I have met the mule once again. I am toiling away in Africa from can’t see in the morning to can’t see at night. Before I start my guest blog within the universe of her majesty SavannahMarshMama, I wish to thank all of her readers for their positive encouragement, well wishes and prayers during Sav’s recent medical trials and tribulations. I stand in awe of the power of the internet to convey comforting and healing words through bits and bytes. Sav tells me I’m too cynical about all this — I am not one to thrash about in the internet void and I am very mistrustful of anonymous relationships. Your constant contact with Sav during these trying times certainly puts my cynicism in check.
"When you have shot one bird flying you have shot all birds flying. They are all different and they fly in different ways but the sensation is the same and the last one is as good as the first." - Ernest Hemingway
My sons and I met in Boise, Idaho and headed to the border of Oregon to hunt upland birds on farms along the Owyhee wilderness area and the Snake River. Wow – that sounds like the opening of a very boring book. Reality – we did and had a hellava time doing it. I have been hunting for as long as I can remember and my sons have been hunting from childhood. Some things are in your DNA. I will advise any animal rights activists or anti-gun, anti-hunting folks to skip this part of the blog. We are not the droids you are looking for.
Now for the rest of you, this is about how to get pheasant to the table the hard
way. We were up every morning right before dawn and spent the rest of the day tramping through various types of cover, from crop rows and hedgerows to thick brush, in search of the wily rooster pheasant. We cursed our Brittney Spaniel and we praised him beyond belief. We missed a lot, we shot our share, we laughed, we cried, we joked, we stood silent together and took in the sights and sounds of nature. We practiced stealth and the Zen of the hunt. We broke through brush like Patton’s 3rd Army, loud and boisterous, coming face to face with deer flushed from their daytime repose. We ate Mexican food, drank beer and watched football at night. We told hilarious and heartwarming lies to each other. We acted foolish and downright silly. We were focused and intent on our mission to the point of fatigue. In short – it was fucking glorious! And like Forrest Gump – that’s all I have to say about that.
I am amazed by my children. I miss them terribly when I’m away. I miss the conversations with my daughter. I miss knowing that I am physically closer to her when I’m home. I miss my sons. I must say, that for reasons unknown to me and to Sav, they are all people we would want to know. I would want to be their friend. They have become outstanding people, good at heart and soldiers in the struggle to set things straight. They do because they can. Amin.
Sav and I threw our worries to the wind and headed for the Bay Area – San Francisco and the wine country. Decadent? Maybe. Frivolous? Possibly. Necessary? Absolutely! I gave my share of the pheasant to my sons for a grand feast they had planned in Los Angeles and I flew to SF to meet Sav and our friends.
One does not enter San Francisco unnoticed. The city itself watches you watching it. It is impossible not to notice the stunning beauty of the city — the panoramic views, the melding of so many cultures, the fitting of such splendor on a grand expanse of hills. (BTW – little known fact – Sav was born in SF.) Once you are entrenched you are overwhelmed with possibilities — art, music, cuisine, sightseeing, and on and on. You quickly realize that SF is an adult Disneyland! We lived here long ago with little children, and let me tell you, it was rough. It’s not a town for kids. Now that the dog died and the kids are all adults, it’s a town for me. Several of our krewe periodically lived in SF. Never seems to take. They keep gravitating south. I’m hoping one of them makes millions and buys a mansion on Nob Hill. I’ll sign on as butler or chef at the drop of a hat!
We ate and drank ourselves stupid. Here are some sights of the city and some of the places at which we grazed and watered. (Irish Alert — there’s a photo that will either make you laugh or make you angry. What can I say, you let them come over here and this seems to be all they fantasize about! Suffice it to say, pic taken at a tourist trap area. Sorry.)
There is an art to wine that can only be described as capturing sunlight and place in a bottle.
The terms terroir or goût de terroir are truly inadequate. To understand a really good wine you must walk amongst the grapes on the vine, put your fingers in the dirt, close your eyes in a vineyard and open all your senses, and then, 
and only then, drink it all in. The wine country of Napa, Sonoma and Mendacino in Northern California allows you this opportunity. We had many great wines and a few good ones. That’s how it went. We stayed in a pleasant house on the Russian River near Healdsburg and the entrance to Dry Creek and the Alexander Valley. We were a short drive to most of the Sonoma wineries and over the hill to Napa. We had some fabulous meals at several restaurants in the region but none as good as the ones we made ourselves. We matched wines with our own gourmet concoctions — one of the best being Sav’s lamb shanks made with fresh regionally raised lamb (see the pics).
A lot of people have tried to enter the wine business and traded on their celebrity to do so. They have, however, woefully failed to meet the standards of the real artisans and craftsman of viticulture. I mention here, for those who love wine, a few of the wineries that impressed me during the trip. Interestingly, most of them are certified biodynamic farms and have some of the highest certifications available from the Demeter Association. Anyone into biodynamic farming knows what this means. For everyone else, it means they make some really good shit!
Bella Vineyards and Wine Caves
Ferrari-Carano Vineyards & Winery
Enjoy the photos.
Peace
MITM
