Cellar Rat: Week 11 at Unti Vineyards

By Ella Lawrence

It's been incredibly sunny the last few weeks, with the only telltale signs of fall being the smoky smells in the air as land-owners gleefully take advantage of the now-allowed "burn days," sending their piles of yard waste, vineyard trimmings and other floral detritus up to the heavens in pyres. Actually, the colors say autumn as well, too. The trees and vines have gone from fat, green and full of fruit to somewhat spindly and gorgeously flaming shades of reds and oranges. And suddenly, a few days ago, the downtown plaza and surrounding streets have been scuttling with leaves. They kick up and whirl in spirals for a few moments each hour, but the weather is warm.

A few weeks ago, I was taking full advantage of another 80-degree afternoon. Sebastien had brought out all of the barrels from the cellar and lined them up on the crush pad, and I spent over an hour moving from barrel to barrel and stirring the lees with a curved metal stick. The lees is the sediment that collects in the wine, made of particulates and yeast bodies. While the wine is still fermenting (the 2008s have just started to go through their secondary fermentation), this lees must be mixed up every few days to ensure that it ferments evenly.

Levi, the vineyard manager, walked by as I was basking in the sunshine and struck up a conversation. It was 3pm and his days (which begin at sunrise) end around noon.

"Wow," he said. "You get to stir barrels outside in the sunshine? When I was a cellar rat here (in 2004), I had to climb up the barrels in the cold, dark cellar to do that."

I thought about the situation for a few moments.

"Maybe Sebastien thinks I can't do it," I mused. "Maybe girls can't climb barrels."

"HA." he retorted. "Maybe he just brings the barrels outside because he likes you better." Feigning upset, he strolled away, L'il Abner prancing after him.

I doubted it; Sebastien is not the type to play favorites. He speaks very highly of all of his previous interns (who are mostly comprised of Levi and his friends, who like me, hail from these parts).

I repeated the conversation to Sebastien, asking him why I didn't have to climb the barrels.

"You think I'm not tough enough, don't you?" I egged. "You know I can shovel out tanks!"

Sebastien gave an evil chuckle.

"Oh, you'll have to climb the barrels, too," he said. "The cellar's just been too full to stack them properly."

So this week, I did. And I realized...I don't think I'm tough enough.

Now that all the tanks have finished fermenting, been shoveled, pressed, and barreled down, there's plenty of room in the cellar for the barrels to be stacked close enough that it doesn't *really* matter if they come toppling down--they're so close together that the tallest one (it reaches all the way to the warehouse ceiling) couldn't possibly fit through the next row if there were an earthquake.

As Sebastien sent me up my merry way to stir the barrels, stacked four high (keep in mind, one barrel comes up almost to my shoulder when it's resting on a rack), he reminded me of this.

"I always thought that if there were an earthquake, the best place to be would be under the barrels and not in front of them," he assured me. "That way, they stack on each other and there should be enough space for me to squat down and not be smahed."

"Now go ahead. Climb up and *steer* them," he directed me in the most charming of French accents.

Climbing up and "steering" (stirring), is easier said than done. To clamber up the barrels vertically, one must put a foot on middle of the bottom barrel, which is laid horizontally on its rusty steel rack, and two hands on the metal bands that hold the edges round of the next highest. Putting all of one's weight on the upper barrel, one hoists oneself to the top of the bottom barrel, balancing precariously on its top, which is tucked underneath a barrel on the other side. It's like chin-up after chin-up. Not so bad when the first barrel is only waist high, but when you get to the top, the barrels sway back and forth and the sound of wine sloshing around in there doesn't add any feeling of stability.

"Don't worry!" Seb shouted from the ground. "They're *supposed* to sway like that! Wood is quite flexible! But I promise, they won't fall down."

I stirred all of the barrels in the cellar. I don't know how many there are--I was too terrified to count. But it took me two hours, sweating in fear the whole time. The barrels closest to the wall couldn't be climbed; I had to wedge a ladder in there and put my hood up--that's black widow territory and I think they might be out to get me since I've made a point of waging war against them all of harvest season.

Somehow I got through it (thanks, iPod) and thought I was done...but the next day the barrels had to be topped. More of the same climbing, just this time with a hose and a gun and a flashlight, trying not to spill a drop as I knew it would be hard to clean, and I didn't want to encourage any more fruit flies than we already have.

Gritting my teeth and determined not to show fear (though my white face gave me away), I managed most of that task before closing time.

I haven't had to do it again, and won't for another three weeks until the barrels need to be topped again, but there's something to be said for forcing oneself to do something that absolutely terrifies you. It reminded me of the epic backpacking trips I took with my best friend and her burly older brothers in high school. Pushed to the limit and almost in tears, I was able to look back and think, "Wow. Yes I did do that...maybe I'm not as much of a wimp as I think I am."