The Fall of the Western Roman Empire
The peak of the Mayan Empire
The creation of the Anno Domini dating system
The birth of Mohammed
The invention of chess
The invention of backgammon
The invention of the horseshoe
The first use of zero
Just a few of the things that were going on in the world when Big Tree first began it's slow, steady climb to the sky.
And that's not even the oldest. Some redwoods are estimated at 2,000 years old, sprouting around when some Middle Eastern Jewish fella was walking about in sandals turning water into wine. Or the tallest. A tree by the name of Hyperion holds that record at just under 380 feet.
That's taller than the tallest buildings in Vermont, Wyoming, South Dakota, North Dakota, Maine, Montana, New Hampshire, West Virginia, Alaska, Idaho, Kansas, D.C., Puerto Rico, Mississippi, South Carolina, New Mexico, and Delaware.
Sequoia Sempervirens
Fittingly, sempervirens is Latin for "everlasting." These trees have been growing in their current confines for around 20 million years, although relatives of today's redwoods have been traced back to the Jurassic Era 160 million years ago. Known by its common name, the Coast Redwood, it is the tallest tree on the planet. It only exists in a narrow sliver of California coast about 450 miles long from the Oregon border to Monterey, CA. They are closely related to the Giant Sequoia, which grow at higher elevations in California's Sierra Nevada mountain range. While the Giant Sequoia doesn't grow as tall as the Coast Redwood, it is more massive, growing up to 40' in diameter, and can live up to 3,000 years.
Redwood National Park is actually a conglomeration of a national park & three state parks: Del Norte Coast, Jedediah Smith, and Prairie Creek. Thus leading to the confusing word jumble of "Redwood National and State Parks". The state parks were established in the 1920s as a response to the aggressive clear-cut logging that had reduced the extent of old-growth redwood forests from 2 million acres to 100,000. Of that acreage 40,000 exist within the parks, which are home to trees with kickass cognomens such as Kronos, Rhea, Zeus, Illúvatar, Earendil, Elwing, Adventure, Sir Isaac Newton, Graywacke, Thunderbolt, Paradox, Harriet Weaver, and Bamboozle.
During my southerly drive to the park, I am delighted to find a new episode of Radiolab pop into my podcast feed. Hell yes. Nothing makes the time go by smoother than a fascinating tale from Jad & Robert. This episode is titled Forests on Forests, a serendipitous coincidence seeing as I'm barreling towards a forest. Pretty quickly into the episode we meet an ecologist by the name of Nalini Nadkarni. Dr. Nadkarni begins detailing her graduate work in the 1980s, where she set out to study forest canopies. Her graduate committee assured her that there wasn't much going on up there & she'd better spend her time studying the forest floor. Nadkarni was not satisfied with that answer and gathered some mountain climbing equipment and began scaling trees in the Olympic Rainforest, right outside Seattle.
Dr Nadkarni, who has since earned the sobriquet Queen of the Canopy, was amazed at what she found. The trees were covered in a thick mat of mosses, lichens, and ferns. So thick, in fact, that instead of exposing tree branches when she peeled back the mats of moss, she instead found soil. The mosses & leaves & plants through the years had died, decomposed, and created a layer of soil up there in the canopy a foot thick. Soil that was teeming with life, harboring ecosystems that were as rich & diverse as those on the forest floor. And often even more so. They even found earthworms a hundred feet in the air!
Now here's where it gets really nutty, and the entire reason that I'm bringing this up in the first place. As they are discussing these canopy soils, the subject turns to the location where some of the most interesting discoveries have occurred. You guessed it, the redwood forests of Northern California.
Scientists have found mats of canopy soil three feet thick on old growth redwoods. They found mosses, lichens, flowers, berry bushes. They found salamanders living up there that spend their whole lives never touching the ground. And, perhaps most amazingly, they have found tiny, shrimp-like oceanic creatures called copepods. These little guys, the most abundant animal in the ocean, are a type of plankton that serve as the main diet for many whales. These friggin' trees have whale food in them! And nobody knows how they got there.
