The road into the valley still shows what happened here: black-trunked oaks on the ridgelines, new fencing, vines in their third leaf standing in rows that were ash not long ago. What the road does not show is the mood, which is unaccountably good.
Growers who lost everything replanted with hardier rootstock and, in many cases, different grapes entirely — earlier-ripening varieties chosen for a climate they no longer pretend is coming back. The results, now reaching tasting rooms, are wines with less weight and more nerve than the valley's old reputation promised.
We stopped making the wine we were known for and started making the wine the place wants to make.
A second-generation grower
Visitors will find the hospitality changed, too: fewer marble counters, more folding chairs among the rows, and a habit of pouring the difficult vintages alongside the triumphant ones. The valley has decided its story is the product — and the story includes the bad years.
Go for a weekend. Book the small producers first; the famous names survived on insurance, the small ones survived on stubbornness, and stubbornness tastes better than it sounds.