“We can sow the seed, but the outcome rests with the skies; no skill of the farmer can compel the rain to fall nor command the sun to be gentle.” — Xenophon, (c. 370 BCE)

     August moves swiftly in Loudoun. Despite the relative dryness of late summer, the fertile soil, charged with water from afternoon storms, provides an exhausting abundance of green growth. Everything in sight is flourishing. Crown vetch and switchgrass choke fences, dots of chicory and black-eye Susan push blue and gold in ditches, and creeper clogs string trimmers trying to regain portions of yards lost to the incessant Virginia growth.

     This time of year, the quiet roads connecting our vineyards are invaded with tree-of-heaven and willow oak, their leaves brushing car windows and branches looming overhead. Canopies in the woods, in yards, in our vineyards, everywhere, are thick with dark green. Everyone with a mower wishes the grass would stop. The pleasure of cutting wore off a month ago. Virginia is stunning in August.

     Vine growth, however, is counter to its surroundings. Veraison began in late July; its “official” date varies vineyard to vineyard, block to block, varietal to varietal. This year it’s earlier and later than normal – earlier in unfrosted, primary clusters, later in secondaries. We are roughly 200 GDDs (~8 days) ahead of schedule, although frost-damaged blocks are equally far behind. Most harvests are particular; this one will be downright strange.

     The intense labor of spring and summer is coming to a close. If our diligence has been done, canopies will be open and full, clusters exposed, leaves mildew free, and nothing overcrowded. We have touch-ups to do, but the vintage’s fate is now in the hands of the sun and clouds. If Mother Nature listens, she’ll bring clear days, limited rainfall, and moderate temperatures. Growers talk about being “owed” a good vintage. After the frost, after the tiny yields of 2025, that belief feels slightly less illogical than usual.

     The unpredictability in farming has existed since the first farmer planted the first field with the first crop. The risk of the weather is shared with thousands of generations of farmers, hundreds of generations of winegrowers. Despite this, despite the millions born before me who watched uneasily as black clouds approached their delicate crop, there’s still a loneliness to the feeling. Maybe because modern communities include so few farmers. Maybe because when it comes to Man vs Nature, we know who’s going to win. It is something we bear alone.

“Farming is a silent gamble with the sky.” – E.B. White

     I love this time of year. I love the moment in the season when we hand the reins of ripening to the weather. Soon we’ll be raising bird nets and pulling fruit samples. Soon we’ll be tasting fruit that’s almost ready. Soon we’ll be managing ferments. I’d be lost if, year after year, I couldn’t look forward to harvest with an excited, cautious optimism