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Refining the Russian River Valley AVA: another start



Maybe something will come of it this time–“it” being the latest push to establish sub-appellations within the greater Russian River Valley.

People have been talking about it forever. More than ten years ago, when I was doing the research for my first book, A Wine Journey along the Russian River, the controversy already was old. As I wrote, “Exactly where these divisions are and what they should be called are years away from being determined.” Some new appellations suggested at that time by the Russian River Valley Winegrowers Association (RRVWA, but nowadays they’ve dropped the word “association” so it’s just RRVW) were the Middle Reach, Laguna Ridges and the Santa Rosa Plain (although the latter two had major overlappings), but separately, Rod Berglund, at Joseph Swan, added Sebastopol Hills and Windsor Hills, Dan Goldfield (Dutton-Goldfield) suggested splitting Green Valley into “Upper” and “Lower” (based on elevation), and Bob Cabral (who just announced he’s leaving Williams Selyem) favored a West River AVA (to pick up where the Middle Reach trails off, beyond Wohler Narrows and Gary Farrell (and if you’ve driven out there, you know it looks and feels very different from Westside Road closer to Healdsburg).

This latest initiative, announced by Chris Donatiello, currently head of the RRVW, is interesting in that it refers to any potentially new AVAs as “neighborhoods” and to the push itself as “the neighborhood initiative.” I would like to have been a fly on the wall in the discussions that resulted in the choice of such a richly connotative word. Perhaps, given the history of flashpoint divisiveness that has accompanied every AVA battle I’ve ever witnessed (from Santa Rita Hills to Fort Ross-Seaview), the RRVW decided that calling the regions “neighborhoods” would humanize the discussion. Maybe the idea of a “neighborhood” is more expansive than that of a region whose boundaries are hard-wired on climate and soils. Terroir can be awfully exclusive: I mean, let’s say the presence of Goldridge soil is pertinent to your definition. Exactly where does Goldridge start and stop?  It can be a matter of feet–and if I’m right outside the Goldridge zone, but I want into the new appellation, I’m going to be pissed off if you don’t let me in. I might even hire a lawyer and fight. So maybe calling them “neighborhoods” is so that the boundaries can be more elastic.

At any rate, it’s a good thing the discussion has resumed, and I hope that it results in some new AVAs. As readers of this blog know, I sometimes poke fun at California AVAs (because it’s so easy to), but at heart I’m a big admirer of them. They’re the slipperiest things in the world to get your arms around–but we’re better off with them than without them, because they do help, however limitedly, to understand why some wines are the way they are. At the elite end of wine, at the kind of wineries that are so common throughout the Russian River Valley, vintners try their utmost to produce wines with minimal intervention so that their terroir can shine through. So it’s only proper that that terroir should have a name.

You can’t be a fan of wine without having some interest in geology, climate science, geography, political history and associated fields. As a geek, I love studying topo maps (showing physical features) and political maps (showing streets, towns, river names and so on), trying to piece together how everything ties in. Right now I’m looking at the giant map the Sonoma County Winegrape Commission put out in 2007 of the Russian River Valley (including Green Valley and Chalk Hill). Because of its topo features, you can clearly see how the flats we call the Petaluma Gap allow maritime air to funnel into the valley, traversing past Cotati and Rohnert Park like a bowling ball taking aim at the southeastern valley (the Laguna Ridges). At the same time, another break in the coastal hills, this one coming up from Bodega Bay, brings that cool, moist air into the southwestern valley, into the heart of Green Valley. (Berglund’s Sebastopol Hills seems to lie at the junction of the Petaluma Gap and Bodega Bay intrusions.) Of course, as you move north in the valley, you lose that coastal influence with every mile or so (local conditions depending), so that it’s largely spent by the time you reach, say, Oded Shakked’s Dakine Vineyard, on Westside Road, where you’re almost in Dry Valley (and Dakine is, of course, where Oded grows excellent Syrah for his Longboard brand).

The Russian River Valley obviously needs clarification. At 96,000 acres, it’s the 21st biggest AVA in California, according to the Wine Institute–bigger than Santa Rita Hills, Arroyo Seco and Atlas Peak combined. It’s true that Napa Valley, at 225,280 acres, dwarfs Russian River Valley, but Napa already is divided into at least 16 sub-appellations, and quite successfully; in my opinion, Napa’s appellations were drawn up more or less sensibly, although they could stand further refinement (I’d divide Oakville, for instance, into East and West, and might even reconsider Benches for Oakville and Rutherford).

