Weathering the Storm.

I was a military man, or at least I was in the military, for just under ten years. That’s about one sixth of my life at this point, and it’s been almost thirty years since I was discharged, a fair amount of time to develop perspective. The military is one of those experiences that look better in hindsight. Life is filled with such things, I suppose childbirth is the best example, although that is said with nothing but hearsay on my part. (I’ve passed a kidney stone, which was very unpleasant, but I doubt it compares to passing another person out of your body.) Anyway, experiences that seem unpleasant, or even horrifying and psychologically damaging at the time, can also be a means to bond together as fellow human beings, undergoing the same misery. They can become a positive thing, especially as the years pass and details become obscure. Amy and I endured such an occurrence yesterday, albeit on a micro scale compared to heroic endeavors, I’d like to relate the story while it’s fresh in my mind.

McGregor Vineyard’s wine club picnic is an annual occurrence with decades of legend behind it. We jumped on board in 2016 and, with the exception of 2018, have been each year it was held since. (There was a couple of years hiatus due to Covid.) It’s sort of a combination wine festival, blind tasting, auction, pig roast extravaganza, with tables laid out under giant tents, and a miniature tent city of mostly long time attendees down by the pond. This is all laid out on a hillside above the vines, with a picture book view of Keuka Lake, right at the bluff. The atmosphere is festive but, rumors of frolicking in the vines aside, we’re all here for a serious reason; some very fine wine. It’s a fact that often flies under the radar, behind the veil of rusticity in the tasting room, this lack of pretentiousness can lure some into thinking the wines are not top-tier. The attendees at a McGregor picnic know better. They’re here to pay tribute to the aged and the age-worthy, and their wallets are out.

The morning dawned with the promise of unsettled weather, but as midday approached the clouds lightened and the sun peeked through. The weather forecast had called for possible thunderstorms, and the southwest skies continued to loom somewhat. Things commenced, the wine began to flow, the line formed at the appetizer table (it’s traditional for everyone to bring a side dish) and the roasted ears of corn were aplenty. It was an auspicious start, the mood was light and festive, the band began to play, all was well.

One tradition at a McGregor picnic is the blind tasting. Typically, three whites and three reds are poured, one of each is known to be a McGregor wine, the rest are from other Finger Lakes wineries. The rules are simple; name the variety, pick the McGregor wine, pick your favorite. I’ve always admired John’s willingness to pour his wines side by side with his competition, and to accept the outcome without rancor or ego. We commenced with tasting the white wines, while the skies to the west continued to darken. We could see the rain coming down in Pulteney and inching it’s way across the lake, but the air around us was still. The third wine was poured, we sipped and watched the west.

I think I now have an inkling of what a deer frozen in the headlights feels like. There we were, a couple hundred people on a westward looking hillside, huddled under a conglomeration of tents of varying sizes. The main tents anchored with strong lines and metal spikes, the individual tents with less permanent looking tie downs. We waited for the rain and watched the ever-more threatening clouds approach. Any one of us could have called out to run for the cars, maybe some people did, but most of us just watched it come. We were expecting rain, but with the rain, came the wind. An immense gust sent the smaller tents through the air like sails. People scrambled to grab tie lines. Plates of food were upended. Those of us under the big tents turned our backs to the torrent and tried to move away from the edges. Amy had wisely picked a more central spot under the canvas, but this became irrelevant as the rain turned horizontal and soaked us all. A few people crawled under tables to escape the downpour. I’m not sure it mattered. Most of us just stood with our backs to the gale and wished we had worn foul weather gear. I caught glimpses of the band trying to stow instruments and covering speakers with garbage bags. The blind tasting sheets became sodden masses of beige paste, the hors d’oeuvres were swimming with rain water, wet hair hung in tangles.

