Spectacular, very complex, exotic nose; perfect fruit holding off a bit drying fine tannins, which will of course resolve wonderfully in time; delicious nutmeg and such in the finish temporarily cloaked in soft delicious oak.
But more importantly, 2003 Lynch Moussas is one of those rare wines that one might call transportational, like 1988 Mouton and 1996 Sociando Millet. It takes you to a pleasant place to which you otherwise would not go. Lynn said she could taste forest floor and grass. Rolling hills had already come to my mind when she said it. I was transported there.
To be transported to somewhere, you have to be somewhere else to be transported from. Normally the lake deck of our camp would be a place to go to. But now, after millions of years “forever wild,” Ha! the entire shore across from us is agroan with heavy equipment trundling along freshly plowed roads, over the crests of what were gateways to the stars.
The old man who owned the property, who vowed to keep the land in the Adirondack wilderness tradition, passed it to his kids, who smelled millions from development: only $900,000 a lot! Get it while it is still available,–and the millionaires came, immediately–one in every seven households–plenty around to throw their money at what little remains of God’s country. The ghosts of the Adirondack Indians who named the lake A-ta-te-ka, meaning “where friends meet”–not where friends develop–have been driven to their final resting place somewhere away from it all–probably not on this disappearing earth.
I have given up on it. My final death throw a fortnight ago. A year ago, my neighbors of the Lake Association decided that our land was no longer open to the animals, especially ducks and geese, which crap on the bocce ball field and the paths to the pontoon boats. So they strung clotheslines up between the trees at the shore’s edge and tied garbage bags every few feet. “That should scare all the animals,” they rightly figured. My lake view is now, fittingly, garbage.
But last Friday night I was tired, stressed out from a hard week’s work. Nobody was at the lake yet, I thought. My neighbors come only for recreation, when the weather is perfect. They would will away the fall, winter and spring if they could. Just pontoon boat weather, please, so I can carry my Martini around the lake shore while I churn up the fish beds.
So I took down the close line with the garbage bags from in front of my lake view and sat back behind my ceiling-to-floor windows to look at the sun set behind the lake. I even said to myself if any animal should venture onto the property, I would walk to the shore, scare the intruder away, and replace the clothesline, as much as it would hurt my soul to do it.
I had no more than settled back in my chair when my view changed to the fat ass of my neighbor putting the line back up. I won’t bother with details of my meltdown, but I am sure the association now knows that I am either an alcoholic or a madman. I apologized to the man last night.
It doesn’t bother me much anymore. I have given up. At least I have the memories. When I was eight, I drove my father’s Henry J along dirt roads on Long Island. It was a place to get away from it all, like our camp was last year, when I was still bragging about living across from wilderness which would never change. You couldn’t see one single camp along the back shore. The barbarians are at Alaska’s gate, fnally. It is over.
I have the memories. But a wine like 2003 Lynch Moussas takes me to a lovely place just beyond the reach of memories. People who believe in God in the traditional sense call that place Heaven. Until the technologists plow over that final path, we still have it in glorious wines like 2003 Lynch moussas.
Dale Williams criticizes we who always seem to weave Robert Parker Jr. into every post. He is probably justified,–but there is a reason for it: the theme of Mondovino. Mr. Parker said the underachieving wine was admittedly a little better than usual. It deserves 88 points, he said. The property is getting there. Just a little more work. That ought to provide enough catalyst to distill the transportationality out of it in a couple more vintages. But on the other hand, maybe new technology put it in there. I really don’t know.
Anyway, I don’t care what anybody else says. 2003 Lynch Moussas is outstanding.