Harvest, Argentina

Dew droplets bulged meniscusly on the impeccably manicured grounds, reflecting the molten colors of an Andean sunrise like a lava lamp spilled across green shag carpet. Wispily stroked clouds and Falling poplars filled the middle hues of the color spectrum, prepping the vineyard with kaleidoscopic calisthenics for the pending pluck-fest. Droplets glowing, leaves yellowing, sky bluing, berries bursting: harvest loomed.

Coincidentally, our arrival at Casa Altamira fell on the eve of this year´s harvest. Not that we should be suprised at this fortune, given the nature of my first encounter with our hosts.

Years ago, while pedaling through the Rocky Mountains, I met a few folks roaming around in a Westfalia Volkswagen. Through conversation that only happens around campfires, I learned that the wine we drank that night came from one of their vineyards in Mendoza. Without the slightest knowledge of the present adventure, we exchanged contacts that would eventually lead to Casa Altamira. Once again, an open mind and an able body has led to an irreplaceable experience.

Anxiety grew on the first morning of scheduled picking when the truckload of laborers failed to show. The worry was that we´d miss the time slot in which the grapes must be plucked from their vines before they begin to shrivel and rot. This time of year, temperatures plummet at night, cooling the grapes into a bitter, acidic balance with the sun-sweetened juices that simmer inside by day. Too long on the vine and the balance would be upset. Nerves were rightly wrought when no one showed.

As we discovered, yesterday´s holiday marking the defeat in the Falkland Islands War left the crew haggard; spirits often accompany lamentations. When duty called, the truckdriver did his best to rally the troops, but an untimely (but not unprovoked) breakdown stalled the process until the following day; accidents often accompany hangovers.

Early the next morning, a heavily compensated crew came earlier than expected. By the time we arrived on scene, pickers were hustling through the narrow rows, hoisting forty kilos of raw crop with one hand, violently waving pruning scissors in the other. Sixty workers competed for a finite yield that paid quantitatively, economically explaining their hasty habits. Soren and I conjured our latent farming genes and helped a few lagging laborers, but our efficiency paled in comparison. In less than three hours, they plucked 1,300 baskets equaling 72 bins of 300 kilos each. Forget calculations, that´s a hellofalot of grapes. And that was only a fraction of the malbec.

Later, stained hands cupped last year´s yield as the sun balanced on the jagged horizon moments before disappearing, casting warm tones on the vineyard in an amber bath of therapeutic quality. Like the grapes, we felt ripened to a perfect balance. Pick us anytime, we´re ready.