The task the RRVW has given itself will not be an easy one. Even if there’s widespread agreement among all parties as to names and boundaries–a big “if”–the biggest challenge is suggested by this sentence in Donatiello’s press release: “The diverse personalities within the Russian River Valley are shown as much in the people that inhabit this area as much as the wines grown here.” This statement tacitly concedes that the total impact on a wine includes not just climate and soil, but “personalities,” or what Emile Peynaud, in The Taste of Wine, refers to as cru. It is not simply terroir, as such; it includes “the primary role of…man’s efforts,” taking into account his “observation, ingenuity and hard work.” How you roll these things into establishing the boundaries of an appellation is beyond me, but somehow, it has got to be done.

Happy Birthday Russian River Valley!



I’ve had a love affair with the Russian River Valley for the nearly 30 years I’ve been going up there to visit wineries and taste wine. My first visit was in 1985; two years before that, the region received its official status as an American Viticultural Area, the 26th California AVA (preceded, oddly, by such non-entities as Paicines, Lime Kiln Valley and Cole Ranch). So 2013 is the valley’s thirtieth birthday.

The original 96,000 acres, now expanded to 126,600 acres, was thought of as a cool-climate growing region, although it’s fair to say our understanding of the valley’s complex terroir has increased vastly since then. There are areas that are quite hot (due to elevation above the fog), and the snaking pattern of the maritime influence is as complicated as the terrain of the hills and wind gaps that shapes it. Still, there’s a reason Cabernet Sauvignon is not widely grown in the RRV: the weather is patently too cool. Pinot Noir, Chardonnay and sparkling wine are the valley’s specialties, but Zinfandel, Syrah, Petite Sirah and “field blends” also star.

The valley is not difficult to get to from my home town, Oakland. Up the 80-east corridor through Berkeley to the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, past the San Quentin peninsula that I always think would be a fabulous place to live (it’s sheltered from the fog, with gorgeous Bay views), were it not for the inconvenient fact of the prison. Then it’s onto the merge with the 101, made easier in San Rafael since they completed the new ramp. Up through Marin, past Frank Lloyd Wright’s Civic Center, across the Sonoma line through Petaluma and Cotati (where the first vines appear), then to Santa Rosa (which can be trafficky), and there you are: You can take River Road for the valley’s southern fringe, or go up to Westside Road for its northern.

From the ground, it’s hard to appreciate the larger-scale topology of the RRV. Certainly the Petaluma Gap, west of the freeway, a gigantic spoon-shaped plain that funnels cold air and moisture right into the valley’s southern flank, is informative. As is, on a clear day, the sight of Mount St. Helena, in the northeast: that’s Napa Valley. I remember a day, years ago, when I was in a Rodney Strong vineyard right beside the 101 freeway, looking at St. Helena, looming in the purple distance. I picked up a piece of black stone a geologist later identified as basalt that came, most likely, from St. Helena, or from one of the other Napa mountains, that blew its stack, millions of years ago, during the last period of volcanic activity. But between the Russian River Valley and Napa Valley stands a major obstacle: the wall of the Mayacamas, rising (at Cobb Mountain) to 4,700 feet. This formidable barrier tends to stop the marine influence in its tracks, which is why Napa is considerably warmer than the RRV.

The valley has changed a lot over decades. Symbolically, Williams Selyem no longer is made in a ramshackle wooden barn but in an ultra-modern facility. There are many more wineries now than then; more people, too, in towns like Sebastopol (where The Barlow is the biggest thing to happen in years). Yet along River and Westside roads, and the country lanes that crisscross the river itself, things still feel countrified; time hasn’t exactly stood still, but has advanced slowly, a tortoise to Napa’s hare.

The highest score I ever gave to a Russian River wine was 100 points, for Williams Selyem’s 2007 Litton Estate Pinot Noir. (They had to drop the Litton a few years ago, after Ridge complained.) Most of my highest-scoring RRV wines have also been from Williams Selyem, but Merry Edwards is dependably up there, as are Lynmar, Rochioli, Joseph Swan and Gary Farrell. There are many tiny little wineries whose wines I’ve never had, because there aren’t enough hours in the day to taste everything. Sometimes I wish I specialized in Pinot Noir, but I don’t: my beat is inclusive of all wine varieties and types.

The highest score I ever gave a Russian River Valley Chardonnay was 97 points, for Rochioli’s 2010 South River Vineyard. That was followed, a few months later, by another 97 pointer, for Williams Selyem’s 2010 Allen Vineyard. Those two vineyards are nearby, on opposite sides of Westside Road, but both in the so-called Middle Reach of the valley. I do believe the Middle Reach is the tenderloin of the Russian River Valley–a sort of Grand Cru stretch–but so much also depends on whether the vintage has been cool or warm, and also upon viticulture.

