A poem from our good friend Arlo that gives you some idea what it is like out there pruning vines when it is hovering around zero on Seneca Lake/Sawmill Creek Vineyard. No machines, no heaters, just you, the vine and mother nature, not so gently reminding you she calls the shots. Cheers Arlo…stay warm friend.
***Just a heads up – artistic profanity is used***
Reminiscent of Gladiators, Carhartt clad warriors descend day after day upon our battlefield
snow covered sloping hills adorned with our unshaken vitis enemy covered and aligned patiently waiting for their annual attentive dose of pruning flanked by their partner, a 43 mile long glacial slit creating its own climate of gusting winds and lake effect snows after mere minutes numb fingers and toes, frozen snot with-in my nose when it thaws no-body knows “don’t get your nose to close to the wire” one says, nothing in reply, for we are all to concerned with the moisture from our open mouths creating icicles upon our bearded faces
A creeping case of the “fuck-its” over comes the cold bitten men
Knowing all to well the signs of frost bite and that the vines will be there tomorrow, still waiting
Mother Nature has won this battle, but the war will ensue until every last vitis has had its annual trimming
it’s cold.. real cold