So the forest canopy, which was relatively unknown until the 1980s, has been estimated to hold 50% of all terrestrial species on the planet. Yes, 5-0. And what's more, during periods when the forest floor is lacking nutrients, the trees have root systems that will pull nutrients from the canopy soils to sustain themselves. Trees: the original recursion.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
As I pull into the Hiouchi Visitor Center at the North end of the park, my car's dash reads 70°F and there's not a cloud in the sky. I stroll into the visitor center, looking for some maps & advice. I meet a very nice park ranger named John, who hands me a few maps & recommends some trails. I don't know what I was thinking, but I take one look at the map and I am immediately overwhelmed at the size and complexity of the park(s).
After studying the map for what seems like ages, I wander into the bookstore, looking for a title that might detail the life and experience of the indigenous* peoples of the area, before the arrival of Europeans. I find a book entitled 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus by Charles C Mann, that's a little more broad than just the tribes of the California coast/PNW, but it looks like an enlightening read nonetheless.
*I'm consciously using the term "indigenous" here. From what I've gathered, when people are asked about their preferred appellation, nearly all wish to be identified by their individual tribe. When discussing the entirety of all tribes as a whole, the terms "indigenous" and "Native" seem to be the most appropriate. I'm choosing to avoid use of the term "Native American" because, as stated by numerous indigenous people, they were living on this continent millennia before "America" was even a concept.
Mann's overall thesis attempts to debunk what William Denevan, professor of Geography at Wisconsin-Madison, termed the "pristine myth". This belief, contrived by nineteenth-century romanticist writers and artists, stated that the continents of the Western Hemisphere at the time of Columbus were an edenic wilderness, untrammeled by the hands of man. Mann presents scholarship that builds on Denevan's work & flies in the face of this viewpoint in clear, and sometimes excruciating, detail. (The book arose from an article that Mann published in The Atlantic, which does a fine job at hitting the high points of many of the points he delves into in the book, 10/10 would recommend)
The sparsely populated wilderness that many Europeans encountered in the late 16th & 17th centuries was the result of devastating waves of smallpox & other Old World diseases that wiped out up to 95% of indigenous populations. In actuality, the pre-Columbian Western Hemisphere was more populated and sophisticated than commonly thought. By the mid 15th century, the population of the Aztec capital of Tenochitlán was bigger than Paris, Europe's largest metropolis at the time. The city boasted wide streets, ornately carved buildings, and botanical gardens, a sight unknown to European explorers who wouldn't have botanical gardens of their own until half a century after Columbus.
These indigenous tribes were masters of the land. They used all the tools at their disposal to bend nature to their will, taming forests, creating grasslands, and corralling wild beasts. Their preferred method of landscape management was the use of fire. For example, the tribes of the Great Plains burned the grasslands so often and on such a scale that they increased the extent of the great American prairie we know and love today. A substantial portion of this grassland was established and maintained by these tribes, a far cry from an untamed wilderness.
Fires were used to clear vegetation, improve conditions for crop growth, and promote ecological diversity. Many tribes used fires to preferentially herd deer, bison, or moose to locations advantageous for hunting. Nearly every indigenous tribe for the past 10,000 years has used fire to shape their environment. They lived in balance with nature, but often they tipped the balance in their favor.
With the arrival of Europeans also came their philosophy on fire. In the Old World fire was something to be feared, something to be suppressed. Since the late 18th century, governments across the country have discouraged or prohibited the indigenous practice of burning. When Europeans first set their eyes on the wonders of the Western United States, they were amazed at the natural "pristine" beauty. They did not understand that the landscape was created.
As indigenous societies were wiped out from disease, so were many of the fire-curated grasslands. Forests retook the land and Europeans forgot how the landscape looked and how it was created. Captain John Palliser, an Irish-born geographer, upon witnessing the indigenous practice of burning, lamented their "disastrous habit of setting the prairie on fire for the most trivial and worse than useless reasons."
Far from trivial or useless, indigenous prescribed burns dramatically reduced the risk of catastrophic wildfires by clearing undergrowth. Sticks, leaves, and dead organic matter, if left unchecked, can create the ideal scenario for a raging inferno. Small trees, if left to grow unconstrained, provide thick copses of fuel for fires to lick the highest branches of the tallest trees.
The past century's single-minded focus on fire suppression (it even worked its way indelibly into the public consciousness via Smokey the Bear) has counterintuitively laid the groundwork for the massive wildfires we have seen the past few years. Uncommonly warm weather & oppressive droughts have certainly exacerbated the problem, however the legacy of eschewing indigenous environmental mastery is being felt throughout the American West today.
To the Trees!
