty meticulous, aren’t you?”
I had stroked the grapes with my hand to check for traces of ash on the skins, and I had crushed one to smell whether there was any scent of tar, smoke, or burnt wood.
Sensing nothing unusual, I nodded, took out the zipper bag I had prepared, placed about twenty grapes inside, crushed them by hand, then put a drop on a glass plate and raised the refractometer to my eye.
“Twenty-four degrees Brix.”
“The sugar level is good.”
“Most of the seeds are brown, too. If there were still green left, they’d be underripe, but at this point they’re fully mature.”
Next, I placed the juice in a test tube and measured it with a pH kit. The reading came out to 3.4. Since the acidity was fairly stable, I immediately picked up a few grapes and chewed them with the skins on.
Sweet juice burst and wet my tongue, with clear notes of cherry and raspberry rising at once, while a faint astringency spread through my mouth. But it was not a sharp bitterness; it was the texture of tannins lingering softly on the tip of my tongue. Even when I chewed the skins, there was no green or grassy smell.
“How is it?”
“It’s good.”
When I gave him a thumbs-up without saying much else, Dad smiled broadly.
“Then we should harvest them this weekend.”
“I think two days from now would be good.”
After saying that, I looked at Steven.
“I’ll take one cluster of grapes with me. I’ll run a micro-fermentation test to see whether any smoke aroma appears, and if there are no problems, we’ll proceed with the payment according to the contract.”
He immediately frowned.
“You sure are fussy. Do what you want.”
Seeing him agree so readily, it did seem certain the grapes had not been exposed to smoke, but what had to be checked still had to be checked. When grapes are exposed to smoke, the signs may not show much right after harvest, only for a smoky aroma to become prominent during fermentation and aging.
Dad offered him a gentlemanly smile and extended his hand.
“Thank you for understanding. Then please begin the harvest at dawn two days from now.”
“Got it. I’ll prepare Blocks C and D for hand harvesting.”
And so, after deciding the harvest date for the Pinot Noir we had pre-purchased, Dad and I picked a few clusters of grapes and headed home.
---
The next day, UC Davis.
“My dad was really worried.”
Chloe, whom I met at the school cafeteria during lunch, brought up the fire again as soon as we saw each other, even though she had already heard over the phone that everything was fine.
“Tell him there’s nothing to worry about at all. Especially that not a single spark reached the oak barrels with the cherry wine.”
“It’s not like he was only worried about the cherry wine. It’s his daughter’s friend’s farm, so he asked because he was concerned.”
“Sure. Please tell him I’m grateful for his concern, too.”
Just then, Armando came over with his tray and sat down beside me.
“Chloe, there’s a goddess in your department. Who is she?”
“There’s a goddess other than me?”
She looked as if the very idea was absurd, but Armando, at least when it came to Chloe, no longer had trouble speaking.
“She had black hair and this gorgeous aura. If I told you my heart stopped the moment I saw her, would you understand?”
“That heart should’ve stayed stopped...”
“I’d really like you to find out for sure. A Latin man with a burning heart is watching.”
“I don’t know who that woman is, but I already feel sorry for her.”
“That’s only because she hasn’t properly experienced the love of a Latin man.”
Chloe made a strange face, but Armando paid no attention and bit into his cold pizza. Soon after, Jacob came over with his tray and sat down beside Chloe. Seeing how red his skin had become, I could tell he had been getting roasted by the sun lately.
“We started harvesting this time. Mr. Alberto said the yield probably won’t be much different from last year. Thanks, Brian. I think this year’s farming will turn out well because of you.”
“That’s a relief. I was worried because so much of the rice was damaged.”
“Once the harvest is over, I’ll bring a few twenty-five-pound bags to your house.”
“It’s fine. I should buy it.”
“You said it yourself. Farms should give and receive from one another. I’ll give you the best rice.”
“Sure, thanks. I’ll enjoy it.”
The four of us exchanged pointless chatter for a while, then scattered when it was time for class. When I arrived at the Introduction to Viticulture lecture hall, the students were murmuring among themselves.
I sat down and naturally listened in on the conversations around me. They were talking about the wildfire that had swept through the Sonoma and Napa areas. Since the students gathered here were studying viticulture and enology, it seemed to be their biggest topic of interest by default.
Most of them had entered because they genuinely liked grape growing and wine, but there were also the occasional children of farm owners operating vineyards in California, so there was no way they could not be interested.
I opened my book and waited for class when Elaina, who had just entered the lecture hall, flinched when she saw me. But soon she straightened her shoulders and walked over confidently.
“You must feel so triumphant, huh? You warned us about the wildfire risk in advance, and now you’re secretly gloating because we didn’t handle it properly, aren’t you?”
“...Not at all? I wasn’t thinking anything.”
“Hmph! Liar...”
