John Paul

The Wizard of Worden Hill

Written by Joe Wilkins; Photographed by Daniel Stark

A gray sky hung low over the Red Hills of Dundee, over the leafless November orchards and long, sloping vineyard rows. The gravel driveway crested the hill, and I parked near a small solar array and climbed out. Rain fell slowly, more mist than rain, a fog, a miasma—just the kind of weather, I thought, turning up my collar and crunching across the lot, to meet a wizard.

The top of the hill, even under cloudy skies, offered astonishing views of the valley and the Coast Range, yet the facilities were unpretentious, clearly built for the work of growing grapes and making wine. The Carhartt-wearing vineyard manager let me in, then fired up the forklift and set himself to organizing pallets of Pinot and Chardonnay. I turned a corner—and there he was, the Wizard of Worden Hill himself, owner and founder of Cameron Wines, John Paul.

White-haired and wearing a trim white beard, John greeted me warmly and, as if by magic, produced two wine glasses, then hustled me down the steep stairs to the cellar. John Paul led me ever deeper in, and there’s no other word for it—the cellar at Cameron Wines is funky, and I mean funky as measured by all five senses and then some: dark, cool, and humid, a dank swirl of smells struck my nose as we slipped between stacked oak barrels and ceramic amphora and stainless steel fermenters, the stone walls laced with splattery molds and fungal threads. In an attempt to mimic the ancient cellars of Burgundy, John explained, he sprayed beer all over the brand-new walls, in ’86, to seed the cellar with a healthy, place-based microbiology. “The health inspector from the Department of Ag,” John said, laughing, “he didn’t understand. He was really pissed!”

We made it to the cave, an off-shoot of the cellar with a low, arced ceiling of stone—just the kind of place for a candle-lit medieval feast, or a dark dungeon—and John plunged a thief into a barrel of 2022 Abbey Ridge Pinot and splashed some into both our glasses. We admired for a moment the rich, lustrous purples and deep reds, then tasted. “This has black fruit, plum and prune,” John explained. “One of the things you look for at this point is how it feels in the mouth. This one covers the palette, and has some interesting texture to it.” While John was pleased, he planned to give these barrels at least another year, maybe more, before he and his team started blending. I, on the other hand, would have liked another taste right then. This young Pinot was magic in the glass.

Forty-five years ago, wishing to use his right brain as much as his left, John Paul said goodbye to a burgeoning career in marine biochemistry to try his hand at the art of making wine. After stints at wineries in his native California and in New Zealand, and on the advice of a mentor in Napa, he pointed his nose north, to Oregon, in the early ’80s. At the time, though grapes were growing and early pioneers in the industry were making great wine, Oregon had barely been mentioned in Wine Spectator. John Paul wasn’t deterred. With the help of his wife, Teri Wadsworth, as well as support from a number of partners, and with a Volkswagen load of cuttings taken from some of the oldest Pinot Noir and Chardonnay vines in California, many of which had in turn come from Burgundy in the 1890s, John Paul set out to make wines in the true Burgundian manner—on a hill in Oregon.

And he has. From New York State to Napa, Cameron Wines are now recognized as some of the finest in production across the past decades. But it’s not wizardry, John assures me. It’s his deep respect for tradition, for the wisdom of the ages. He asks questions, he listens, and he’s not afraid to try something new—or, rather, something very, very old. When John was first starting out, for instance, he questioned some winemakers from Burgundy about how to deal with the many clones, vines propagated from a single parent plant for specific qualities, in his vineyard. Should he pick them separately, then blend later, which was the style in the States at the time?

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“These guys,” John reports, “shook their finger at me and said, ‘No, no, no. It is the melange. You want it all. Pick it all together!’” So that’s what John Paul did.

He has similar stories about fermenting with indigenous yeasts; dry farming; harvesting Pinot and Chardonnay at the exact right time; using traditional fermenting vessels; keeping his entire operation to a manageable, family size; and, of course, seeding your cellar walls with just the right fungi. “The real magic,” John Paul insists, “is picking up on what’s been done.”

Yet it’s not only John Paul’s reverence for tradition that sets him apart; it involves as well his irrepressible, spirited curiosity. He was an early grower of lesser known grapes like Nebbiolo and Friulano, which have thrived in Oregon, as well as fermenting Pinot Grigio in the orange wine style. During the pandemic, on advice from his son, he even tried crafting old world-style cider. “That’s what keeps it interesting,” John says, “seeing what you can do.”

And finally, alongside tradition and curiosity, John Paul credits Oregon. “I’ve put everything I have into this place,” he says, gesturing to the vines and the hills beyond. The Cameron estate vineyard was the very first in the state to be certified salmon-safe, and the bee hives sit just north of the solar array. Besides rain and sunlight, John endeavors to keep his process a closed loop. He wants to honor this particular place and its ecology alongside the traditions. He wants to keep making great Oregon wine.

After wandering the foggy property, and taking in the view from John and Teri’s vineyard-side home, we clattered once more down into the cellar for another splash of Pinot. This time, I let the wine linger longer in my mouth. I tasted fruit and stone and spice, things bright and earthy and becoming—tradition, innovation, a dash of magic. John Paul sipped as well and closed his eyes, nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

Finally, the savor of young Pinot still on our tongues, I asked John Paul about the future. After these many years of astonishing wines, what’s next? “I gotta see if I can get my children into this,” John answered, with a grin far more impish than wizardly. “My wife has only given me a few more years. We’ll see!” Cameron Wines might be steeped in the customs of Burgundy and Northern Italy, but across five decades John Paul has established and grown a legacy all his own here in the Dundee Hills of Oregon. He’ll have plenty of traditions–and maybe even some of that funky Cameron sorcery–to pass down to the next generation.

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The Wizard of Worden Hill

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