Let's talk about wine.
I like wine. It is tasty, pleasurable, and among other
things it is a powerful metaphor for some important things.
“Sideways” was a movie based on a wine metaphor. Two
reprobates are swilling their way through a wine region of California and during one lucid
conversation the point was made that one can never, ever have the same wine
twice. Even if it is made from the same grape, from the same vineyard, by the
same vintner, and in the same year, a bottle changes daily as it ages and the
conditions of temperature, humidity and other environmental factors will make
each bottle completely unique. Even with the same bottle, the last sip is
chemically different from the first one since it starts oxidizing as soon as the cork is pulled. It implies that wine is a
metaphor for the uniqueness of every individual, and that we are each a product of
our nature, our nurture, and the passage of time.
That, among other things, was rolling around in my helmet as
The Bruiser and I spun along the Colorado River on Hwy 128 out of Moab, and
happened upon a winery and vineyard on the riverbank. I stopped for an
obligatory picture but not for the tasting. Although given the colour of the
rocks and soil I’ll wager they
specialize in reds.
Now I will tell you that this particular road was
astonishing in its beauty. Yes, I know.
On this platform I have raved on about my encounters with astonishingly
beautiful scenery on numerous occasions, but let it be said that this one was a
stunner. The Colorado River that cut the Grand Canyon
and the one that is carving out this one are one and the same. We are upstream of
the Grand Canyon here and one could think of
this as the mature adolescent (is that a contradiction in terms?) of what it
will grow up to be a few hundred miles farther on. Burgundy
red sandstones and shales are laid open in the deep, steep canyon walls. Priceless!
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| Baby Grand |
I sort of imagined myself at the bottom of a glass of red
wine as the walls of the canyon climbed up on either side of me. And what a splendid
wine it was! The shear beauty of it was intoxicating enough. Around every curve
there were different and splendid nuances to be revealed and savoured. Indeed,
the character changed so much it was as if the Barolo was transformed to
Amarone and then to Ripasso. All magnificent,
each different.
Excellent wines—even just decent wines—are to be sipped and
savoured rather than guzzled. Time should be taken to sense and study the
aromas and flavours as well as to share and talk about the experience with
others with deliberate and reflective countenance. Enjoyment of good wine,
therefore, is both a personal and a social experience. Further, the ambiance of
the setting, the pairing of foods and music and physical surroundings is
inextricably linked to the experience of the wine tasting. At the end of the
movie “Sideways”, we see the lead character drinking an extraordinary wine
from a paper cup in Burger King. That is just wrong and for so many reasons!
My point is that my experience in the canyon today was like
an extraordinary wine. But I drank it quickly and alone. Now Bruiser, don’t get
me wrong. You are a good companion, although your conversational skills are
rather limited and you won’t drink anything that isn’t 88 octane or higher.
There are many ways to savour the canyon.
One could float down on a raft or kayak.
On horseback.
On bicycle.
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| The Moab elite cycle in style. |
The price paid for that exquisite diversion in an easterly
direction was a few hours on an interstate through barren scrub to get me back
on the homeward track. Eventually it led to a nice little river canyon that
carried us up into the hills.
The “historic little town of Helper” offered, I thought, an interesting side trip. Once a mining and railroad town a century ago, it has become an architectural remnant. We have seen this so often! The historic buildings on the main street are all vacant aside from a coffee shop and two art galleries, both closed today (Saturday). You know a place is moribund when its tavern and State Liquor Agency are boarded up. It seems like all the little towns are doomed to replicate the destinies of the Puebloean cultures. Years from now the tourists may be drawn to places like this with signs announcing “Historic Ruins of Helper Village”.
The “historic little town of Helper” offered, I thought, an interesting side trip. Once a mining and railroad town a century ago, it has become an architectural remnant. We have seen this so often! The historic buildings on the main street are all vacant aside from a coffee shop and two art galleries, both closed today (Saturday). You know a place is moribund when its tavern and State Liquor Agency are boarded up. It seems like all the little towns are doomed to replicate the destinies of the Puebloean cultures. Years from now the tourists may be drawn to places like this with signs announcing “Historic Ruins of Helper Village”.
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| The little town that was. |
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| But, you know, marketing is everything. Rethink your street names! |
I suspect the opening of a Walmart in the neighbouring town of Price may be linked to its demise.
Funny thing about roadmaps. Information is limited to
direction, road quality, and often the aesthetic value as indicated by little
dots printed beside the ‘scenic routes’. As you know I much prefer secondary roads
with scenic enhancement, so I charted my course to Salt Lake
vicinity accordingly. What they don’t usually tell you is the elevation.
Consequently, I experienced three seasons today. Stinking
hot in Moab
like the hottest of summer days. Climbing up towards Schofield State Park
the leaves vanished from the trees as we reversed in time to early spring. Aspen were in very early
bud, birch were naked, and the grass was not yet greening up. By the time I
reached Schofield it was brisk indeed. I asked the ranger guy what kind of
temperature I could expect camping here tonight and he reckoned it would be at
or near freezing. GPS reported nearly 8000 feet.
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| Winter at 9000 feet. |
We gotta get outta here before it gets dark. So we set in a course
for somewhere lower and presumably warmer. However, the road out goes up before
it goes west. Signs advise motorists to carry snowchains up until April 30.
(Hmmm… that was five days ago). We ultimately peaked out at 9500 feet., Thankfully, when
winter descended upon us the snow was on the ground rather than falling from
the air. It did make for rather beautiful scenery, I must say. In an alpine
kind of way. But man was it cold!
It was fascinating to watch the calendar advance from spring
to summer as we descended again. In the course of a 4500 foot descent the tree
buds exploded into leaves and ground vegetation spit out yellow flowers.
An hour before sunset I scored a great little Forestry
campground beside a meandering brook, nested in the green hills.
But it was too cold to sleep. In the morning, my water
bottle was a block of ice and I could not feel my feet until about 9:00 AM.
I wonder how the campers at Schofield fared last
night?
