Amazon and the Andes, told not by me...

Haven't written here in a long time, so I'll start with a 2010 adventure and someone else's writing. Below is an email sent from a good friend who met me in Ecuador for two weeks, and who is much better at keeping track of adventures through emails to friends. Pretty direct, unedited and insightful thoughts, as always Chris...and I'm shameless in my thievery of them:

Dear Friends and Family,

Ecuador, quite an interesting place. I headed down there with some friends my Peace Corps days. We met up in Quito and stayed in a hostal; a hostal that I actually enjoyed. In my old age, I get cranky being around “younger” travelers these days and their free spirits who usually frequent hostals. However, this hostal was well placed on a hillside and provided some great views from their deck of the city. My friend and I managed to snag our room and were able to choose from 6 different beds and had our own bathroom with hot water (wow, I’m getting demanding). The hostal wasn’t located in the normal “backpacker” area, so it kept to a minimum those “younger” travelers. We got all that for $10 a night each.

The next day we jumped on a bus after watching some World Cup and headed for the Amazon. Up and down we went through Andes until we started dropping, and dropping some more. We literally followed down 4000 ft. a small stream that gathered more and more water until it was a river and eventually merges 1000 miles downits into the Amazon. We arrived starving into Tena, a provincial capital in the early evening. Luckily, some of that famous “pollo ala brasa”, or BBQ chicken with their special rub was being offered by about 6 different stands in the town square. I ordered and watched our bags while my traveling partner, Andrew Wulf, went to find some cold beer to accompany the great chicken. Interestingly, Ecuador had just passed a new law banning alcohol sales on Sunday. This wasn’t being enforced yet, or just selectively because he found some beer. I think we paid $3 each for everything and left with our bellies happy.

After watching some more World Cup in the morning and picking up some basic supplies, we met up with an indigenous friend to take us into the jungle. We purchased some more basic supplies with him (mosquito net, fuel at subsidized $1.50/gallon, veggies and rice to eat, and fishing hooks), found the truck taxi to haul us out, and maybe the requisite random stops that were never explained. 2 hours later after driving through some great jungle and past various oil production facilities we arrived at the end of the road and the river. We piled our bags and supplies on the river bank and then helped our guide mount the 40 horse power engine on the back of the dugout. While struggling to get the engine properly attached to the dugout an indigenous women grabbed my still-sitting-on-the-bank backpack and took off down the road. I thought nothing of it thinking she would be back with it once we were ready to leave. Little did I know that tour guide was supposed to pay a $5/tourist fee to the community fund to allow us to head down the river. He sent me after the bag and I quickly quit trying to find it and sent him to negotiate for the release of it with the necessary money. He eventually returned with my backpack and we started down the semi-dry river.

The river had recently flooded heavily various times, so it was strewn with trees trunks and branches blocking the river. This made navigating not easy and required the guide and now motorist to raise the engine out of the water so as not to damage the propeller. Not an easy thing to do every 3 minutes and then have to yank on the starting cord various times to start it anew because it would die each time he took it out. The guide’s brother, who was supposed to meet us at the boat launch is better with the motor, so he struggled all the way down the river. It didn’t help that the two gals that he recruited to sit at the front of the dugout and point out dangerous branches mercilessly teased him each time the motor died. We eventually arrived at his brother’s house, which sat high on a river bank in a little clearing.

We unloaded our supplies and backpacks and were shown to the school room/guest house. I was thinking that we would probably have some hammocks to sleep on, but that is not their tradition and they smoothed out some sand for us. It was either the sand or recently poured cement, so I set up my mosquito net above the sand waiting to be used to lay the last part of the cement floor. Our guide chatted with his brother, ate some of the monkey that was dinner, and then left with us agreeing to meet 3 nights and 2 days later. The rest of the day we practiced shooting little darts through the blow gun (6-8ft long tube) and chatting with our host family. The host family consisted of Mom and Dad (guide’s brother), son and new wife, 2 younger sons (8 and 11 maybe), various grandchildren,and daughter living 100 feet away with her children (her partner arrived later). Dinner was fish soup (left over from earlier) and later some of the veggies we brought and yucca.

