A Morning at the Chilean Vineyard
As dawn spilled over the Andes, I wandered into a mist-draped vineyard where the air hummed with the earthy scent of volcanic soil and the tang of ripening carmenère grapes. Sunlight filtered through trellises, casting lattice shadows on rows of vines that curled like calligraphy strokes against the mountain backdrop. A vintner in a weathered jacket twisted a grape cluster free, its purple skins bursting with dew. "These grapes drink from snowmelt and starlight," he said, his laughter mixing with the chatter of chucao tapaculos in the nearby olive trees. Near the stone cellar, a woman poured grapes into a wooden press, their juice trickling into copper vats like liquid rubies. I knelt to touch the gnarled trunk of a century-old vine, its bark rough as the Andes’ craggy peaks. A lizard sunned itself on a warm rock, its throat pulsing in time with the morning breeze, while a donkey cart creaked past, loaded with oak barrels stamped with the vineyard’s crest. Somewhere in the di...