Stephanie Miller, the assistant vineyard manager at Robert Sinskey Vineyards, pulled back the lid of a knee-high wooden bin and plunged her hand wrist-deep in a thick layer of squashed mulberry-colored grapes. Sweeping them back to reveal the bright purple juice below, she dipped in a glass and held out a taste. A little sweet, a little sharp, the cloudy juice was speckled with bits of grape and froth, buoyant and lively with yeasts and natural sugars.

A couple of years from now, this same stuff will be a suave Napa Valley Pinot Noir. But on this warm morning at the beginning of the 2009 harvest, these grapes are just a day or two off the vine, busily fermenting their way from juice to wine.

Surrounding these wooden bins are the hulking stainless-steel vats more typical of a modern winery, into which most of Sinskey's juice goes. But, as Miller explained, for this small pick, taken from one particular vineyard block that ripened early, letting the grapes ferment the old-fashioned way seemed just fine.

It fits right in with the style of the vineyard, a family-run place where sheep roam as four-footed weed whackers during the winter, munching down the weeds and cover crops before the fruit sets. Around the blocks of grapes are hedgerows and trees dotted with raptor perches and owl boxes, providing habitat for birds and beneficial insects. Hawks soar overhead, keeping hungry eyes on the mice and gophers below. Organic since 2001, the vineyards were certified biodynamic in 2007, following the methods laid out by Austrian philosopher/educator/polymath Rudolf Steiner (1861-1925), under the down-to-earth eye of vineyard manager (and livestock wrangler) Debby Zygielbaum.

Sheep on the farm. Photo by Robert Sinskey

There are many layers to biodynamic farming, but the basic premise involves taking organics one step further to create a holistic, "closed circle" ecosystem whereby all the land's fertility needs can be met on site. Animals provide manure, for example, manure goes into compost, compost goes into soil that then grows grass to feed the animals.

Hence the sheep, and the on-site composting program that transforms a good portion of the winery's spent grape pomace into a rich organic soil booster. That's just the tip of Steiner's philosophy, however. As a philosopher with a mystical Christian bent, Steiner's agricultural experiments in the face of industrial, post-WWI devastation blended time-honored Northern European folk traditions (planting by the phases of the moon, assigning the calendar "root days" and "fruit days" based on planetary movements) with his own personal beliefs in astral energy planes and more.

Walking a path between the grapes, Miller quotes a friend and fellow biodynamic farmer as saying, "You can farm on your knees or on your feet." Meaning that you can follow Steiner's dictates as a spiritual practice or as a practical how-to; either way, the results speak for themselves. Do you have to believe that a cow's horn symbolizes a kind of bridge between the earth and the sun, and that adding manure aged for months inside a buried cow's horn to your compost will energize your plants?

Perhaps, perhaps not. But there's no denying that building an intimacy with every aspect of a piece of land, from the way the wind moves over it to what weeds grow there, builds an awareness that translates into deep knowledge, informed by care and maybe even love.

Grapes on the vine. Photo by Robert Sinskey

Hanging on the cusp of harvest, the grapes are vividly indigo, green-gold, rose amber or plum black. The land itself feels rich with life, from the bees darting in and out of the flowering weeds below to the birds pecking their portion of the harvest from the ends of the rows.

The Zinfandel grapes are almost comically huge, ripe-to-bursting clusters hanging blue-black in the hot early-autumn sunshine. The Pinot Noir berries are smaller and shyer, almost dainty, the Cabernet Sauvignon vines looking straight out of a Claude Chabrol film. Muscat, clear gold, is unmistakable, the juice sugar sweet with a hint of musk. I remember reading a description of a summer morning in Venice as having "light like pink grapes" and these clusters of rosy Pinot Gris turn the simile suddenly clear.

All well and good. But how do the wines taste? After visiting numerous blocks of Sinskey's grapes, growing in the Stag's Leap and Carneros appellations, Miller takes me back to the elegant public tasting room on the Silverado Trail. Here, too, the idea of a self-fufilling ecosystem continues.

Wine is, after all, meant to drunk with food. So there is a small but lovely open kitchen adjoining the tasting room, where house chef Alex Bolduc whips up small complementary palate-teasers to accompany the $20 tasting flights, using produce harvested in the surrounding kitchen garden. The winery also runs special culinary tours ($50 per person, by appointment), in which guests get a guided tour through both the caves and the gardens, followed by a wine, cheese, and charcuterie tasting. It helps, of course, that Sinskey's culinary director is his wife, Maria Helm Sinskey, well-known cookbook author and formerly the highly acclaimed chef of San Francisco's PlumpJack restaurant.

