My stride was sure. The grass was wet.

The kids were back at the apartment watching a movie.

Dani was asleep.

I had promised her forty-five minutes.

Then I slipped out the door.

~

The vineyards climbed the hillside in five enormous terraces, each held in place by a stone retaining wall nearly six feet high. Narrow service paths crossed each level before turning sharply upward again.

From below, the vines looked almost vertical, stacked one above another until they disappeared into the sky.

I was looking for a photograph.

It hung in our apartment kitchen: Bacharach from somewhere high in the vineyards.

The editing was terrible—oversaturated colors, halos around every roofline—but the view had stayed with me.

I wanted to find it.

~

I reached the Postenturm and climbed its wooden stairs.

At the top, I raised my camera.

The castle sat below me.

The Rhine stretched behind it.

I took a picture.

Then I turned toward the vineyards.

The next terrace was higher.

I climbed.

Three tiers up, benches appeared beside the path.

Poems about wine and grapes were carved into the stone retaining walls.

“SLATE, SLOPES, AND VINE, TOWER, CITY, AND ALSO RIVER. THEY STORE THE SUN, THE MIDDAY, THE SUMMER, THE RAYS.”

I stopped at one overlook and raised the camera again.

The vineyard now cascaded below me instead of above. The castle had flattened against the hillside.

I checked the screen.

Not right.

I kept climbing.

The sun softened behind the Rhine.

Another terrace.

Another overlook.

Another photograph.

The logs buried in the mud for traction continued upward.

The rows of grape vines towered over my head.

I checked the time.

Somewhere up there way my photo—another tier, maybe two.

I looked up.

Then back at the camera.

It’s grip loosened in my hand.

“Good enough.”

I took my shot and I turned around.

~

When I opened the apartment door, darkness had set in the river valley.

The movie was still playing.

Dani was just beginning to wake.

The kids barely looked up