The Alchemy Of Vinos Lechuza And Mexico's Valle De Guadalupe
In that moment, that space in between relaxation and realization, I knew that there was nowhere else in the world I would rather have been but here.
The morning sun filtered through the blinds in my windows, casting shadows on the familiar walls of the bedroom. It gently trailed up, caressing the rough textured walls, etching deeper shadows as it inched along its path to the ceiling. It crept along the veins of the drywall, as it did every morning. I stirred awake slowly taking a mild interest in its haphazard direction. Slowly my consciousness ebbed and receded like mellow ocean waves bringing me out of my lazy slumber. I kept myself horizontal. Awake, but staring at the empty, stark white ceiling. I let my thoughts drift in the emptiness of the room while I attempted to clear my mind of any responsible thinking. On the one hand, I seriously wanted to be a complete fuck up today. One the other hand, I was a responsible adult, with actual plans, and as it happened, another actual adult to pick up from the airport. Accountabilities. While the weekend could always bring unexpected surprises, routine, repetition, and responsibility somehow always reared its ugly head. And in that moment. In that tiny space between slumber and awareness, conciousness finally won, hitting me like a reckless bike messenger on a busy city street. Today, I actually did have plans.
Somewhere deep down in the liquid goop of my brain, travel always yanked me. It was that yearning. That pull. That sudden desire to break out and run free. The wanderlust that always rumbled deep in my gut that never let me sit still. It always started down low, before that first steaming cup of morning coffee brought clarity. It was an itch that needed to be scratched. A thread that needs to be pulled. A longing desire for the new, the unfamiliar, and the untasted. It swelled up from inside of me. It pushed me out of bed and into a sea of contemplation. An escape. A destination. A longing for a place I've never been or perhaps yearned to revisit. Faces that I've never seen, or perhaps knew all too well. Tastes I had yet to experience, or perhaps ones that always enjoyed. People that I had yet to meet, or perhaps old acquaintances and friends that I longed to see. The open road called to me as it always did, every morning. It was a song that rang steadily in my ears. It was a tune that played repeatedly lately, as it beckoned me to embrace adventure and head off into the distance. On mornings like this, I felt the need to throw a few personal belongings and requirements into a bag, hop into my car and head straight out into the unknown following that call. That pull. That singular urge. That yearning. That longing to keep moving. To keep exploring and discovering. Travel is just one of those magical actions that you take that ultimately leads to inspiration that’s lurking around every corner you turn.
It was that morning, under a relentless sun-soaked sky with the Pacific Ocean's salty breeze teasing my senses, that I found myself impulsively steering southwards from San Diego towards the intriguing allure of Mexico’s western coast. The sun. The sand. The wild and rocky vista of small beach towns south of Tijuana. And that magical allure of Mexican wine country. That was my intended destination. On a typical summer day ripe with possibilities, I was craving adventure and the foreign flavors that were waiting for me just across the border.
I swung by to pick up an old friend at the airport as planned. He was a well known and respected winemaker in Napa Valley. He was well traveled, having made wine in France and then for Napa’s own titans like Screaming Eagle, Harlan Estate, Opus One and Stags Leap Wine Cellars. Just to name drop a few, in case you were wondering. In a word, he knew what the fuck he was doing, and he made some really excellent shit. I pulled up to the airport pick up zone just as Michael stepped off of the curb. He opened the trunk, threw his bags into the deep cavern of the car, slid into the seat next to me, patted me on the shoulder, and before he even had the opportunity to face straight ahead, we were off. The road in front of us stretched out like a whispered promise and an unspoken possibility. The asphalt shimmered in the heat mixing with the glare from the overhead sun as my hand gripped the wheel. The speakers hummed with the melodies of an unplanned journey. My music playlist blared, creating a rhythm that synchronized perfectly with the whoosh of the passing road and a soundtrack that defined the moment.
I rolled the windows all the way down inviting the salty ocean air to whip through the cabin and curl through my hair. The freeway extended out in front of the car, bending around us. We passed markers that became memories and blurred visual streaks that we quickly forgot as we navigated towards the border crossing at San Ysidro and America’s southern neighbor. Crossing the border here was like walking through a portal from one dimension to the next. It was like stepping from an orderly collection of towns and reasonably planned streets that made up San Diego into a wild patch work that was Tijuana. To say it was an adjustment was a fucking understatement. It was more of a jolt. A quick shock to the senses as you stepped into another world that was right next door. It was like taking a shot of mezcal, all the while thinking that you were downing a small glass of water. It was sudden. It burned slightly on the way down. It was abrupt. It was wild. It was beautiful.
