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 MY SPLENDID LARK  ©MMII                                                                 

 by KENNETH DEVINE                                                                                       

 

 

Chapter 1   “First Five”

 

Having started playing golf in 1987 in Michigan, it didn’t take to long to branch out and play in a few other states, away from my home course in Ann Arbor, Michigan at Leslie Park Golf Course. As skill improves, the desire to take your “game” to a different course is part of getting better. It’s tough in the beginning playing golf courses outside home or local courses, because golf is just plain hard and familiarity is a great friend to your skill level.

I first played a few terrific courses around Toledo, Ohio. I especially enjoy Maumee Bay Golf Course, which offers a wide open, often wind sweep layout that adjoins Maumee Bay . There are great little cottages you can rent for the day or week and are along the course fairways. The rates are very good, especially if your golf party stays there as well. A very good Arthur Hills design that causes me fits, more often then not. Another excellent municipal course in Toledo is Detwiller Golf Course. This course is alleged to be the first golf course that Arthur Hills involved him self in. The unverified story is that Hills was attending the University of Toledo and was studying landscape architecture. Detwiller G.C. was undergoing a refurbishing and Hills was asked to assist. He is purported to have enjoyed this and the rest is continuing golf course design and construction history. In 1991, third year of playing golf, my brother and I drove to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and played there for the first time. What a golf Mecca! I have been there numerous times since, and have nothing but the highest praise for the golf courses, hotel packages and people. I typically head there during Christmas, to exploit the fantastic deals. By great deals, I mean 5 nights in a luxurious oceanfront suite, complete buffet breakfast of excellent food, six rounds at premium courses and carts for about $250.  

Sadly I am less then 50% when it comes to temperature and weather history, but 99% on the courses. I have played in excess of twenty courses in both South Carolina and North Carolina as a result of my golf travels to Myrtle Beach. My favorite course there is the Moorlands at the Legends Golf Links, and when in North Carolina, Lion’s Paw Golf Course is, along with Panther’s Run Golf Course, the sister course is a must stop. In later trips to South Carolina, we traveled to Charleston and further to the Ocean Course at Kiawah Island. We just want to see the course from the clubhouse or something like that but the Island is secure as a drum. Depending on you status, your given a colored tag to hang on your rear view mirror, and you cannot be in the wrong area, lest you subject yourself to trespassing arrest. Kiawah Island is a private development and clearly wants no interlopers. They have their own Police force. We attempted to get close, but chickened out the further we went. I was told later, that you say at the guard shack you played a few days earlier, and that you were returning to pick up photos the course personnel took for you, you can get to the clubhouse. Backtracking through Charleston, we walked the streets of very large southern homes that I must, presume require help to maintain, they are that big. They were beautiful, and all very similar, but consistent for the setting.

In 1991 I headed to where I grew up, Satellite Beach, Florida and played Cocoa Beach Golf Course. It has a couple of courses and each one is very challenging and enjoyable. Do not overlook the alligators there! Never take your eyes off of where you are walking especially near the water. A funny story now that wasn’t too funny then, was when my brother Kevin and I were walking along the bank of a canal, looking for a lost ball. I wasn’t looking ahead, and when I did, a 6ft long adult alligator was laying in front of me sunning itself, no more than 10 feet away( three giant steps). I stopped instantly and said “alligator!”, and Kevin thought I was kidding and continued one step passed me, saw it and freaked also, at how close we were. We rapidly backed away, and I never forgot that potentially fatal dumb ass error. In fact there are bushes next to the water at that course, and I treat every one as if it harbors an alligator, maybe five! 

