Mendocino's highland ranch.

Northwest of Cloverdale, Highway 128 dips and curls around Mendocino County, two blacktopped lanes slicing through the oak- and evergreen-studded hills as if they belonged there. In fact, in Northern California's Anderson Valley, the highway is the only artery through towns like Yorkville, Boonville and Philo--places where dogs don't bother to hurry across the street and the post office closes for lunch.

People work hard here in apple country, their orchards framed by soft blond-and-green hills and the steep, heavily forested mountains of the Pacific Coastal Range. Less than a decade ago, a new crop on the block claimed its rightful place here, and now the valley is known almost as much for its sparkling wine as its apple cider. It draws a small, devoted wine-tasting crowd to places like Scharffenberger and Roederer vineyards, but we don't care. My husband, Mike, and I have come to drink in the solitude, not the champagne. Our destination is Highland Ranch, about five miles beyond Philo, 540 acres wedged between Hendy Woods State Park and some forestry company land. It's a little over an hour away from the Santa Rosa airport and only 20 minutes from town, but it may as well be a hundred years.

I roll down the window and stick my head into the bracing head wind. It smells like pine, it smells like country--that conspiracy of elements that reminds a city dweller like me exactly what she's missing.

A dirt road hairpins up from the highway, fringed by a jungle of redwood, Douglas fir, Monterey pine, madrone and manzanita. A small sign announces HIGHLAND RANCH at another turn in the road. A small clearing appears to the left, and suddenly we're looking into the vacant eyes of a pair of grazing does--the resident watchdeer? A groomed meadow to the right drops into a pond adorned by clumps of cattails, a small dock and a tiny, arched bridge. A couple of rowboats sway to the indolent rhythm of the pond's rippling surface. Just beyond, several horses and black-tailed deer munch grass among the apple trees.

The ranch appears beyond the next rise, nestled among stands of sky-knocking redwoods and blossoming plum trees. Split-rail fences zigzag across generous lawns to the lodge, a century-old, banana yellow house bordered by redwood decks. Several huge firs along the front walk support four hammocks strung at right angles to each other. A handful of haphazardly placed cabins, a couple of tennis courts, a swimming pool, stable and another pond share the glen.

As we pull up to the lodge, George Gaines, a tall man wearing jeans and a satisfied smile, emerges. A native West Virginian, his 30 years as an international businessman and lawyer have made him a multilingual citizen of the world. But since he bought the spread four years ago, Highland Ranch is all the world he needs. He directs us to our cabin, but when we get to the door we discover we have no key. I trot back to the lodge.

"Something wrong?" George asks, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe.

"We don't have a key."

"Neither do I," he says pleasantly. "We never lock anything here. There's no need."

I nod dumbly and return to our quarters. Like the other seven cabins, ours is equipped with a real log-burning fireplace, stocked bookshelves, some original art and a private patio.

The property accommodates a maximum of 22 guests, and the $150 per person daily rate (two-day minimum) includes three meals, cocktails and all ranch activities, including use of the private stables, skeet shooting, tennis, swimming and cycling. Corporate meeting facilities are also available. (For information, call 707-895-3600.)

The ranch is deserted. Several families checked out this morning, and apart from us, George is not expecting additional guests. We take a stroll with him back up the road a couple of hundred yards, then veer off onto one of the several old logging roads that he maintains as a hiking trail.

The view at the top of a small hill is astonishing--the Anderson Valley defines the northern horizon, where a few miniature structures are visible, and to the east rise several peaks whose vegetation from this distance appears as virginal as when the Russians settled the region some 150 years ago.

Down at the bottom of the hill, our host points out some newly planted weeping willows--soon they'll shed their feathering tears over the surface of the bass pond, where the fish have begun to nibble. As George's grandchildren are trying their luck with salmon-egg bait, their father, Arthur Blair, works nearby, constructing a funky raft out of oil drums and wooden planks. Raccoons, it seems, have been snatching Arthur's newly adopted ducks from the banks of the pond, and the raft is intended to provide them refuge. George shows me what's left of last night's pillage--a single yellow duck's foot lying in the tall grass along the bank. It's a grim reminder that the natural world can be as merciless as it is magnificent.

A chorus of bullfrogs tunes up near one of the two trout ponds that George is fashioning near the lodge. By midsummer they'll be stocked and ready for anglers. As the sky surrenders its pastel hue to the blue night, we are served drinks around a robust fire inside.

Like everything else about Highland Ranch, the lodge is made for comfort. Overstuffed chairs, wood paneling, fresh flowers, groaning shelves of books and art-bedecked walls create an environment that is at once countrified and cultivated. I swing a stool around the copper fireplace fender and toast both my host and my backside. The seductive smells of dinner emanate from the kitchen as we sip our drinks and solve the world's problems. George, a worldly man with a lively mind, seems to want to hear our thoughts even more than he wants to tell us his. He may be a trained lawyer, but he's also a gifted innkeeper.

Dinner tastes as wonderful as it smells--the most tender leg of lamb I've ever eaten, along with roast potatoes, carrots and parsnips, salad, creamed leeks and a tartly lemon cheesecake. Our chef tonight is George's daughter, Caroline Blair, a skilled culinarian who gets help from local cooks when there is more than a handful of guests. Throughout our stay at the ranch, the food is copious and delicious--waffles, sausage, fried apples and biscuits for breakfast; soup and cold-meat buffets for lunch; and, for dinner, a piquant, peach-colored pasta that George himself makes from a recipe he stole from Chasen's.

The valley's prodigious production of fruits and vegetables, beef, lamb and pork, as well as fish from the ocean and the Russian and Navarro rivers, render Highland's menu possibilities not only tasty but limitless. Given sufficient notice, George will happily cater to the vagaries of any palate--you don't have to eat like a pig, or even a carnivore. Highland Ranch may be remote, but it's not parochial.

In the morning, he and I saddle up and head out on a muddy forest trail to Peterson Ridge, maybe 30 minutes away. George notes that Highland Ranch, thanks to a friendly relationship with the local forestry concerns, offers its guests more than 100 miles of hiking and riding trails. This one, however, must surely be the best. The summit of the ridge offers a 360-degree panorama that could be the view from heaven. The horses bury their faces in the grass, and below we spot the Navarro River, the Anderson Valley, patches of turf exposed by feral pigs and an expanse of coastal redwoods--the tallest trees in the world.

At the end of the day, my inner thighs are beginning to complain--they have forgotten what hard work it is to ride a horse. I long to soak in a hot bath, but a tub is the only thing Highland Ranch seems to lack. I settle for a cup of tea on the deck of the lodge and watch the sun's rays flirt with the rail fences. A small family of deer grazes on the hill beyond. One hyperactive Bambi repeatedly boings over the fence on his spring-loaded legs--over and back, over and back.

If I could read his diminutive deer mind, I would swear he jumps for joy. Even for deer, Highland Ranch is a slice of heaven.