Have you ever lost something?  A pair of sunglasses, a favorite coat.....the password for your blog?  Alas, the latter has been found!!

After nearly a two year hiatus, I am back.

More posts to come. Chronicles of the Traveling Winemaker will return.

Belize, Central America

At the moment, I'm in Belize taking a swipe at making fortified wine. Producing a port style elixir in the jungles of Central America may not sound like a typical endeavor for a winemaker, but Belize is not your typical sort of place and my time here is always marked by the beautiful and the unusual. I've been here a month so far, and though my time is coming to a close soon the "port" (and I use the term loosely) is actually drinking fairly well. What's left will probably be buried. Yes, buried. More on that later....

Mongolian Elixir

It seems that no matter where in the world one travels, it is possible to stumble across some sort of fermented beverage. Whether the beverage is that of grape, apple, honey or another fermentable product – and there are many – depends on just where in the world you may find yourself.

Earlier this year, after my winemaking duties were wrapped up in New Zealand, and before they began again in Oregon, I happened to find myself in Mongolia, that large central Asian country locked between Russia and China where visions of yurts, yaks and Genghis Khan often come to most minds. I was not there to investigate the potential for wine production, wine importation or anything related to wine, but rather to visit an old friend who had joined the Peace Corps and had been fortunate to find themselves posted to a country who’s charm grows on you the moment you arrive.

When I first began planning my trip to Mongolia a fellow winemaker asked me if I had ever tried fermented dairy products? No, was my obvious answer. Dairy is not the first thing that comes to one’s mind as a fermented beverage. However, in an area of the world where the number of livestock outnumbers that of people by 15 to 1 it may have been inevitable that the art of fermenting dairy was bound to be discovered.

There are few facts on just exactly how long the people of central Asia have been drinking fermented mare’s milk ( known as “kumis”), but it is agreed by most of those who study that sort of thing, that is has been a while.

Genghis Kahn, who unified the Mongolian people in 1206 and within two generations createdthe largest empire the world has ever seen, was known to have quaffed kumis with quite some regularity. Its consumptions today is just as regular, though one will not find it in a store. No, this is a cultural product made by individual hands in the exact same way it has been for, quite possibly, millennia.

Fermentation, at its most basic level, is not a complicated process. There are, however, some requirements, chief among them being sugar, yeast and a little warmth. The yeast feed off the sugars, multiply and produce two primary byproducts: CO2 and alcohol, the latter of which stays in solution while the former is released as gas and never makes it to the bottle, except for in the case of Champagne…and kumis of course.

As it was explained to me one evening over vodka (Mongolians other favorite drink) kumis is both easy and quick to make. The milking season for mares is in between mid-June and October. Once the milk has been obtained, it is poured into a horsehide container (other containers are used, but horsehide is traditional). Occasionally, additional sugar is added but often there are enough natural sugars in the milk to produce the 1% – 2% alcohol that will be in the finished product. Natural yeasts inoculate the milk inside the horsehide bag, which is usually hung just outside the entrance to a yurt, or just inside during cooler times of the year. Initial fermentation takes place with 2 hours once the milk has reached about 80F (27C). Traditionally, when entering or leaving a yurt with a kumis bag it is customary to stir the brew a few times, which stimulates the ferment and keeps the yeast happy. After a couple of days, the process is finished and presto, you’re done! Break out the Riedel.

Having been in the fermentation business for some time it is not hard to understand my curiosity for an alcoholic beverage that can take only days, and in some cases just hours, to make. If nothing else, winemaking does allow for the lesson of patience. Kumis, on the other hand, is all about the “now”. Milk your mare, throw it in a bag, wait a day and then have a bowl…or two. And if you are lactose intolerant, worry not. The fermentation process converts the lactose in mare’s milk (which is 40% higher than in milk of sheep or cows) to lactic acid, a necessity in a country where over 80% of the people are lactose intolerant.

