A couple of weeks ago, I spent Saturday afternoon at the Lake Michigan Shore Wine Festival at Weko Beach in Bridgman.

The good news: the weather rocked -- warm and sunny. The bad news: it was hard to enjoy, because we had to taste wine under a hot tent pitched in an asphalt parking lot, along with a thousand other people who also wished they could be hanging and sipping on the nearby beach.

Maybe I'm becoming an old curmudgeon, but those "let's get a huge crowd together and party down with lots of wine" events don't excite me quite as much as they used to. (Folks up north shouldn't feel slighted. I feel pretty much the same way toward their festivities at Leland...)

And they still aren't able to offer the wines being poured for retail sale at the event. I didn't dig into the logistics behind that, but it represents a  serious downside from the viewpoints of both consumers and wineries

But the bottom line: several Lake Michigan Shore wineries poured some mighty tasty wines. Here are five that stood out for me; prices listed are from the winery.

2008 Braganini Reserve Sauvignon Blanc -- I seldom utter kinds words about St. Julian's higher-end brand, except for the Traminette. Far too often, my tasting notes run along the lines of, "Why would one of Michigan's prominent wine families want to paste their name on swill like this?"

Now you can add a second wine worthy of the family name. The 2008 Sauvignon Blanc isn't just the best-ever Michigan iteration of this grape I've tasted, it's a wine to take seriously wherever Sauvignon Blanc is poured. Fans of New Zealand versions will recognize the nose instantly; the same style of grassy herbaceousness leaps from the glass. I can pick a few quibbles with the palate -- the middle is slightly hollowed-out and the finish a little sweet -- but why bother? Hats off to St. Julian and grower Joe Herman's grapes for this one. $19.

2007 Domaine Berrien "Steelhead White" -- It ain't always easy to find high quality Michigan dry whites to recommend at $10 or less. This just sneaks by on price, but it's a good 'un. A blend of Seyval, Chardonnay and Pinot Grigio, it's crisp, bone dry, and full of minerality. One of our group called it a perfect "oyster wine" -- on the same order as a Chablis -- and that's probably as good a cubbyhole as any. Anyway, I stopped by the winery the next day and picked up a half-dozen bottles to sip next to light summertime fare.

2005 Hickory Creek "Melange" -- I wrote about this wine two years back, when it was first released; it's hard to believe that winemaker Mike de Schaaf still has a few bottles left of his Cab Franc-based Bordeaux blend -- and was pouring it for the crowd. In the meantime, it's only gotten better, as it put on some additional weight and nicely integrated the flavors. Not cheap at $32, whcih may explain why it's still available -- but worth a couple of bottles in my cellar of Michigan reds.

2008 Fenn Valley Riesling -- Year in and year out, Doug Welsch's Fenn Valley keeps turning out reasonably-priced, unhyped wines that folks stop in to purchase by the case. Think of this one as semi-dry Riesling equivalent of Domaine Berrien's "Steelhead White" -- a moderately-priced, everyday bottle with a pretty nose and gorgeous, ripe peach flavors. Worth every penny of the $12 they charge.

2007 Tabor Hill Valvin Muscat --  First release of a brand-spanking-new varietal. Here's the deal: Valvin Muscat is one more hybrid developed by the cool climate grape wizards over at Cornell's experimental station in Geneva, New York. It takes Muscat's over-the-top aromatics -- which, admittedly, not everyone loves -- and makes the grape user-friendly to growers in places with winters along Michigan's style.

The massive, orange-and-apricot nose lets you know in a second that there's nothing subtle about this baby, and the semi-dry palate throws lots more mandarin oranges in your direction. I can see sipping it with hard cheeses and sliced apples out on the deck all summer long. At $14, it's one to serve both to Muscat lovers -- who will appreciate the fact that it's being grown in Michigan -- and those simply looking for a good, sweeter something to quaff.

While other emerging wine regions expand educational opportunities for their next generation of industry leaders, Michigan has pruned in-state training in the face of shrinking resources.