There’s been talk, endless talk, of sub-appellating the valley. I think it’s a good idea, but then, I have no economic or egotistical investment in the outcome. Were I King, there would be a Middle Reach appellation, a Laguna Hills appellation, perhaps a Santa Rosa Plain. One can even argue for a Western Russian River Valley AVA, for that cool, mountainous portion north and west of the Green Valley, inclusive of Guerneville (but not of Fort Ross-Seaview, just over the Cazadero hill, to the northwest; there, everything is different). Such distinctions make sense from a terroir (mainly climate but also elevation) point of view. But I’m not holding my breath. If it hasn’t happened already (and it obviously hasn’t), it probably won’t for a long time.

Russian River Pinot Noir too often is commodity wine. Get used to it.



Jon Bonné in his wrap-up of the 2011 Pinot Noir vintage in California uses the extraordinary phrase “mission creep” to describe the great expansion of acreage in the Russian River Valley area over the years, “from the core of the appellation near Healdsburg and Forestville” to places “far afield.”

Historically this is an accurate statement. In 1988 (25 years ago), Sonoma County contained 1,968 acres of Pinot Noir, almost all of it in the relatively concentrated area mostly stretching along River Road in the south and Westside Road in the north.

Last year (2012) by contrast Sonoma had 12,062 acres of Pinot Noir (bearing and non-bearing), an increase of 512%, and while some of that acreage was outside formal Russian River Valley AVA (mainly along the Sonoma Coast), most of it was from within the valley, and a great deal of that was due to the 2005 expansion of the appellation’s boundary southward, toward Cotati, which added 30,200 acres, or roughly 30%, to its total size.

So Jon is entirely correct in his summation of history. But I have a different take on the question of his correlative assertion that this expansion, or “mission creep,” has come at the expense of overall quality.

Jon’s right, in this sense: Certainly the overall quality of Russian River Valley Pinot Noir has been diluted. But then, there are a great many more Pinot Noirs from the Russian River Valley than ever before (and the quantity will explode once the enormous 2012 vintage hits the market), and as with all such things, that means there are a great many more mediocre Pinot Noirs than ever before. This is solely a function of the Russian River Valley’s explosion in size, and not necessarily because its winemakers have failed to “make a stand for a sense of place,” as Jon puts it. Any large region contains many mediocre wines, Bordeaux being a prime example (and Burgundy, too). Therefore, to assume that Russian River Pinot Noirs “need to take a step up in quality” is not the correct interpretation. That is something that the wines–broadly speaking–cannot do: “Russian River Pinot Noir” now has become a generic branding of the varietal, producing many commodity wines. The words “Russian River Valley” on a label of Pinot Noir are simply a guarantee of origin, and a certain Pinot-esque quality of flavor and mouthfeel. Beyond that, the consumer no longer should expect anything more.

This argues the case for two new things to consider: The first, obviously, is the reputation of the individual Pinot house. If one seeks Pinot Noir at the highest level, one buys, not “Russian River Valley Pinot Noir,” but Wiliams Selyem, or Hartford Court, or Merry Edwards, or Lynmar, and so on; and fortunately there are a great many top houses to choose from. The second consideration is less obvious, and more controversial: now that “Russian River Valley” by itself is largely meaningless, it is time to break the greater Russian River Valley AVA into smaller ones.

So sticky has this issue become that no one wants to talk about it anymore, because every time the subject comes up it causes heartache, anger and recrimination. But really, that is the thing to do now. Jon is right to bemoan the fact that “Russian River Valley Pinot Noir” has lost traction to (say) Sonoma Coast (the “True” one, and we now have a Fort Ross-Seaview appellation to officialize it, followed, I hope, by Annapolis in the north and Occidental or Freestone or something else in the south). But neither he, nor we, ought to set our hearts on a general “step up in quality” in the Russian River Valley proper. The horse is out of the barn, his rump disappearing beyond the last bend in the road; and nothing will lure him back. Russian River Valley Pinot Noir no longer is the elite club of Davis Bynum, Joe Swan, Rochioli and Burt Williams, laboring in his ramshackle barn. It’s a big, ungainly consortium, and like all consortia contains a multitude of the good, the bad and the ugly.

It’s sad, in a way, for me to come to this conclusion about Russian River Valley Pinot Noir, but it was inevitable that it would happen. Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon is in much the same boat. “There are no common wines in Vosnes,” I once read (it might have been Hugh Johnson or Michael Broadbent paraphrasing someone else), but there indeed are common Pinots in the Russian River Valley and we might as well get used to the fact and stop criticizing the valley for not being what it can no longer be.

