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On the Chilean wine trail: a long journey to a remote land yields some surprises - travel

Paul Rogers

We had just finished tasting a silky violet-hued merlot under an umbrella beside a lagoon at the 19th century estate of Concha y Toro when our amiable guide steered us through some brush. The narrow, dusty path led to a clearing and a vineyard of cabernet sauvignon.

Standing beside the perfect rows of vines in Chile's central valley, our guide began to wax impassionately. "Everybody makes cabernet sauvignon, and everybody can make a nice cabernet sauvignon," he said. But here in the Maipo Valley, he went on, just southwest of Santiago--with its long, dry summers and loose, stony soil--the terroir was just right.

Given its remoteness (Santiago is 13 hours by air from New York) and its low tourism profile, Chile may not be on many CEOs' lists of places to vacation. But if you're in South America on business, particularly Buenos Aires, which is a short hop away, this spectacular ribbon of a country is worth a side trip to visit its wineries, especially if you fancy yourself a wine enthusiast with a taste for adventure.

Chilean wines are earning increasing respect these days, largely for their value: A fine bottle can be had for under $30. A recent article in the Wine Spectator declared, "Chile Strides Ahead." The story highlighted a decade's worth of investment in cutting-edge technology and new growing and vinification techniques. For instance, Concha y Toro, the country's largest winemaker, has pushed back some of its harvesting several weeks to yield riper fruit. That's produced a more robust cabernet free of the greenness, or vegetal flavors, so common in Chilean cabs.

While Chile's winery tourism industry remains years behind that of, say, the Napa Valley or Bordeaux, it too is showing signs of growth. Tours are now offered at a host of wineries on the outskirts of Santiago, where just beyond the sprawl of the modern capital, the landscape of vineyards, orchards and produce stands makes it seem as if the calendar has been turned back a hundred years. Several wineries, including Cousino-Macul, Undurraga and Conchay Toro--all within an hour's drive of the city's fine hotels--are expanding their tasting areas to accommodate increased demand.

For the more adventurous, a few tour operators, such as Avalon Tours and General Tours, offer weeklong trips to more remote wine-growing regions of Chile. The itineraries include private tastings and gourmet dinners on the lawns and in the formal dining rooms of some of the country's most prestigious vintners.

To get the full experience, my friend and I decided to rent a car and stay in modest pensiones for a few days in the Elqui Valley, eight hours north of Santiago. There, the vineyards of muscatel grapes--used to make a brandy called pisco, Chile's national drink--form a stunningly green band between the awesomely steep and arid slopes of the Andes.

October through December is an excellent time to go. Daytime highs in the Santiago area climb into the 70s and the peak-summer crowds, which we encountered in February (the seasons are opposite those in the States), are still weeks away.

On the afternoon we spent at Concha y Toro, the sun was characteristically strong. After savoring a glass of chardonnay and then the merlot and strolling the grounds of the estate--with its low, ivied walls, French-inspired villa and exotic imported trees--we began to feel as parched as the late-season vines. When our tour headed indoors, we quickened our gait.

As we stepped into the cool and dim bodega, we were immersed in a deep, sugary aroma of grape. We filed past stainless steel storage tanks, through a brick archway and into a long room lined with oak barrels bearing purple stains around their silicone stoppers. Through a grate we could peer into the Casillero del Diablo (Cellar of the Devil), the private reserve of founder Don Melchor de Concha y Toro. As legend goes, he claimed the Devil lurked there, hoping to scare off his workers from filching his prized bottles.

Although better known for its reds than its whites, Chile is ideally situated for producing wine. Its central valley is bookended by the Pacific Ocean and the Andes, which trap the perfect amount of moisture for growing grapes. The temperate climate varies little year to year, producing consistent vintages. The country's geographic isolation has spared it from the deadly phylloxera louse, which is playing havoc with wineries in the western United States.

One of the appeals of Chilean wines to American palates is that they're based on well-known grapes: cabernet sauvignon, merlot, sauvignon blanc and chardonnay. But as it turned out, it was a varietal we were unfamaliar with that impressed us the most.

After our tour at Concha y Toro, we sat down with a spokesman for the winery, Jose Manuel Garcia-Huidobro, who, among other things, poured us each a glass of carmenere. Cuttings of the grape, once popular in Bordeaux, were imported to Chile in the mid-1800s before it was wiped out in the Old World by phylloxera. For decades, Chilean vintners mistook their carmenere for merlot. Finally, in 1997 experts identified the vines as carmenere, based on their pinkish leaves. The winemakers' first reaction was denial--after all, merlot was the wine of the '90s. But in the past few years the Chileans have come to embrace the discovery.

As a late-afternoon breeze blew in through a mullioned window, Garcia-Huidobro opened a bottle of carmenere and wordlessly handed me the cork. It carried a scent of dark chocolate. The glasses poured, we swirled the dark, ruby wine and held it to our noses. More dark chocolate. A hint of black pepper. Mild in tannins, the wine had good spice and a full "mouth feel." It tasted earthier than a standard merlot, yet didn't require the commitment of a thicker cab. The finish lingered. I spun the bottle to read the label: Terrunyo 2000. Something to look for back in the States. And, just maybe, one of many reasons to return.

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