The Harvest
Russian River Valley, Sonoma County.
The morning sun seeped through the mist-covered valley, spreading like a silver ribbon—a scene as picturesque as a painting.
Dad, behind the wheel, marveled at the beautiful sight.
"Korea has its own unique beauty, but the scale here in the States is definitely on another level."
"You're right. The sheer size of the land makes for a different kind of spectacle."
"But how did this place manage to avoid the recent wildfires?"
"We'll have to see once we get there. There might not be direct damage, but thin-skinned varieties like Pinot Noir are more vulnerable to smoke."
"So, we can't fully trust that there's no damage. Is there a way to verify it?"
"Yes. It takes a few days, but it's possible. We just need to take a look first."
"Let's do that."
We soon arrived at the vineyard. A soft breeze carried the scent of damp earth mingled with a subtle, underlying aroma of grapes.
The owner, Stephen Hart, walked out to meet our car. His sun-tanned red beard and sturdy build were as impressive as ever.
"You've come at a truly critical time. A few days later, and you would have missed the window," he said.
"Let's take a look," I replied.
"Let's. Follow me."
Dad and I followed him into the vineyard. Everywhere I looked, clusters of grapes, resembling pinecones, were packed tight and ripened to perfection.
Stephen Hart led us to the block we had contracted and immediately picked a cluster, placing it on a makeshift table he had brought along.
"Check it out," he said.
"Thank you."
Before checking the quality, I wiped the skin of the grapes with my hand to inspect my fingertips, then crushed a berry to smell it. Stephen Hart raised one corner of his mouth.
"Checking for smoke taint? You're quite meticulous."
I had brushed the grapes to check for traces of ash on the skins, and I crushed them to see if there were any notes of tar, smoke, or burnt wood. Finding nothing amiss, I nodded and pulled out a Ziploc bag. I put about 20 grapes inside, crushed them by hand, placed a drop on a glass plate, and held the refractometer to my eye.
"24 degrees Brix."
"The sugar content is good," Dad noted.
"The seeds are mostly brown, too. If there were still hints of green, they'd be under-ripe, but these are fully matured."
I then put the juice into a test tube and measured it with a pH kit; the reading was 3.4. Since the acidity was stable, I picked a few grapes and chewed them, skins and all.
Sweet juice burst forth, coating my tongue. The scents of cherry and raspberry rose clearly, accompanied by a faint astringency. But it wasn't a sharp, bitter taste; it was the soft, lingering texture of tannins. There was no trace of green or grassy notes when chewing the skins.
"How is it?"
"It's good."
I gave a thumbs-up without further ado, and Dad broke into a deep smile.
"Then we should harvest this weekend."
"Two days from now would be perfect."
I looked at Stephen.
"I'll take a cluster with me. I'll run a Micro-fermentation test to confirm there's no smoke taint. If there are no issues, I'll proceed with the payment as contracted."
He immediately frowned.
"You're quite the picky one. Fine, do as you like."
Judging by his easy acceptance, it seemed certain the grapes hadn't been hit by smoke, but I still had to do my due diligence. If grapes are exposed to smoke, it's often less noticeable right after harvest, only for the smoky aroma to become prominent during the fermentation and aging stages.
Dad offered him a gentlemanly smile and shook his hand.
"Thank you for understanding. Then, please start the harvest at dawn, two days from now."
"Understood. I'll have blocks C and D ready for hand-harvesting."
Having finalized the harvest of the pre-purchased Pinot Noir, Dad and I picked a few more clusters and headed home.
The next day, UC Davis.
"My dad was really worried," Chloe said as soon as we met in the school cafeteria at lunch, even though she'd already heard over the phone that we were fine.
"Tell him there's absolutely nothing to worry about. Especially tell him that not a single spark touched the oak barrels containing the cherry wine."
"It's not like I only asked because I was worried about the cherry wine. I asked because it's my friend's farm."
"Right, tell him I appreciate his concern as well."
Armando, who had just arrived with his tray, sat next to me and said, "Chloe, there's a goddess in your department. Who is she?"
"A goddess? Other than me?"
She looked at him as if the idea were ridiculous, but Armando no longer found it difficult to talk to Chloe, at least.
"Black hair, gorgeous aura? If I told you my heart stopped the moment I saw her, would you understand?"
"It should've stayed stopped..."
"I hope you find out for sure. A Latin man with a burning heart is watching."
"I don't know who she is, but I already feel sorry for her."
"That's probably because she hasn't properly felt the love of a Latin man."
Chloe made a strange face, but Armando didn't care and bit into his cold pizza. Soon after, Jacob sat down next to Chloe with his tray. Seeing his skin burned bright red, it was clear he'd been out in the sun a lot lately.
"We started the harvest. Alberto says the yield won't be much different from last year. Thanks, Brian. Thanks to you, I think this year's farming will be a success."
"That's a relief. I was worried because the rice was damaged quite a bit."
"When the harvest is all done, I'll bring you a few 25-pound bags."
"It's okay, I'll just buy some."
"You're the one who said it. Farmers should give and take. I'll give you the best rice."
"Alright, thanks. I'll enjoy it."
The four friends chatted about nothing in particular until it was time for class and we scattered. When I arrived at the Introduction to Viticulture lecture hall, students were buzzing with conversation.