Wednesday wraparound: European palates and “a hole in the middle”


I was talking with a Russian River Valley winemaker the other day, and she told me that, of all the American critics she follows, I have the most “European palate.”

I was surprised, although I didn’t say anything, because I always think of myself as having a Californian palate. After all, I love our wines (at their best), even as others—mainly Europhiles and New Yawkahs—slam them for being too ripe/sweet/fruity/oaky/alcoholic/name your insult. I’m a sucker for a complex Chardonnay, captivated by Cabernet, sent into swoons by a great Syrah, tickled pink by Pinot Noir, and since I’m running out of alliterative steam, I’ll stop here.

But my fondness for California wine doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate wines from Old Europe. I’ve tasted a lot of Spanish, Italian, French and German wines in my time, and been knocked out by great bottles old and new. The winemaker who told me I have a “European palate” did so, I think, because I give her Pinot Noirs and Chardonnays high scores, even though they’re comparatively acidic and tannic compared to many of her California colleagues’ wines that are riper and more accessible. So she figures I must like a more austere wine, one that only shows its glories with some bottle age—in other words, that I have a European palate.

The truth is, I like to think I have a catholic [small “c”] palate, which is to say I appreciate quality no matter how it expresses itself. That’s why I can never understand these California bashers. After all, if I can find pleasure in a European wine, then why can’t they find pleasure in a California wine?

* * *

In another conversation I had, with a second Russian River Valley winemaker, we were talking about the 2012 vintage (which believe me is being hyped up and down the state like no other vintage in years), and he offered the only criticism I’ve heard so far. “At the very least it’s a very good year,” he began. “The easiest thing to tell early on [with a vintage] is when it’s a bad year!” Then he added, “If I have a worry, yields were too high, so we did a lot of bleed off, saignée. Like in 1997, some of the wines developed a bit of a hole in the middle, and that’s a concern this year.”

This concept of “a hole in the middle” refers to wines that may smell great and enter powerfully, but then something falls off in the concentration or intensity that lowers the score. I find this a lot, and it’s always disappointing; it can resemble the effects of overcropping. In any wine, you want concentration that’s consistent all the way through. That doesn’t mean sheer power. Power by itself is boring. Concentration means power + elegance. Clearly, the Russian River Valley winemaker’s concern is that the high yield will dilute concentration, especially in that middle palate which is so sensitive to the slightest variations of intensity. That is why the winemaker practiced saignée, which normally is used in the production of rosés. The juice is drained or “bled” off after limited contact with the skins, meaning that the remaining juice has greater time on the skins and presumably becomes fuller-bodied.

I’m not sure that’s the best way to restore concentration. After all, if it’s not there initially, then skin contact isn’t going to restore it. But a wine with a hole in the middle can be made to feel fuller through this method. However, I haven’t heard this concern from any other winemaker in the few months since the vintage ended. Indeed, last week in Santa Barbara they were practically turning cartwheels over 2012. Winemakers always fib about vintages, of course; even in a notoriously bad one they’ll tell you that their neighbors suffered from frost/smoke taint/mold/rain/whatever but they didn’t. But in the case of 2012 the hurrahs are so widespread I just have to assume there’s a “there” there. We’ll see.

Bold and brassy doesn’t go over in NYC? That’s weird


There’s something ironic about the fact that the New York contingent of wine writer/critics hates brash, in your face California Pinot Noirs. After all, isn’t that the essence of New Yawkahs–brash and in your face?

The latest would be John Mariani, writing this piece in Bloomberg decrying “blockbuster,” “fleshy,” “muscular,” and “hedonistic” Pinot Noirs, as though his delicate sensitivities as a Big Apple denizen allow him to covet only wines of timid, tremoring restraint. It’s passing strange.

But enough of the snark, let me defend why some of these high alcohol Pinot Noirs merit their place in the pantheon. Consider, for example, Armanino’s 2010 Amber Ridge Pinot Noir, from the Russian River Valley ($55). It clocks in officially at 15.1%, which in reality means the actual alcohol level may be slightly higher.

The overwhelming fact of that wine is deliciousness. In my review, which will be in the May 1 issue of Wine Enthusiast, I called it “vastly rich.” Amber Ridge Vineyard, which was planted in 2000, is just west of the 101 Freeway, near the town of Windsor and south of Healdsburg, making it somewhat warmer than, say, areas further west and south, such as Green Valley or the Laguna Ridges. That extra kick of heat no doubt accounts for the ripeness that translates into alcohol.