I thank the park rangers and continue my journey south. As I enter the Newton B Drury Scenic Parkway, a narrow 2-lane road that winds through a thick forest of old-growth Redwoods, the temperature immediately drops 15 degrees. The sunlight has disappeared but it's not dark. It's dim...ish... dimmish.
This is my first introduction to the unfathomable size and majesty of the redwoods. I have a limited view in the car, especially the canopy, however the girth of the trees at ground level is absolutely mind blowing.
After a half hour of meandering through the giants, I arrive at Elk Prairie campground, where I'll call home for the next few days. I pop into the ranger station for a few more maps & advice on which trails to check out. Based on some helpful intel from the ranger, I head back North a couple miles to the trailhead of the Foothill Trail.
I set out on the trail, looking for Corkscrew Tree. The park ranger said I couldn't miss it. And he was right, it is unmistakable. Or should I say they? The tree is made up of four separate twisting, gnarled trunks reaching skyward. The running theory on how it formed this distinctive shape is multi-stepped.
First, these trunks we see today grew around a central trunk, wrapping around it like enormous wooden hot dog buns. At some point in the past few hundred years the center tree died & fell over, leaving a gap between the outside trunks. Then, another redwood trunk fell through the gap, creating a sort of wooden H. Finally, another tree then fell against the horizontal trunk, creating a twisting force on the vertical trees & the corkscrew shape we see today. Whatever the cause it's surreal to crane your neck and witness the immensity and uniqueness of Corkscrew Tree.
I continue on the trail, trying not to trip on my jaw. It's less of a view than an experience. The air is crisp and hollow, mostly devoid of the sounds of fauna. The only auditory sensations are the faint babblings of Prairie Creek. The quiet is simultaneously incredibly calming and slightly unsettling. A dialed-down, on-land equivalent of a deep-water scuba dive. The park's remoteness - 6 hours from Portland, San Francisco, or Sacramento - is one of its best features. I only pass a handful of other hikers the entire way.
From the Foothill Trail I stumble onto the Cathedral Trees Trail, which starts at the base of a hill. The trail ascends a pretty steep grade that causes me to work up a sweat. As I ascend, the trees somehow increase in density the higher I go. The air is cool at the top and the few gaps in the trees provide a view to the ocean. These forests wouldn't be possible without the mighty Pacific. The ocean fuels heavy winter rainfalls that soak the soil in 60-70 inches of rain. But just as important as the rain is the fog. During the warm summer months, when rains are scarce, the cool Pacific waters create a thick fog that blankets the forest in moisture. The leaves of a redwood are shaped in such a way to catch water from the fog, which pools together in droplets that roll down the length of the leaf to rain down on the roots below. It's estimated that fog accounts for nearly a third of a redwood's water uptake.
The overwhelming, bewildering sense of wonderment never seems to abate. I ask one park ranger if she ever gets used to it. She says you get used to it but you don't get used to it. I somehow know exactly what she means. As I continue through Cathedral Trees I am continually amazed at the size and majesty of my ancient hosts. On a few dozen occasions I find myself stopped dead in my tracks, staring, dumbfounded, mouth agape.
The Best Idea We Ever Had
In 1983, Pulitzer Prize award winning novelist and environmentalist Wallace Stegner declared that the US National Parks are “the best idea we ever had. Absolutely American, absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best rather than our worst.” This very well may be true. This very well may be false. This very much depends on who you ask.
Stegner nailed it on the head that the National Parks are "absolutely American."
Absolutely American means the jaw-dropping natural beauty of the country is open to all who wish to pursue it
Absolutely American means indigenous peoples were forcibly removed from their sacred homelands
Absolutely American means that democracy prevails in our nation's backyard
Absolutely American means minorities are mostly excluded, subject to unfounded stereotypes
Absolutely American isn't straightforward. It's complicated. It's messy. It's at both times magnificent and tragic. Laudable and sorrowful. As humans, we have a tendency to categorize, to label, to see in terms of black & white. To put everything into its own little box. But the history of the National Parks, much like the history of our country, comes in every shade of grey that's ever touched a canvas.
Hidden in Stenger's proclamation that the Parks are the best idea we ever had is an implicit assumption surrounding the word we. When we are the descendants of European colonists he is absolutely right. When we are the descendants of Native tribes, he is woefully misguided.