Now a new program purports to fill the educational gap, combining regional online classes with hands-on practical experience at local wineries. VESTA -- the Viticulture and Enology Science and Technology Alliance -- wants to provide a "an educational opportunity for those in the center of the country," according to its director, Michelle Norgren. 

Norgren, based at Missouri State University, says the NSF-funded program offers a way to "reach people regardless of where they're located. A lot of people are place-bound. They don't have the resources to leave."

Without doubt, the curriculum covers a broad range of introductory and mid-level viticulture and enology technical courses. It also offers students the opportunity to interact online in real time with instructors and their peers, and  grants certificates to students who complete the prescribed program in either viticulture or enology.

Michigan State University's Institute of Agricultural Technology recently partnered with VESTA to provide Michigan-based hands-on training to supplement the on-line courses. VESTA also works with two and four-year educational institutions in Arkansas, Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, Missouri and Oklahoma.

Tom Smith, the MSU Institute's director, told me that student internships at participating Michigan wineries will supplement VESTA's certificate programs. So far, Bel Lago, Chateau Chantal and St. Julian have signed up to provide hands-on training to those in the program.

But Smith also acknowledges the VESTA program has significant holes. For example, MSU won't directly offer any courses  in conjunction with the program. Students looking for a college degree will have only one option: an Associate program -- which the Institute is still negotiating -- with local community colleges in grape-growing regions, such as Northwestern Michigan College and Lake Michigan College. Students outside those colleges' service areas may have no degree-granting options at all.

Even more important, VESTA offers no hands-on lab component, as a traditional on-site program might, and no supplementary grape or wine-related courses will be available at the local community colleges.

Smith frankly acknowledges these shortcomings, and says part of his job is to determine "where we need to plug some other gaps" if resources become available. Also high on the priority list, Smith says, "we want to provide some instructions specific to Michigan."

VESTA offers clear advantages to introductory-level students. They can take courses online from their own homes, at low cost and at their own pace. Older, non-traditional students may find VESTA more amenable to their schedules than traditional programs. Others can "drop in"  for continuing education classes, without the need to enroll in a certificate or degree program.

Nonetheless, doubts remain about how well VESTA can fill the holes left by the demise of MSU's former degree-level viticulture and enology program, or compete with programs elsewhere. Among the unanswered questions:

• How well can a regional program, whose curriculum must satisfy participating institutions in places as diverse as Oklahoma, Missouri and Illinois, address grapegrowing issues specific to Michigan's "continental maritime" climate?
• How well can online training match up with the laboratory experience and skills developed by site-based programs in other states?
• Can VESTA's technical and community college-level training develop industry leaders able to compete in the future with other emerging wine regions -- like New York, Texas and Ontario -- that offer four year and graduate-level education?

Tom Smith says that Michigan's grape and wine industry can't currently support the type of educational program of these other states, or absorb its graduates. "I don't think there's industry demand to produce 30 new Bachelor of Science students annually," he said.

Perhaps Linda Jones, executive director of the Michigan Grape and Wine Industry Council, best sums up the role of VESTA, calling it "an interim step toward creating Michigan-specific programming."

The irony, of course, is that Michigan State University offered and then eliminated just such Michigan-specific training. And the condition of Michigan's economy makes it unclear when, if ever, any state educational institution will again provide training specific to Michigan's wine and grape-growing industries who must compete in a market of other emerging wine regions.

This is the third of a three-part series. Previous articles looked at the educational opportunities currently offered in other emerging wine regions, and the recent history of  viticulture and winemaking education in Michigan.

Last February, a sellout crowd of 100 budding entrepreneurs packed a two-day Benton Harbor conference run by MSU's Extension Service, getting a crash course on how to start a Michigan winery. Twenty more would-be participants were turned away because the room couldn't hold any more chairs.

Now suppose one of these future winery owners, or another aspiring Michigan winemaker, wants to study the nuts and bolts of how to make wine, complete with hands-on laboratory sessions to learn the chemistry involved. As things stand today, they couldn't do it anywhere in the state. They'd have to go someplace else -- like Cornell  in New York, the University of California at Davis or, starting this fall, Texas Tech. 