A quick summary on what a young wife is expected to do from our observations of the young couple:

1. Prepare breakfast: This can be just a normal heavy in starch breakfast of boiled yucca, green bananas or plantains. We also saw her hand over to her baby some monkey foot to chew on (boiled from the night before), clean the meat off the skull, andthen knock a hole in the skull with a spoon and serve out the brains to her child (high in protein I imagine). A very surreal experience.
2. Carry child in any situation: We took a short hike to the fishing pond and she led the way barefoot while balancing 20 pound baby on one hip and the fishing sticks in the other hand. While crossing a small stream over a 4 inch wide “log” she noticed a fish below, executed a pirouette flawless and returned across the log to the shore. I would consider myself above average on being sure footed and while carrying nothing I still reached for some branches to balance myself while crossing.
3. Be handy at fishing: After she executed the pirouette on the log, she grabbed stick and started digging in the ground for worms. She promptly found one of course while we hopelessly tried to copy her and found nothing. Additionally, she was the only one to actually catch a fish during our fishing effort. After catching it, she promptly put it out of its misery with some well aimed knocks to the head with another stick.
4. Skinning, cleaning, and butchering animals: Not only did she clean and prepare the fish for us once we returned, she also degutted the small peccary her partner caught while on our short hike. After degutting, she properly butchered the 15 pound animal, splayed it on the fire to cook, and the next day prepared it in a kind of soup for us. It tasted very gamey.
5. Nurse baby under any circumstance: During this whole time, every 30 minutes or so no matter if she was hiking somewhere, fishing, etc… she would feed her baby (walking age). Just one more thing to do while having to do something else. Multitasking.

One of the strangest things (or lets just say different) was the use of two baby peccaries (size of a squirrel) as toys by the young child. I don’t know if they had just been born, taken from the womb, or were a couple of weeks old, but they died whenever the mother was killed. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in and they were “furry” or had short hair. The baby literally carried the one or both around for the rest of the day. More or less they were like a stuffed animal, but the animal was still “stuffed”.

The traditional hunting weapon that they still use occasionally is the blow darts. Our family had a couple and they ranged from 6-8ft long and about 10-15 pounds each. The darts were shaved out of the hard stem of palm leaves that are readily available. The dad knew various plants and roots from which to fashion the poison tipped the darts. He also owned a rifle and seemed to do most of the hunting with it. The kids tried to show off their skills to us, but after repeated attempts were never able to actually hit any of the birds they aimed at.

Out last night when we were fed some of the stewed/smoked peccary, my travelling partner came down a little sick. Lets just say he didn’t feel so well and had to get some things out of his system in the dark, rainy night. I felt bad for him, but what could I do?

After that night we returned to Tena and the next day we made our way to Quito. There we added Brian Fisher and Travis Britzke andheaded to Otavalo, a town in the mountains north of Quito. There, we fulfilled our need for barreling down mountain roads on mountain bikes, some white water rafting (some of the best I’ve done), and went canyoneering for the first time. Otavalo is at an elevation of around 8000-9000 feet, so we were definitely out of our element. We did some hiking our first full day there and made it to a summit of a nearby mountain at 14,000 feet. There wasn’t much of a trail and we all felt a bit groggy/drunk by the lack of oxygen. Some great views in 360 degrees, but I was also scarred of stumbling off the side of the summit down one of the cliffs. We carefully made our way down and Fisher, only recently into the country, became the sickest and lost his lunch from altitude sickness.

My injury/sickness moment came on the last .5 kilometer of a 40 kilometer downhill. My hands were tired from gripping the bike and I was relaxing one hand when I unexpectedly hit a bump. That sent me over the handle bars and I managed to impale myself on the tip of the handlebar in my lower abdomen. Wow, that hurt, probably more than anything I’ve ever done to myself or can remember. We forged on, but I was not a happy camper and my stomach went through a rainbow of colors the next couple of days from the bruising. I managed to give myself quite a hematoma, or bruise in medical language, and the remnants consisting of a huge clot are still with me. Most importantly, we all survived our “manventure” as someone put it with minimal damage to ourselves, nothing was robbed, andsome good adventures to remember.

Magallanes y mis padres

For me, Patagonia was something I wore on a shirt from REI. Tierra del Fuego? A distant island/ iceburg somewhere just north of Antartica. I think I learned about the Straits of Magellan from Sister Janet, my 5th grade teacher, when studying the explorers. These were far-off lands, the end of the world where dragons be. I never thought I'd actually BE there myself. Patagonia, Tierra del Fuego, the Straits...they all briefly went from the mythical to the possible when I visited Chile in college with my friend Joe. His brother Miles was living there at the time and spoke of his travels south to places I thought only bold polar scientists dared. "You mean regular people go to Patagonia? You don't have to be a 16th century explorer to travel to such places?" My eyes widened.

