Around 5 in the morning on April 21st, the temperature at our weather station south of Lovettsville dropped to 27°F. In Woodstock, VA, in the Shenandoah Valley, it was at 26°. Both Monticello and Crozet recorded 25°. Roanoke, 24°. At our tasting room, where we grow seven acres of Chardonnay, Viognier, Petit Manseng, and Petit Verdot, the air at cordon height dropped to 28°, just a tad too cold for new growth to survive.

   29° is generally considered the death temperature for new shoots. At that temperature, ice crystals form within plant tissue. Water freezes when it expands, and the pressure from that expansion ruptures cell walls in exposed shoots, leaves, and inflorescences, which store the year’s crop. At a certain temperature, all new tissue is destroyed. The shoots, which have just emerged, will dry out, shrivel, and drop from the vine.

   A frost is not a frost is not a frost. The temperature at 500 feet is not the same as the temperature at 700 feet. The temperature at 700 feet in one place the same as at 700 feet in another. The temperature on the first six rows, which face slightly west, is not the same as the temperature at the last six rows, angled a dash to the east. The April 21st frost was a radiation frost (often called “radial”), where clear skies and calm winds allow heat to escape the earth’s surface and rise into the atmosphere, creating an inversion where cold air from above settles. There are also advection frosts, when massive bodies of cold air move into a region accompanied by wind. Mitigation techniques are different for each.

   The assessment of damage after a frost is difficult. Most winegrowers, including myself, will regrettably walk many frost-wounded blocks throughout their careers. It can be hard to identify the death of an inflorescence in the first few days. Fruitfulness of secondary buds varies. As I write this, four days after the event, I still struggle to put an accurate percentage on what was lost. Our higher sites, like Russ Mountain and Hickory Wind, have no damage. Our lower sites have considerable. Sometimes the vines surprise us; sometimes they disappoint.

   I once overheard an apple grower bemoan that you weren’t a real farmer – his emphasis on real farmer dripped with implication – until you’ve entered a field and vomited at the sight of a destroyed crop. I understand this. Seeing thousands of buds shriveling after a cold night is nauseating, particularly from vines you’ve planted, managed, and pruned. The feeling is somewhat primordial. Frost doesn’t frustrate winegrowers. It doesn’t sadden us. Frost fills us with dread.

   The April 21st frost was devastating statewide. We don’t have data on the impact yet, but it hit the valley, the eastern shore, southern, central, and northern Virginia. It hit Maryland and New York. It will almost certainly be the largest loss in Virginia since, at the very least, my first harvest in 2004.

   It’s worth noting that April 21st is not a particularly late date for a frost in Northern Virginia. On average, we see them in early May. Last year, in 2025, we had a frost on the same day – April 21st – but there weren’t any buds out. The issue is the early start to the season. If we have more moderate winters, the season will start earlier, leaving shoots vulnerable.

   One thing that makes the loss easier is the concern and interest of those whose love of wine drives them to follow Virginia’s seasons. Due to social media images of drooping shoots, or landscape shots of smudge puts flaming in the night, our friends and neighbors are more aware than ever of the activity in our vineyards. This is a wonderful thing. In the past four days I’ve received consolations from hundreds. With such scant connection to any form of farming, it’s good that wine lovers are aware.

   Vines are resilient beyond understanding. They have evolutionary “backups.” A frosted vinifera block probably won’t push much of a crop, but it will push secondary shoots whose growth will fill the canopy, and with that growth, our feeling of dread will dissipate. The work will continue. It will be our task to nurture the remaining crop with vigilance so something remarkable emerges on the other side.