Story and Photos by Liza Gershman
The light shifts slowly at first—a softness in the sky, a pale yellow haze over the vineyards. And then all at once, it’s unmistakable: September has arrived.
In Healdsburg, we feel the turn of the season not by calendar, but by morning chill. The market tables tilt toward fall—Delicata squash, crisp apples, the last of the tomatoes holding out beside newly harvested potatoes. Figs are finally ripening, sweet and bursting. Fewer berries now. More roots.
It was a cool summer this year, and the grape harvest is just beginning—later than usual. But the rhythms of the land continued, and now, under a gathering harvest moon, the colors have deepened and the scent of dust hangs in the late afternoons, soon to be replaced by the heady perfume of fermentation.
It’s a scent I love, because it reminds me of the cycle of my life. When I’m not here, I miss it deeply—the cool, early mornings, the bustle of activity before sunrise, the way harvest shapes the tempo of this place.
Night picks are fast and focused—exhilarating and also very still. It’s something remarkable to behold. You crouch low with the crews, stay out of the way, move quickly with them. Sometimes there are generators to light the rows, and sometimes there’s nothing at all. It can be freezing. Dusty. But when the light breaks, it’s sudden, surprising—and then it’s broad daylight, and everyone heads home. I am grateful every time I get to witness it.
This is my 20th year photographing harvest—since 2005—and I still love this time. I’ve spent nights with vineyard crews lit only by headlamps and moonlight, capturing the exact moment the fruit leaves the vine. My favorite moment is when the deepest darkness turns into light and the sky opens up. I rarely see sunrise outside of harvest. There’s a reverence to it. A rhythm. A knowing.
The harvest moon rises large and low, washing the fields in silver just as the first clusters are brought in. It’s not a romantic image for many—it’s headlights on tractors, aching backs, the rhythm of hand and blade and crate. But for me, it is incredibly beautiful, and I am awestruck by the experience—the choreography, the pace, the darkness of the night—every single time.
As for the produce farmers and ranchers I meet each week, they are also in full throttle. Rather than celebrating the close of summer, they’re moving forward—shifting rows, planning soil amendments. They’re still feeding us, and already thinking about what comes next.
Figs are ripe now. Their soft skins and honeyed centers speak of late summer’s gifts. The heirloom tomatoes still shine, though their time is nearly done. Peppers in every hue—red, yellow, green and chocolate brown—are stacked high, alongside eggplants with glossy skin and names like Rosa Bianca and Japanese Millionaire. The melons are heavy and sweet, and the last of the corn is stacked beside them.
It has been a cool and somewhat weary year. But the market remains a place of beauty and bounty. Here, food tells us something truer than words. The tomatoes didn’t come in early. The peaches weren’t prolific. The grapes, too valuable to ever be sold here, are just beginning their journey from vine to barrel.
In the weeks ahead, you’ll find me at the market, pulling dusty carrots from their basket, searching for figs, asking farmers how long until we see the first persimmons.
It’s not nostalgia. It’s rhythm. It’s showing up. It’s paying attention.
Visit healdsburgbook.com.