That's the issue raised here last week. While other emerging wine regions invest in their next generation of grape growers and winemakers, will Michigan fall behind because we can't or won't pay to educate our industry's future leaders? 

Until 2005, this wouldn't have been an issue. That's when cash-strapped MSU pulled the plug on Professor Stan Howell's five year old Viticulture and Enology program. In an era of difficult choices forced by budget cuts, the Michigan-oriented curriculum simply didn't turn out enough graduates, a critical metric by which the University judges success.

One reason: as in other emerging wine regions, the program's students were in such demand that many didn't stick around to get degrees but jumped ship early, lured by job offers in the industry. Or as former MSU student and current Chateau Chantal winemaker Brian Hosmer, put it, "They didn't see that it was just getting going. They didn't see what was coming down the line."

Howell, revered as the godfather of Michigan viticulture, retired from MSU a year later. His advanced-level Viticulture and Enology classes and laboratories remain in MSU's catalog as ghost courses -- listed but untaught -- even as his former students populate Michigan wineries from St. Julian to Shady Lane.

This theme repeats itself in recent Michigan history. The state's resource drought has forced a stream of unwanted choices between short-term problem-solving and planning for long-term growth -- and short-term always wins out. The future will have to take care of itself.

A 2005 report by the Grape and Wine Industry Council didn't even attempt to anticipate the state's long-term educational needs, but merely tried salvage what it could to "avoid further cutbacks in programs".  The goal "to train the next generation of industry leaders" finished dead last in the report's list of priorities. More pressing needs, according to the Council: extension programs for existing wineries and growers, ongoing viticultural research, and local, entry-level technical training for those hiring into the industry.

Stan Howell still takes a longer view, and sees the need for a higher standard of education -- both theoretical and localized -- as an essential part of the long-term picture.

"Let's say I grow grapes in the Central Valley of California and the Leelanau Peninsula of Michigan," Howell recently explained to me.

"I'm going to start with the same principles of light interception and photosynthetic rates. But in California, I'm going to create a trellis that shades my fruit, because if I don't they will raisin on the vine, they will fry. In Michigan, I'm going to create a trellis that will get some sunlight on my clusters every day. That maximizes the warmth, and a warm cluster collects more sugar than a cool cluster does."

"We need to home-grow our wine industry," he concluded. "We have unique circumstances that can lead to excellence in our wines, but also certain limits in grape and wine production which present unique challenges. We need to have people educated and trained to appreciate those challenges for our industry to grow."

This is the second of a three-part series, expanded from the originally-planned two parts. Next week's article will look at the future of Michigan's viticulture and winemaking education, with a focus on the new VESTA program.

Could Michigan someday find itself wondering how another chunk of our economy slipped away because we didn't invest enough resources today to compete successfully in tomorrow's marketplace?

This isn't about cars or office furniture. As usual, we're talking wine.

I recently looked at how several "emerging" wine regions are supporting their industries' future. These aren't top players, like California or Washington, but second-tier producers -- places that might reasonably compete alongside Michigan for significant slices of North America's future wine marketplace and top winemaking talent.

What are they doing that we're not? The quick answer: they're making major investments to educate the next generation of growers and winemakers.

Texas fired the latest salvo across our bow. Texas Tech University -- in the heart of High Plains wine country -- just announced a four year degree in viticulture and enology. Their headline: "Texas Tech Begins Growing its Own Winemakers to Fill Widening Industry Need."

"The course arose out of a vacuum of wine education that exists between the coasts," Ed Hellman, professor of viticulture, told the Wine Spectator.

Don't care about a degree? They also offer a six-course continuing education viticulture program.

"The school believes the program will also help Texas' wine industry grow," the Spectator noted.

Over in New York, Cornell University already graduates students with four year degrees in enology and viticulture and a specialty in -- what else? -- cool-climate varietals. It's the only program of its kind in the eastern half of the country, and takes full advantage of the university's highly-regarded Geneva research facility.

