Perspective

I remember reading once a quote about perspective.  The author, who’s name I unfortunately can’t recall, wrote something about how it is not so much the world around us that changes as it is the eyes through which we see it.  When I read the quote I thought it interesting, but did not give it any more thought.  Lately, however, it has been on my mind.

Earlier this year, I returned from Australia, where I had been working a harvest in the wine region of Margaret River, in Western Australia a few hours south of Perth.  There I worked with Shiraz, that ubiquitous Aussie grape that has become as synonymous with Down Under as kangaroos, though much nicer to have with dinner.  There was also plenty of Cabernet Sauvignon, Semillon, Sauvignon Blanc and (my own personal favorite grape of the region) Chardonnay.  Though winemakers from Margaret River will tout the reds, it was this noble variety that seduced me more than any other.

The time I spent in Margaret River was my third harvest away from the vineyards of my home in southern Oregon and my second in the southern hemisphere.  As it has been with every region I’ve worked in since leaving Oregon and becoming a “traveling winemaker”, Australia broadened my view of wine, winemaking, viticulture and terrior.  The experience of “Oz”, as the Aussies call it, also helped me to gain a greater understanding of my passion for wine.

The same passion that took me to Margaret River to fall in love with her Chardonnay, enticed me back to Oregon this year to take on a new role. Word of my travels had spread and while I was road-tripping across Australia after harvest, on my way to the Great Barrier Reef, I received an email asking if I would be interested in coming back to Oregon to work as consulting winemaker, for harvest, for a couple of small start-up wineries.   And so, ever curious for something new, I soon found myself boarding a plane in Sydney for another trip across the Pacific, swapping winter for summer and gaining a day for the one I had lost some 6 months before. 

Not long after I arrived back in southern Oregon, I drove out to the Applegate Valley to visit a couple of vineyards I would be working with.  Just north of my hometown of Ashland, Stage Road cuts west from Old Highway 99 through orchards of pear and peach before meandering through Jacksonville and eventually winding its way to the Applegate Valley.  It is a drive I have taken countless times, but not often in the last couple of years.  In fact, as I was driving I began to realize I could not remember when the last time was.  As I drove I began to notice what I thought were new vineyards, which is not uncommon as new vines are going in all the time.  Then, I began to think I was noticing new hills, or at least different ones.  Angles of ridges looked different.  Some even looked taller, some smaller than I remembered and others familiar in ways previously not. And all this stirred me to ponder, about perspective.

When I was driving across Australia, I passed through many wine regions such as the Barossa, Coonawara, theYarra and Hunter.  Often while driving through these regions I found myself pulling over on the side of the road (the left side by the way), getting out of my car and looking not only at the vineyards, but also at the land they were planted on.  I wanted to take in all that was around me. In the nearly two months it took me to drive across Australia, I spent countless hours and days looking at different vineyards and valleys seeing all I could, and in doing so I began to change the way I would one day look at my own wine region of Oregon.  That was why I found myself that day standing on the side of the road looking at vineyards and hills and creeks for what felt like was the first time.  It was, however, not the first time.  In fact, I had seen them all before and, I had seen them all before many, many times.  But not like I saw them on that day, not like I saw them through those eyes.  I realized then that my experiences of the last couple of years have changed the way I see.  Though my home region will always be home, and I know it is basically the same as when I left, to me it is forever changed.

As I got back in the car that day to go on my way, any last tiny bit of doubt that I may have had about leaving Oregon to pursue my passion for learning, travel and wine drifted away.  I felt good, like I was exactly where I needed to be.  That I was in Oregon, made it sweeter still.

Harvest is nearly over now.  It has again been true to form and an invaluable learning experience. It won’t be long before the last of the reds are sleeping softly in barrel and bare vineyards feel winter’s cold breath. I will move on, exactly where may be a surprise, but one thing I know for certain is where ever I am I will view my world with different eyes. 

