Twain Hart

I speak of a dream. A dream of hills and tall pines, a little lake and a cozy cottage. It is only a dream.

We crossed the great valley to the strains of “Götterdämmerung” and with no offending traffic. If you don’t know about KXSR 91.7 fm, the Groveland repeater for Capital Public Radio, you really should. Once on the eastern side of the Altamont Pass, you get a great public classical music station with a very strong signal that covers the whole central part of the state. We pulled up to the lake cottage before 11pm, all was cozy and very quiet.

Saturday dawned clear and bright and we finally got to appreciate the lake. It’s a small round spring- and snow-fed bowl with cottages all around. Now it might be informative to define “cottage.” Our little place has two decks, a large living room, good kitchen and two bedrooms. Its true luxury is its inside coziness and outside view. But there are four- and five-bedroom cottages in the neighborhood, and at least one has a pool. Why do you need a pool so close to that pretty lake? Some delicate flowers just can’t stand a little cold water, I suppose.

The kids started to arrive about 9am. There are two slides and a diving platform for the young water apes to enjoy. The first one in was an intrepid nine-year-old boy in long black trunks and swim goggles. He hit that COLD water and came up yelling “I can’t do this!” But, of course, he could, and did, for the rest of the morning. As their parents chatted and read, the children there assembled swam, yelled and thoroughly enjoyed that cold little lake.

We finally pried ourselves away and headed down the hill to Vallecito and Murphys and really good wine. Murphys’ wine community organizes a “wine passport” weekend every June and, quite by accident, we were there for that. You buy a glass and get a passport and go around to all the tasting rooms, getting free tastes and good nosh. A perfect time to go drink wine.

As you wind up the hill to Twisted Oak Winery, in the great metropolitan center of Vallecito CA (pop. 491), you start seeing rubber chickens. Rubber chickens hanging from trees and on road signs and on pinions, flying in the hot breeze. Once you achieve the summit, The Celebrated Jumping Rubber Chicken of Calaveras County welcomes you to a handsome tasting room and outdoor eating area.

First, we tasted the new reds and got our club stuff. Then we went out to the special table set up for members and passporters. I think the guy pouring was the wine maker and I know the tall guy standing next to him was El Jefe, the owner. At the table we found the three varietal wines that make up this winery’s greatest blend, The Spaniard. (As in, “My name is Iñigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.”) Garnacha, Tempranillo and Graciano are the grapes of this complex, rich, beautifully balanced steamroller of a wine. The week before our trip, on our actual 20th anniversary, we drank our 2002 Spaniard (its first bottling) and oh, my dears, it was a huge, blackberry and smoke and plum and copper wonder that stayed clear all the way through. To taste the wines that make up this blend was great fun and very informative. As we drank the blood of these grapes, the discussion turned to a new blend whose working name is “Old Chumbucket.” I’m really not kidding, we tasted one iteration of it and they’re just getting started. We were there on the ground floor. There are perks to membership and the carne asada soft tacos were really nice.

Our wine trail led down the hill to Murphys and Milliaire, a different kettle of seeds and stems. There it is, right on Main St., that sweet little yellow filling station is their tasting room. Milliaire is very low key and matter of fact. They may be faking it, but the sweet ladies there act like they remember us from one visit to another. Steve Millier, the winemaker, is a subtle devil. Zinfandel is my drug of choice and its making requires special knowledge. Heat loving but difficult under the best of times, the grapes in each bunch mature at different rates. Perfectly ripe grapes and mushy, overripe grapes and hard green grapes are all on one stem. So weird but Millier can handle them. With three major and who knows how many smaller vineyards, he blends turn-your-teeth-purple, clear-your-mind Zins with spice and greengage plum and yes, copper. (Where are we, again?) His Ghirardelli Zin, yes, that Ghiardelli, is a single-vineyard wine, lightly spiced, with chocolate, a whiff of tobacco and clear, bright blackberry. And their Simply Red is the best plonk on the market for by far the best price.

The food treats were even better at the little yellow filling station than at Twisted Oak.