The border. A man-made, tangible line of demarcation between two worlds. It was a place of transition and transformation. The final line in the sand separating San Diego from the pulsing heart of Tijuana. It was a metamorphosis of culture, wealth and expectation. A world away yet just a stone's throw across an invisible divide. This was a land where the rules of the game shifted as effortlessly as the Pacific tides. Passing through the twisting narrow path littered with cameras and security personnel, we could feel the gaze of the military guards linger on us as we made our way through the maze of concrete barriers. The border guards stern eyes scanned us up and down, and every which way. They assessed. Their macho stance a not-so-subtle reminder that we were stepping into a different narrative and an entirely different universe all together. It was a warning. “Welcome, but don’t fuck shit up!”
Tijuana greeted us with its raw, unfiltered beauty. The city streets here were an endless obstacle course of potholes and unfinished pavement. Navigating through the cityscape, you couldn’t help but observe and marvel at the stark contrast of Tijuana's residencies. Grand, almost ostentatious estates sat arrogantly next to humble abodes. Built right next to one another, their proximity was an unapologetic display of the city's socio-economic disparities. New construction and freshly painted dwellings mingling with dilapidated homes that slowly crumbled and disintegrated into the breaking ocean waves below. They stood side by side. The new and the old. The expensive and the poor. They stood alongside each other in an incongruous harmony, each telling their own tale of this old city. The weathered homes, their paint peeling and structures sagging, exuded a kind of faded elegance. They were a constant and everlasting reminder of past glories and memories that were etched in every crack, every sagging roof, and every broken window. In contrast, the opulent estates were a testament to an aspirational city that despite its challenges dared to dream and to reach for new and creative heights. This was the heart of Tijuana. It was a city of immense contrasts. A city of magnificent dreams. A city of stubborn resilience. A metropolis that despite enduring so much hatred and intolerance towards it, openly welcomed us as visitors with no questions asked.
Cruising through the historic streets in Tijuana was a combination of intuition and experience. The air here was thick with anticipation, and perhaps a lot of dust from various older construction projects that seem to linger around the city, never changing with every visit. With our windows down, we passed crowded street corners, catching hits and staccato notes of spoken Spanish rising and falling. The ambient city noise was filled with motor vehicles rumbling along on the pavement, and the constant honking of horns in the distance. Occasionally, we caught slices of shouts from street vendors as we drove past. They called out order after order, or just caught up with customers and friends. Navigating the labyrinthine streets of Tijuana was an adrenaline-fueled dance of dodging honking taxis and darting pedestrians, all while struggling to maintain a somewhat straight path along an otherwise crooked and haphazard patchwork of roadways. GPS you ask? Preprinted directions? Fuck it. Don’t even bother. Navigating here was always done on pure instinct alone and the occasional memory from a past visit. It is a concrete jungle and a giant mass of destruction and construction. Despite Tijuana’s deteriorating buildings, the vibrant colors of this city pulsed in the street art that adorned every corner. Each mural, every splash of color telling stories of a city that simply refused to be silenced by anything or anyone.
The smells changed subtly passing each new city block, the clean ocean breeze layering the rich aroma of Tijuana. Sweetness from the smoke of cooking street food vendors mixed with the tang of saltwater hanging in the air as it shifted with the wind, and with every alleyway and turn we made. This symphony of scents, sites and energy could only belong to one place, and that place was not San Diego. Passing through this city on the way to the coast gave way to a riot of creativity. Buildings appeared seemingly stacked on top of each other painted in vibrant blues, pinks and yellows offered no discernible pattern or planning. The cityscape was a testament to the exuberant spirit of its denizens. You'll find shops selling everything from handcrafted leather goods to intricate silver jewelry interspersed with taco stands and tequila bars. The air always vibrated with the sounds of traditional music blaring from every bar and restaurant, the laughter of residents venturing out for a good time, and the passionate arguments of locals as they gave directions for the best place to get a taco. There's an energy here. Its raw. It’s a visceral pulse that seems to always whisper: "Welcome to Tijuana, amigo. Buckle up.”