If it was out of hand or that dangerous, they wouldn’t let people out there, so I don’t want to be too dramatic; just pay attention. Alligators are part of Florida and you can find them anywhere there, along with an overwhelming amount of birds, animals, reptiles, and vegetation. I played numerous courses in Florida and all had Bermuda greens, which does not exist in Michigan. It takes getting use to when playing Bermuda and I have never really struggled with it, but I much prefer my beloved Bent Grass. One of my finest Florida golf experiences was at World Woods Golf Course in Brookville. The Pine Barrens course is similar to the real Pine Barrens Country Club in New Jersey. Pine Barrens, a private and extraordinarily prestigious clubs is perennially listed as the best course in the country. I have seen it on only a few occasions on film or video, but mostly from Shell’s “Wonderful World of Golf”. What a monster!!

This Pine Barrens in Florida was incredible. Get ready for a punishing day, if your game is not on. I played with two Japanese gentlemen, in their twenties who, as they stated, “did nothing”, except be the guest of Mr. Muarbe, industrialist billionaire, and owner of World Woods. They were dressed very well and had the finest equipment. They spoke highly of the owner and how meticulous he was about every aspect of the course. The biggest deal they drove home was how he wanted everything on the course to be natural. He wanted nothing that was man made. The tee markers were pieces of wood cut from a five inch diameter tree. One time, I asked the eldest of the two why such and such was like this and he snapped at me about “Mr. Muarbe demanded that everything be natural”, as if I were some dumb subordinate. In fairly quick fashion, my retort was to ask him how Mr. Muarbe reconciled the concrete cart paths we were driving our man-made golf carts on. Thankfully, he did not have a answer, and the topic was not broached again that day. I did enjoy kicking both their ass’s on a course they were familiar with. An etiquette rule in golf is to have people remember you by being a gentleperson, and not your score. Nothing is worse than playing with an a-hole who plays well, but is a jerk. I have been lucky to play with some outstanding players, and I found that the better the player, typically the finer gentleman they are as well.

The sister course is called Rolling Hills, and it is suppose to be a “knock off” of Augusta National. Two new courses, Southern Hills and Sugarwood, have been added since my playing there, so now it’s a complex. The courses I played were fantastic, and I highly recommend you play if you get the chance.  

By 1992 I had played golf in 5 states and had not spent a second thinking about playing all the contiguous states.

 

 

Chapter 2   “It’s On”

 On a late July afternoon in 1993, while drying the sweat off the grip of my 4-iron and brow, I suddenly am preoccupied with memories of a old friend. Not just any friend, but a traveling partner of a same mind.  We went everywhere we wanted to, by “thumb” no less.

But why now, why when engrossed preparing for an approach shot to the eighteenth green at Leslie Park Golf Course in Ann Arbor, Michigan? Neither he nor I played golf back then, and I’m sure we both dismissed the game with aggressive fervor.

I step back to refocus, shrugging off the weirdness. To no avail though, and like the hiccups, quite persistent.  I think about my friend Larry Webber often, with great fondness. That period of my youth strongly contributed to who I am today. Meeting in High School we "hung" for 8 years. I went on to college, remaining in touch. I implored him to move out to the Ann Arbor area, but like myself he was strong willed, and intractable in his own plans.

As a team we hitch hiked over 10,000 miles. To Washington D.C. twice, to Satellite Beach Florida twice, to Taquamonon Falls in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and a 5,600 mile twenty- four day adventure out “west”. I have hitched hiked over 6,000 miles solo, including from Ann Arbor to Key West, Florida to visit a childhood friend, and from Craig, Colorado to Ann Arbor. All of these trips produced building blocks of knowledge and sustaining memories. The people I met along the way were truly fantastic.  With each ride, another story, lifestyle, education, accent, aroma, slant, memory, act of kindness and words of advice added to my youthful confidence and appreciation of how I fit in to the world. 

By the time we decided to really test our luck, neither Larry nor I had any real concept of the west. Surely, neither of us had been beyond the Mississippi River. Fanciful thoughts of “a big trip” percolated a year out of high school. We both had new cars, but in the early 70’s, cars with 40,000 miles were “junkers”, so we never took our cars’ on long trips.

