"There's something so nostalgic about that time growing up in a life shaped by my ancestors," recalls Kira. "My father, grandfather, and great-grandfather all farmed land here in California."
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How one winemaker found her way back to the land
Long before she was making wine professionally, Kira Malone couldn't wait to get home from school.
Growing up on her family's farm in California's Central Valley, she and her brother would race inside, change into what they called their "cotton jumping clothes," and head back out to the fields. Towering trailers piled high with the day's harvest became their playground, turning ordinary afternoons into the kind of childhood memories that never really leave you.
Looking back now, it's easy to see those afternoons laid the foundation for the life that followed. Kira just didn't know it yet.
"There's something so nostalgic about that time growing up in a life shaped by my ancestors," recalls Kira. "My father, grandfather, and great-grandfather all farmed land here in California."
Like many people raised in a small town, she imagined her future somewhere else. Leaving home for Berkeley on a track scholarship, Kira was convinced city life was where she belonged. It didn't take long to realize that what she missed wasn't simply home, but the connection she had always felt to the land.
Transferring to Cal Poly San Luis Obispo as a business student, she hoped to reconnect with agriculture in some way. An advisor encouraged her to take one class in a new wine and viticulture curriculum. That one class became the beginning of a career.
"I walked into that first classroom when I was twenty years old, and some of the people who were there are still among my closest friends," recalls Kira. "That program offered community, science, and artistry, giving me the freedom to develop both my creativity and intuition."
More than two decades later, those lessons still guide her work as the owner and winemaker behind Pars Fortuna. Partnering with growers she knows and trusts throughout Santa Barbara County, Kira sources fruit from vineyards that best express the wines she hopes to make. Much of that fruit comes from the Santa Maria Valley, including Riverbench Vineyard, where we met with her for this story. She also works with growers in Los Olivos and the Sta. Rita Hills, selecting vineyards that each bring something different to the finished bottle.
Standing among the vines that morning, a low blanket of marine fog rested across the hills beyond the valley. Cool air lingered over the rows as sunlight slowly worked its way inland, revealing one of the qualities that makes this place so well suited to Pinot Noir. Unlike many wine regions, the Santa Maria Valley opens west toward the Pacific, allowing ocean air to drift inland each morning before gradually burning away. That slower start extends the growing season, giving the fruit more time to develop before the mid-day and afternoon warmth arrives.
Every vineyard leaves its own signature on the finished bottle, but Kira has a particular appreciation for Pinot Noir from the Santa Maria Valley. The combination of cool marine mornings, rocky benchland along the Sisquoc River, and a long, gradual growing season gives the wines their distinctive character.
Every vineyard leaves its own signature on the finished bottle, but Kira has a particular appreciation for Pinot Noir from the Santa Maria Valley. At Riverbench Vineyard, where we photographed this story, the vines grow in alluvial soils made up of sand, silt, clay, and gravel on the Santa Maria Bench. Combined with cool marine mornings and a long, gradual growing season, those conditions give the wines their distinctive character.
"The flavors of Pinot Noir here remind me of fresh-picked strawberries with a little bit of soil and a little bit of that steminess," says Kira. "You're really tasting the characteristics of the vineyard—the sense of this place—in the finished wine."
Once the fruit is in, the urgency gives way to patience. Fermentations settle, barrels are topped and sampled, and the work becomes quieter. Months can pass between decisions, each one small on its own but essential to the finished wine. It's a slower rhythm, but no less important.
Much of winemaking happens long before picking begins. Walking the rows beside Kira, it's hard not to notice how often she stops. She studies the vines, inspects the clusters, watches the weather move through the valley, and quietly takes in the details that might otherwise go unnoticed. Years of experience have taught her that good decisions begin with careful observation.
She pauses before describing the idea that has come to define her work: "I think of this winemaking process as a time capsule. You're taking one harvest, preserving it, and years later someone can open that bottle and experience that season's profile all over again."
No two vintages are ever the same. The weather, the vineyard, and the countless decisions made along the way all become part of that bottle. Every growing season eventually comes to an end. The fruit is picked, the vines go dormant, and another cycle begins. Yet years later, someone might pull the cork and find themselves transported to a place they may never have seen. Inside is more than wine. It's a landscape, a season, and a year's worth of care, preserved in a single bottle.
For someone whose family has been farming California for generations, that idea feels especially meaningful. The crop may have changed, but the purpose has not.
Long after the work is finished, the story continues.