Australia - Harvest's End

It’s not every morning that a kangaroo hugs you. In fact, I’m not sure it is a daily occurrence even for other kangaroos. Nonetheless, the other morning I was hugged and I must admit I liked it. Now, I don’t want to give you the idea that Australia is so rife with kangaroos that they bounce into wineries on a regular basis and hug winemakers. Usually they are rather shy animals and as far as I know, don’t much care for wine. My little fury encounter did not take place at the winery, however, or even in Margaret River, the wine region in Western Australia where I have been working for the last several months. This public, and I’m sure accidental, display of affection happened in the little one-store town of Jerramungup on the border of the Fitzgerald River National Park in southwest Australia. There, in one of the nicest caravan parks you’ll ever find, is one of the friendliest kangaroos you will ever meet (I can not tell a lie: the park’s owner did tell me the roo had a fondness for crackers). You may now be wondering what an Oregon winemaker is doing getting cozy with marsupials near the outback when there is wine to be made? Well, as it is with all things, harvest too has come to an end.

Just over a week ago I racked my last tank of wine on my final shift at Watershed Premium Wines located just south of the small, and in many ways idyllic, town of Margaret River. This harvest was my first in Australia, my second south of the equator, and the 19^th time overall I’ve had the fortunate opportunity to be apart of the timeless art of wine.

As it has been with every region I have worked in since leaving my home of southern Oregon last February, I went with little expectation of what I would see or learn. And in retrospect it was, and still is, not a bad way to approach the unknown. But hey, isn’t that what traveling is about?

Though I am sure when I return to Oregon I will be asked what I’ve learned on my winemaking travels, I am not so sure that I will be able to answer simply. However, after traveling and working in different wine regions around the world, I feel that I can say without doubt that I have discovered at least one truth, so far: Every place, every single vineyard, each quantifiable ounce of terrior is absolutely, unequivocally, beautifully unique. That said, I have learned winemaking techniques and observed many different styles. It is the land, however, that matters more than anything and it is the land that truly defines great wine.

So now, the day after my memorable hug, I sit in another caravan park, this time in the tiny outback town of Norseman. Just to the east is the Nullarbor Plain, a vast 1500-mile, almost treeless, mostly uninhabited expanse. Through it cuts the, nearly dead-as-a-doornail straight, Eyre highway. I am four days into a 6 – 8 week, 3200-mile journey east to the Great Barrier Reef. Between here and there, are many new wine regions to see and explore. As it has been with every day of this adventure, I still do not know what tomorrow may bring. But if the past can offer any hint of the future, somewhere out beyond the dry and distant horizon, I know that new and wonderful adventures await.

Margaret River, Western Australia

Yesterday, we reached the half way point of harvest. Though it past without fanfare, it was not without notice. We are scheduled to take in 1200 tons of grapes this vintage and with the 75 tons of Shiraz that arrived today, we quietly pushed exactly pass the half way tonnage mark. Only 599 tons left to be picked. As we cleaned up after a long day of crushing, I could feel a collective sense of relief from our crew. Wet, sticky and sunburned, we all made our way into the break room where, stashed in the refrigerator behind the dried yeast packages and ML cultures, was the ice cold “Coopers Ale” we all had been thinking about for the last several hours. In every wine region I’ve work beer has played an important and supportive role. For some reason after working 12 hours, most of it in the blazing Western Australian sun (the whole in the ozone here doesn’t help either), a glass of chilled Chardonnay or a chewy Shiraz just isn’t that appealing. Cold beer on the other hand….ah, now there’s a winemaker’s friend.

Though 1200 tons may seem like a lot of fruit by Oregon standards, around Western Australia it is considered a “moderate”. In Margaret River you don’t have to drive long before you notice, on the horizon, the indistinguishable silhouette of a winery tank farm. Towering even above the massive and ubiquitous Marri and Jarrah trees, these mammoth structures of aluminum catwalks and stainless steel tanks are the winemaking engines driving the wine industry of Western Australia.

So far, we have been fortunate that the steady rains have held off. Yields for most of the Margaret River region seem to be on average, which in agriculture speak translates into “good”. The overall feeling by winemakers on quality is that 2008 will again be a vintage that produces the kind of wine that is quickly making Margaret River one of Australia’s premier wine growing areas. Though there is still time for unwelcome rains to damper this prediction, there is nonetheless a sense of genuine optimism that goes even beyond that natural positive Australian outlook that Americans find so encouraging. Since coming here my half cup of tea has never been so half full.