Then last November I started living here, and my parents told me they were coming for a visit in February. "Have I got a trip for you," I excitedly blurted into the phone. On breaks between spreadsheets I toiled-away making plans, almost diverting for an easier trip to Puerto Montt before my good Chilean friend Pancho said absolutely not. You're going to Patagonia, and you'll stay on a sheep ranch. Fly-fishing? Absolutely. Sold. Reservations were made, confirmed, changed, and new adventures added. My parents arrived in terrific spirits and we almost immediately headed south. To describe the trip to the three of you still reading this blog, here's a long jumble of impressions:

Mom, Dad and Andrew off on another adventure together, Punta Arenas, driving, wind, driving wind, crossing the Straits by boat, Andrew pretending to himself he's Magellan, finally touching the mythical Tierra del Fuego in dreary Porvenir, talking world politics with a postcard salesman, driving, penguins, diving penguins, huddled penguins, huddled family, heading north into the deep Patagonian pampas, sheep ranch/B&B on Otway Sound, wow lunch, as usual everyone loves Mom (hugs all around), running against the wind/ with the wind, fly-fishing with the Aussies, Dad wading into rushing Rio Penitente (watch-out for that log!), putting a fly on smaller streams finally lures a fiesty brown, Mom and Dad stay at the ranch, Andrew catches a bus north, Puerto Natales, Argentinian lesson of Indian spirituality over midnight burgers, Paine, Paine, Torres del Paine by tourist bus then by catamaran, emerald green lakes, one rock-climbing German, warm lodge at the foot of Paine, hike, gracious clouds allow a view of the majestic Torres, early mornin' hike jog to Glacier Grey, an intense 5 min. alone with 1,000,000 year-old ice, rain, hike jog...is that my knee?, hot chocolate over glacier green Lake Pehoe, bus to bus to bus to hitchhike back to the beautiful Estancia, wow lunch, late night with Mom and Dad and our new Uruguayan family, bright moon, early morning back to Punta Arenas and eventually into the office by 3.

Phew. If you didn't quite follow, you're not alone. Over 6 days my parents and I took planes, taxis, buses, boats, vans, prop planes, and trucks up and down southern Chile. We saw and experienced too much to be blocked into such a short time. Mom and Dad caught a short breather at the isolated, working sheep ranch Estancia Rio Verde. But for the most part we were on the road, over the seas, in the air, or waist-deep in a river...and I was very proud of my parents. They'd been on trips with me before, and between last-minute coordination, my thirst for spontaneous experience, and trying to fit too much into too little, they always come back for more with smiles on their faces. I should come to expect it, but they always surprise me with their willingness to go with the flow. They're outstanding travel partners, and I miss them when they leave (though they might not believe me).

Back to the trip. With all the anticipation and activity, one thing I didn't expect from the south is independence. I thought I was headed to Patagonia, but in truth I fell in love with Magallanes. A few years ago Chile started naming their regions, and yes that crazy almost-circumnavigator got the nod. The flag shines the southern cross and jagged yellow mountains, everywhere braving strong winds in triumph. Separated by hundreds of miles of bays, lakes and fjords with no direct road linking Magallanes to the rest of Chile (except through Argentina), people feel forgotten and different from everything north. A strong independent thread weaves its way throughout the nature of those born in and migrated to Magallanes. While true political independence movements have long since faded, a general disdain for los federales nortenos seems almost expected, even from visitors. Comfortability with large expanses and rugged terrain was unmistakable with the few magallanicos I had the honor of sharing conversation. In one particularly memorable moment, our fly-fishing guide told me how he had moved his family down from Santiago 20 years ago and has returned only twice to see the rest of his family. "Why would you want to live anywhere else?" he sincerely concluded. Gazing over a valley full of wild horses, guanaco (lamas), sheep, condors and one large trout-filled river, I couldn't disagree.