As we drove, time seemed to move at a slower pace. The energy was different. Buildings seemed to melt together in a way that was unexpected. The old blended with the new as though construction was started, stopped, and then ultimately forgotten. And then, as if for no reason at all, restarted with another unrelated idea in mind. Here, there was a different kind of order. A certain blend of orderly chaos that chugged along and simply worked making this place the stuff of legends. It was a crazy, discombobulated, unplanned combination that would never work in any other place but here.
The landscape slowly transformed as we made our way south along the carretera. A twisted snake work of streets and concrete facades left behind that was suddenly transforming into a wild symphony of cacti, desert, rising mountains on the left, and the shimmering Pacific Ocean stretching out on the right far into the horizon. We kept to the speed limit, passing random patch-worked homes and dilapidated slums painted over with graffiti. The scene of nature and manmade intervention all harmonized with the distant rumble of waves breaking on the shore of the pacific. It was a visual gateway into this magical peninsula. The dusty trail of the coastal highway leading us deeper into the heart of Baja California.
Leaving Tijuana far behind us, the coastal road stretched out in front of the windshield as we hugging the rugged cliffs that overlooked the sparkling ocean. The sea breeze caressed our face, the salty aroma of the ocean mingling with the scent of blooming wildflowers spun through the windows as we raced past. The road beckoned. It pulled. It drew us further south revealing glimpses of hidden coves, private residences and secluded beaches. The view with every passing hill was breathtaking. If we had time, we could spend an entire day just sitting in one place, toes in the sand, feet being gently kissed by the cool Pacific Ocean waves that ebbed and flowed in front of us. Cerveza in hand, knocking back one after another while gorging on the best fish tacos that you would ever taste. Watching the rays of sunshine twinkling on the skin of the undulating water. Despite every temptation that attempted to capture our attention, we resisted the urge to deviate from our path. Our minds captivated by the open highway, and the allure of Mexico’s wine country.
The sun began its descent into late afternoon as we steered off of the coastal highway and drove deeper inland. I tightened my grip around the steering wheel, flexing my fingers while I hugged the tight mountain turns keeping the car in line with the old two-lane road. Yawning gently, I inhaled the fresh breeze skimming off of the ocean that slowly transformed into a dry, desert wind. The sun-baked dirt road stretched out before us, a ribbon of dust and promise cutting through the rugged landscape to the entrance of Valle de Guadalupe. Michael, gripped the side of the open window, his eyes scanning the horizon with a mix of curiosity and professional interest. We were driving along the classic La Ruta del Vino, the famed Wine Route of Mexico's burgeoning wine country. The dry, arid breeze flowed briskly through the car, in one window and quickly out the other. There was a heady scent of wild sage, rosemary and that anticipated scent of lush grapevines that only wine country could give. "Jesus," Michael muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "This place is like the Wild West of winemaking." He wasn't wrong. Valle de Guadalupe was a far cry from the manicured vineyards and polished tasting rooms of Napa. Here, the vines seemed to grow with a defiant vigor, clinging to the dusty earth as if daring anyone to doubt their resilience. Napa was like this many years ago. Stark. Wild. Unmanicured. Undeveloped. Just wineries built by winemaking dreamers who had a vision to make the wine that they truly wanted to create. Who had a love for their craft that they wanted to share. That was Napa Valley once. Before the wineries were sold to conglomerates. Before notable vintages became overpriced and manufactured. Before creativity turned into commercialism.
We clung to the rugged road as our car bounced along the endless highway. There was a building sense of excitement between us. This was wine country with an edge. It was a place where tradition met innovation in a sun-soaked dance of flavors and possibilities. The landscape was a patchwork of vineyards and untamed wilderness. Each bend in the road revealed another hidden gem of a winery, a horse ranch, a breathtaking vista that seemed to stretch to the very edge of the horizon spilling over the edge of the world. Michael, ever the oenophile, couldn't contain his enthusiasm if his life depended on it. "You know," he said, gesturing at the passing scenery as it drifted by in a streaming blur, "what they're doing here is nothing short of revolutionary. These winemakers, they're not bound by centuries of tradition like in the Old World. In France, if you made a GSM blend with a Cabernet, you would probably get shot. Here, they're free to experiment, to push boundaries. It's just so fucking fierce, and simply beautiful."