So there I was in Mongolia. My friend and I were a few days into a two-week road trip that would eventually take us nearly 1000 miles around the country, camping most of the way. We had just finished up a long day of driving and had pulled well off the “road” to pitch camp (FYI: If you ever travel to Mongolia, remember that most roads there require patience and a 4x4).

We were currently two days drive from the nearest city, among what looked to be an endless expanse of sparsely vegetative rolling hills. This was the steppe. As the sun was beginning to set we noticed two boys on horses herding a group of horses in our direction. As they rode past out campsite, one of them peeled off and rode over. My friend spoke to him in Mongolian. The boy explained that they were retrieving some horses that had run off the day before. Their camp as still over an hour away and they had run out of water. They wanted to know if we had any to spare. In Mongolia, where nearly half the population still lives a nomadic lifestyle, it is customary to provide water, a meal or even place to sleep to someone who is traveling and in need. We gave the boys water to drink and some to take with them. They thanked us several times, then road off, literally into the setting sun.

The next morning we found a plastic two-liter bottle of white liquid on the hood of our jeep. Neither one of us had heard them, but one or both of the boys had returned to our camp later that night to give us a bottle of kumis. “Probably to thank us for the water,” my friend explained.

Curious, I opened the bottle up and poured a little into a small bowl. The white liquid popped slightly as CO2 still bubbled out. Obviously, this was a fresh brew. I tasted it. Hmm? Light in body, tangy in the mid-palate with notes of sour yogurt and a so-quick-you-did-not-see-it-coming finish, my first experience with fermented mare’s milk left me thinking…that wasn’t so bad. Champagne it was not, but then again, we were a long way from France. Despite the culture shock my palate was going through, I continued to drink the kumis, becoming more intrigued with these new flavors and even textures I was experiencing. Actually beginning to enjoy it, I quaffed the whole bowl and nearly asked for another. Nearly. One bowlwas plenty, for now.

For the rest of our trip we had a little kumis every morning, and sometimes even “enjoyed” a little in the afternoon. By the end of our road trip I was actually developing a taste for it. That said, I don’t think I will be milking any horses here in Oregon any time soon.

So, if you find yourself traveling in some far away land and someone offers you a drink of some fermented beverage, try it. Why not? You never know what you might discover.

By the way, did I mention the Mongolia vodka made from yogurt? No? Well, maybe another time.

It's 06:00 in the morning and the only sound I can hear is the coffee maker. Ahead is a day of checking on ferments and freshly destemmed grapes, tasting some tanks that may need pressing soon and figuring out a barrel program. It's harvest time again.

It's been a while since I posted and in that time I've made my way back to Oregon for another vintage among the vineyards I know best.

Often the path home does not follow a straight line, and this time that path took me to Mongolia. Mongolia does not sound like the kind of place where a winemaker would travel to explore wine. And, in fact, it is not. However, Mongolians love their fermented mare's milk, distilled yogurt vodka and a variety of other liquid treasures that would be difficult to find on the Spectators top 100.

Stay tuned....

The First Fruit

Yesterday afternoon our first Pinot Noir grapes arrived.  Here in Marlborough it is usually Sauvignon Blanc, the variety for which New Zealand is perhaps best known, that is the first to come off the vine.  But these Pinot Noir grapes, from the Omaka Valley (one of the sub regions of Marlborough), were ready.  And so were we.  It was not a lot of fruit really, only 4 bins or around 1.2 tons.  Put into perspective of the 1,200 tons of Pinot Noir we expect to crush this harvest, yesterday’s effort represents .1% of the Pinot we will see this season.  Put into perspective of the 26,000 to 28,000 tons of grapes the winery will process in total this harvest, that effort looks like…well, maybe just an excuse to get the equipment dirty.  Nonetheless, there was not a face among us that wasn’t smiling when we were finished.

