In Condor Valley

Disclaimer: This post isn’t full of informative insights and it doesn’t describe anything that will be very impressive to experienced adventurers. But for me it was an amazing experience, and it is as much for my memory as it is for your enjoyment. Sorry if the details get boring.

My last week in Condor Valley was incredible. Bruno and I saddled two horses and road up 2000 meters to the Puesto (cottage) on Mt. Crestón. My legs are still sore from riding for two days straight, and I still have scratches from thorn bushes I couldn’t avoid, but the experience was worth it. It’s true that I didn’t have much time on the mountain, and there was plenty I would like to return and see. Nevertheless, the way I experienced it was unique. I wouldn’t change it.

Wednesday morning we woke up early and saw that the entire valley was flooded with mist. Even after catching and saddling the horses we could barely see a few meters ahead. 

The mist only got thicker as we climbed up into the clouds, and it made the journey seem surreal. Hills, mountains and cliffs loomed suddenly into view and then disappeared behind in seconds. For months I had heard about the beautiful landscapes that could be seen, and, clinging nervously to my horse, I wondered whether I would have the chance to see them for myself.

The trail to the Puesto was also the most challenging riding I had done, and on a less stable horse. Two or three times he jumped suddenly (probably my fault) and I barely stayed on the saddle. At other times we had to bring the horses to a run to build momentum before going up a steep slope, and then pray it was enough to make it to the top without slipping. More than once I told myself I only had to survive the next 48 hours and then it would be smooth sailing till my flight back to Chicago. Maybe I wasn’t the only one: by the end of the climb our horses were drenched in sweat. 

Luckily, Bruno is an incredible guide, and we arrived at the Puesto in time for a late afternoon lunch. Just as we dismounted and began to unsaddle the horses the sun made a brief appearance, and from then on the tone of my adventure began to change. At the Puesto we collected firewood, made lunch, unsaddled the horses, prepared beds for the night etc. It felt like a mixture between camping, animal care and arriving home. 

After lunch we began work repairing the ditch that brings water to the Puesto from a stream above. The impact that the difference in oxygen had on my ability to work was surprising. Every few minutes of shoveling or clearing space with the machete I had to stop, breathing hard, and after an hour I was soaked in sweat. 

While we worked, the mist intermittently began to clear, slowly revealing the hill (more or less 1500 feet high) at whose base the Puesto sits. The hill is called El Cuchillo, (which means “knife” in Spanish), for its razor-thin edge.

We rebuilt the fire and started dinner. While I cooked some rice Bruno made me Yerbiado, the ingredients of which are: Mate (a local tea), mountain water, several herbs we found growing nearby, burnt sugar mixed with ash, and 100% pure ethanol. It was delicious. We sat by the fire, played cards, talked about many things, and watched the clouds slowly lift, revealing one star at a time. Then we went to bed, with the dogs warming our feet.

I woke up in the middle of the night (for reasons related to the Yerbiado) and the clouds had fully cleared. The sky was so full of stars it looked like it was one ubiquitous blanket of blue fire. The milky way streaked through like glowing pixie dust. The temperature had dropped and the grass had a layer of frost that reflected the light of the stars. That moment (and that urination) is one I hope I never forget. I sat outside until I was shivering, watching the stars with Fernet (the dog who was sleeping at my feet) and then I went back to bed. I can’t find more words here, except to say it was just so so incredibly great. 

The next morning we prepared to head home, and then decided to climb El Cuchillo by foot. It took about an hour to get to the top, (stopping often because of the air). The sky was still crystal clear, and we could see for miles. Incredibly, everything we saw was still within the property of the farm. From the top of the hill it was clear how far the cattle herd had scattered in the highland pastures. Some cows were close and others were specks. Some had managed to climb into impossible positions. Still, the area looked more or less like a cow paradise, with huge fields of gorgeous grass that towers in terraces over the rest of the property, stopping suddenly at the edge of a cliff, like an infinite pool of pasture. 

At the top, the hill justified its name: the ridge was so thin I could straddle the peak like a horse. After a few minutes there, and a few glances down, I told Bruno I would like to head back down.

The ride back showed me everything I had missed on the way there. The sky remained clear and I saw the incredible views I had heard about, and I got to appreciate more closely how the elevation changes everything from the vegetation to the air, the rocks, the water. It was like riding a horse to another planet.

We reached the farm safely, the horses were thrilled to be back (it was all I could do to keep mine from galloping), and so was I. But even in the first hours back I began to appreciate what I had experienced. When we left the farm the mountain was completely covered in mist. Slowly the fog lifted and I discovered new parts of this incredible property. I think I enjoyed it more because it was given to me in this way, like a mystery novel, with tension and uncertainty that heighten the senses.

Tomorrow is my last full day in Argentina, and I hope that after it, and the next days and weeks I won’t forgot this experience. If you made it this far, thanks for reading. How do you end a post like this? I don’t know, but good night. 

How would I describe my experience to my friends and family? My friends would want to know whether I saw the night life, the girls, the big tourist attractions, Buenos Aires etc. My Mom will definitely ask about the gourmet restaurants, and my Dad will ask about the surrounding cities. The girls I know from home keep asking me whether I’m buff yet (I’m not, sorry ladies). 

And then I realized I didn’t do any of that while here. In fact, I’ve seen almost nothing of Argentina. So what the hell am I getting out of this whole thing?

Don’t misunderstand: I am very sure this experience is valuable…but I am trying to find out why, and I’m a slow thinker so bear with me…

My typical tourist experiences have been quick glances at new places. They are different expositions of where to be..Hawaii, Florida, California etc. This trip hasn’t shown me where to be; I haven’t seen the big things to see. I haven’t canvassed any maps.

