Woodstove

The house is noticeably colder when we get in, though the digital thermometer reads 68.4. December rain means highs in the 40s, even 50--not cold enough to keep a 24-hour fire in the stove. Colors along the backroads were all green and red. Green of lawn grass, that faded ruddy brown of dying-back marsh grass and leafless beech limbs. Still waiting for the white to cover it all.

I crank open the side hatch of the stove and a little cloud of ash and campfire perfume whirls out. I take three pages of newspaper, crumple each into a loose sphere, and lay them in a row across the primary airflow vent. Then I step out onto the side porch and reach into the box of thin, splintery wood shingles. I break one of the shingles in half lengthwise, leave one half in the box and bring the other inside. I half it again and rest both pieces on top of the paper. Next, I take two quartered pine logs from the bag by the door and set them as gently as I can on either side of the newspaper-shingle architecture.

The box of matches has a home on an upper shelf of the hutch by the chimney. I remove a stick and hesitate a moment, anticipating the satisfyingly analog rasp of phosphorus on sandpaper. It flares when I strike it, and I quickly jab the stick under a protruding corner of paper before it settles down. The flame spills out onto the paper like maple syrup, and I shut the hatch and twist the handle to lock it.

My part is done. I spin the living room recliner around to face the stove and watch what happens. Usually, the superbly engineered design of the woodstove takes over now: a draft of just the right intensity carries the fire from newspaper ball to newspaper ball. The splintery shingles catch, popping, and within minutes the flames have wrapped around the logs, growing until the entire cube of stove is one big orangey-yellow kaleidoscope.

But it's been stubborn lately. A buildup of soot is clogging the metal flue, cutting airflow, or ash has blocked the vents. Anyway, my best fire-starting skills yield only a crapshoot.

I sit in the recliner and, through the glass panel on the front of the stove, watch the flame reluctantly crawl along the row of newspaper. There's a pop or two from the shingle. And then nothing. A flicker. Then nothing.

I see gray on the bottom of the glass, the hardened, chalky accumulation of ash from past days, weeks, winters. But beyond that is dark, as black as the black glossy paint covering the exterior of the stove. I wait for two minutes, still nothing. Nothing.

There's no fire in there.

Another flicker. Five seconds of black. Then another.

It's coming faster now, flashes of flame from the back of the stove, somewhere underneath the pine log. It looks like lightning in a night sky. Lightning in a black box.

Maybe it'll catch.

A Different (Better?) California Wine Valley

Photo: PhliarShamim

It's 3:30, and I'm stuck on 29 between Napa and St. Helena, waiting for the several dozen vehicles ahead of me to get waved through the second stretch of construction in five miles. My car is black, and the A/C is broken. On the passenger seat, a tourist bureau map is folded open, showing the road I'm on and the 100 or whatever wineries/tasting rooms that line it. How the hell am I supposed to choose which 2 or 3 are worth my $5-$20 tasting fee this afternoon?

Napa Valley sucks.

But grapes grow elsewhere in California. Quite close, actually. Head north. Not to Sonoma--maybe it's better, but I've never been and it sounds like more of the same. No, keep going north till you hit the 128, another of those surprisingly mountainous and windy CA highways that cuts through the gold-grass-covered hills and scraggly trees. Keep driving till Boonville.

Now you're in Anderson Valley.

There's only about 20 wineries here, and not all are open to the public. I went to one last month, Foursight Wines, because it was the closest to town. I loved it. One of its four employees was too busy doing her twice-daily "punch-down" (thrusting a large blunt metal punch into a fermentation tank full of a juicy grape mixture to stir it) to give us a tasting right away, so she invited us back to watch her, and to have a sample of an aging white right out of the barrel.

"Laid back" is a good descriptor for Anderson Valley.

The General Store is where you go to eat, that bar on Main St. across from the hardware store to drink. There are multiple camping options right up the road (I stayed at Indian Creek, the closest), and if you keep going towards the coast, you'll come to Pacific Star Winery, one of my favorites anywhere.

Perhaps best of all, Anderson Valley Brewing is located in Boonville, with tasting room and 18-hole disc golf course. I mean, you can't drink only wine all day.

 

Photo: JoePhoto

Following the Matador Trail

Editing Matador Trips is a constant source of travel inspiration. Within the last week, I've had the pleasure of uploading a budget guide to Helsinki, a surf guide to Fiji, a photo essay of portraits from Vietnam, and a rundown of adventure towns in the U.S.

I'm under no illusions of being able to visit every place featured on the site. But sometimes opportunities come unexpected.

Like last week, when I was in Northern California for a wedding. The ceremony was in Mendocino, on the beautifully cool and green grounds of the Standford Inn by the Sea, and we stayed up the road in Ft. Bragg. Which happens to be home to the glass beach, featured in Jason Wire's immensely popular 7 Beautifully Bizarre Beaches. In fact, it was a 5-minute drive from the hotel. Behold:

Now if I'd only noticed that photo #7 in that essay, Bowling Ball Beach, was in Mendocino. Damn.

