Wine. That's how much I brought home on Sunday, not how much I drank.
I think I may have only been personally responsible for half a case, between tastings and dinners and such. Not to mention the post-golf beers and the vodka tonics.
Zowie.
Before I get into some of the specifics, I have to endlessly praise three vineyards:
Terre Rouge/Easton,
Twisted Oak, and
Hatcher. Oh, there was much loveliness in their cool, damp, dim tasting rooms. If you can find any of their beauties on your local wine list, by all means drink up. You won't go wrong.
If you're interested in more detailed recommendations, drop me a line. I'll be happy to point you toward the real goodies.
Miles and I took off on Thursday morning and drove up US-95 through the dicey Nevada ex-boomtowns of Beatty, Goldfield and Tonopah. Each has its mining past, and each is now populated with hangers-on with very little to hang on to. Don't get me wrong. I've seen many small towns, past their prime, where I would love to live. In these Nevada towns, though, the air is hot, dusty, and there's little interest in preserving their rich histories. On each main drag, the century-old hotels were side-by-side with rundown cottages and dirt lots filled with rusted-out junk.
It was so sad, and so Nevada. Out of all the places I've been, Nevada (because of all its open space, maybe? is everything here disposable because you can just pick up and go somewhere nicer and newer?) is the least interested in preservation. Las Vegas implodes its old buildings. The rural towns just let time do its work.
Out of Tonopah, we began climbing. Mountain ranges seemed to come, one after another. One was full of yucca trees. Another was studded with gorgeous, indestructible Bristlecone pines. Not long after, we were heading up to Tioga Pass and over into Yosemite.
Here's how much of a National Forest geek I am: even those brown signs with place names and arrows make me happy. "Tuolumne Meadows," "Tenaya Lake," "Tamarack Flat," all in that soothing, rich cocoa color. It couldn't have been more than 80 degrees outside, and Miles and I gratefully rolled down our windows. Forest air is one of my favorite things of all. Cool, dense, fresh . . . so lovely. I pulled out the camera and wildly snapped photos. We'll have to see if any came out. I do think I was able to catch the backside of Half Dome.
Once out of the park, it was another haul to hook up with Highway 49, the road that cuts through the middle of Gold Country.
49? Get it? 49ers? Ha.
Gold Country landscape is really strange. Very hilly -- hills are rolling all over the place -- and every hill is covered in a combination of these things: tall, golden grasses; bright green vineyards; scrubby trees; horses; and cows. Honestly, with those crazy gold grasses, the whole region looks like tinder. And yet, this is some of the richest ground anywhere. It's dark, fragrant and fertile.
I noticed this when I saw the gardens in each little town. Everything was flowering -- the shrubs, the trees, vines clinging everywhere –- all these colors just popping out. For a desert girl, this is exotica.
So it's no wonder I love this area. Each old mining town has tried to preserve its historic district. Now, the tiny buildings house shops and antique stores and restaurants. They thrive. And in every spare corner, dripping from every fence, hanging from the rooftops, something is alive and growing and gorgeous.
Later that evening, I stood outside the back door of the Iron Horse Saloon in Sonora. The hills rose above town and I could see a brick-red church steeple. Those golden grasses were even more, well, golden. The trees were dark, whispery greens. There was, of all things, a "Shannon's Barber Shop" across the street right next door to a wine bar, and I had a nice, easy buzz on.
And that's how we started our vacation.
