It is our spring time, and like the rest of the living, growing, things on California's north coast, we are a little ahead of schedule. It is our spring because after a winter of rest and dormancy (or at least a respite from winemaking and the beautiful work of the crush pad) we are surging back into activity—to bottle wine.

Most of our days recently have been intensely beautiful—bright, almost sharp sunshine, blue skies streaked with clouds, warm afternoons in which you can smell the lushness of the green grass that carpets every hillside. The nights are cold but very clear; the stars have never seemed closer or more candid. But everything is not right. We have had almost no rain; beneath the grass the soils are parched. The vines will bud early in this strange warmth, and their roots will not find a long winter's rain to draw on, but the same moisture they found in the fall , barely renewed. When the shoots push—soon—they will be skinny and perhaps fewer, adapted to the sparse growing conditions of this difficult winter.

There is no disguising that this is a strange and difficult time. As exciting as it is to bottle our wine—after much work and long patience— and as exciting as it is to release it and measure your reaction—we must be aware of our circumstances, and adapt. Like the vines. I am eager to present the release to you, especially on this parched ground.