feature / face to face / Fred Peterson The plan now was to study enology. But before that came


Australia and New Zealand—Fred had been due to go there on a navy ship, but that hadn’t happened; he had some money saved and decided to do it. “I’d met Randy Weaver at Bargetto, and I looked him up in New Zealand. It was the first day of harvest, and he was quite preoccupied, but he had time for dinner. Corbans was also starting the harvest, and I went there and wandered by the crush and saw somebody had left something open; I shut it, and landed myself a job as night-shift supervisor.” (This was in 1975, in case you’ve lost track. Fred doesn’t tell linear stories; they loop backward and forward, sideways, up and down. I’ve tried to make them just a bit more linear.) He’d also met Max Lake at Bargetto, who’d said to look him up, so he did. They had dinner, and Max opened a 1927 Rutherglen Muscat; it was quite a trip. So: UC, this time at Davis. Fred got his degree in June 1978


and became a vineyard supervisor for Paul Masson Vineyards in Monterey County. “After a couple of years, I decided I couldn’t work in a place where I didn’t like the wines.” A call from a friend rescued him: Mount Eden Vineyards in the Santa Cruz Mountains needed a vineyard manager and assistant winemaker; Dick Graff hired him, and off they went—he and Martha—to Mount Eden. They had two sons, Ben and Jamie, “the unplanned child.” “I liked Mount Eden. I started replanting vineyards. The


winemaker was sacked after a while, and Dick said, ‘Would you like to work under me as a winemaker?’ I said sure. I might still be there had Martin Ray, who founded Mount Eden, not needed money to expand. He had a scheme to have partners and build another winery. He’d created Mount Eden, and he chose partners on the principle of divide and conquer. They couldn’t get along. They sued Martin Ray—they got along that much.” A buyer had to be found. “Chalone had recently started up and thought Mount Eden could be part of it, so they found a favorable buyer. But the main shareholder had financial hiccups and sold stock, and the other shareholders hated Dick Graff and Chalone.” The fall-out was that Bill Hambrecht, an investment banker who had fingers in a great many California-wine pies, formed Hambrecht & Peterson Vineyards, which consisted of 160 acres (65ha) on Bradford Mountain. Fred says, “I talked him into buying in Anderson Valley as well, and by the early 1990s I was managing 680 acres [275ha] on 2,000 acres [800ha] of land up in the hills.” He was also managing Monte Bello for Ridge, and consulting, and raising three children; by now, Emily had joined Ben and Jamie. But in 1986 his marriage broke up. “Martha decided she was over me. Left to my own devices, I wouldn’t have had children; I was very self-absorbed. Now I’m paying for the sins of being a neglectful father by being a grandfather.” But there was a woman called Kathleen working at Chez


Panisse, and her son was between Ben and Jamie in age, and they became friends; and then her marriage broke up. “I would plan my trips to Monte Bello when she was working at Chez Panisse. She’d feed me in the kitchen, and there were incredible glasses of Burgundy and Bordeaux. It was a great time.”


A fascination with wine places and people Peterson Vineyards started in 1987 in the red barn on Lytton Springs Road at Norton Ranch Vineyard, but it was a slow start; a hobby, really, making small-batch wines that Bill Hambrecht gave away to clients. The labels said, HAMBRECHT VINEYARDS, PICKED AND BOTTLED BY PETERSON WINERY. “I said after a bit, what if


94 | THE WORLD OF FINE WINE | ISSUE 87 | 2025


I sell enough to cover costs? So, I went out selling.” That was 1993/94. Fred converted a tractor shed at the red barn, “but the building was falling down around us.” In 1995, Ridge Vineyards bought Norton Ranch from Bill Hambrecht and renamed it Lytton Springs Vineyard West. So, Ridge became Fred’s landlord and also hired him to be consulting vineyard manager. Otherwise, Fred divested himself of outside management and development projects to focus on his own winery; its official launch was in January 1995, when Bill Hambrecht said to Fred, “If you think so much of your little winery, I’ll sell it to you.” (It’s a convoluted story. I hope you’re still following.) The children joined the business: Jamie in 2002 as assistant


winemaker, and he now runs the business; Emily, too, though “she decided she wanted children and now lives in Washington State.” In 2006, the winery moved to where it is now, at Timber Crest Farms, farther up Dry Creek Valley. “I could have given my son a raise, but I gave him the title of winemaker. He’s a whizz for cleanliness and topping-up, and it allows me to travel and focus on the vineyard. I gave myself a promotion from the winery […]. I don’t see myself retiring, but I want to get it to a point where I can hand it on. The kids will share the vineyard, which is worth more, and Jamie will take over the winery.” Once again, it was all a bit accidental. “If a Harvard MBA had done a business plan for a winery of our size,” he says, “it might make four wines, not 20.” But the fun, clearly, is in making such different wines from such different blocks. It’s the process that attracts him most. “I got into the business because of the fascination of the places that wine comes from and the people who make it. I love winemaking, but to me the vineyard is where the magic happens. I like the fact that it’s out of my control; I like not being in control of everything. One of the differences between Jamie and me is that he’s organized, and I’m not. “California’s gift to the wine community is the technology to


make good wine, but very few in California want to produce good wine at affordable prices […]. I have two rules of wine pricing. One is, Would I be willing to pay that for a bottle of my own wine? If it’s more than $50, my hand starts to shake. Two: Would I want to hang out with the people who— I appreciate great wine. But wine is not great art. It’s artisanal. It’s meant to be shared. You could cultivate big critics, but what’s the fucking point if you don’t appreciate what you do? I never got more than 89 from Robert Parker. I saw what I needed to do to get 90, and I didn’t want to do it. ‘Competent but uninspired winemaking,’ is what Parker said. I knew what I could have done. I don’t want to sound like Mr Integrity, but I have to be able to look at myself in the mirror.” Fred mentioned fear of failure earlier; has he ever felt a


failure? “I felt the failure of my first marriage. But I like to think I learn. I would have left myself, too. Kathleen won’t tolerate my bullshit, and I’ve matured a lot.” He says he’s intuitive rather than analytical, especially about vineyards. “What I’ve learned, I’ve learned by observation. It’s hard to define balance in a vineyard, but I know it when I see it. Like pornography, as the US judge said.” Money was not a motivation, however. “I never had a great scheme. If I’d wanted to be financially successful, I would have had to make wine for critics and be more strategic. Perhaps I could have made more money and had more fame, but I have no regrets. It’s not that I’m some kind of poet or dreamer, but I love the search for expression.” Oh, and he’s still a director of the Northern Sonoma County Fire District. Firefighting as a metaphor for life? Maybe. 


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