Days of wine — and mud in Calistoga

It's not that I don't like wine; quite the contrary. My problem is with tasting rooms: I never know what to say. I don't know if it's performance anxiety, an ignorant palate or some combination of both, but when I belly up to a tasting bar, the best I can do is "nice." I sound like a dope.

I know what you're thinking: Just don't go to wine country, jerk.

It's not that easy. I was going to San Francisco with my boyfriend, and we love a good road trip, and I figured there must be lots more to wine country than wine. I came up with a great itinerary: a couples' mud bath, a cute hotel room in Calistoga, a little history, a little shopping. ... But wait, what does that sign say?

"Larson Family Winery, Tasting 10-5 Daily, Bocce & Picnic Area."

Hmm, a winery is one thing, but a winery with bocce and a picnic area? That's totally different. Who cares if we're just an hour outside San Francisco? Let's stop.

It's raining lightly when we head down a wooded lane past a series of handwritten signs nailed to trees and at last arrive at the Larson tasting room, a converted barn across from a pen of goats.

Then the rain starts to fall steadily, whereupon it becomes obvious that bocce, not to mention a picnic, is not happening. There's nowhere to go but the tasting room, so I try to bluff my way through a pinot noir, a chardonnay and a Gewürztraminer.

Taste of history

Behind the bar, a mural alludes to the winery's past: The land was formerly a ranch that hosted the Sonoma Rodeo from 1929 to the early 1950s, and before that it was the farthest navigable point of the Sonoma River, where steamboats would dock and unload their northbound cargo.

"Not too sweet, right?" I say to my boyfriend about the Gewürztraminer. I don't even try to pronounce "Gewürztraminer."

"Yeah, they're usually too sweet," he replies.

"Yep, this one's pretty dry for a Gewürztraminer," says the pourer, as I think, "Right, dry. Why didn't I say that?"

And so it goes as I stumble through the reds, and it's becoming clear why I'd planned to avoid the wineries of Napa. After buying two bottles we hit the road, vowing to stick to a subject we know something about. Like history.

We head toward the tiny town of Sonoma to see the last mission built by the Spanish in California. Turns out the San Francisco Solano Mission wasn't constructed just for the conversion of Native Americans. The one-story adobe structure was also designed to repel invading Russians.

Russians?

In the 1820s, according to an exhibit at the mission, Russian traders were making their way south from Alaska while the Spanish were fortifying the coast from the south. Mix in some Native American revolts, Mexican independence, Manifest Destiny and gold miners, and Solano had seen lots action by the time it crumbled in the 1906 quake.

The reconstructed buildings are part of the California park system. The day we visit, the chapel's courtyard is filled with schoolkids in old-timey costumes weaving straw baskets in the drizzle.

Crossing over to Napa Valley from Sonoma, we start seeing rows of vines covering every hillside. This is Big Wine country, with mega-producers such as Beringer, Robert Mondavi and Sutter Home. No need to stop; I've sampled their wines already, thanks to my neighborhood supermarket. Plus, we've got a mud bath waiting.

Calistoga is best known for its hot springs — and mud baths — and how it got its name. In the 1860s, millionaire Samuel Brannan wanted to develop the area into California's version of the New York spa town Saratoga Springs. Reportedly, one time he got tipsy and accidentally called the town the "Calistoga of Sarafornia," and the malapropism stuck.

We check into the Golden Haven Hot Springs, where the 1950s motel-style exterior belies the simple but elegant rooms. I had chosen it in part because of those couples' mud baths.

Mud togetherness

A picture on its website of a smiling man and woman submerged to their necks in vats of brown goop was so gross-funny, I signed us up right away.

Golden Haven is one of 10 hotel-spas in Calistoga, all of which offer such treatments. The mud experience goes like this: You soak in a tub full of peat moss and mineral water, then you get a shower, next a mineral bath and, finally, a warm blanket wrap and a rest.

I hadn't considered how ridiculous I'd feel lying naked in a vat of muck next to my boyfriend, having clay painted onto my face by a tattooed, ponytailed guy named Jimmy. The spongy mud creeps into every wrinkle and crevice.

First I'm sweating in the Jacuzzi tub, then I'm bundled like a tamale in the blanket wrap room. It's all incredibly unromantic, but it's also really fun, and it sure beats a crowded tasting room. Then again, you don't get mud in your ears at a wine tasting.

The next morning, after breakfast at the hopping Cafe Sarafornia, we amble up the main street. At Calistoga Pottery, peppy potter Sally Manfredi gives us advice. She says there's a trail nearby with an unusual mix of trees. We're intrigued and hit the road.

On our hike, we march along a narrow trail in Bale Grist Mill State Historic Park, past tall redwoods, moss-draped black oaks, shiny-barked manzanita trees and open heaths of ferns and wild grasses.

When we return to the car, it's already past 4. I realize all the tasting rooms are going to be closed.

But as we're cruising through St. Helena, I see a sign on the left saying, "Merryvale, Tasting 10 a.m. to 6:30 p.m." I think, Why not?

Maybe I've become more laid back after my trip to wine country, a little more Californian. Or maybe it's just that, after lying naked in a mud vat in front of Jimmy and my boyfriend, sounding clueless in a tasting room isn't such a big deal.