The open kitchen in the tasting room. Photo by Robert Sinskey

The day I visited, Bolduc was simmering a batch of pear butter on the stove, made with green pears harvested from the Sinskeys' backyard. Once finished, it would jarred and sold in the tasting room or used on the menu of one of the winery's popular wine-club dinners, held every few months. While wine-club members get first dibs at reservations, interested diners can always call to see if any seats are available. Upcoming dinners include a Fall Equinox Dinner on Sept. 19th, and a Harvest Dinner on Oct. 24th. The price for six courses accompanied by wine is $175 per person.

In the tasting room, I nibbled a bit of aged gouda dotted with homemade plum jam, alongside a buttery mini-quiche filled with tatsoi, roasted onions, and cream, a moist gougere and some delectable slivers of pizza hot from the wood-burning oven. (Pizza Thursdays, a new development, are not to be missed).

And then there were the wines. I've long been a fan of Sinskey's Vin Gris as a elegant summer cooler. But the pours were more autumnal that day, starting with the Vandal Vineyard Pinot Noir. This parcel gets temperatures some 10 to 15 degrees warmer, bringing out the juicy richness and depth of the fruit, with hints of leather and smoke. "It's a more masculine wine," suggests sales manager Meg Barkley, and I have to agree: it seems to call out for leg of lamb, deep leather armchairs, dark wood paneling and a roaring fire.

A Pinot Noir from the Three Amigos parcel, some 5 to 7 miles away, is quite different, leaner and lighter, with less smoke and more cherry. "This one's my duck wine," says Barkely.

Sinskey only recently started doing single-designation Pinots, and the choice of vineyards changes from year to year, depending on the quality of the fruit.

It's one more part of the winemaking philosophy espoused by owner Rob and his longtime vintner, Jeff Virdig, who has been working with Sinskey since 1991: bring the fruit to its peak, then get out of the way and let the grapes express their own truth.

For information and reservations for upcoming dinners, call 800.869.2030 or 707.944.9090, ext. 119.

When my friend Karen asked me if I was interested in taking a trip on the Napa Valley Wine Train, I thought she was joking. She's a rather sophisticated woman-- one who lived in the Napa Valley for ten years. She must know something I don't. Or someone. That someone turned out to be Ryan Graham, director of the Wine Train's wine program-- an old friend of Karen's from her time at the infamous Bistro Don Giovanni.

My initial reaction was snobbish. I'd always considered the Wine Train as a gimmicky tourist attraction, upon which the locals would never ride or, at least, openly admit to riding. Sort of like the Disneyland Railroad, but with alcohol.

I thought about it for a moment. What's so wrong with that? I have always had a soft spot for trains, and I have a great thirst for wine, so I viewed this offer as a blending of two of my favorite things, rather like an old Reese's Peanut Butter Cup commercial in which a fellow randomly carrying an open container of peanut butter collides with a guy who has recently exposed his chocolate bar to the elements.

I accepted the invitation, of course.

The Napa Valley Wine Train, brainchild of train buff and Rice-a-Roni inventor Vincent de Domenico, began its run in 1989 on tracks that were originally laid in the 19th Century to bring tourists up to the resorts of Calistoga from Vallejo. The tracks in Calistoga have long been ripped out, but the remaining thirty-six-odd miles enable diners to take a pleasant, 3-hour trip from Napa town to St. Helena and back.

Upon arrival at the train's reception center, I wandered about the room, observing my fellow guests milling about, talking among themselves, or simply sitting on one the many available couches with the slightly glazed-over look that comes from having been exposed to too much sight-seeing over too short a time. Apart from two little girls racing about the room, shrieking and giggling, the room felt quiet and mildly uncomfortable.

There is a wine bar in a far corner of the room which offers up tastes of local vintages and not-so-local beer: Budweiser, Coors Lite, and Miller Genuine Draft. My initial, San Francisco-style reaction was one of shock. Where were the local brews? I looked around the room again and understood. The beer selection seemed, in a sense, a subtle way of telling its often out-of-their-element visitors, "See, we're just like you. We're not snobs, we just happen to live in the most famous wine region in the nation, so relax."

Before boarding the train, we were treated to a brief orientation by an affable, gravelly-voiced gentleman named Mike. Two wines were passed among the guests to sniff and taste. Well-acquainted with the general sense of intimidation that wine-tasting has upon the general public, Mike wiped away any perceived snobbery of wine enthusiasts in both his manner and his approach to tasting, even going so far as to make fun of people who sniff corks. "Why the hell would anyone sniff a cork? You're only going to smell cork. Corks are only presented to you at the table so you can tell if the wine has been stored properly." People laughed, relaxed a lot, and were now primed and ready for their wine-filled, three hour lunch through Wine Country which, in the minutes immediately preceeding Mike's presentation, might have seemed like slightly hostile, foreign territory.