California! is the cry and a plan began in earnest. We both had great positions at the same Hilton Hotel, just out of high school, and we thought we were doing great. We got a joint $500 loan from the local Household Finance Company and the time off work in July of 1973. We bought backpacks, canteens, sleeping bags, and other camping gear, and prepared to stick out our thumbs “with bold curiosity for the adventure ahead”. (See 1973 for full story)

We did make it and enriched. The kind of enriched you get from naive spirit and 24-chocked- full  days  of wonderful new people, places, and things.  Previous notions were eliminated, replaced by new ideas and broadening horizons.  These new perceptions fostered a profound sense of belonging, personal triumph, and abject awe. They were cutting edge moments that I would later draw upon for personal stability and order. 

I didn’t figure out why Larry and the accompanying reminiscences coursed through my mind that day or the next. A few days later I happened to watch a PBS show about the five National Parks in Utah. Like the hot sting off a cold fist, it dawned on me. It was twenty years to the month that I ventured west with my good friend Larry. Twenty years since visiting two special places: the Rocky Mountains and the Grand Canyon. These two wonderful extremes became my benchmark for natural beauty.

Two distinct visions I am still able to instantly recall occurred on that trip in 1973. The first was arriving in Denver Colorado during the night and waking up to my first view of the majestic Rocky Mountains.... I had no clue. Every site angle provided new and exhilarating “eye candy” that dazzled and seemed endless. Arriving at night, I recall the person I was and the one I became the next morning. The difference was truly “night and day”.

 A similar scenario occurred on the same trip when my hitchhiking hosts prevailed on Larry and my self to accompany them to the Grand Canyon and arrive at 5am. When we got there it was pitch black. I stood against a pedestrian guardrail and stared out into an infinite black abyss, punctuated by four or five lights at differing elevations and angles. I didn’t have any idea what I was looking at, nor comprehending what I was about to behold.

Like a Polaroid snapshot, as the dawn approached, black turned to gray until the faintest outline of this great crevasse leaked out. As each minute elapsed, the majesty of it jumped up and bit me in the ass. The purple, greens, reds, oranges, yellows, and every other color of the spectrum increased in intensity. Perspective is the subtle residue of experience, and I was then privileged to enjoy some.

  The wanderlust desire resurfaced in late 1993. As a result of all the bizarre coincidences I have mentioned, I set my sights on a big trip west, one that would include 8 National Parks. Excited by the breadth of it all, I attempted to instill the same in others. This would assist in reducing the expense associated with a monster road trip and just plain sharing the experience.. “Let’s do it next year” was the cry, but it didn’t materialize and the same thing happened in 1995.

 So, over Labor Day of 1995, I decided to make the trip by myself. It was initially daunting to plan with pre-internet tools; I spent all of the winter tweaking my route. Prevailing on AAA state tour books for accommodations and Rand McNally for mapping, I connected the dots with interstate highways, primary roads, and many secondary mountain roads to my desired destinations. I reckoned 5,000 miles, over 8 states, and 8 National Parks would take about 15 days. This distance was from a starting point of Denver, determined by way of economical airline tickets from Sun Country Airlines.  The reality of this trip crystallized with the airline ticket purchase.

 I would need to break the trip into manageable segments that wouldn’t entail huge driving distances each day or much at night. I like to see, and while driving at night is good for time, I was in it for the visual memories. Working and reworking the segments to coincide with the parks, I circled each possible motel within 40 miles of each park for lodgings in my AAA tour book. These would be invaluable tools that I carried with me although they took up a lot of space, and weight. I ripped some of the books excluding states I would not be visiting to reduce both.