In the end, my parents and I had to return to the reality of the north. Mom and Dad eventually caught a bus to a little coastal apartment we rented for a week, to which I promptly snuck-out for a weekend of exploring little beach towns. Not bad, and we enjoyed fabulous views and tastier seafood. But somewhere between the February crowds in Vina and the windless, sun-drenched beaches, my father turned to me and eyed, "I think we'll go fishing down there next year." I thought back to the still-somewhat-mythical Magallanes and, again, I couldn't disagree.

promises, promises

It's been over two months since my last posts, which I imagine is plenty of time to lose anyone who would have thought of following this blog. Perfect. Since I've got this all to myself, I can go ahead and break one of the first promises I set in the beginning: no lists.

So this blog is a list. I've been working more in the office then outside of it, thus the lack of wonderful blogs about tractors and coolers and blueberry ranches...though that's all in here. Without further ado, here's a broken promise wrapped in a list of my weekends, travels and goings on about this surprising country:


1) camping with good and new friends at Siete Tazas
Friends of friends have made my social network here in Chile. My Peace Corps friend's friend invited me to a hike up Santa Lucia in the middle of the city where I met her sister's friend Carey, and from there her fiance and their friends, Chilean and American. We took advantage of a three day weekend to rent a van and head to Siete Tazas, where we camped and cooked and leaped off rocks into freezing cold, crystal clear water. One waterfall falls into the next pool feeding the next waterfall. We fished and swam and ate and drank and laughed, and didn't catch any fish over 4 inches long.

2) self-created bike tours of Santiago and the outskirts
I'm a fortunate guy, which makes up the majority of my travels...following wherever luck leads me. But every once in a while I make the right call, which is the case with boxing up my bike and bringing it down south. One of my favorite ways to get to know the city (and the bus drivers, intimately) has been to strap on my helmet and get lost. I found a windy road that hugs the hills on the outskirts of the city, dropping me down the back ledge of forgotten towns and leading me, eventually, to the entrance of San Cristobal...the hill and metropolitan park in the middle of Santiago. I also like to explore new neighborhoods, and have become particularly a fan of letting the iPod create my own soundtrack as I race through the streets and discover new neighborhoods/parks. Can't say it's been particularly good for the lungs drafting they Chilean bus system, but I've survived so far, and become pretty familiar with some cool neighborhoods off the beaten track.

3) 30th b-day in Valpo with good friends and one cowbell
Jerry and Stacie came-out from Atlanta for Thanksgiving, made cornbread stuffing with sausage for my 8 Chilean/American guests, and then headed off the next day (Friday, my birthday) for Valparaiso on the coast. I caught the last bus after work and made it just in time for one of the most delicious meals I've tasted. They are wonderful hosts in a new land, Jerry and Stacie. We finally found a front row table at the salsa bar La Piedra Feliz, and I quickly realized that all I wanted for my birthday was to play that cowbell in the corner of the band. We danced and drank and danced, all with one eye on that cowbell. When I finally

4) Christmas dinner with the my friend's Chilean family
Cristian, my buddy from business school and half-Chilean, asked me to a family reunion of his way back in November. There I met many of his cousins and aunts and uncles. One in particular, Carlos, gave us a ride home. He's the chief editor for El Mercurio, the Times of Chile, but the nicest and low-key guy you'll meet. The family took pity on this American kid stranded south for the holidays and invited me to Christmas dinner with the family. Watching the little kids tear apart the presents and play with the new StormTrooper helmet could not have been more satisfying...even before the dinner that included four (4!) desserts. Yikes.

5) sawing wood with friends, Un Techo Para Chile
South America's version of Habitat for Humanity, I figured if I couldn't be home why not join a few Chilean friends and help build one for a family in need down here. Sounds altruistic, eh? It was also a great way to meet new people and practice my sawing, nailing, and diplomatic skills. Too many cooks in the kitchen on how to sink this post, how to hammer that nail, when to raise the walls, etc...but we all laughed and little by little all this wood created something new and wonderful. The mother ran around giving water and showing how excited she was to receive this new place. I admit I felt it too.

6) all-night New Years in Vina and Valpo w/ Pancho
Pancho's my good Chilean buddy who is an expert at the bbq asado. Bbq, fireworks, 100,000 kids in the Valpo streets and the above description about sums up my New Years.