I nodded. I fully understood his sentiment. Many wine regions started in the same way. A creative group of people with visions of what dreamers only dream about. But as notoriety hit, as awards are one, as accolades are given, laws, regulations, and standards became the strict, “play by the rules or you’ll never sell your wine again” game that winemakers had to adhere to. Valle de Guadalupe was a blank canvas for winemakers. It was a place where the rules were meant to be broken and where passion trumped convention. As we drove deeper into the valley, we passed small, family-owned vineyards nestled alongside more established operations, each one a testament to the diversity and the creativity that defined this wild region of dreamers and doers.
The road wound its way through the heart of the valley, and with each passing kilometer, our anticipation only grew. We were headed to Vinos Lechuza. This winery had been on our radar for its reputation, exceptional wines and its commitment to sustainable practices. I had read about the creative winemaker, Kristin Magnussen. What was started by her father, Ray Magnussen as a hobby in 2005, ultimately grew into what Lechuza was today. It was one of the most popular wineries in Valle De Guadalupe because of her dedication, passion, knowledge and Kristin’s ability to merge of old world and new world styles and techniques. It wasn’t a surprise that Lechuza’s approachable wines have won over sommeliers and chefs all around the world. Wine judges have certainly taken note, landing Lechuza accolades and awards that were far too well deserved. I was even impressed that Vinos Lechuza was listed on the wine list at The French Laundry. And with Thomas Keller and his sommelier giving you “the nod”, what more could any winemaker ever ask for.
We pulled into the driveway, exiting La Ruta Del Vino, and eased through the dirt parking lot. As I slowly navigated the cloud of dust that I managed to kick up, we took the opportunity to pause, enjoy the view, and take in the winery. The stark beauty of the place simply took our breath away. We parked and ambled over like cowboys, the settling dust from the parking area kicked up by our shuffling boots. We were greeted by a smiling host who led us to our table in the vineyard where an orange linen canopy fluttered gently in the breeze, offering a welcome respite from the relentlessly baking Mexican sun. We settled into our seats, exhaling deeply from the long drive. A dry gentle breeze flowed through the vineyard as the vines provided the narrow corridor, channeling the wind around us. The valley stretched out in every direction. This was where the earth and sky met and seemed to conspire to create something truly mystical and exceptional.
As it was with any typical summer day in Valle De Guadalupe, it was hot, it was dry, and we thirsty. Our host returned smiling broadly, water in one hand and bottle with what looked like a vinicultural elixir in the other. In his right hand, he grasped a sweaty bottle of the 2022 Chardonnay. He caught us staring at the Chardonnay instead of the water and instantly knew where our priorities were centered. He poured generously, the golden liquid catching the light that streamed down between the seams of our canopy. As he finished pouring a generous portion into each of our glasses, he explained the wine making process of this first bottle. 7 months in stainless steel tanks. Several months lying in wait in the bottle. Several seconds swirling in our glass. Moments before our own enjoyment. We toasted in the arid heat, our glasses brushing off droplets of condensation as they clinked. Michael, ever the professional, swirled his glass around and around, his nose hovering just above the rim as he inhaled deeply.
"Christ," he murmured, his eyes widening. “I’m not so much a white wine lover, but this is truly something else." I followed his lead, as we sat and swirled like to pretentious pricks on a Sideways wine journey, and I immediately understood his reaction. This chardonnay was sublime. It was a complex tapestry of aromas that danced on the nose and created a wafting expression of indulging aromas before it ever touched your lips. Notes of pineapple and peach mingled with zesty orange and salt. There was intoxicating minerality present. Delicate hints of chamomile and brioche added depth and intrigue and it just wanted to make you sit there in the middle of the winery and smell your glass like you knew of no better way to enjoy this wine. As I sipped, I noticed subtle undertones of honey and butter that lingered on my tongue that just refused to let me pull the glass away in fear that they would vanish forever. But even as we paused and set our glasses down to hydrate with water, the hypnotizing aromas continued to linger around us, drawing us back in with ease.
The late afternoon sun stretched ever downward, pulling itself towards the peaks of the distant mountain ridge. And as the heat of the day continued to pound the canopy above our heads as we sat underneath, safe from the scorching sun, our server returned with another bottle. This time however, it was a darker bottle. In his hand, he was grasping the 2019 Amantes. This was a bold blend of Cabernet, Merlot, and Nebbiolo that seemed to encapsulate the very essence of Valle de Guadalupe. Our server explained that this wine was a work of patience as it spent thirty-six months in American and French oak, waiting for the right moment to be bottled and to the enjoyed. As our severed poured another generous amount into our empty glasses, the wine exploded in a riot of aromas – blueberries and raspberries mingled with hints of red cherry and raisin floated free on the breeze. Subtle hints of tobacco, pepper, leather, and walnut added complexity and depth to this bottle that just seemed to coat our entire palate as we took a slow, lingering taste.