Marlborough is an interesting wine region to work in.   One aspect that makes Marlborough unique is the number and variety of foreign winemakers, assistants, lab techs, cellar workers and general wine enthusiast who flock here every year to take part in the harvest, or “vintage” as it is called here.  Most stay just for vintage then travel on, but a few fall in love with the region and end up staying, becoming a permanent part of an evolving and growing wine region.  As a result, the cultural quilt of Marlborough is also changing nearly as fast as the vines are growing. 

When I arrived in Marlborough in 2007, my first vintage in New Zealand, I was one of 40 foreigners brought in to work vintage for the regions largest custom crush facility, Indevin Ltd.  This year the foreign vintage staff at Indevin has topped 100 with people from countries such as (are you ready for this list?) Ireland, England, Scotland, Spain, Portugal, France, Belgium, Germany, Switzerland, Sweden, Italy, Macedonia, Bulgaria, Czech Republic, South Africa, India, Australia, Chile, Argentina, Brazil, Mexico and, of course, the United States.  The diversity of a group such as this creates a fantastic and colorfully cultural environment in which to work vintage.  Countless years of experience from around the world, all in one place…it’s enough to make one want to open a bottle of wine and celebrate every day.  And we often do.

Yesterday, as the grapes began arriving word spread that the first fruit of the year was coming in.  Now, 1.2 tons of fruit does not require a lot of hands to process.  In fact, 2 - 3 people can quite comfortable prep, process and clean up the whole operation.

Nonetheless, it was not long before the crush pad was full of people wanting to observe or help with the year’s first fruit.  For years, I was used to seeing grapes come off the vine only once a year.  For me, that first glance of the new vintage has always been thrilling, and even though in the last couple of years I have had that opportunity twice a year, the experience has not become any less exciting.  By the look on the faces of everyone standing around the crush pad yesterday, I know I was not alone in my excitement.

As the grapes were tipped onto the sorting table and made there way toward the destemmer, hands from all over the world picked through them.  Bits of leaf, any unripe berries or the occasional bug were all plucked out.  With the number of hands involved these would no doubt be the cleanest grapes of the season.  In fact, as I watched, I began to wonder if these might not become the cleanest grapes in the history of winemaking.  Not being able to resist the temptation any longer myself, I squeezed in on the sorting line to get my own fingers sticky.  I stood there for a second, then picked a couple of grapes and popped them into my mouth.  The sweetness of sugar, that vibrant sensation of acid and the youthful bite of tannic skins filled my palate.  Over the excited chatter of more languages than I could count and the scent of freshly crushed grapes, I felt that wonderful feeling of knowing two things for certain: Harvest is here. And so am I.

 

A Perfect Return - Marlborough, New Zealand

The have been countless words written about Pinot Noir.  It is unmistakably one of the great varieties of the world and has enchanted people for centuries, possibly millennia.  Most winemakers I know, once they have worked with it, develop a certain attraction for this delicate red.  It may, in fact, be one of the most seductive reds around.  Why?  Well, it just is.  And to a large degree, due to this attraction, I boarded a plane 10 days ago and once again crossed the equator, passed the tropic of Capricorn and landed, softly I might add, back in the Marlborough region of New Zealand.  During that flight winter turned to summer and I, having left on my 40^th birthday, ended one personal era and started another.

I departed from Portland.  It was a quick flight to San Francisco and after a short layover, I boarded a Boeing 747 for the hop across the Pacific. I don’t sleep much on cross-Pacific flights.  Usually, I work my way through whatever wine and beer list the airlines have, watch a few movies, then review the wine and beer list again.  There are worse ways to travel, and I have.

I arrived in Auckland, New Zealand at 5:30 in the morning, just as the sun broke the horizon from which I had just come.  I made my way through customs, declaring (most of) the wine I had packed into my bags, found my new gate and waited there to board a small two prop puddle jumper that would take me the final leg south to Blenheim, Marlborough’s main city.

