In Vino Veritas

Sipping along the Russian River

By Jamie Martin

September 8^th, 2021

We set out on a crisp Fall morning, eight friends in a Mercedes Sprinter van, to celebrate a milestone birthday and explore the terroir of Sonoma, a land the indigenous people called The Valley of the Moon. Throughout our week-long tour, a river followed us.

From its calm headwaters in Mendocino to a wide estuary in Jenner, the Russian River runs for 115 miles, delivering a million gallons of fresh water each day to the Pacific where Goat Rock punctuates the rugged coast.

Winding lazily through Northern California's most celebrated wine appellations, the river supplies water to 600,000 people and connects hundreds of vineyards, from Coppola in Geyserville to Korbel in Guerneville.

In Sonoma County, the Russian River has provided abundance for millennia, from grains cultivated 12,000 years ago by Native Americans to grapevines first planted by Russian settlers in the early 19th century.

Today, the region boasts 63,000 acres of vineyards and 425 wineries, including major producers (Rodney Strong, Kendall Jackson) and small, family-owned estates (Ridge, Kosta Browne).

We focused on just four: Flowers, MacRostie, Kamen, and La Rochelle.

Sweep the Leg

We had no idea when we arrived at Kamen Wines who the owner was. Lots of wineries are owned by celebrities, so hearing that a screenwriter owned this one wasn't unusual—but what a story.

In 1980, an aspiring writer sold his first screenplay for $135,000...and promptly signed it over to a realtor. The next morning, he woke up high above Sonoma amidst the 280 rocky acres he'd just purchased, wondering how foolish his decision was. While an acre of Sonoma vineyard may top $1M today, California viticulture was just beginning to take root at the time. And this young writer had yet to write Taps, Karate Kid, Fifth Element, The Transporter, or Taken.

Over the next two hours, Kamen's wine educator, Justin, revelled in sharing the founder's stories—and his wines. On a sail-shaded deck floating over the vineyard, we cruised through half a dozen bottles, intoxicated by elegant Blancs, epic Cabs, and endless folklore.

And that's when a compact bundle of energy in a yellow Cobra Kai t-shirt came tromping down the path:

"Hi! I'm Robert."

Stunned to meet the eponymous creator, we blurted out, "Hi Robert! How are you?"

"I'm great! I'm rich, I'm good-lookin, and I live here."

We proceeded to pepper him with questions about his illustrious career (How did you come up with Danielson's swan kick?), and he played along, as if it was the first time he'd been asked (Total bullshit. You'd get your ass beat if you did that).

Long before screenplays, Kamen was a scrawny kid growing in the Bronx, getting his ass beat. To defend himself, he learned Okinawan karate, Uechi-ryu, from two instructors who became the basis for Mr. Miyagi.

Healdsburg is an excellent home base for oenophiles, connoisseurs, and gourmands: minutes from the vineyards of Alexander Valley and Dry Creek, or Sebastopol's artisanal market, or the historic Sonoma square, it is ultimately convenient; and with dozens of exceptional restaurants within a block or two (Single Thread has a dizzying constellation of three Michelin stars), you could easily explore Sonoma without ever leaving town.

Despite the tasting rooms, art galleries, and boutiques, Healdsburg—like much of Sonoma—is somehow still down to Earth: a community of farmers and truckers, line cooks and vintners, painters and bakers, beekeepers and bookkeepers—all sharing a table with a passion.

The Bountiful Table

Harvest

Earth's increase, foison plenty,

Barns and garners never empty,

Vines and clustering bunches growing,

Plants with goodly burthen bowing;

Spring come to you at the farthest

In the very end of harvest!

Scarcity and want shall shun you;

Ceres' blessing so is on you.

The Tempest

Flying over Kamen on the observation deck.

The Battered Coast

After three indulgent days, we followed the river south past Copain, Bacigalupi, and Williams Selyem, then west through Guerneville towards Jenner. Before we reached the coast, a Brigadoon fog surprised us, lurking around a bend. A mile later, zig-zagging up and down a hilly Hwy 1, we emerged from a cloud to a Pacific vista: a beast of an ocean, chained to titanic boulders, rocking impatiently.

Descending the misty bluff down to Goat Rock Beach, we landed on a ghostly lunar surface. Enshrouded one moment in a mute fog that vanished the next, revealing blue skies and the instant radiance of the sun on our cheeks.