We sipped slowly. Really taking our time to parse out the flavors and textures of the Amantes. Michael leaned back in his chair, relaxing his back and stared deeply into his glass. There was a look of contentment on his face. I’ve seen that look before many times. It’s the look he gave when everything revolving around flavor and texture just seemed to fall into place. You know," he mused, "this is what winemaking should be about. It's not just about following a recipe, or adhering to standards set by a region or a committee. It’s not even about sticking to what's always been done before and just continuing to do it. What it’s really about, that ‘secret sauce’. It all about just taking risks. Just letting the land speak through the wine. That is the mark of a great winemaker. You’re almost a terroir whisperer. A secret keeper of the grape.”
In savoring Kristin’s proprietary blend, I couldn't have agreed more. There was something undeniably special about the wine that we were tasting. There was a sense of place and purpose that set them apart from anything I'd experienced before. Each sip told a story. It was a tale about the history of the land. It was about the sun-baked earth and cool ocean breezes that blew through this valley. Ancient traditions that were mixed with bold new ideas. And at the forefront, there was a winemaker who had an idea. She listened to the land. She was the secret keeper of the grapes that she grew. She crafted something with vision, love and dedication. It showed with every sip that we took. Every flavor that we tasted. And every moment that we felt.
Our host returned as if on cue. He noticed immediately that we committed a cardinal sin that was unheard of at every winery—our wine glasses were empty. It was a clear sign that he needed to bring the next bottle. This time he was brandishing a bottle of the 2019 Cabernet Sauvignon which he explained spent thirty-six months in French oak. He poured the rich, ruby liquid into each of our glasses as the sun peaked through canopy, striking the sides of our glasses in a vibrant beam. The sunlight passed through the wine and seemed to ignite it as it shimmered vibrantly in the late afternoon. From the moment our server poured the luscious red liquid into our glasses, the aroma of red cherry and cranberry drifted around us, enveloping our senses in an intoxicating sphere of dried fruit. We swirled our glasses and lifted them up to our noses to fully take in the smells that we were inhaling deeply already. Delicate floral notes of roses, hints of pepper and lavender surround our wine glasses, blending with the air and making us sit ever deeper in our chairs. I sipped slowly, detecting traces of smoke, vanilla, and almonds in each sip as I swirled the wine from one side of my tongue to the other. There was a complex flavor profile that spoke to the skill of the winemaker and that special unique character of Valle de Guadalupe terroir.
As I looked up over my glass, I could see that Michael was fully engaged with his pour. Subtly, I asked “Michael, do you want to be alone with your glass?” My prodding seemed to have snapped him out of his trance and brought his thoughts back to the table as he smirked sarcastically at me. I commented on how challenging it probably was for the winemakers and the farmers in this arid climate. But even through the challenges that they faced — battling for water, the fires and the changing landscape, the future of Mexican wines on the global stage was exciting. It was road that was new. Unpaved, like much of the valley. Raw. Unfiltered. And ready to carve a path that was all its own. Michael looked up impressed. I knew that look. The “holy shit, this is delicious” look. Michael, typically reserved this special look for when it came time to praising wines outside his beloved Napa Valley. This was uncharacteristically effusive for him. "This place," he said, gesturing broadly at the surrounding vineyards, as he drew a circle with his index finger, "it's got something special. There's an energy here, a sense of possibility. It reminds me of why I fell in love with winemaking in the first place. Its honestly because of places like this and definitely because of experiences like this.”
As the shadows lengthened and the heat of the day began to wane, our host approached with what he promised was the pièce de résistance of our tasting this evening – the 2019 Nebbiolo which sat silently for thirty-six months in American and French oak, quietly biding its time. This, he explained, was the crown jewel of Valle de Guadalupe. It was a grape varietal that had found a second home in the sun-drenched hills of Baja California outside of its origins in the Piedmont and Valtellina regions of Italy. And, while Nebbiolo had found its home in other regions in Australia and the United States, it has flourished and become something truly special here in Valle De Guadalupe.
