From left to right: Gustavo, Natalio, Pablo, José
He started here twenty years ago, under a not-so-kind former owner. He stayed through the changes, helped us pick up the pieces, helped turn a fading ranch into a working one. José didn’t complain. He showed up. He knew every rock, every fence post. And when harvest came, he joined us among the vines—moving crates, hauling grapes, shouting jokes across rows. A man who understood what it meant to see things through.
When I visit the ranch, I make a point to say hello to everyone. I’ve always admired the people who work here. Life at 9,000 feet can look hard to outsiders. But for them, it’s just life.
Last week, José died. Pneumonia, then a heart attack. Quick. Brutal. Like the valley itself.
It hit hard.
But death is part of this place too. It doesn’t hide in hospitals or behind euphemisms. It walks beside you in the dust, in the cold night wind. It reminds you that nothing—not vines, not rivers, not people—is guaranteed.
At his burial, there were no stiff black suits or silent nods. They brought cigarettes. Coca leaves. A lasso. A soccer jersey. Bottles of wine. Whiskey. Coke. They poured them on the coffin.
The priest stood quietly, letting Pachamama do her part. Rocks were stacked. A cross placed. Flowers covered everything. I was unable to attend the funeral, but Mariah Bonner was there and wrote a beautiful tribute.
This year’s harvest will carry José’s fingerprints. His breath. His rhythm. That kind of legacy doesn’t fade.
And remember: it takes a year of work in the vineyard. Then another year before the wine goes into bottles. And if it sees oak, an extra year still. These bottles aren’t churned out. They’re lived in.
So when you open a bottle of Tacana, know this: you’re not just drinking wine. You’re holding a story. A life. A moment of something that matters.
Prices go up, yes. But you’re not buying branding or hype. You’re investing in the continuation of something real. Something stubborn. Something human.
You’re helping us keep this place alive. Keep these people working. Keep these stories being told.
“It is not the length of life, but the depth of life. He who is not everyday conquering some fear has not learned the secret of life.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson
And out here, that depth is everything.
Diego