7) biking the vineyards in the Mendoza countryside
Once every 90 days I have to step foot outside the country in order to renew my visa. After New Years I showed-up to the bus station and had forgotten my actual visa (not stamped into the passport, like every other country which is my excuse). So caught it the next weekend, crossed the border at 3am into Argentina and stayed at a B&B outside of Mendoza in the wine country. After a nap I stumbled upon a pamphlet for bike tours of local wineries. Fantastic! Before long I was riding to the first winery with two Argentinians, touring, sipping, asking snobby questions about Malbec crushes and the 1994 vintage, while swerving our way to the next winery. After I spent 5 hours at dinner with the owner of the tour company and his family, sampling without exaggeration the best steak, chorizo de befe, and Malbec I've ever experienced...while enthusiastically talking politics and philosophy, family and far-off lands with the family. Argentinians in the campo are a wonderful people.

8) the spontaneous road trip to South Chile ranches with the big boys
This was unexpected. Driscoll's CEO Miles, my bosses boss SVP Soren, two Board members, and our biggest client all came down (which I did thankfully know about), but then asked me to join them south to visit the ranches and coolers. Never ate so much, driven so long, been on the side of so many interesting conversations, and learned so much in 4 days. The blueberry ranches and coolers never looked better (granted, only seen them once before). Loved every minute of it (except for the early mornings after the long, late wine-laden dinners). We ended all the way down in Punta Varas and Lago Llanique, and I drove back the next day 11 hours to Santiago. Worth every mile.

9) discovering Isadora, asados on San Cristobal
More Santiago, my favorite street Isadora Goyenechea starts with the best church Nuestra Senora de Los Angeles, framed by a fountain and cobblestoned circle, then down Isadora to my favorite restaurant Nolita's (oysters and mussels with tabasco and vodka drippers). We all head to the metropolitan park above the city center to bbq (asado) and spoil away a Sunday afternoon overlooking the city.

10) hiking the Andes foothills, Cerro Provincia, observing the black cloud below
This was a little jaunt with some new friends up the foothills outside of the city (can be seen in the pictures). So can the perpetual smog cloud hanging over Santiago. Nice to breathe outside for an afternoon, and great hike.

11) "surfing" (some might call it falling) Pichilemu and Punta de Lobos
Pictures describe it all. Diverse group of kids from around Santiago, we all got together (from Germany, France, Oregon, New York, CA, Chile) to head 4 hours to the coast, learn how to stand on a surfboard outline in the sand, and get pummeled by the waves. Great time, actually, and very easy to see why the 400m rolling waves from the point makes Lobos South America-renowned.


...and that's that. Wasn't so terrible, was it? Overall I've enjoyed the last 3 months in Chile, even if I haven't written about it as I thought I might. What propelled me to break my promise and list it all out to the two of you still stumbling upon this blog? My parents. Together they have traveled and lived around the globe, from Indonesia to Saudi Arabia, Galicia, Spain to Irvine, CA. They are a big part of my inspiration to travel and they touch down on their first trip to South America Saturday. We're catching a flight south to Punta Arenas in Patagonia, just a Strait of Magellan away from Tierra del Fuego. Fly-fishing for trout, watching penguins mill about, staying on an old sheep ranch, and camping beneath the Paine peaks are all on the next list, so stay tuned. All two of you.

note: before you read this blog...

It really starts with the blog at the very bottom.


For the pictures to go along with the last two blogs below, here you go: http://picasaweb.google.com/ajwulf/SantiagoAndTheBlues#


Enjoy, and any feedback is welcome, like "way too long", "stick to running", or "are you just making all this up, and if you are, wouldn't you write about something cooler like racecar driving?"

La Serena and the Valle de Elquí

La Serena and the Valle de Elquí is a different story.

At this point we had been in and around Chillán for three almost four days, and I thought we were headed home. Then I kept hearing about visiting our fields to the north during conversations, only to finally learn that our next flight wasn’t back to Santiago, but to the northern coastal city La Serena. I kept silent and smiled to myself at the thought at yet more fieldtrips and new country towns. After having visited a few more fields in the morning, including one with more than 14 years of beautiful blueberry production, we raced to the Chillán airport, almost literally threw our bags on the plane, and skipped over the capital on our way north.

What a difference a few latitudes make!