I had never flown into Blenheim before.  On my last journey to New Zealand’s south island I took the ferry from Wellington, across Cook Straight, through the Queen Charlotte Sound and into the small port town of Picton.  I remember what a beautiful way that was to arrive.  Arriving by air, I found, can be just as impressive as the approach to the airport takes you over, literally, thousands of acres of vines; a virtual sea of vineyards covering the Wairau River Valley.  It was a perfect return.

Having grown up in southern Oregon and cut my winemaking teeth on Merlot, Syrah, and Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot Noir is still somewhat of a mystery to me.  I’ve worked with it, but only in limited amounts and certainly never very often.  That will all change in about six weeks.  I’ve returned to Marlborough to work for Indevin Ltd., the largest custom crush winery in the southern hemisphere.  On my first adventure to New Zealand I worked for Indevin as well, and that experience has lured me back.  Plus, there are few places an Oregon winemaker can be involved in the production of 2000 tons of Pinot Noir, and Indevin Ltd. is one of them.  And even though 2000 tons seems like a lot of fruit, especially to one who most of his career has dealt with 50 to 60 tons a season, it still pales in comparison to the 24,000 tons of Sauvignon Blanc the winery expects to see this year as well (Oregon’s total tonnage for 2007 was just under 39,000 tons, for perspective).

In a little over a month, the vines of Marlborough will begin offering their vintage bounty.  A flurry of activity will ensue and many winemakers, some of them far from home, will once again take part in what they are passionate about.  Some will also miss home, family, friends and pets, and spring.

But in the mean time, there is a lot to do, to see, to learn…and to taste.  Speaking of which, tonight, I am opening a bottle of wine called, “Odyssey”, a Pinot Noir from Marlborough.  The winemaker, a woman from New Zealand, created the label after working harvests around the world over a period of many years.  It’s not a stretch to understand why I bought it.  Salute! 

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.

A Close To California

The 2007 harvest in the Alexander Valley of California is coming to an end and my time here is coming to a close. I must admit, the end of harvest, or “crush” as it’s called, always surprises me. Just when I’m getting in the groove of the crushing and pressing of grapes, pitching yeast, watching and smelling the fermentations, the circus of crush comes to an end. As it is with the beginning, the end is also something I look forward to. It would come as no great surprise that, though I consider myself a morning person, setting my alarm to a time other than 4:30 a.m. every day has a certain appeal. But that is not the full reason the end of harvest arrives so welcomed. Rather, it is an occasion that comes with it, one that is literally worth raising a glass.

A couple times a week I find myself sitting down around a large, white, round table covered with glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, Syrah and Petite Verdot. There, with the Winemaker, Assistant Winemaker and Cellar Master of Ferrari-Carano Mountain Winery, I taste wines that are now in tank and soon will go to barrel. These tastings are a way for the winemaking team to start categorizing the new wines in terms of quality. This “force ranking” will help decide what program the wine will be designated for. This in turn can dictate what type of barrel the wine will go into and how much time it may spend in that barrel. Often as many as 25 wines at one sitting will be tasted, notes taken and decisions made. For me, it is not only a chance to taste the new wines but an opportunity to get a sense of the region where I have been living and working for the last 3 months.

In a couple of days we will be finished with our tastings. The last wines will be put to barrel, tucked away in the labyrinth of caves that honeycomb the hill next to the winery. Then, crush will truly be over. And for me? What’s next? That’s a good question, and one I’ll get to soon enough. With winter on its way here I know summer is not far off else ware on our little planet and there, Fall will not be far behind. With Fall comes harvest and another opportunity to make wine. Before that, however, I think a much needed rest is in order, maybe somewhere……south?