Yes, this region doesn’t yield your typical Russian River Valley Pinot Noir. The same vineyard, Amber Ridge, has been source to excellent Novy Syrah. But the Lees, who own Novy, also make an Amber Ridge Pinot Noir from their Siduri brand, with excellent results. And just to the south of Amber Ridge is Starr Ridge, a rather famous vineyard in its own right due to Gary Farrell’s consistent production of rich, ageworthy Pinot Noirs. So it’s not like this is no-man’s land for Pinot Noir. There certainly are cooling influences, from gaps that allow maritime air to filter in from Guerneville as well as the last punch that comes up through the Petaluma Gap. (Things heat up quickly as you cross the 101 and move into Chalk Hill, where the heat bunches up against the 1,500-foot Coast Ranges.)

Isn’t diversity of style a large part of the charm of Pinot Noir? Burgundians rave about the spectrum of wines within the Côte de’Or, everything from a big, sappy Vosnes to a lighter, more delicate Beaune. If there’s room for a spectrum in Burgundy, why not in California? That Armanino, and Pinots like it, shouldn’t be mindlessly thrown under the bus just because it doesn’t conform to a “Burgundian” template. Nor, I should add, ought a wine like the Patz & Hall 2009 Jenkins Ranch Pinot Noir (Sonoma Coast, $55), with its alcohol level of 15.8% (another producer Mr. Mariani picked on). These wines may not be for everyone. But I’d like to see critics who don’t like that style at least credit them for being high-level examples of that style, instead of saying, “They’re not Burgundy.” They’re not supposed to be Burgundy. Their creators don’t want them to be Burgundy. They are legitimate expressions of their terroir, and they reflect house styles that have proven to be popular with many wine consumers and critics–including me.

Expanded RRV fine by me


I personally have no problem with the big expansion of the Russian River Valley AVA that Gallo finally pushed through a couple days ago.

I know that quite a few winemakers in the region were against it. As far as I can tell, the opposition says the expansion, which is roughly 8% of the currant acreage, will dilute the RRV’s purity as an appellation.

For sure, extending its southern boundary all the way down to Cotati will take some getting used to. But the truth is that vineyards have been going into that area for years now. It was a shock to see them that far south when they started popping up in the early 2000s or so, but there they were: and if you’d stopped to think about it back then, it would have been obvious that somebody, somewhere, was going to look toward an appellation better than “Sonoma County.” And who would that somebody be? Obviously, the company that owned the vineyards.

Some people also say that the area in question isn’t really part of the Russian River’s watershed, or that the climate there isn’t really the same as the more northerly parts of the valley. I don’t know if Cotati’s in or out of the watershed, and I don’t care. That’s a pretty technical point to hang your argument on. I do know that Cotati is a climatically cool region, which is what the Russian River Valley is supposed to be–and you can even argue that the more northerly parts of the valley, up towards Healdsburg, are too warm for a cool-climate appellation.

Granted, the new Russian River Valley AVA is a pretty big place. But so is Napa Valley. In fact, Napa’s still more than twice as big as RRV, even after the expansion. Both appellations cover a multitude of different climates and soils, and both are–let’s face it–fairly useless as guides to style. Granted, you can usually depend on a Napa Valley wine to be well-made, but that’s because the wineries there have so much money, they can afford the best viticulture and enology. Anything from the Russian River Valley similarly is likely to be pretty good, although its wines are qualitatively more variable than Napa’s.

Those who are unhappy with the expanded RRV boundaries might find hope in the fact that this is likely to spark renewed interest and vigor in delineating sub-appellations within the greater AVA. Charlie Olken speculated this may be the case yesterday on his blog. “The next best thing is too encourage the good folks in the Russian River Valley to get on with their occasional discussions of smaller, more tightly defined areas,” he wrote. This jives with something Rod Berglund, at Joseph Swan, an opponent of the expansion, told me last Friday. Winemakers in the valley have been talking about sub-appellating forever.  Even when I wrote about it in my 2005 book, A Wine Journey along the Russian River, the talks had been going on for years. I’m not sure why they never progressed, except that lethargy set in. The process is a lot more complicated than you might think, it requires a lot of organizing and meeting, and it’s also expensive. The winemakers probably figured they had better things to do with their time and money. But that was then; this is now. I wouldn’t be surprised to see renewed sub-appellating efforts by Spring. They can start with the two most obvious candidates: Laguna Ridges and The Middle Reach. And while I’m not a fan of nested or hyphenated appellations, I should think it’s good to append “of the Russian River Valley” to whatever the new appellations are.

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