But maybe I am learning a new way how to be. A new way how to sleep (in a hammock, under the stars), a new way how to eat (asado!), how to work (hard), how to make money, to speak, to make friends, to learn.

If I can take with me the lessons I’ve learned here, they will prove to be more valuable than a typical touristy souvenir. But don’t worry, I bought real souvenirs too (just in case I’m wrong, eh?). 

Time to sleep.

First, how good is that title? Yep.

All the wine is sitting in the back of a truck, ready to go to Cafayate – a local wine making hotspot – for testing. So what happened between harvesting and now?

Well, a lot. Here are a few things I learned:

1. Crushing wine grapes is therapeutic. Better than ping pong. Better than bubble wrap.

2. Punch downs are when the floating seeds and skin of the grapes are pushed back down into the wine, and the C02 bubbles are released. The aroma of the wine rushes up to my nose. Now I understand why a wine’s smell is called its bouquet. It feels like someone has shoved a bunch of flowers up your face; it smells heavenly but if you breathe too deep you might pass out.  

3. The aroma deserves another mention.

4. Red wine sediments stain clothing. Who cares? I love purple.

5. Wine is still wine even if it’s kept in coca cola bottles in the back of a truck (We had to get creative with the storage).  

6. White wine is much harder to make than red wine. The temperature must be carefully controlled to ensure the fermentation is slow and even, and the access to oxygen should be limited to prevent the freshness from fading and the pigment from browning. Excessive contact with the skins and seeds of the grape can release too much tannin into the wine. All of this requires either expensive equipment, or painstaking care and endless time, of which we have neither.

7. If wine spills, make sure it spills into your mouth.

Maybe next post about Cafayate?

Ps. The picture is of Martin’s adorable 2-year-old daughter, Mora, holding a cluster of Torrontés grapes.

Growing corn or grain or raising cattle is dust to dust for farmers. Margins are thin, and the product, often regardless of quality, is commoditized. Farmers receive very little attention for their incredible expertise and hard work. In comparison, growing grapes is more like turning dust into gold. Farmers and wine makers that produce good wine grapes become world renowned. Well tended land is recognized by the government, celebrated by society, visited by tourists and financed by investors in Europe and California. Growing wine grapes turns dust into gold, and in this sense, the study of wine making is like alchemy.

Of course, not every wine maker and grape grower makes it big. Wine producers face global competition and most struggle like regular farmers. But the ability to differentiate the final product cultivates care and creativity, in turn opening the door to new technologies and dizzying complexity.

That’s why the idea of making wine at La Bodega is so exciting. Well, here’s a quick overview of the progress. 

First, the grapes.

For white wine, there is only the Torrontes grape, which does fantastically in Argentina. If you taste one grape you can tell instantly it would make delicious wine. The skin and juice have an aromatic flavor that seems like a mix between wood and flowers. Sadly, many perfectly good grapes did not make it into our wine, because I ate them. 

For red wine, we have two basic categories. Muscatel Criolla, and a vine mix (the plants are mixed and I can’t tell the difference) of finer more traditional red varietals…Cabernet, pinot noir, tinat, etc. The Criolla has a strong sweet flavor, like jam. It tastes great but might be too sweet / heavy to make good wine. The vine mix, on the other hand, is more subtle and less sweet. 

There’s more to tell, but I need to sleep. 1am here and I leave for the ranch again early morning tomorrow. In the future..harvesting, crushing, fermentation, storage…and that’s just the wine. Salud!

PS. The photo above is just a place holder until I can get the good grape photos off a different computer. When I do, you guys can check out some great pics of the Torrontes grapes.

My beard is coming along nicely, and avocados have become a big part of my life.  I miss my friends, family, and most of all, The Good Wife. But I’m having a great time, and learning a ton.

La Bodega is the name of the ranch and farm where I am working. In The Lion King, Mufasa says to his young son “Look, Simba. Everything the light touches is our kingdom.”

Martín’s house is on top of the hill I walk up every morning to grab breakfast. Standing on top, the view is breathtaking. Everything in sight lies within the 70,000 acres of the ranch. It contains hills, is edged by mountains, and borders huge rivers. On the property are more than 400 heads of cattle, hundreds of sheep, horses (some wild), wild boar, pumas, deer, and on and on.

Basically, everything is awesome. Got to go.

In future posts: wine making, seeding fields, asado (bbq), cattle dynamics…

There are people out there much braver than me: people in movies and books who are interviewed on news channels, and get tattoos and girls, and tell stories around campfires; people that look at a chance, recognize it as adventure, and embrace it.

On the other hand, I’m the type of guy who walks along until someone or something reminds me to lift up my chin so that I catch the last rays of a sunrise or a glimpse of a gorgeous view. Those rare moments probably mean something similar to me as they do to my less cowardly counterparts, but I can’t point them out on a map, I don’t have any plans of finding new ones, and I am frankly scared of looking. And incidentally, there are no movies about me.

So, what am I to do?  How do I battle my inner chicken? I’ll do what has always been done with scared and stubborn animals: I’ll trick myself. I won’t tell myself what I’m doing. From the point of view of my cowardice, what I don’t know can’t NOT hurt me. Which means I can’t be afraid of it. Take that, self.

I think it’s working.

Ignoring the personality disorder implications of my being able to trick myself, the scheme may be paying off, and I might be on the verge of taking a healthy risk, and embarking on an exciting adventure. If the heist I’m playing on myself continues smoothly, soon I’ll be off to see a different place, with a hazy-at-best picture of what I’ll do when I get there.

All in all, this could be a great success in the making. Just don’t tell me, ok?

-Harsha

This is an entry I wrote a few weeks ago as I planned the trip.