Timing In The Alexander Valley

Good winemaking is about good timing and great winemaking is about (yes, you guessed it) great timing. There is perhaps no better, or crucial, example of this than the decision of when to harvest. It is at this point that the grower’s job has come to an end and the winemaker’s is beginning. And timing is everything. Just how does one determine when the “right” time to pick is? It’s a good question and one I’ve often been asked. Of course there are measurable aspects that influence the decision of when to pick, such as sugar, pH and acidity. There is also the influence of the weather (no winemaker or grower I know likes to pick in the rain) which is both unpredictable and totally out of one’s control. Then there is something else that is a harder to describe, something that is difficult to quantify. It is almost a certain…shall we say, sense that the fruit is at its peak and more importantly that the vine, tired and worn from a season of giving, is ready to finally rest. It is not an easy decision, that of when to pick, but one that must be made and made well.

A couple of weeks ago I found myself in the midst of such a decision, walking among Cabernet Sauvignon, Syrah and Sangiovese vines with Aaron Piotter, red wine maker for Ferrari-Carano Winery. Aaron and I have been friends for over 10 years. We met, rather timely, at a Shakespeare play in Ashland, Oregon. The theater had accidentally printed two tickets for the same seat that evening. Aaron had one and I had the other. While we waited for the theater to sort things out, we struck up conversation that eventually turned to wine. That simple conversation lead to a friendship that ten years later found us walking the hillside vineyards of Ferrari-Carano’s Anderson Ranch, tasting fruit and trying to decide…is it time? Making the decision a little more challenging was a front coming in from the northwest that might possibly bring with it the end to what had been a rather perfect growing season.

We made our way from vineyard block to vineyard block, tasting grapes as we went. The fruit was wonderfully sweet, bright and expressive. The skins had just the right amount of tannin and the seeds were beautifully brown. Varietal character, paramount to the decision to pick, was coming through in all the fruit. I could almost taste these as wines, years from now. But was it time?

That decision was up to Aaron, and after an hour or so of walking, tasting, talking and tasting some more we came to the top of the last vineyard block. We stood there for a moment looking at the view around us. To the east we could see Knights Valley and the northern end of Napa, to the south ran Chalk Hill. Off in the western distance lay the Russian River Valley, while our own valley of Alexander spread out from us to the north. “Tomorrow,” Aaron finally said, “We pick tomorrow.” And we did. The day after, a front came in from the northwest turning many valley vineyards to mud and hillside vineyards to tractor traps. At Anderson Ranch, however, only bare, resting vines remained.

Safely in tank and finishing through fermentation, the wines from Anderson are looking to be some of our best from the 2007 vintage. Tasting them with Aaron the other day, I asked him if he was happy about the timing of the pick. Knowing that the answer was already in the glasses in front of us he just smiled, purple teeth and all. .

Alexander Valley, California

I use to say that harvest comes but once a year. Yes, I know, not a huge revelation, but nonetheless it gives the career of winemaking an extra sense of urgency to make the most of every opportunity. And it is this sense of urgency, this realization that every vintage is once forever, that has moved me to travel and experience winemaking at its most critical time: harvest. Only 6 months ago, I found myself under the Southern Cross in the Marlborough region of New Zealand, experiencing the harvest of Sauvignon Blanc and Pinot Noir while working for Indevin Ltd. ( www.indevin.com ), the largest contract winemaking facility in the southern hemisphere. Early this morning, as I drove to work, I crossed the Russian River, my headlights illuminating vines of Cabernet Sauvignon, Zinfandel and Sangiovese on the other side. Highway 128 at this point runs just barely east of Geyserville California, and it is here, in the Alexander Valley, that I am working my first North American harvest outside of Oregon.

“Harvest Eonologist Intern,” is what will be on my resume for the time I will spend here in the Alexander Valley at Ferrari-Carano’s Mountain Winery, ( ferrari-carano.com ). Sometimes I think “Official Sniffer and Taster” would be a more truthful description of my job, and I can’t say I mind. Every morning, before coffee, I get my nose into my business by sniffing and tasting each of the 40 or so tanks (there will be over 100 soon) that are currently in the winery, most of which are from different vineyard locations around the valley. I then record temperatures, check them against the previous day, pull samples and take them back to the lab for analysis. The process is one that will be done daily at countless other wineries all over the northern hemisphere this harvest of 2007.