When we finally got out to the fields in Valle de Elquí a few hours’ drive outside the fabled La Serena (after one of the best seafood/pisco dinners I’ve experienced), the difference was pronounced. The business of international fresh fruit is filling gaps. Before it was the 6-8 month gap people called “out of season”, which northern/southern hemisphere trade has served to diminish quite a bit. But what about those smaller gaps, when Mexico fruit’s winding down and Argentina/Chile’s just getting started? Are we supposed to put something else on our cereal? Well, probably. But fresh blueberry muffins in October are good, so what do we do? Enter La Serena and el Valle de Elquí. The northerly location and clear skies make this region a magnet for ambitious farmers looking to fly fruit around the world to fill those gaps when the price skyrockets. Nice in theory, but difficult in practice as we saw. Rocky soil and poor nutrition in some parts makes it more than a challenge to grow great fruit. Tons of blueberries were still on the vines waiting to be picked, rocks all over and weeds battling the plants for elbow room. Not fun to see, and we (read: others) considered the merits of trimming back, replacing some of the varieties and investing in future years.

Moving further up the valley, however, we come upon the Valle de Elquí (see picture above), world-renown for growing the grapes that create pisco, and finally pisco-sours. I’ve learned through experience that one pisco’s good for three nights, at least. We visited a ranch set on the side of one of one of those golden hills you see in the picture, with a particularly stubborn ranch manager determined to grow organically. I loved that perseverance, and exchanged a few organic tips of my own with him. He smiled and graciously nodded as to actually consider what this kid had to say about compost. Much more has to happen, such as balancing the pH of the soil, adding organic material and improving irrigation. I'm always impressed with the creative minds of farmers, especially organic ones. We ended the day in fine style, visiting a nearby hacienda/hotel right out of the old Mexican California mission days. Textured white-washed walls, tiled floors, a plaza with a fountain and old tennis courts spread along green grounds extending to an old mission-style church in the back. We enjoyed a pisco overlooking the vineyards while lunch was prepared, then spoke politics and sports as I like to think the old governors did, before racing out the door to catch a plane (as they most likely didn’t). A wonderful journey south and north, and I hope to visit again soon, but the city beckons yet again.

Chillán!

Driscoll’s corporate offices are located in very non-corporate Watsonville, CA for a reason. We’re a berry company. The Central Coast is where a small group of Watsonville farmers founded the Strawberry Institute in 1944 to grow better berries through undertaking the arduous task of research and development of better plant varieties. Now with Driscoll’s expansion to production locations worldwide, like Chile, we do that here, too. We grow berry plants, and our independent growers are the ones who take those plants and carefully grow what you and I enjoy everyday. To learn more about the Driscoll’s story (which I’m sure you’re all dying to do) head to: http://www.driscolls.com/about.php. Very good stuff. Anyhow, Driscoll’s is an ag company, so the big city Santiago office environment has been a change.

I believe that the fruit first farmer atmosphere up in Watsonville has found its way down here. This was especially evident when the two GM’s, who built Driscoll’s of Chile (DOC) from nothing 14 years ago, told me on my very first day that they wanted me to see the fields next week. “It’s out in the fields where the business is, not here in Santiago.” I felt right at home. So without fail that next Monday my bags were packed again and I was on a flight with Sofia and Mauricio, as well as three great blueberry/food safety guys from Driscoll’s USA (DSA) headed south to Chillán. I had no idea that I was about to be initiated into the blueberry group.

Chillán is a cool southern town of about 170,000 located about 400km south of Santiago in the Bío Bío region, Ñuble province. The name Chillán is an indigenous word for “where the Sun is sitting”, founded in 1580. I’m pretty sure North America was still more like Native America at that time. In addition, Chile’s independence leader Bernardo O’Higgins who declared independence from Spain in 1817 was born in Chillán, so it’s an important town (Wikipedia is great). We would spend next to no time there. We started-out appropriately in Valle del Sol, where I quickly learned that every variety of blueberry is not created equal. For example Oneal likes the soil a bit more sandy, and the darker leafed Misty is much more robust, likes to be a bit closer together. The broad, round leaves of Toro is a easy giveaway, with all its canes shooting out from almost the same stalk below. As we went through the rows, we talked to the growers and ranch managers. We saw the pride they took in every row of fruit, tasted the bigger blues as they turned colorful and inviting. I learned so much just sidling-up to a conversation and eavesdropping. You never want to have too much fruit and not enough leaves. Oneal and Misty varieties are early seasonI knew that unlike straws or raz, blueberries are a deciduous plant, so the first couple of years of production will be low. With some blueberry varieties you want cool mornings and bright afternoons…which more coastal areas tend to bring. O’Neal, Misty, Brigitta, Duke, Toro, Elliot, Berkeleyamong about 130 other varieties of blues are out there who are either Northern Highbush, Southern Highbush, Half-high and Wild Lowbush.