Elaina crossed her arms and sneered, but honestly, rather than feeling pleased inside, I felt sorry for her. According to the firefighter, a quarter of their farm had been damaged, and that was a fatal blow.
The fact that a quarter had burned was already a huge hit in itself, but it also meant that the rest of the grapes on the farm had all been exposed to smoke. Grapes exposed to smoke and ash were excluded from coverage to the point that they were not even mentioned in the 2004 insurance policies.
In other words, it was no exaggeration to say this year’s wine was completely ruined.
“Don’t worry too much. You must have insurance, at least. We also suffered a huge outbreak of disease and pests last year, but we worked hard and recovered from it. You can do it, too.”
Elaina had been about to ask if I was mocking her, but then she remembered that the entire Redwood farm had indeed been stricken with powdery mildew last year.
“How much help is insurance really going to be...”
“Still, it’s better than having none.”
Before my regression, insurance companies began raising premiums dramatically and even refusing new policies in certain areas after suffering billions of dollars in losses from the Napa and Sonoma wildfires of 2017.
Before that, most grape farms had been protected by crop insurance jointly run by the federal government, the USDA, and private insurers, so naturally, I assumed Silver Oak would be the same.
Of course, that did not mean it would be an enormous help. Compensation only covered the decrease from the average yield.
In the end, it would have been better for the Silver Oak farm if everything had burned down completely. Now, whether the farm could be revived depended on how much sacrifice and effort the owner was willing to put in.
I would cheer them on, but it probably would not be easy.
“By any chance... what about our grapes for making your vinegar? Are you interested?”
I gave her an awkward smile.
“Sorry. Volatile phenols derived from smoke still remain in part even if the grapes become vinegar. Even after filtering with activated carbon, some remain, so using it for high-end dressing vinegar would be... I’m sorry.”
No matter how pitiable it was, what could not be done could not be done.
When making vinegar, only the alcohol changes into acetic acid; bacteria do not eliminate those phenol molecules. Rather, acidity and enzymatic action can release phenols that had been hidden by binding with sugars, causing the smell to emerge again. I had no choice but to refuse firmly.
If they wanted to salvage those grapes at all, their only option was to endure the smoke aroma and make them into wine, but whether that would sell was another question...
“Then forget it!”
Elaina, who had swallowed her pride and asked only to be flatly rejected, turned away with an embarrassed face and took a seat far off in the distance.
Afterward, I endured a tedious class period listening to content I knew far too well, then headed toward the parking lot to go home. I was trudging along, wondering what time I should go to the custom crush facility tomorrow, when—
“Brian!”
I looked up and saw Sienna standing in front of my old pickup truck, arms crossed, wearing a short skirt like before. She seemed reluctant to touch the car and was standing one step away from it. The way she was squinting in the sunlight made it seem as though she had been waiting for a while.
“Uh... nice to see you.”
“You don’t look at all happy to see me.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Am I? I heard your farm makes cherry wine.”
I was wondering whether I had ever gone around running my mouth at school when Sienna added,
“Mr. Pierce, who came to our house, told me.”
“Ah, I guess you know Mr. Pierce Morgan well?”
“It’s only natural for the agricultural extension office to be close to large farms like ours. We can learn a lot about the latest farming methods from them.”
“Oh, so Harrington Farm doesn’t have any aversion to new technology?”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
Judging by her sharp features, I would have thought she had strong preconceptions, but she seemed unexpectedly open-minded.
“Anyway, you asked Mr. Pierce to connect you with high-end restaurant owners, didn’t you? You said you wanted to hold a tasting.”
As it turned out, Pierce seemed to have a surprisingly loose tongue.
“He told you that, too?”
“Think about it. Who do you think knows more restaurant owners, Mr. Pierce or my dad? Mr. Pierce brought it up to my dad because he wanted to help you.”
“Ah...”
“My dad wants to attend as well.”
This seemed to have been her purpose.
“Does he have to?”
“He says he’s curious about cherry wine.”
“Hmm...”
“Why? You don’t want him to?”
“Well, we are competitors, technically.”
“We don’t make cherry wine, though.”
“We’re making wine with Pinot Noir, too. It won’t come out until next year, but still...”
At those words, Sienna’s brow twitched.
“You’re growing Pinot Noir in Napa?”
“Not that. We’re planning to do a custom crush.”
“Ha. You really are ambitious. Have you ever done it before? The winemaking techniques will differ if the variety is different.”
I shrugged, and she stared at me before saying,
“So is that a no?”
“...No. If he’s inviting restaurant owners for our sake, of course we should invite him.”
“Why does your face look like that? Are you worried because my dad will see it himself?”
“Yes, I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“That he might be too surprised. Because it’s so delicious...”
I smiled and walked past her into the car. Then, leaving her looking dumbfounded behind me, I started the car and drove off.
This is an image of a burned-out Napa vineyard.