I began writing this a week ago, driving north, through the intensely beautiful, narrow pass that connects the Napa Valley to the Alexander Valley, the most easterly spur of the Sonoma Valley. In a normal harvest, I would never have had time to make this drive. We harvest no fruit from anywhere near here. It is a foreign land to us, in spite of being not much more than an hour's drive from our downtown Napa coffee joint. What makes this possible?

Once again, it is a tremendous aberration in weather. Normally, at this time of year, we live in fear of the Heat Spike, the Hot Wind from the Northeast, the string of hundred-degree days. Any other year, we would work day and night, race from vineyard to vineyard, relentless and under the gun. This year, we have begun to harvest fruit twice, and, instead of continuing furiously to take the ripe fruit off the vine before it roasts—instead, twice, we have had to sit back and wait, idle. It is cool; 20 degrees cooler than normal in the heat of the day; 5 or 10 degrees cooler at night. There is mist and high cloud cover; the fury of the Sun is in abeyance. It is odd for us and not fun, but the fruit is ripening in total ease and without haste. At this stage in the harvest, it really looks like the best conditions in decades. The best in decades: right now. It's that good, that special. So we give thanks for the serene ripening of the fruit, we wear hoodies to the winery, not tank tops, and, in our moment of patient leisure, we arrange visits with friends—friends in the West, who in a normal year, we would see only in internet images.

First, on Monday, we visited Ryme, Idlewild, Leo Steen, and Ruth Lewandowski—all making wine with shared equipment in adjacent cells of an old mushroom farm on the edge of Geyserville.

Pared down, focused, without luxury or adornment. You feel that you are at the root and center of an ancient enterprise, honest beyond question, serious to the point of austerity: but there is a new stereo, and a big glass-door cooler, as if from an old Seven-Eleven, full of beer and white wine. We had a wonderful time, and learned so much from four colleagues gathered together in front of us, discussing what—at least at this time of year—is most important to us. We tasted five or six wines: 2 Chenins, an Arneis, a whole-cluster pressed Nebbiolo, skin fermented Vermentino and Malvasia—each unexpected in different ways and superb.

As we were driving away, I said: the best white wines in the country are made here. There was a lot of vigorous nodding in rather awed agreement.

Next we dropped by a stunning facility--a new winery, brilliantly designed, big, airy, spacious—and a beehive of happy activity. The team does not walk, they trot, full of purpose and as if they can't wait to put their hands and backs to their next task. We sat down for champagne and wine study, our faces warm with admiration and gratitude. Pax and Scott; Windgap and Jolie Laide. More great wine here, but what one sensed more than anything is a love and excitement for the shear act of making wine.

Tuesday, we had another remarkable visit that immediately challenged any talk of "best white wine in the country." We visited Stony Hill, a kind of oracular temple that you must visit every so often to be reminded of the original teachings, before the advent of the new gods—and before the new, new gods. Wine—primarily white wine, from grapes grown on steep, rocky hillsides—made in the same way for 50 years. And made with success that is quiet, humble, and total at the same time. I was overwhelmed by the power of simplicity and unflinching earnestness that is based not on a plan or even a principle, but on diligent practice. We were hosted by a member of the family in the third generation from the founders. Alex Mccrae (pictured above on the left), a really generous and open man, who, rather than resting on what the family has accomplished, has worked all over the world more widely and securely to ground what they do on their hillside estate.

Wednesday, another cool day without fruit, we further pursued our education in the ways of Napa's classical giants—giants who work in the noble and hoary duo of Cabernet and Chardonnay. Some days, you really have to look up and say, "Fuck the 'New' California. Fuck Verdelho and Trousseau Gris. Let's make sure we understand how to make Howell Mountain Cabernet." And so, we were extremely fortunate to be received by Randy and Mike Dunn, in their lovely and modest headquarters, reminiscent much more of Mayberry than Bordeaux, without a shred of opulence. So interesting—the contrast between the luxury product and its market, and the place and people that make the good and send it into another cosmos for consumption …
Mike spoke clearly, candidly, and in vivid detail about every aspect of their work. We learned so much, and once again were struck by the role that simplicity and simple seriousness play in the making of these magical wines. We tasted two vintages, and loved the one that came from the putatively weaker vintage: it's a tired metaphor, but the wine sang and it sang the song of a very particular place. I don't know a better argument for "terroir" in Napa.

We closed the day at Larkmead, at the head of the valley near Calistoga, one of the first great wineries of Napa—a winery with a remarkable guardian and defender, who is constantly forging ahead in an effort to not innovate, but to recover and elevate what is most classical. Dan Petroski toured us through the vineyards, including a surprising small parcel on the valley floor whose soil is composed exclusively of large, beautiful cobble—one of the rockiest sites I have seen anywhere in Napa. He taught us about the history of the property and its winemaking, and spurred our imaginations by showing us a medal from the 1890s for a California White Chianti. We tasted beautiful, precise dark wines from the Larkmead estate (including one from the cobble), and also Dan's equally beautiful white wines, made by him for his own Italian-inspired Massican label. Both sets of wines expressed the highest degree of clarity and precision, but somehow depended on different palettes—I struggle for the language. They did not simply point to different worlds—maybe more like very intense twins who had chosen different paths in life…

I am completing this far from Napa; at the desk in a Best Western Hotel, in Lodi. We have begun harvesting again. It will be a very busy week, the busiest of the year. Workmen's trucks are parked in the lot. We had dinner at a café on School Street in Lodi with our great friend and guide, Tegan Passalacqua. We arise at 5 am, to harvest 1MN tomorrow; 5 miles away. Cinsault, on its own roots, from a vineyard celebrating its 130th birthday this year. This is our work. We would not trade it for anything.

Thanks so much. Stay in touch.

PS: you may find our last release here. We have no tastings scheduled yet, but if you are getting this email, you know that you will hear about them.