Grand Canyon National Park was created from Havasupai homelands. Glacier National Park was carved out of lands belonging to the Blackfeet Nation, after being pressured into a treaty, which the US government summarily broke. Yosemite National Park was formed on land where a California sponsored expedition destroyed villages, burned crops, and killed members of the Miwok tribe.
By the time Redwood National Park was established in 1968, the tribes of the Northern California coast, the Yurok, Tolowa, Wiyot, Whilkut, Mattole, Nongatl, and Sinkyone had already been displaced by the gold rush of the mid 19th-century, commercial logging, and various treaties that may or may not have been honored.
In every one of these cases, the tribes were, and still are, barred from hunting, fishing, trapping, or otherwise interacting with their native lands that fall within park grounds. Lands that were molded by their hands, by their fires, to resemble the "pristine" playgrounds we see today. David Treuer, an Ojibwe historian and author, says of the founding of the National Parks: "these are places outside the human experience, and so we’re going to exclude the humans who have drawn life from them for centuries.”
But that's not to say we aren't getting better. The National Park Service has begun including more indigenous voices in its programming & staffing. The Department of the Interior and National Park Service are now led by Native representatives for the first time. California is beginning to allow indigenous tribes to practice controlled burns. A portion of redwood forest has been given back to a group of indigenous tribes.
The first step to achieving meaningful growth, both personally and as a nation, is recognizing your shortcomings. The second step is working to rectify those shortcomings.
The first seems to be happening. We'll see how the second plays out. But at least there's reason for hope.
Camp
After the first day's forest ramblings I head back to the campground. I pull into my spot right at the edge of Prairie Creek. The moist air & damp ground prove to be a challenge in my quest to start a fire, which I eventually get going after an embarrassing amount of burned paper and failed attempts. I enjoy some canned soup and a peanut butter & jelly sandwich under a canopy of redwoods and a soundtrack of crackling fire & bubbling stream. I read a few chapters of my new book before turning in for another night at the Uncle Andy Inn.
The next few days are more of the same, forest hikes by day, campfires by night. One evening I head down to the beach for sunset, where I pass a herd of elk on the muddy road out to the beach. They slowly shuffle out of my way, close enough to the car that I can smell them.
I park my rig and wander out to the water. I find a nice spot on the beach to sit and watch our noble star dip below the horizon, the tranquil sound of waves lapping up on the sand.
Back to the Forest
Near the southern end of the park stands the Lady Bird Johnson grove, which was dedicated in 1969 by President Nixon to acknowledge the former First Lady's conservation & environmental work. The entrance to the grove is primarily second growth forest - thin, twiggy trunks that provide a stark contrast to the massive behemoths of the ancients. The light is much brighter with a youthful vibrancy that you don't feel in the copses of the old growth.
In a matter of a hundred paces we transition back to the enchanted tranquility of the old growth. Along the trail, the park service has provides a virtual guided tour, with check-ins at various trees along the way. One tree with a burned out core exemplifies the important role that fire plays in the redwood ecology. Mild fires clear out dense ground cover, giving new seedlings the opportunity to grow. More intense fires remove the middle canopy layer of tanoak, hemlock, and rhododendron that allow the redwoods to shoot through the 100 foot ceiling of these neighbors. The thick, insulating bark of redwoods lack the volatile resins found in pines, firs, and spruce, and its water-based sap is mostly fire-retardant. Occasionally, as seen below, fire can pierce through the outer, growing regions of a redwood, burning the heartwood and leaving a hollow trunk.
Another aspect of redwood resiliency is its ability to re-sprout from an existing trunk. There's a reason they live for millennia. But even the stoutest redwood can meet its match during a strong winter windstorm. Trunks reaching hundreds of feet in the air snap and topple to the forest floor, creating habitats for ground-based flora and fauna alike. Cascades of light pierce the canopy where the ancient tree once stood, providing energy for saplings to reach for the sky, assuming the place of their fallen ancestor.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
Farther North, I set my eyes on the Stout Grove, a section of dense old-growth forest that can only be accessed during the winter months via a narrow, winding retired logging road.
The paved road begins to ascend into the forest, at which point the pavement ends, leaving a damp not-quite-2-lane road. Thankfully there's nobody else on the road because I find it impossible to move at anything faster than a snail's pace. It's a different experience to drive through the forest like this, getting so close to the trees I can reach out & touch them. As I come around one bend I look out my driver's side window over a sheer cliff, 40' straight down to the turbulent waters of Mill Creek.