Back in the break room, the hissing sound of opened beer bottles soon filled the air. Before a sip was taken, however, tradition took over and we raised our glasses, looked each other in the eye, then tipped those glorious brown bottles back. As we sat there quietly savoring our brew, I happened to notice everyone’s hands. Stained purple from wine, cut and scraped from a variety of hazards, dried and cracked from the acidity of juice, these were hands of those who make wine. I then noticed my own. I’ve often thought that the condition of them sometimes serves as an indicator for me of how far along harvest is. I couldn’t help but thinking I had seldom seen them look worse. It must be the Shiraz, I thought. Layer upon layer of wine for the past month have dyed my hands a dirty purple. Every line, wrinkle, cut, crack and pore has been colored by Shiraz, Cabernet, Merlot and Franc. They looked like the hands of someone many years older, like they had touched a lifetime of winemaking experience. As I sat there pondering the thought of whether or not I have permanently ruined my chances of being a hand model, I realized that, as it has been with every harvest, the half-way point is significant. And that is why, with tired smiles that day, we toasted to only 599 tons to go.

Margaret River, Wetern Australia

A Kangaroo Sunrise

So there I was, walking in a vineyard at sunrise. Yes I admit, not something that would be considered terribly unusual for an Oregon winemaker like myself, but on this particular morning as I walked up the long, recently hedged, rows of Cabernet Sauvignon, I had the peculiar feeling I was being watched. Now, when you go traipsing out in a vineyard at sunrise you never know what little (or large) creatures you might run into. I’ve startled more deer than I can remember, had the favor return by one bear, stumbled across free-spirited cattle munching between vineyard rows and been chased, thankfully only once, by two grumpy lamas all while I was in the pursuit of tasting the sweetness of early morning fruit. However, back to this eerie sense that I was not alone….

The sun had not fully risen. In the east a warm pool of purple-orange light was seeping across the sky about to splash into yellow. Thick cool mist hung in very still air, it was unbelievably quiet and I, was getting a little freaked. Then, there it was, not more than 50 yards in front me, a dark shape barely visible through what now had become a very haunting mist. I stood motionless, my eyes straining to focus on the strange shape before me. The thought of “fight or flight” crossed my mind, with the latter seeming like the most prudent choice. But before I had a chance to choose, the sun burst over the horizon melting the mist, painting everything gold. And there, still watching me as I now intently watched it, was a kangaroo. Yes, a kangaroo. This was definitely not something an Oregon winemaker sees every day in the vineyard, but then again, this was not Oregon. Welcome to Western Australia and the wine region of Margaret River.

Located in Western Australia (WA or, as my Aussie mates say, “dub-ay”), Margaret River is about as far away from Oregon as you can go and still take early morning walks in a vineyard, and certainly the only place where you can do it with marsupials. My latest traveling winemaking adventures have taken me to this little winemaking corner of the world to a region claimed by many to be similar to Bordeaux, with plenty of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Sauvignon Blanc and Semillon to offer as proof. That said, one does not have to look far to find the hundreds of acres of Shiraz, Chardonnay Chenin Blanc and Viognier which makes a stronger argument that Margaret River is like Margaret River, and it is like no other place on earth. Plus, when was the last time a kangaroo was sighted along the Garonne?

I’ve come here to work for Watershed Winery, a relatively new a 1500 ton (and growing) facility quickly making a name for itself in the prestigious Margaret River region. Though it only produces 3% of Australia’s wine, Margaret River is responsible for over 20% Australia’s premium wine. And you do not have to venture far to see why. Nestled between Cape Naturalista to the north and Cape Leeuwin to the south, where the Indian and Southern Oceans meet, Margaret River has been blessed with a mild Mediterranean climate that is virtually frost-free, a characteristic every grape grower here loves. The gentle landscape of subtle hills and small creeks that meander through forests of Eucalypt and Karri, gives Margaret River that sense of peace that comes with such natural beauty. What little rain does fall, percolates through sandy loam to granite and gneissic rock providing a near ideal soil composition for many of the varieties that have found, and are still finding, their home here in WA. If the quality of fruit here were any indication of its emotional state, then those of Margaret River would be that of bliss.

As spring buds in Oregon are beginning to break, mature grapes in this part of the world are being picked. Harvest 2008 is well underway. Most of Watershed’s estate whites are already in and the reds are starting. In fact, just yesterday I found myself on top of one of the first tanks of Merlot “pumping over” (circulating the juice over the top of the skins to help extract color). Though the grapes had come in the day before, the juice was already dark red and well on its way to purple. When I had finished, I turned around and looked below at the estate vineyards that surround the winery. Again it was a beautiful sunrise and that sweet light of morning was beginning to warm both me, and the vines. As I stood there I thought that in many ways the vineyards around me looked similar to those I had seed in Marlborough, New Zealand, or the Alexander Valley of California or even my native southern Oregon. A sense of being home settled over me. Yes, very similar indeed, except for the kangaroos.