The mood? Surprisingly good. I heard plenty of jokes and laughter, sometimes the good humor would ebb with a strong gust, but it showed resilience and returned between the worst of it. How long did this last? I’m not exactly sure. These kinds of situations always turn time on its head a little. I think it went on for about twenty minutes, it might have been less, I don’t think it was more, but it felt long. At one point, the corner of one of the big tents began to cave in and was reinforced by several people who maintained this position throughout the storm. The danger that the big tents might give way became palpable, and that could have been a disaster. I can’t read minds so I’ll just speak for myself, there were a couple of minutes where I contemplated that if the storm intensified we would be in real trouble, huddled under our flimsy pieces of canvas with potential missiles piled all around us. It could have been very, very ugly, but instead of intensifying, the winds diminished, the rain stopped and a patch of sun shone through. Not exactly the rainbow that greeted Noah, but a very welcome sign indeed.

My typical black sweat pants and Carhartt shirt were soaked through, and I was a little cranky because I had been a bit scared. Amy stayed and helped with the clean up and I made a quick trip home to check on the dogs and change clothes. Our house is seven miles from McGregor, and I saw debris on the streets for the first five miles, and then… nothing. Not even a drop of rain further south on the lake. I’ve written about the weather that comes around the bluff on Keuka, I had never experienced it so intimately. The round trip took less than thirty minutes and when I returned, it was if the whole thing had never happened. Tents were back up, the wind whipped garbage cleared away, and wine was being poured. The mood was again festive and, though it may have been my imagination, there was an undercurrent of pride in the crowd. We had come through the storm, and we had prevailed. The blind tasting had ended by the time I returned, the white wines had been Chardonnay, John pulled a trick with the reds and made them all McGregor Saperavi Grand Reserve – the wine formerly known as Black Russian Red (BRR) Reserve. The auction commenced on time, the bidding was typically intense, and further escalated when we reached the lots of BRR. One aged lot of six bottles went for fifteen hundred dollars! For a Finger Lakes red! I know this is considered a cult wine, it’s still amazing. I’m assured that the bidder was pleased, and considered it a bargain. The pig roast began early and was as deliciously succulent as ever. The party wound down and the crowd picked up their wine and left. We went home with the rest.

So, that’s my debriefing of the McGregor Picnic Weather Event of ‘23 and how we all survived. I expect to hear the tales get bigger and bigger with each passing year, with every picnic. Stories become legend, legend becomes myth, the storm of ‘23 will surely do the same. I was there, however, and the reality was a pretty good story as well. In the hindsight of one day, I expect that we experienced a really severe micro-squall, channeled right along the path of that Keuka bluff. As we drove around the area today, we heard tales of tornado warnings in Geneva, with very little rain actually occurring. We heard of a building wall collapsing a few miles from the picnic. Mostly though, people were surprised at our story of weathering the storm. Penn Yan and Hammondsport seem to have escaped, yet centered between them in that sometimes fortuitous, sometimes destructive path around the bluff, a veritable whirlwind occurred. Should we have anticipated? Been prepared? Not sat and stared like stunned ducks (to paraphrase Lincoln)? Perhaps. I can only say that in the future I might be prepared for anything along the Bluff. There really is something about Keuka.

I awoke at three in the morning and remembered that it was supposed to be a great viewing time for the Perseids. I let the dogs out and checked the sky; cloudless and clear. I woke Amy and we sat in the back yard and counted falling stars. It seemed a perfect coda to a remarkable day, a more subtle reminder of the precariousness of our situation here on Earth. We watched a particularly big meteorite blaze a path across the sky, and I wondered if there were even larger ones lurking, patiently waiting to remind us of how fragile our existence is. We get these reminders a lot these days it seems. Hurricanes, tidal waves, droughts, floods, massive storms, all increasing in number and intensity. A measly little storm at a Finger Lakes picnic might seem a rather weak bellwether, but still, we were there. Just for a second we had a tiny glimpse of nature’s fury and survived. This time. We watched another star fall and went to bed.