In 1998 I put Pinot on a ridge so cold the neighbors called us fools before the first trellis wire went up. I wanted acid nobody could fake, and this fog was the only place stingy enough to give it to me straight.
You'd arrive without seeing a single vine — just fog, headlights, and a gate at the top of the ridge. Everyone said the same thing walking in: colder than they expected. Most came back anyway, for the fire and the last pour.
The Last Block — whole clusters off the rows the deer never touched, foot-trodden the old way, one last time.
April frost, 2011: we ran the wind machines till dawn and still lost the low rows. The high block, the coldest ground on the ridge, came through untouched. That was the year I understood what the cold was for.
Not my name — vines don't care whose it was. I'd like to be remembered for asking the cold ridge the right questions, so whoever farms it next inherits good answers.