Belize - Buried Treasure

Buried treasure. As a kid the idea enchanted me. In fact, I would occasionally bury this or that, wait a day or two, then begin my hunt for the “buried booty”. My imaginary world was dense jungle where dangerous animals and cannibals lurked behind every juniper bush of my southern Oregon backyard. Safe to say I nearly always recovered what I buried, though I’ve no doubt, surely more places than I can remember, buried under my signature four flat stones are a variety of treasures I will never find.

I nearly always travel with wine, and mostly wine I’ve made. My friends have learned that despite the extra weight or shear impracticality of it, I can be relied upon to produce a bottle of wine from my backpack in the most unusual or remote surroundings.

Eight years ago, those surroundings were the lush, wet-green jungles of Belize, in Central America, where the Hummingbird highway crosses the Sibun River, some 25 miles inland from the Caribbean Sea. I was visiting an old buddy for the first time, an Englishman, who had moved there many years before. One day while I was there, we hiked up the Sibun River, slowly making our way into its gorge. In my backpack amongst the GPS, Swiss Army knife, Nalgene bottle and first aid, was the ubiquitous bottle of Weisinger’s wine. The original intent had been to enjoy a little wine with lunch, but the heat and humidity were not creating the ideal environment to enjoy the Bordeaux style blend I had brought along. It was a wine I had made from 40% Cabernet Franc, 32% Merlot, 18% Cabernet Sauvignon and 10% Malbec. Its proprietary name was “Petite Pompadour” and was named for the small southern Oregon vineyard from which the grapes had come. So, instead of opening the bottle I decided to bury it, right there in the jungle, not a juniper in sight. Now, that may not sound like a decision most people might come to, but if you knew me, you would understand. I knew I would return to Belize someday. A place that beautiful would be difficult to come just once. I decided I would dig the bottle up then.

Just over a year ago, and 7 years after I buried that bottle, I left a winemaker job I had held for over 10 years for a self prescribed travel and winemaking journey. First, I traveled to New Zealand where I worked a harvest learning about Marlborough Pinot Noir and Sauvignon Blanc. Next, I journeyed to California and worked with Syrah, Sangiovese and Cabernet Sauvignon in the Alexander Valley. After California, I returned to southern Oregon, my home, to consult and prepare for my next wine adventure: Western Australia. I had landed a job working harvest in a little region south of Perth called, Margaret River.

And so it is here, under a thatch roof in Belize that I find myself writing about a bottle of wine I buried 8 years ago. Eight years…it’s a long time, even for a wine. A lot can change. Maybe maturity has been reached, maybe it is passed or maybe it has not yet arrived? In any case, yesterday I decided to go find the bottle I had buried those many years before. It actually was not that hard to find. I knew the area and before long I had found the stoic reddish-brown pillar of the decaying ironwood tree. At its base, under 8 years of jungle debris were four flat stones. Underneath, was the bottle. Intact.

As I pulled the bottle free from the damp red dirt, I peeled back the tape I had put over the label to protect it. What vintage was it? I could not remember. As the tape finally came off, I looked closer. Through the dirt and the mold that had somehow worked its way under the tape was the date, “1997”. It was one of my first vintages.

Last night, I opened that bottle and with a bit of apprehension poured glasses for my two dear hosts and myself. In the glass the wine showed a slight brick halo at its edge, a tell tale characteristic of an older wine. The nose was reserved, slightly austere with a layer of leather and dried fruit. I sipped. I sipped again. The wine was good. In fact, as it began to breath it got better and better. Perhaps not something I would be rushing off to critics (“…aged 8 years, underground, in Belize…”), but very drinkable. The wine took me back to 1997, where I was, who I was and what life looked like then. I felt a connection with my past that is different from the feeling an old photo brings.

There are other bottles I have buried over the years, in different countries, on different continents and even on one island. Some I have dug up, others still wait. Where are they, you might wonder? Actually, I might wonder that myself. For the moment I have my memory and a few maps of where my treasure lay. “X” may not mark the spot, but four stones pave the way.