Once through the reception line, where each group of guests is photographed by a Wine Train photographer, we boarded the train and were shown to our seats in the Vista Dome, a beautifully restored 1940's rail car. Surrounded by rich, red upholstery, white damask linen, and vintage silver flatware, we were poured glasses of Domaine Chandon Brut. If anything, I was feeling louche.

Our Bulgarian waiter was charming. As he stood at our table describing our luncheon options, I sat and listened, sipping my wine. I nodded a bit as he spoke, but stopped upon remembering that head signals are reversed in his native country. A nod implies disagreement, while a side-to-side shake implies assent. Or so I've heard. So, apart from letting my lips meet my champagne glass, I stopped moving my head entirely.

Soon after the train left the station, the stories of my lunchmates began. Off to my right was the restaurant where the Mondavis were told they could not bring their small dog. (The restaurant is, not surprisingly, no longer in existence). Off to the left, where a group of revellers (among whom my table companions counted themselves) mooned the Wine Train years ago, en masse. The Wine Train does, after all, have a reputation for offering breath-taking views.

At the start of the first course, the train stopped for a few minutes. I asked if one of the managers who stopped by our table for a visit if people were boarding. "No", she replied, "just stopping to pick up a few supplies, that's all." I looked out the window at the Safeway and understood. I was somehow pleased by the fact that I was sitting in a moving restaurant. One that ran an errand or two as I sat, drinking my wine.

As the train resumed its journey, slowly rocking from side to side on its way, I marvelled at the waitstaff, who managed to make carrying plates of hot food and, even more impressive, trays of drinks, looks effortless. The service was efficient, friendly and wonderfully at-ease. It was even suggested that we take a break between the main course and dessert to stretch our legs and tour the rest of the train. We pass through the early-20th Century Pullman dining cars where three and four-course meals are served, the on-board kitchens, and the Silverado Car, where one has the option of selecting from an à la carte menu, or not at all, to the Tasting Bar, where we sampled a few local dessert wines before making the slow walk back to our table for coffee and dessert. On the journey back to our table, I noticed that many of the people who looked uneasy prior to boarding now looked incredibly relaxed.

The food was, sadly, fair-to-middling. For example, the Crêpe Rosettes stuffed with smoked salmon were mostly crêpe, with minimal participation from the salmon.

The Roasted Beef Tenderloin Wrapped in Bacon With Shallots, Leeks and Roasted Garlic in Chimichurri Sauce was well prepared but, as the name might suggest, it was a rather convoluted affair. There was not room enough on the menu to mention the mashed potatoes or the carrots which competed for space on the overcrowded plate.

For dessert, I opted for the Calvados Apple Crisp with Vanilla Gelato. While the flavors were spot on-- just the proper hint of Calvados, the presentation destroyed what should have been a wonderful dessert. What arrived at our table merely looked like a cup of vanilla gelato, with no indication of what lay beneath. Crisp topping needs room to breathe. A complete smothering in gelato resulted in a cold mush with a texture approximating that of granola left too long in milk.

My sense is that-- and I may be shot for saying this-- Chef Kelly MacDonald is playing to a tourist audience, and rightly so. But I was left with the impression that the menu is an interpretation of what might play as "fancy"-- as gourmet-- to the tourist trade, which is doing no one any favors. The Napa Valley is home to some of the finest produce in the country. As a chef who proudly uses only fresh, local produce, it would do credit to himself and to the people visiting for the first time, to showcase that bounty in the simple, straightforward style of the valley through which the Napa Train takes its ride and from which it takes its name.

My criticism of the food aside, I had a fantastic time. A leisurely three-hour lunch in a beautifully-restored train car travelling at 18 mph through some of the most fantastic, autumn-colored countryside this region has to offer with a bottle or two of excellent, local wine selected from a well-crafted, affordable wine list to be drunk in hilarious company?

Yes, please. And I would do it again.

Whenever I visit a foreign city, I like to be blatantly touristy on my first day out by taking a narrated bus tour around town. I find it an excellent way of getting a general overview, a broad sense of the place. The Napa Wine Train is a great way to introduce visitors to the Valley, or yourself, for that matter, without having to fight the terrible traffic jams, especially in high-season. To borrow a jingle from a depressing and struggling national bus company, leave the driving to them.

Of course, it isn't driving, it's conducting or something. However trains work. I don't really want to know because, to borrow another jingle, there's something about a train that's magic. And I should like to leave it at that.

Instead, I suggest you follow the advice of this sign, found on the train:

Ride high, and enjoy.

The Napa Valley Wine Train Station is located at:

1275 McKinstry Street

Napa, California 94559.

For Schedules and reservations, call:

1-800-427-4124