Hopeful discovery

People who know me know I don’t know squirrels. I make up most of the facts I have about them. Like this one—squirrels don’t remember where they bury food. They spend April wandering around, discovering places that feel like somewhere they’d dig a stash. Sometimes they get lucky.

Spring is marked by hopeful discovery. There are squirrels digging, birds tweeting, and grass greening. We see the Earth waking. The explosion of life that happens in our yards and trees carries over into our farms. Early spring, when frosts can still strike, is a time of preparation for farmers. It’s a time to establish the new year’s growth.

Wineries across The County are dehilling. Last fall grape vines were tied low to the ground then covered in soil to protect them from our harsh winter. It got so cold at the end of December that ninety-nine percent of vines above ground died. The buried vines stayed cozy and dreamt of Spring.

Dehilling is delicate. It’s a dance of shaving soil, loosening and lifting. If you’re too gentle the vine stays buried. If you’re too aggressive you break the vine. Each farm has its own melody but there’s a common rhythm.

We begin with a mound of soil two feet wide, two feet deep, and hundreds of feet long. Somewhere inside there’s a tangled web of vine and wire. Every eight vines a steel T-bar reaches skyward.

First we shave the hill. A plow scrapes the side of each mound. A tractor pushes the trimmed soil away. The farmer pushes herself forward. Each pass of the tractor cuts the mound a little deeper. Every inch trimmed increases the vine’s chance of survival. Too deep though, and the vine is ripped from the earth.

It’s a lonely time for the farmer. She sits in her cab for days. Alone. She’s focused on the ground beneath her. Her thoughts wander to the season ahead and the life she shares with these vines.

Next the soil is greeted with a grape hoe—a dull blade on a hydraulic swinging arm. Whack. Whack. The hoe slams against the hill, loosing and crumbling. The farmer senses where each vine is positioned and cracks the soil in between. She balances gentleness and aggression. She counts off the vines; eight per T-bar. She knows her field.

The farmer sees her vines take shape after months underground. She remembers the smell of new growth. The sweetness of harvest. The cool nights spent walking her rows.

And then she goes in on foot. She knocks any remaining soil free. She crouches next to the vine. She places her pruners against the low wire and cuts the vine free. She releases the vine into the sun.

Rain will wash the vine clean. Another pass with the tractor will smooth any sign that the hill was ever there. The farmer carved a vineyard from clay. The farm is awake. The vines are ready.

It’s a celebration of discovery and passion. Spring has sprung.