I continue to wind through Howland Hills Road, awestruck at the resplendent beauty of the old growth forest. After about 45 minutes I arrive at the parking area for Stout Grove. I hop out and saunter over to the trailhead, down a short hill to the heart of the forest. This is the densest & most consistent grove of trees I've seen during my travels through the park. Every which way stand massive redwoods, absolutely straight, impossibly tall, incomprehensibly old. A thousand wooden ribbons hung purposefully from the sky.
Down near the creek I come upon a felled tree, whose base is at least 15' tall & looks like a sandworm from Dune. I hop down into the crater left by the uprooted Brobdingnagian, amazed at the size and textures of the gnarled trunk. I'm probably not supposed to, but I jump on top of the fallen tree & walk the length of the trunk. It must have been quite a spectacle to see this giant finally succumb to the unrelenting pull of gravity.
I can hear the creek gurgling just out of sight and find a clearing down to the water. During the summer months the park service strings a rope bridge across the creek to a camping area on the other side. The scenery is peaceful, the weather divine.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
I've thought a lot about how to put the feeling of walking through ancient redwood forests into words. Majestic. Serene. Stunning. Breathtaking. Magnificent. Resplendent. Sublime. Remarkable. Spectacular. Staggering. Transcendent. The thesaurus is full of words that simply don't do it justice. Full of words that might approach some asymptotic vicinity of the real thing. Full of words that, try as they might, will inevitably miss the mark. One could spend a lifetime reading the entirety of the voluminous essays, books, and poems written of the ancient redwood forest, but it would pale in comparison to a 10 minute walk in the woods. I'm grateful that I've had the opportunity to experience it. I hope that, if you have not yet had the opportunity yourself, you are afforded the same good fortune.
Perhaps John Steinbeck said it best,
Pacific Coast Cruisin'
Regrettably, I must leave the forest and head back to civilization. Back at the car I plug my destination into Waze, which advises me to hop on Interstate-5 North right up through the middle of Oregon.
BORING.
Sorry, Waze, we're taking the coast.
US-101, the Oregon Coast Highway, established in 1926, runs along the Oregon coast, betwixt the Pacific Ocean and the Oregon Coast Range. I'll navigate 250 miles of Oregon coast to Lincoln City, where I'll veer East and stop off in the Willamette Valley for a little vititourism.
It's a little late in the day when I get my start on the road, what with all the hiking and whatnot, so I won't be able to make the whole trek today. I figure I'll stop and camp out somewhere along the way. I start heading North, the mighty Pacific undulating to my left, the rolling, wooded peaks of the Oregon Coast Range to my right.
No less than 30 minutes on the road I see a sign for a scenic turnout, and seeing as I've caught a strong case of whythehellnot-itis, I pull off the road. After a short hike from the car I find myself standing on a cliff, overlooking the Natural Bridges Cove. The sun is sinking low on the horizon, offering a stunning view (and terrible photo) of the stone archways that give the cove its name. The arches were once entrances to a cave, which has since collapsed, resulting in the cove we see today.
Another 20 miles North and I ramble into the town of Gold Beach, a little tourist outpost at the mouth of the Rogue River. It feels like the type of place you'd load up your family into the back of a 1968 Buick LeSabre with no seatbelts and a carton of Marlboros for a weekend getaway at the Howard Johnson. I'm unsure if the town has a motto, but if it does, it's almost certainly "motels only." Curious, I take a peek at the price of said motels. Seeing as early February doesn't appear to be their high season, I find an absurdly low rate for a room right on the beach. I reckon I could use a bed after a few nights at the Uncle Andy Inn.
I pull into the Gold Beach Inn, a ramshackle accommodation whose only construction delay was likely an extended smoke break to watch the Apollo 13 astronauts splash down. I drop off my bags with just enough time to run down to the beach to catch the sunset. I have it all to myself as watch the sun melt into the horizon. The frigid Pacific water laps over my feet, and in the case of one particularly exuberant wave, my calves and the bottom of my rolled up trousers.
On my way back to the motel, I stroll past a row of round, contorted pine trees, that more resemble bushes than trees. I later learn that these are called Shore Pines, a rugged tree that grows from the southern coast of Alaska to Northern California. It's a survivor, growing anywhere from dunes to bogs to rocky hilltops, tolerant of low nutrients and salt spray. Good on ya, Shore Pine.