Cornell's website latches onto the identical need as Texas Tech: "New York and the Northeast face a serious shortage of people with the skills to grow grapes and make wine."

"We have a different focus, much more on cool-climate viticulture and making wine from grapes like Pinot Noir, Riesling, Chardonnay and a lot of the hybrid grapes," Professor Ian Merwin told the Spectator when the program began in 2005.

Halfway between Cornell and Michigan, Ontario's Niagara College turns out two-year graduates with hands-on winemaking experience. For those who want the skills but not a degree, they offer a 300-hour winemaking program. 

Last month, I spoke with Terence Van Rooyen, a winemaker trained in Stellenbosch, South Africa, who teaches enology at Niagara and oversees the college's teaching winery.

Yes, you read that right. Niagara's equivalent of Lake Michigan College or Northwestern Michigan College runs a vineyard and commercial winery to train its students, releasing over a dozen labels for tasting and retail sale at its own campus wine store (!).

Every student must single-handedly produce a commercially acceptable wine as part of the curriculum. Toronto wine critic Tony Aspler drives down to Niagara to taste, rate, and hand out awards.

Or, as Van Rooyen put it, "We condense 20 years of experience in the mistakes of other people into two years."

The program enrolls 35 students each year, with a cap of five non-Canadians. It invariably turns away applicants.

Graduates all find work in the industry, according to Van Rooyen, while Niagara wineries snap up current students for internships and part-time jobs as tasting room pourers and other entry-level positions.

Each of these programs -- Texas Tech, Cornell, Niagara -- focuses clearly on a single goal: to support its emerging wine region by providing a steady supply of trained growers and educated winemakers.

But none of this helps Michigan. As winemaker Brian Hosmer of Chateau Chantal told me, "We're not drawing top talent from outside the region right now."

Which begs the question: what kind of resources does Michigan invest to educate our own next generation of growers and winemakers? Are they enough to secure our industry's future?

This is the first of a two-part series. Next week's article will take a look at Michigan's viticulture and winemaking education -- past, present and future.

A pair of new articles carry a slightly tongue-in-cheek tone. It's hard not to chuckle when a Jackson hangariste winemaker names his boutique winery Chateau Aeronautique, or roll your eyes when another guy starts to talk about growing Cabernet Sauvignon near Brighton.

Now wipe that smirk off your face, because both of these entrepreneurs are completely serious about the grapes they grow and wines they make. And their first results are seriously good.

I tasted Lorenzo Lizarralde's opening lineup of nine wines, all from the 2008 vintage. He purchased the grapes for five of them from a longtime Lake Michigan Shore grower; the other four came from Bill Hendricks' Glaciers Edge Farms, just north of Brighton.

Each of the wines is solidly made. A few are excellent. But with one exception, the best wines began with Brighton fruit. They show greater physiological ripeness, more complex flavors and less piercing acidity than their LMS siblings. Although it's way too early for predictions, the Cabernet Franc Reserve (50 cases made) and Cabernet Sauvignon (25 cases) may eventually rank among the vintage's better versions of those varietals.

And yes, thank you, those Brighton vines survived the last tough winter and this spring's late frosts in fine shape, the overwhelming majority with primary shoots intact. Many vineyard owners in seemingly more promising regions could learn from the self-taught Hendricks, who spent three years triangulating such factors as elevation, exposure, soil pH, and trellising before he bought the land and planted a vineyard.

It helps that he's a longtime home winemaker, so he understands the impact of practices like canopy management and crop load on the quality of the finished product. Many grape growers are still learning that sort of thing.

It's silly to generalize from the very preliminary results of one tiny, not-yet-open winery and a few acres of grapevines in an unlikely spot. But a look at the state's winery map makes one thing clear: we're starting to grow grapes and make wine in multiple places that seemed unlikely just a few years back. Places like the Sunrise Side, the U.P., Antrim County, and -- above all -- Lake Michigan's emerging Central Coast, between Manistee and Muskegon, where ideas like Douglas Valley have sprung up.