You never thought you’d learn so much about blueberries.

After a very thoughtfull lunch of hamburgers (a little slice of home from our hospitable guests) and Crystal (the beer) near the ranch houses we piled in the minivan to drive off to another ranch. Driving down backcountry road after backcountry road, I saw so many more trees in the fields than what I was used to. Poplars swayed in the breezes in straight lines, cutting the wind for ranches below and creating a dramatic skyline with rolling hills in the background. Little houses spotted the fields, other more affluent haciendas set back quietly among the groves as we passed over bridges and through a maze of small villages and endless crops. I didn’t know which side of the window to look out, generally picking the side with the best view of the Andes or a lone snowcapped volcano looming large and faded in the distance.

We visited many other ranches in and around the area over the next two days…culminating with a tour of the cooler: Frigorífico San Nicolás. Cool process, literally, of how the smaller/poor colored blueberries are weeded-out as they go through the line, funneled into those wonderful plastic clamshells and boxed for cold storage. We had to wear white coats, gloves, masks and hair covers…reminiscent of visiting my brother at Genentech’s medicine production facilities. Hey, if we’re going to produce berries bursting with cancer preventing antioxidants, we have to be pretty clean about it. We may not be a bunch of scientists finding and producing the cure to cancer, but we’re sure trying to do our part the best way farmers can. And they’re much tastier than any pill, anyway. Good stuff.

Tour de Santiago

It's been about a week and a half since arrival, time to get to know the country. Before I left for Chile I talked to a majority of the senior staff and most of their recommendations centered around getting to know and understand the people, the business, the differences, the country. Sold. In fact right now I type from Chillan, about an hour flight south of Santiago visiting our growers with the general managers through some of the most beautiful terrain and maze of country backroads (a whole other blog).



Most of my time so far as expeced has been in the office, where the day starts of a snooze-hitting 9-9:30am, lunch at 2 and day's end (especially I've noticed at Driscoll's of Chile, DOC) at 8-9pm. The GM's and young, dedicated staff have welcomed me with open arms and a willingness to share, especially as the flood of fruit looms large in the coming months. Everyone knows what long and unpredictable days are coming (try and predict the weather), but the GM's Sofia and Mauricio keep laughing and smiling, so everyone follows. They built this business literally from the ground-up. In my first hours in the country Mauricio told me the same thing that Driscoll's CEO Miles told me before I left, which is I'd never know the business sitting behind a desk...the fields and the people behind the numbers are what's important. So here I am, and hopefully will be often.



But Santiago is no doubt central in many ways. The capital, the DOC headquarters, my apartment, and my bike all make their home there, as well as more than a fair share of adventure. Sunday I broke away from the rapidfire Spanish grower accounting meetings to hop on my bike and take my own little tour of the city. No better way to get to no a city than to get a bit lost in it. Old world names such as Cristobal Colon (Columbus) and Americo Vespucio took me up into the mountains, where I quickly saw that the nice, shady park/avenue of Americo had turned into a windy downhill freeway! Yikes. I tucked-in, hugged the curves and after a thrilling mile or so took the first exit on the back side of the hill San Cristobal. Using the hill as reference, I made my way through barrio after barrio, drafting the occasional bike rider or bus exhaustpipe. I found my way to the entrance of the San Cristobal park where a bunch of bike riders and walkers were mingling. I took a sip of my water and started the climb.

It's inevitable that a Tour de France Pyrenees reference be made, even for a half hour hill. As I started finding my niche in the late Sunday morning hikers/bikers/cars, the nearby Andes with their scarcely snow-tipped peeked around the bends and riders challenged the hard-charging American newcomer. Reaching down, I tightened my pedal clips and found a second and third wind as the road wound around San Cristobal. The sun beamed down and it was a cheerful ride. Curving around the last stretch, two Chileans gave a last effort to pass, including one with a yellow jersey, but my random, unnecessary pride would hear nothing of it. I dug deep one last time and raced for the win at the top. Shaking hands with the other riders at the top, I looked around and saw not only a spectacular view of the city below, but also what looked like a sun-drenched French chalet full of colorful mountain bikers conversing over yogurt and mote tea. A pleasant surprise for a drenched and somewhat lost wannabe biker. I soaked it in.

I like my new town.