Out behind the tasting room is a smallish concrete deck that can (barely) hold 6 circular tables. The great beauty of the space is a huge spreading fig tree that protected us from the Calaveras sun. And over in the left hand corner was a man, a charcoal barbecue and oysters. A trio (two singers and a drummer) made sweet music as Murphy’s creek chattered and burbled an obligato, just on the other side of the chain link fence. The oysters, although not Californian, were very good. Just a little hot sauce and oh, yes, give them to me. Milliaire was pouring lovely champagne (take that, you Frenchies) and we could have stayed till sunset.

We packed up our wine and headed back to the cottage. I did bring some food but we needed salad stuff and went in search of same. Not knowing the town at all, we blundered around until we finally came upon the grocery store. Don’t think this is some country store with just a few items. Think Andronico’s or Piedmont Grocery or Village Market, north. This place is Rockridge, Oakland, only at the end of long drive, with a lovely lake and snow. We got really nice tomatoes and other elements of a good salad and spent a evening enjoying one of our new wines, dining informally and watching Snow White. Any lake cabin is wonderful, but if it’s filled with books and movies, it’s perfect. We would stay forever, except for those pesky paying guests who come in July and August.

Sunday morning called early. Laundry and cleanup needed doing, so we would be invited back. By 10am the Little Blue Opera House was pulling out of the driveway and heading toward the Valley Floor. In California, with numberless valleys of great beauty, there is just one Valley Floor, and that is Yosemite. Taking the 120 south/east and passing through Chinese Camp, we set our sights on Groveland and the the Northern Gate of Yosemite. This road cuts through perfect Bonanza country, with low rolling hills and wide smooth valleys dotted with green black live oaks. I was expecting Adam, Hoss or Little Joe to ride up any minute. You make that left turn at New Priest Grade, the climb begins. It is pretty steep and twisty, but the original Old Priest Road is very steep, and straighter. Either way it takes a long time to get to the treasure that is the Valley Floor.

Once up this road and into the Park, there are still 45 minutes of drive. The El Portal burn area reminds us of the fire cycle that renews the land here. So we drove and drove and drove, until I almost got bored. But then, we turned a corner and there it was, Yosemite Valley. The Tamarack Falls Overlook is the first view of the Valley. Straight up, to the left, there are the falls themselves (two of them, this watery year), and, to the deep right, the Valley, and

Bridalveil Falls pouring herself down to her mother, the Great Merced. Merced herself was white, in June, still tearing up the Valley Floor as she pleases. All the rest of the way down we saw many little unnamed waterfalls, like little kids, running down the steep hills, running to their mother.

In this year of high water, Yosemite Falls is the voice of the Valley. Even as far away as the horse stables at Upper Pines, you can hear the dense, low, white noise. The closer you get to the base of the Falls, the louder it gets and becomes a physical force to the body. You feel it, right in the solar plexus, but it doesn’t hit you, it grows.

There are two lookout points for Yosemite Falls. One, on the right, brings you to the actual contact point, where the water hits the Valley Floor. I’ve seen it as an adult and don’t care for it. It’s really loud, of course, and, at least for me, quite scary. It’s just too much. But if you take the left hand trail, you come to a secluded viewing area. From this vantage, you can see the lower falls without being beaten up by them. The mature redwoods and pines guard the clear ripply creek that reflects the descending chaos.

I stood, ensorceled by the falling water, when I began to see them: the white horses that Gandalf conjured at the Ford of Bruinen, charging down the granite wall. There is no reason for you to believe me, go and look for yourselves. The heads and shoulders of great white horses, pouring out of Yosemite Falls.

Finally, after a homeric struggle with the temptation to stay, the Little Blue Opera House (LBOH from here after) turned its snout toward Oakdale and home. We pulled in just in time for Philip to wash and change and get to Compline. I unpacked and wondered at all I had seen.

Now, look deep into my eyes, you are becoming sleepy, very sleepy. Just listen to the sound of my voice. Everything I told you about the cabin by the lake is a dream, only a dream. And when you wake, it will have been only be a beautiful dream.