Not all these places, or ideas, will succeed. But Michigan wine history notes that people also smirked when Ed O'Keefe planted Chateau Grand Traverse's first Riesling on Old Mission Peninsula, 35 years ago.

Most of these newer regions still feature wines made from fruit, hybrid and labrusca grapes, or vinifera grown elsewhere. But it's not difficult to imagine, in each of them, another Bill Hendricks or Lorenzo Lizarralde currently spending evenings devouring viticulture or oenology books, and weekends driving around, looking at exposures, taking soil samples -- and dreaming of Pinot Gris or Cabernet.

Word just arrived that Jim Richards died a few days ago, at age 77. Jim and Barbara started and owned Paloma Vineyard, way up Napa's Spring Mountain.

If you never heard of Paloma, no big deal. They're tiny and very much out of the wine mainstream.

But they did make the 2003 Wine Spectator Wine of the Year. That 2001 Paloma Merlot still holds the record for the highest score the Spectator ever awarded the varietal.

Jim also provided one of my more valuable wine lessons.

Like many first-rank wine folks, Jim came from a scientific background; his first career was as a petroleum geologist in Texas oil country. Through a well-connected friend, I tasted and began to buy Paloma with their first releases, in the mid-90s. Back then they also did a mini-production Syrah -- and I still curse the day Jim tore out those vines so he could plant more Merlot.

In late fall, 2003, I joined some mutual friends, one of whom arranged to drive us up to Barbara and Jim's place and cook dinner for the group, made seven by the Richards' son, Sheldon.

Though the rest of us didn't know it, this was a mighty strange moment for them. They'd recently nabbed an unheard-of (for Merlot) Spectator 95 points, and had just been notified of the impending Wine of the Year honor -- but were sworn to secrecy.

They did, however, let me leave with another six bottles at the original $45 release price. Two weeks later, I could have flipped them for $250 apiece, if I'd been so inclined. Such is the nutsiness of the wine marketplace.

We sat around the dinner table, munching on Allan Bree's feast. I asked Jim how his wine got so good, so fast.

When they began to harvest their vineyard, Jim said, before they permanently left Texas and moved to the mountaintop, they used to sell their grapes to the winery just down the road -- a little place named Pride Mountain, not exactly known for shabby products.

But Jim wasn't happy. He had an itch to make his own wine from his grapes. And though he greatly respected Pride's world class winemaker, Bob Foley -- who also made Paloma's first few vintages -- the way they harvested Paloma's fruit drove him nuts.

"They'd have someone take measurements on a few grapes, and if the sugar was right, the next day they'd send over a large crew and pick the whole vineyard," Jim told us.

Now, let's step back a second. A fair description of Jim and Barbara's 15-acre mountaintop vineyard might be "cubist painting" -- the kind with the crazy angles and fractured planes facing in every direction.

Setting out rows and trellises must have been a nightmare. And there was exactly zero chance that all the grapes in that crazy-quilt of slopes and elevations reached perfect ripeness at the same instant. Yet a larger winery, like Pride, simply didn't find it practical to monitor every tiny block -- sometimes just a few rows -- and send a crew to pick each at its peak.

But that's how Jim did it. He claimed to have tossed out the measuring equipment -- something I never believed, given his scientific bent -- and simply walked the vineyard daily during harvest season, sampling grapes. When his palate told him that a block reached optimum physiological ripeness -- never mind the sugar or acidity measurements -- he'd scramble for pickers who were willing to drop everything to come by and harvest it.

He said it took 13 separate trips into Paloma's 15 vineyard acres to gather the grapes for his Wine of the Year. To me, that sounded more like Chateau d'Yquem than Napa Valley.

More than a little obsessive? Maybe even monomaniacal? Sure. But that's how great wine, as opposed to merely very good wine, gets made.

And that's the lesson Jim Richards left with me, one I recall whenever a winemaker or grower talks about how they "have to" take a shortcut because doing it otherwise "wouldn't be practical".