It was a cloudless day and the sky was ocean blue as Mr. Vino and I made the climb up Howell Mountain. Here, among the tall green trees and ancient vineyards, we were planning to commune with nature, meditate and enjoy some wine.

Howell Mountain is located in the northeastern hills of St. Helena in Napa Valley. On its slopes is beautiful zinfandel bursting with jam and black pepper, and gigantic cabernet sauvignon with foot-stomping flavor.

After a long trudge, we stopped for a drink of water. We saw a fat, straw-stuffed scarecrow frightening the birds away. “I don’t think our scarecrow friend here is scaring anyone away,” he laughed. “This field of intense zinfandel flavor is not for the timid.”

“I like the look of the old-vine zinfandel,” I said as I brushed the perspiration off my brow. “It reminds me of a fairy tale.”

Mr. Vino nodded his head. Yes, the trunk of the vine is old and twisted like a Grimm fairy tale,” he said. “These vineyards were established in the 1880s when early California winemakers recognized the beauty of the volcanic soils and cleared 600 acres for vineyards.”

I picked up a bit of soil in my hand and noticed red dust in my palm. It was as if the mountain was rusting away like an old tin can.

We went further up the mountain and the forest shadows grew longer as the afternoon grew later. We finally stopped in a spot where we decided to make camp. I broke out the hard cheese and bread as Mr. Vino pulled out a bottle of Lamborn Family Howell Mountain Zinfandel and uncorked it.

The wine’s perfume reminded me of wild cherries, cinnamon and strawberries. The flavors were intense on the palate – jam and sweet alcohol.

Mr. Vino was silent, but nodded his head in approval as he drank the wine. Then he got down on his knees, rubbed his hands in the soil and declared, “This is the magic dust that creates great wine!” Then he flung the dust into the air.

As I built us a large campfire, Mr. Vino reminded me of its importance. “There are many animals that enjoy grapes, like bears,” he said. “The campfire is for our protection.”

“If any bear comes to bother us, I’ll pour him a fat glass of zinfandel and send him on his way,” I joked.

The wine was almost as thick as gravy and had beautiful depth and color. It exploded on my tongue.

“The beauty of the flavor,” Mr. Vino began, waving his hand in the air. “Wines like this Lamborn are thick and intense. It is almost a mystery how this wine can be so good. Its harmonious relationship with nature is the guide of every winemaker because people are the caretakers of the wine. Wine brings such joy; it awakens the spirit of love and generosity in so many.”

That is true, I thought. So many charitable events take place with wine.

The fire crackled as I opened a La Jota Howell Mountain Cabernet Sauvignon. The wine was more elegant than the Lamborn and had nifty flavor nuances and a lingering finish.

“Elegance versus power is always an issue,” Mr. Vino said, throwing another log on the fire. “I enjoy the power of the Lamborn, and I know that you, my friend, prefer the elegance of the La Jota.”

It was getting late and the witching hour was upon us. We had drank about half of each bottle, the thought being we could enjoy the wines the next day.

With the full moon over his shoulder, Mr. Vino then opened a bottle of Howell Mountain Vineyards Zinfandel. The wine was thick, complex and dirty.

“This wine is true to its terroir – tons of dark fruit and jam, and a finish that lingers for about a minute,” I said.

We unrolled our sleeping bags and threw a few more logs on the fire. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought I saw the faint outline of a small bear.

When I awoke the next morning to make coffee, I noticed that our camp had been broken into during the night and the zinfandel stolen. There were the tell-tale signs of paw prints.