Back at the lodging I watch a Japanese fella by the name of Hirano Ayumu do shit on a snowboard that absolutely blows my mind to run away with gold in the Olympic halfpipe. 35 year-old greybeard Shaun White, in what will likely be his Olympic swan song, earned a respectable 4th place. The students have become the masters it appears. I doze off, ready for more coastal adventures tomorrow.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
The morning air is crisp, a bright blue sky overhead. I get on the road early enough to watch dawn's first light at Sisters Rocks point. Just a few miles north I drive through Humbug Mountain State Park, which has to be the origin of the song Humbug Mountain Song by the Fruit Bats. It would be one hell of a coincidence if it weren't. I just watched the music video and I'd bet that it was filmed here, if I were a bettin' man that is.
A few more miles up the road I see a sign that reads, Sea Lion Caves: World's Largest Sea Cave. Well with a delightfully specific designation such as that I can't just drive on by. So I don't.
I park in a turnout right off the highway and head over to a building perched on the edge of a cliff. I take a gander around the perimeter, watching the waves crashing upon the rocks below. I make my way back around the front of the building and step into a prodigiously kitschy storefront. Tee shirts. Coffee mugs. Hats. Jewelry. Magnets. Keychains. Stickers. Bumper stickers. If there's a tchotchke you want, they've got it.*
*As long as the tchotchke you want has a sea lion on it.
The woman in the back of the store beckons me to her desk like a carnival barker. For $16 I can take an elevator 200' down to the cave, where "as we speak 150 sea lions are lounging on the rocks!" She even shows me a small TV with live closed circuit footage of what presumably is 150 sea lions doing just that. She's very excited about the sea lions.
What the hell, I fork over my Visa for a ticket to ride the elevator.
The elevator is located a short walk down a path overhanging the cliffs. I board and watch the illuminated display count down the feet as I descend. At the bottom I make my way through a short tunnel that feels like a faux-stone construction at an amusement park. I can hear thunderous waves crashing the whole way.
When I reach the end of the tunnel I finally see the cave, an enormous cavern standing 125 feet high & 300 feet wide. I really was not prepared for how big it is, despite the billboard and carnival lady and tchotchke store. It's a pretty impressive sight but if you can stand there and watch sea lions sitting on rocks for more than 5 minutes you have an appetite for boredom that eclipses mine.
Behind the cave, down another tunnel, is an observation deck with a breathtaking view of waves crashing on the basalt cliffs. I spend a little more time here.
I head back up the elevator, through the widget wonderland, and back to the car. I don't really know exactly where I plan to go in the Willamette Valley so I do some quick research and find that the town of Dundee has a number of highly rated tasting rooms. In terms of lodging I find a modestly priced accommodation called La Bastide Bed & Breakfast. I book a room and continue on my merry way Northbound up the coast.
The rest of the drive is scenic, but devoid of kitschy tourist geologic attractions. I mosey through the town of Langlois, past a billboard that reads "Welcome to World Famous Langlois, Oregon." Hell I've never heard of it, can't be that famous. About 45 minutes from my destination I turn off the coast highway & make my way towards the fertile Willamette Valley.
Wine Down
I roll into Dundee at half past one and shuffle into La Bastide. A woman named Elizabeth, who I assume to be the proprietor, gets me all settled into the Provence Room. I drop my bags and dart off to my 2 PM wine tasting reservation at Day Wines (fighter of the Night Wines), which is conveniently located just around the block from the B&B. They specialize in natural wines, a trend that started in the Beaujolais region of France in the 1960s. While there is no strict definition of natural wine, it's generally accepted that the wine is produced without the use of pesticides and contains few or no additives. The vibe of this place is exactly what you'd expect.
The day's tasting flight consists of 2017 Chardonnay, 2021 Pinot Noir Rosé, 2017 Pinot Noir, 2017 red blend of Syrah & Viognier, and finishes off with a full-bodied 2019 red blend of Cabernet Franc, Malbec, & Tannat. The first three are all grown in the Willamette Valley, while the two red blends are grown in the Applegate Valley of Southern Oregon.
