Every year, before the second flush,
we leave New York.
The teas we carry are not chosen from a catalog. They are found at altitude, in conversation with farmers who have been doing this longer than anyone in our lineage can account for. We go to understand what the tea already knows.
The mist doesn't lift until noon. Old-growth trees, unpruned, some of them eight hundred years of opinion. We spend four days in the same grove, and the farmer says very little. The tea says the rest.
Rock oolong country. The cliffs hold heat in a way that doesn't translate to language — you taste it and then you understand why the tea only grows here. We taste thirty. We carry three.
The highest stop. Cold at night, even in spring. The altitude slows everything — growth, time, the decision of what to take. A wulong from here is never loud. It finishes after you've stopped expecting it to.
The teas travel well. The silence doesn't.
Old-growth. The forest in the cup.
12 kg available
Rock and char. The cliff face, remembered.
8 kg available
Cold air. A finish that doesn't rush.
6 kg availableThe selection from each year's pilgrimage is offered to members before it reaches anyone else. No announcement. No countdown. A letter arrives, and the teas are there if you want them.
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