Great winemaking requires many things. Some might say nearly too many, but most all who have done it, or are doing it, would agree that first among them is time. Two others would be a keen sense of observation and a good memory. Maybe that is why winemaking is an art that weaves through generations, from one to the next, their collective memories and experiences culminating in greatness that could not be achieved in just one lifetime. But one lifetime is what we have. It is what I have. That said, as I think back about my time in New Zealand just 6 short months ago and remember the aroma of freshly crushed Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, I can’t help but notice my fingers punching the keys on my computer. Stained purple from a day of pressing Alexander Valley Zinfandel, I realize that harvest no longer comes but once a year.

Marlborough, New Zealand

I was well aware that the scale of wine production I would experience in New Zealand would be somewhat larger then I was use to. Nonetheless, you can imagine my surprise when, on my first day of work, I was told that if all the delivery trucks that would be delivering our fruit this harvest were to line up bumper to bumper the line would extend for 9 miles. And most of that distance would be Sauvignon Blanc. Welcome to Indevin Winery and the region of Marlborough.

Indevin Winery (www.indevin.com), where I am spending harvest, sits outside the small town of Blenheim located in the heart of Marlborough, on the northern tip of New Zealand’s south island. There along the Wairau river, which over the last few million years has been carving out a valley by the same name, sit vineyards by the square mile that grow some of the world’s best Sauvignon Blanc. And Indevin, as the southern hemispheres largest contract winemaking facility, makes a good bit of that into wine.

As a wine production facility, Indevin is set up as two separate wineries called appropriately “White Cellar” and “Red Cellar”. Those 9 miles of delivery trucks I mentioned early will be bringing in nearly 14,000 tons of fruit this harvest, 13,000 of it Sauvignon Blanc. The other 1000 ton, or so, is mostly Pinot Noir, with little bits of Chardonnay, Pinot Gris, Rieslings and Merlot sprinkled here and there. To help process all the fruit this season, Indevin hired 45 people, many of them from all over the world, one of whom is yours truly. Split into two work groups (Red Cellar and White Cellar), I have found myself working with the reds and am getting an opportunity to see first hand how many winemakers in Marlborough are creating the wine that is fast becoming Marlborough’s next great wine. More on that later though.

However, Sauvignon Blanc is still the reigning King (or Queen, depending) and at the present time it is coming off the vine in heaps. The first time I heard the phrase, “Sauvi-launch” I didn’t quite get it. Then I saw my first delivery truck back up to a 25-ton receival bin and let a whole truckload of “Sauvi” go. It was quite the sight.

Stay tuned because harvest is just now starting to kick. Grapes are ripe and ready. Winemakers are eager, and one in particular is very thankful have opportunity to play a part in the grand production of wine, again.

My best to all of you and cheers from Marlborough!

Eric Weisinger
The Traveling Winemaker

Greetings From New Zealand!

I have been told that our sense of smell is our most powerful sense when it comes to memory. Whether it is a scent that takes us back to a place we knew as a child or something as regular, and unique, as the smell of crushed grapes, these aromas often stir memories and emotions in us that often are challenging to describe. I had just such an emotion last week as we crushed our first load of Pinot Noir. As I breathed in the smells I felt all myriad of emotions I have during harvest...the excitment of a new vintage, the wonderment of the begining stages of wine and the thankfulness for the opportunity to pursue something I am so passionate about.

Over the next couple of months as I work through harvest I will drop a line here and there about what's happening here in the Marlborough wine region of New Zealand, post some pictures and keep in touch with all of you.

Cheers!

Eric Weisinger

Coming Soon: "Sauvi-launch!"