Sutcliffe Vineyards History - Part 2

The next day we had lunch with Gene at his ranch, meat loaf, creamed potatoes and peas, and a fat crumbling biscuit. The price was mentioned, it was less than we had anticipated but still felt the need to contest it. We had to explain that we would not be in a position to farm the place for two or three years, would he be prepared to still farm it. Still run his sheep and a few cows, plant his enormous vegetable garden replete with strawberries, melons, and tomatoes and pick the fruit from his lovely orchard. He said he could, even mentioned harvesting the deer that haunted his fields. "Might that allow you to chip a bit off the price Gene?" His wife De Louris left for the kitchen. "Hell no," he said grinning, but he did..not much but a bit.

  A week later a contract was drawn up, and only then did Gene take us around the whole place. I remember it in every detail, even the undrinkable French vanilla coffee that he favored, and the picture of him in his navy uniform and the shine that Judy Garland took to him sitting in the audience of a concert in San Diego. Even remember the tolerant disbelief that drifted across De Louris' face, shaking her head ever so slightly. We scrambled up the ridge that is the western end of the property, slid down the slick rock into the long pasture, down to the creek that wound beautifully through the stand of willows and Tamaraks. Waded the creek, up to our knees onto the mesa that borders the Mountain Ute Reservation. "Hell, we used to run cows on all that country." He said stabbing a finger towards the towering Sleeping Ute Mountain. We rested under a massive, suffering Cottonwood and Gene pointed out a wild bee's nest nestled in its crumbling bark.

Two old red delicious apple trees were pointed out to us. "Not them Washington apples you get at the store," he said dismissively. Showed us where the bear comes under the fence and the Cottonwood behind which a doe has delivers her fawns, twins every time. Two Golden Eagles coiled in the sky above the towering Battlerock, and ravens cried at them defiantly. By the time we moved back to his home a handful of deer had moved cautiously into the field. The sun slipped away to the west but still gilded the Sleeping Ute Mountain with its fading rays. It was as beautiful as anything I had ever seen, reminding me fleetingly of rare sunny days on Alt Fawr in distant Wales. My wife seemed almost tearful, until I lifted her mood by suggesting we could have 5 full-sized Polo fields in the pasture.