The 2017 Pinot Noir is the standout for me, although that could just be my preconceived notion that the Willamette Valley is known for its Pinots. According to my server, 2017 was a cooler year than 2016 & 2018, which created a softer, less in-your-face wine. The other wine of note is the 2021 Pinot Noir Rosé, not because of the taste, which is just "meh" for me, but because of the story behind the production of the wine. The grapes were harvested in 2020 during a spate of wildfires in Oregon that necessitated picking the grapes early, lest the smoke cling to the grapes & create a wine that tastes like an ashtray. The winemakers decided to do the best they could with the premature grapes and make lemonade out of lemons, hence the wine's name: Lemonade.
I settle up at Day Wines and hoof it up a hill to Domaine Roy & fils, a winery suggested by Elizabeth's husband Mark at the B&B. The tasting room is housed in a beautiful, sleek wooden building with a high gabled roof and enormous windows that open to an elevated patio overlooking the vines. I am shown to a table on the patio with a breathtaking view of the Willamette Valley, my old friend Mt. Hood standing guard over the horizon.
A kickass fella named Andrew comes over with the tasting menu, consisting of a 2020 Beaujolais Blanc, a 2020 Rosé Pinot Noir, a 2019 Pinot Noir, and a 2018 Pinot Noir. As Andrew pours me the first wine he details their operation, a collection of four separate vineyards scattered throughout the valley. The vines sprawled out below me right now was their first property, a former filbert farm they call the Iron Filbert Vineyard, paying homage to the iron rich soil and the original filbert orchard.
The first two offerings are delightful, but the real fun comes with the latter pair. Andrew explains the contrasting tasting profiles of the 2018 & 2019 Pinots Noir, which owe their character to the differing weather conditions. 2018 was hot & dry, while 2019 was cool & wet. Since Domaine Roy doesn't utilize irrigation, they are wholly dependent on the weather. Andrew explains that hot, dry conditions stress the vines, causing the roots to pull water harder. The result is smaller, concentrated fruit that ripens quicker with higher sugar content. These grapes produce bigger, bolder wines with higher alcohol content. In contrast, grapes that had plenty of water produce wines that are light, crisp, and dry, with higher acidity and lower alcohol content.
Andrew brings out a second glass so I can sample the wines side-by-side. The difference is readily apparent, yet subtle enough that I likely wouldn't have been able to discern it without simultaneous swigs. The underlying climatic significance makes complete sense, but it's still fascinating to taste the contrasting flavors of the exact same grapes grown in the exact same soil. Andrew has a handful of other tables to take care of, but still patiently explains the most basic winemaking principles to a dumbass like me without the slightest hint of pretense or condescension. He radiates an affable passion for viticulture that is captivating. Wine guys are rad.
I end up purchasing a bottle of the 2018 Pinot at the request of my good friend Kyle and the 2019 Pinot for Greg & Josie as a token of appreciation for their hospitality. I thank Andrew for sharing a modicum of his wine wisdom and continue on my merry way. It's almost 5 o'clock, when all but one tasting room in town closes down. Bet you can guess where I'm headed.
The walk to Dobbes Family Estate is just under a mile and a half. They are the only room in town that closes at 6 and I'm cutting it just under the wire. Hanna assures me that it's fine, there are plenty of other patrons here & she's sure more will wander in. It's the cross you bear when you're the "late night" wine tasting room.
She brings me a tasting menu of a 2018 Grenache Blanc, a 2017 Pinot Noir, a 2019 Pinot Noir, a 2015 Syrah, and a 2019 Syrah. The Grenache Blanc is an interesting and somewhat unknown varietal. It's more familiar relative, Grenache Noir aka red Grenache, is a staple of red blends due to its versatility and resiliency. Grenache Blanc, believed to be a mutation of the Noir varietal, grows on hearty vines that fare well in dry, even drought-like conditions. Hanna tells me to expect a floral nose, bright acidity, and round body, a wine that pairs perfectly with spicy Thai food. I was just about to say that.
The two Pinots exhibit the same characteristics as the two from Domaine Roy, 2017 was hot & dry, 2019 was cool and wet. I deliver my assessment of these wines based solely on the intel I collected an hour ago across town. After setting the bar exceptionally low on my first wine Hanna is slightly shocked. I fess up and a quick laugh wipes the discombobulation off her face.
The final two Syrahs are a similar exercise in contrast, however instead of weather-related differences, these have to do with the processing of the wines. The 2015 Syrah was barreled in French oak, while the 2019 was aged in American oak. In general, French oak tends to be slightly more subtle, imparting delicate flavors of caramel, cream, and baking spices, while American oak delivers bold flavors of vanilla, dark chocolate, charcoal, and tobacco.