I sat down and listened to the chatter, which was naturally about the wildfires that had swept through Sonoma and Napa. Since we were all students studying viticulture and enology, it was naturally our biggest concern.
Most of them had enrolled because they genuinely loved grape growing and wine, but since some were children of farm owners in California, they couldn't help but be interested.
As I opened my book and waited for class to start, Elaina, who had just walked into the lecture hall, flinched when she saw me. But she soon straightened her shoulders and walked toward me with confidence.
"You must be feeling pretty smug, right? You warned us about the wildfire risk, so you must be thinking it serves us right that we couldn't handle it properly?"
"...Not at all. I wasn't thinking anything of the sort."
"Hmph! Liar..."
Elaina crossed her arms and sneered, but honestly, rather than feeling triumphant, I felt pity. According to the firefighters, a quarter of their farm had been damaged, which was a fatal blow.
A quarter being burned was a huge blow in itself, but it also meant that all the remaining grapes on the farm had been exposed to smoke. Grapes exposed to smoke and ash were excluded from coverage—to the point where they weren't even mentioned in the 2004 insurance policies.
So, it was no exaggeration to say that this year's wine was a total disaster.
"Don't worry too much. You must have insurance, at least. We suffered a massive powdery mildew outbreak last year, but we worked hard and recovered. You guys can do it, too."
Elaina, who was about to ask if I was mocking her, remembered that the entire Redwood Vineyard had indeed been sick with White Powder Disease last year.
"How much help can insurance really be..."
"Still, it's better than nothing."
Before my regression, insurance companies didn't start skyrocketing premiums and refusing new coverage in certain areas until after the multi-billion dollar damages from the 2017 Napa and Sonoma wildfires.
Before that, most grape farms were protected by Crop Insurance, operated jointly by the federal government (USDA) and private insurers, so I assumed Silveroak was the same.
Of course, that didn't mean it was a huge help. Compensation only covered the loss relative to the average yield.
In the end, it would have been better for Silveroak Farm if everything had just burned down. Now, reviving the farm depended on how much the owner was willing to sacrifice and work.
I was rooting for them, but it wouldn't be easy.
"By the way... what do you think about our grapes for your vinegar? Any interest?"
I gave an awkward smile.
"Sorry, but volatile phenols derived from smoke remain even when turned into vinegar. Even if filtered with activated carbon, they persist, so for use as a high-end dressing vinegar... I'm sorry."
No matter how much I pitied them, some things just couldn't be done.
When making vinegar, only the alcohol turns into acetic acid; bacteria don't eliminate these phenol molecules. In fact, due to acidity and enzymatic action, the phenols hidden in the sugars could be released again, revealing the smell. I had no choice but to refuse firmly.
The only way to save those grapes would be to make wine while enduring the smoke flavor, but whether it would actually sell...
"Forget it then!"
Having swallowed her pride to ask, only to be flatly rejected, Elaina turned away with an embarrassed face and took a seat far away.
After enduring a boring class where I had to listen to content I already knew too well, I headed to the parking lot to go home. As I trudged along, wondering what time I should go to the custom crush facility tomorrow,
"Brian!"
I looked up to see Sienna standing in front of my old pickup truck, arms crossed, wearing a short skirt just like before. She seemed to be standing a step away, as if she didn't want to touch the car, and her squinting at the sunlight suggested she'd been waiting for a while.
"Oh... nice to see you."
"You don't look like you're happy to see me at all."
"Must be your imagination."
"Is that so? I heard you're making cherry wine at your farm?"
I was pondering whether I'd been loose-lipped while at school when Sienna added,
"Mr. Pierce, who visited our house, told me."
"Ah, I see you're well-acquainted with Mr. Pierce Morgan?"
"It's natural for large farms like ours to be close to the Agricultural Extension Office. We can learn a lot about the latest farming techniques."
"Oh ho, so the Harrington farm has no resistance to the latest technology?"
"Isn't that obvious?"
Given her sharp appearance, I'd assumed she'd be stuck in her ways, but she seemed surprisingly open-minded.
"Anyway, I heard you asked Mr. Pierce to connect you with high-end restaurant owners? That you wanted to hold a tasting event."
Turns out, this Pierce guy had a huge mouth.
"He told you that too?"
"Think about it. Does Mr. Pierce know more restaurant owners, or does my dad? Mr. Pierce brought it up to my dad to help you out."
"Ah..."
"My dad wants to attend, too."
So this was the goal.
"Really?"
"He's curious about the cherry wine."
"Hmm..."
"Why? You don't want him to?"
"Well, we are competitors, after all."
"We don't make cherry wine."
"We're also making wine with Pinot Noir. It'll be out next year, though..."
At that, Sienna's brow twitched.
"You're growing Pinot Noir in Napa?"
"Not exactly, but we're planning a custom crush."
"Ha, you're certainly ambitious. Have you ever done it before? Different varieties require different winemaking techniques, don't they?"
I shrugged, and she stared at me intently before saying,
"So, is that a no?"
"...No. You're offering to invite restaurant owners for our sake, so of course, I should invite you."
"Why the look on your face? Are you worried because my dad is going to see it for himself?"
"Yes, I am worried."
"About what?"
"That he'll be too surprised... because it's so delicious."
I smiled brightly, walked past her, and got into my car. I drove off, leaving her looking dumbfounded.