A cold morning's routine inspires

At Four Cedars, my February ends much like it began. I make a cold morning's walk to the woodpile, marveling with each step at how beautiful and complex a barren landscape can appear when one is fortunate enough to take note. I am a lucky soul this morning to have so much to take in around me. The blue sky. The hoar frost. The deep snow pack showing evidence of scampering wildlife. The expanse of frozen water disappearing in the fog. And yes, the optimistic chirping of a nearby robin. It is the end of February, it reminds me. We have made it to the other side of winter, you and I. It may not be the warmer side, but surely it is the brighter side. Chirp. Chirp.

The TV weather person said today is our 80th day of snow pack. We haven't enjoyed much melting around here; it seems there aren't enough trees and buildings in these parts to absorb solar energy from our strengthening sun. And so our temps lag behind those enjoyed by our urban brethren. This seems a small trade-off today. I know the temperature is below zero and I must collect my wood, and yet I linger with my camera and my thoughts. It feels good to be part of the expanse, free from the oftentimes confining walls of a heated abode.

When busyness allows, I'll be keeping my eyes on the channel above, looking for signs of melting. Two months from now, this will be a bustling place with red and yellow winged blackbirds singing Spring's praises while mud hens chatter like old women at a hairdresser's shop. The rushes will change color, from tan to yellow to green and ultimately auburn. The wind will make the marsh dance. And I'll stop here to watch and listen as often as possible, for this is the view that lured me to this place nearly four years ago. This view. The stage for glorious sunsets. The balcony at nature's nightly operetta.

At the corner of my vision I notice the hoar frost has saturated the ends of my hair. My desire to linger among the ice-coated limbs of the barren trees wanes as the cold penetrates my flesh. There is wood to retrieve and a home to warm this morning. I decide I will return to lake's edge later in the day when the sun is a greater ally against the chill. I bid the robin farewell. We shall meet again soon, my friend. We have both made it to better side of winter with our optimism intact.

Walking on water (sort of)

The snowshoes arrived and the pruning continues.

Winter (dormant) pruning is not for the faint of heart for several reasons: walking in snow shoes raises the heart rate; it's still pretty cold outside; and the deep snow requires plenty of bending. But mostly, pruning requires courage because once the snip is made there's no turning back, no Undo button to click on, no history to delete.

That's me enjoying an afternoon outdoors not standing knee-deep in snow.

Remember when Andre Agassi had long blond locks? Then suddenly he was bald. Exactly!

Sometimes all it takes is a windless day...

People unfamiliar with grape growing are often surprised to learn that there is much work to be done in the vineyard in what they'd presumed to be our "off-season." The bulk of the work falls under the category of pruning, but it is far different from the pruning we do in late spring and early summer. In winter, we are assigned the task of dormant pruning, a critical task that affects the quality of the harvest we hope to enjoy about nine months from now.

There is a formula one can follow to determine how to prune (30 buds left behind per pound of wood removed) but simply put, we leave as many buds as we think our plants can effectively ripen next season and remove the remainder of last season's growth. As you can see from the photo above, that's a lot of wood to be cut, hauled out of the vineyard, and burned.

Cutting is something we've gotten quite proficient at here as we approach our third growing season. And we've even got quite adept at gauging optimum pruning weather. Hint: we ignore the forecast and walk outside. If the temperature exceeds 20 degrees and there's no wind, we prune.
This winter, though, we've been challenged by excessively deep snow. A walk down one row is currently an extreme cardio workout, so much so that we've adopted a new pruning strategy.
Now, we trudge down the rows, pruner in hand trying not to get stuck or tip over, make our critical cuts, and leave all the wood hanging in the trellis. (It's not going anywhere).
This is all we can manage in knee-deep snow. This way, we can be assured of getting the work done that absolutely needs to get done. When the snow melts to more modest levels, sometime between next week and May, we can get back down the pruned rows to clean the wood out of the trellis.

My children urged me to invest in snow shoes to ease the process. I hedged at first. Then my son reminded me that this probably won't be the only winter I'll prune in deep snow. The snow shoes are in transit.

Who does this?

Months ago, I vowed to stop blogging about the weather. I mean, what is the point of complaining, worrying, writing, or groaning about something of which we have no control. The weather happens whether we like it or not. The only thing we can control about weather is if we decide to stick around and put up with it or not. Some of us not only decide to stay, we invest ourselves in putting up with a future of winters by planting a vineyard. Some of us need to get our heads examined!