The 2015 feels more rounded, with the 2019 displaying sharper acidity. The 2015 has a bit stronger oaky-ness to it because it was barreled with 32% new oak, which imparts a stronger oak flavor than used oak.
I decide to purchase a bottle each of the Pinots with the intention to impress my friends with my newfound oenological insights. I thank Hanna and wander back out on the town. But there's really not much town to be back out on. Dundee, Oregon is an odd place in my book. It's a town where everything closes at 5. A town with dozens of wineries within walking distance that nobody walks to. A town with one main road that harbors a relentless single-lane torrent of cars in each direction. Where the hell are these people going? And how drunk are they?
The "open now" feature of Google Maps displays a paltry array of drinking & dining establishments, but I end up setting my course to Red Hills Market a couple blocks away. It's described as a country-style market offering gourmet sandwiches & wood fired pizzas with craft beer & wine. I order an RPM IPA from Boneyard Beer in Bend (which I now see is just a few streets down from the Blockbuster) and plop down at a picnic table in the tent out back. The beer is refreshing but I'm hoping I can find a joint where I can belly up to the bar for a nice glass of red.
I finish my brewski and hoof it down the main road to Trellis Wine Bar & Kitchen. It's now after 7, 2 hours since nearly everything in town closed, yet the cars continue to stream down the road. It's so perplexing. As I'm walking I hear some hollerin' & look over to see a woman on the balcony of a dilapidated apartment complex beating out a carpet and yelling at her dog. At the same time I see two Teslas, a Mercedes, and an Audi scoot past me on the road. It seems that people exist in two different worlds in Dundee, a wine-centered caste system.
I saunter into Trellis, past a couple Range Rovers, and some more Teslas. I plop down at the bar and have a nice little chat with the bartender. She recommends the Libra Estate Reserve Pinot Noir, a nice fruit at a reasonable price. I go with a bottle since I can take whatever I don't finish home with me, and pair it with the butternut squash risotto.
During supper I overhear the bartender & one of the servers trying to remember which song the cranberry skateboard guy was playing in his viral video.
"Dreams by Fleetwood Mac," I chime in
"Yessssss, that's it. Thank you!"
At which point she plays Dreams
"Didn't like the vibe we had goin' there"
I have to agree 100%.
So we jam out to Stevie Nicks while making fun of the wine snobs in the dining area. Suffice to say it's a fun dinner. After gobbling down my delicious risotto I cork the wine bottle & head on back to the B&B. Along the way I can't get Dreams out of my head & decide to record my own version of the cranberry juice guy video with my bottle of wine. I send the video to a group of friends and don't receive even a single reaction. They watched it & continued on living their lives like nothing happened. Which is fair, because it was pretty stupid. And it's been 4 months since the video, which is an eternity when it comes to internet memes.
Whatever, they're just jealous they're not all hopped up on Oregonian red wine.
I end up back at the B&B and slump into my Provence Room bed immediately. It's been a big day & I have a little more driving to do tomorrow.
Super Bowl Sundee
I arise the next morning for the second B of the B&B. Elizabeth brings me out a delicious fried egg sandwich with roasted potatoes and a hot cup of coffee. It absolutely hits the spot & recharges my batteries for the drive back up to Seattle. I leisurely load up the car & hit the road, 3.5 hours North to Kirkland.
I make it back to Greg & Joanne's a few hours before kickoff, time enough to fill them in on my ligneous & viticultural adventures and do a couple loads of laundry. In preparation for The Big Game Joanne whips up a couple strombolis and buffalo chicken dip. A couple of her co-workers come over to watch the contest and I fill my belly on stromboli, dips, spreads, and of course, beer.
Matt Stafford & the Rams prove to be too much for Joey Burruh and the upstart Bengals, but to be honest I don't really pay attention to the game. We're all more invested in Greg & Joanne's entries in their squares betting pool. They win a few clams from being "neighbors" to the winning squares, but just barely miss out on a big payday. That's just the way she goes sometimes.
After the game I do my best impression of someone helping to clean up after a Super Bowl party before heading to bed for my last night in Seattle. I have certainly overstayed my welcome but I'm eternally grateful to Greg & Joanne for their extravagant hospitality.
It's been a great trip so far but I hear the call of the Great White North. Tomorrow I'm Canada bound.