I stared longingly at the stream of wine coming from the tilted bottle as our server poured the thick, deep, rich liquid into our empty and waiting glasses. Michael’s and my anticipation was clearly painted all over our faces. Had we, at this very moment, been engaged in a winner-takes-all high-stakes poker match, well, we would probably have lost our fucking shirts and would have been forced to leave the match stripped down to our underwear after betting all we had. There was no hiding our reaction. We were completely transparent. The wine was deep. And I mean fucking deep. It was so deep, it was almost inky purple. Our glasses were still sitting on the table, and even then, the bold aromas coming for the pours were nearly exploding around us. I picked up my glass, gently swirling the wine and opening its promises to the air. I brought the glass to my nose, and inhaled deeply. It was not difficult to feel like I was being slapped in the forehead by the intensity of the aroma coming from this Nebbiolo. All at once, with one inhale, an avalanche of dark fruits, spices, and earthy notes exploded in every direction around us. I felt like I was handcuffed to the table, my hand glued to the wine glass, unwilling to ever part with it.
With the first sip, I knew we were in the presence of something truly exceptional. Michael and I glanced at one another over our glasses, and I knew the feeling was completely mutual. The flavors unfolded in wave and after luxurious wave. Blueberry and black cherry were immediately at the forefront. These were the two flavors that kept whacking our foreheads as though we needed constant reminding of what we were drinking. What followed were notes of pepper and raisin. And, as the wine opened even more than it already had, I detected hints of deep, rich chocolate and coffee. Just when I thought that it couldn’t get better than this, suddenly, there it was. That subtle undertone of Serrano ham lingering just out of reach that made me want to gulp my wine instead of sipping and savoring it. Raspberry and cherry notes are one thing. Notes of Serrano ham, well, that was just pure decadence. I sat there sniffing my glass, lost in the vineyard around me like some vinicultural deviant trying to inhale the Nebbiolo rather than drink it. All the while, I pictured a leg of pork, salted and left to hang in the dry, cool mountain air, slowly transforming into a masterpiece over the course of months, and yes, sometimes years. Those rich, nutty undertones and whispers of sweetness. That fat that glistened like a promise which melted in your mouth at the slightest provocation, coating your tongue in pure, unadulterated bliss. I must have been inhaling far too loudly because suddenly, Michael asked me if I wanted to be alone with my glass. What goes around comes around. Either way, his laughter and sarcasm did its job, snapping me out of my ham-induced trance.
Michael, who was normally a chatterbox, was uncharacteristically silent, lost in contemplation as he savored his glass the Nebbiolo. "This," he said, “is fucking beautiful." I looked up at him and suddenly broke into a fit of laughter. “Truly,” I said, “one of the more transformative statements that you have ever made. Quick!” I motioned, flailing my arm around, “call Wine Spectator! We need to get this quote out to print immediately!” For my sarcasm, dear reader, I received a middle finger, standing straight up in the air, pointed in my general direction. But through the sarcasm, beyond the rude gestures that were all made with the love and respect of friendship through the years, one thing was perfectly clear. The Lechuza Nebbiolo was a work of art. It was a love letter beautifully written by the winemaker to Valle De Guadalupe. Michael was absolutely correct. The Nebbiolo was indeed “fucking beautiful.”
We sat there in the heart of the vineyard, surrounded by the gently swaying vines and bathed in the warm glow of the sunset. The sun was struggling now, barely able to show itself above the distant hills as it moved ever downward, disappearing sharply behind the mountain range. Our server was gracious enough to give us another pour of the Nebbiolo as we lingered under the canopy, watching the day disappear completely. We sat in silence as we slowly swirled our glasses around, and around, and around. The seconds became minutes. The minutes transformed into hours. And before we knew it, it was dusk.
The dry air continued to whisper through the vineyard, carrying with it the mingled scents of earth and fruit and endless possibility. We were lost in conversation about the magic of Valle de Guadalupe, the extraordinary wines of Vinos Lechuza, and the creative force of its winemaker, Kristin Magnussen. It was a moment suspended in time. A perfect confluence of place, passion and flavor that would stay with me long after we had left this enchanted valley. The last light of day painted the sky in hues of orange and purple as the valley magically lit up around us. We polished off the last drops of this remarkable Nebbiolo. And in that moment, that space in between relaxation and realization, I knew that there was nowhere else in the world I would rather have been but here.