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.