Liquid Connoisseurship: Wine and Coffee in East Austin

I don't know if it's a part of being settled or more about the lifestyle choices I make, but since moving to Austin I've been exposed to "connoisseurship" of many different sorts. And I like it. It's as I tweeted a few days back:

"Just put in a millwork order with http://austinlumber.com/. Somehow that feels special."

Why is it special? It feels more "human," I guess. The idea of individuals performing the act of creation. Apprenticeship. I can picture someone at Austin Lumber milling each board and focusing intently on what they're doing. Touched by human hands, rather than a Home Depot forklift.

Modern movements have been built around this principle. Slow food. Slow living. And of course slow travel. Which maybe is what I'm doing here, just a prolonged pit stop in the greater journey. Experimenting with place.

Wine

From the website

One place in Austin I visit a lot is called East End Wines. It's located in the little pocket of coolness that's blooming where Rosewood splits off from E. 11th (the shop is actually in a restored 1890s Victorian home right at that intersection, 1209 Rosewood Ave).

It's owned and managed by Matt Miller, who's worked hard to "bridge the gap between 'geeky wine-snob land' and everyday enthusiast." He's succeeded. My first time in the store, he brushed aside my anxious admissions that "I didn't know much" about wine and that "I probably couldn't afford any really good stuff." I've felt pretty comfortable there ever since. Plus, the purchase records he keeps for me have shown that my tastes trend towards "New World varietals" (makes sense, as I first really got into the stuff down in Mendoza).

The buyer at East End is Sam Hovland. I suspect he has a photographic memory, because he can quote vineyard stats and nose, flavor, and finish tones of most bottles in the shop. Even better, both he and Matt can listen to the characteristics I'm after (even if I just make them up on the spot) and pair me with a relevant bottle.

Prices seem reasonable. I usually spend $10-$15. My favorite so far has been the Postales Cabernet 2009 from Northern Patagonia. I'm also psyched to have gotten in on the "ground floor." The shop opened this past May.

They hold tastings at least once a week. Follow them on Twitter to find out when.

Coffee

Photo: sheeshoo

This is another acquired-taste beverage that I've found the purchasing of nearly as enjoyable as the drinking. That's thanks to Texas Coffee Traders, at 1400 E. 4th.

It took me awhile to stop in despite driving by often, because the warehouse-ish building gives off a strong wholesale vibe. But they do sell straight to consumers like me, and if you ask, they'll even give you a tour behind the scenes of their massive roasting operation, showing the differences between various beans and roasting times/temps.

TCT is committed to offering Fair Trade products from all over the world (though they also sell conventional beans). So far, I've sampled brew from Ethiopia, Bolivia, and Mexico. They also partner directly with the Fair Trade Cafe Monteverde project of the Santa Elena Cooperative in Costa Rica.

But the best part about shopping there is that, just like Matt and Sam and their wines, the folks at Texas Coffee Traders know their product. They can explain why Ethiopian beans tend to have a fruity, almost "gamy" taste, while those from neighboring Kenya are more traditionally flavored. And they let you "blind smell test" the beans before buying.

Prices are on the high end, from $11 to more than $15 per pound. This reflects both the fair prices they pay their suppliers and the generous salary/benefits packages their Austin-based workers get. Oh, and it smells really, really good in there.

Looking Local: New Blog Concept at WayWorded

Living room paint color. Japanese-inspired bamboo blinds and noren curtains. Bathroom tile demo. Table saw and topsoil purchases. These are the things in my head on a daily basis. I've tried, but I either can't or don't want to twist them to fit a "travel" perspective fit for writing about here.

So I've decided to start a new series of posts instead, profiling points of interest around my new home: Austin, TX. The master plan is to compile writeups like these into some sort of "travel guide" to the city (or at least the East Side, where I live) down the road. For now, I'll see how it goes posting individual reviews here at WayWorded.

First trial coming shortly.

Roadtrip Photos, the Last Batch

Been home for like 10 days, but I want to round out the trip with these puppies (for more on the journey, check out my Roadtrip Updates #1, #2, and #3, (#4 to be posted Thurs.)):

Crater Lake National Park, OR. Get there before 8:30AM and it's mirror-still.

Unexpected alpinism in Mt. Rainier National Park

Things get flat and scrubby dry around the Washington-Idaho border.
This was taken in Lewiston, ID, across the Snake-Clearwater confluence from Clarkston, WA.

Burned trees, Yellowstone National Park. These and many more were killed in the fires of 1988.
Which, coincidentally, was the last time I was at the park.

Lower Yellowstone Falls. Check the tiny peoples.

Grand Prismatic Spring, Yellowstone NP

Grand Tetons. Last noteworthy shot of the trip.