Eight stunning National Parks, the directions to them, identified motels and campsites, airline tickets, and a rental car were now readied on my travel plate. With a feeling of marginal comfort, I started to consider how I would spend my time when not driving. I am not a hiker or woodsman by nature and started to wonder about my park activities. And then it came to me, I’m a golfer, have been since 1988, and surely there are golf courses in the areas near the National Parks. I would play golf in the morning and visit the Park in the afternoon, or vice versa. Planning for courses was just as much fun, and for this, Golf Digest “Courses to Play-West”  made all the difference. I broke down on paper where I would drive to, the parks I would visit, the courses I would play, and the motels I would stay on paper for each day. It was now April of 1996 and July couldn’t come fast enough.

 Before proceeding further, I need to acknowledge my mother and father’s part in  setting the travel-tone in me. Their travel spirit and zeal was passed on to me, and is item # 4,243 for which I am thankful to them for. My mother worked Pan American Airways, so our family enjoyed tremendous employee airline ticket discounts. We traveled to Europe eleven times in a ten-year span. We used the Euro Rail train system through Italy, France and England. My father would pour over airline timetables and train timetables. He would mail letters to hotels in Italy or France for information about their accommodations and then re-mail reservations requests with deposit. We would fly to Ireland, the birthplace of my father; visit the relatives and then push on to Italy by way of England, Belgium, France, and Switzerland. They both worked hard, and were a great travel team. Throughout my youth, I sensed their joy during these times. They were smooth and bold in the execution of vacations. They planned and prepared well in advance, including trying to learn conversational language from record albums courses. I use to hate 7pm, as that is when we spent an hour a night repeating sayings such as “Oui eh la telephone”. It cramped my playing baseball and bike riding style. My parents dove in deep to the courses , and were able to navigate with some comfort.   All of their planning, with the languages, time zones, airline and rail timetables, accommodations, and monetary conversions made what I was about to do seem simple.

Finally, August 30, 1996 arrives and the micro odyssey begins with my brother’s soon to be wife Carolyn driving me to Detroit Metropolitan Airport.

 Sun Country’s “bird” is now poised at Gate D12 and so am I.
 

                                                                                                                                                        It’s on, and I musing about how I learned travel basics from my parents and now set off to engage in everything new. Everything…. each moment would be a new experience. Only comparisons could be drawn in the face of what was ahead. I was prepared and eager for it all.

My personal wherewithal had improved since those days of ‘73 and I could do what I liked. Expense was not an obstacle but my needs are not extravagant. I bought a tent and planned to camp a few times. I did not bring a sleeping bag but settled on a sheet and air mattress. It was poor planning for the high country camping I did and would provide my first “up close and personal” experience with hypothermia

 Airborne and heading sort of like a dart to Denver, I am seated next to a guy a few years younger than myself who owned his own house painting company in Ann Arbor. He was heading to Colorado Springs to visit some friends and we had a pretty good chat. It would be one of the last “chats” I would have for a couple of weeks. Except for calling Barb every few days and talking to her, this and the trips to follow were also to be vacations for my vocal chords. 

 Arriving at Denver, the new airport had been open for a year or so and it was very impressive. I like the “rental car row”, with each vendor lined up one after another along this specialized airport road. The airport architecture reminded me of a temporary Arabian royal family desert palace. The terminal’s “circus tent” spires lazily reach upward to support the white fabric canvass-like roof.  The rental car process was easy enough and soon I was bolting north on I-25 with the first of the eight parks in my sights. Rapid City, South Dakota was the first point of reference for sleeping, although I hoped to get to Wall, SD, for better positioning to Badlands National Park.

 Along the way I pass through Cheyenne, Wyoming still headed north, pondering how in ‘73 Larry and I had planned to head straight to San Francisco. We were hitchhiking west on I-80 and were about to exit our host’s vehicle, as they were heading to Denver by way of I-76. We were making our good byes, when Nebraska State Trooper John Law makes a 180-degree, pulls in behind us and walks to the car. “Hitch hikers, eh, bet you think your heading to San Francisco?” is his query after seeing the backpacks in the rear of the Plymouth station wagon our new friends from New York were driving. “Yes” was our meek reply, accompanied by his “Wrong, you boy’s are going to Denver”. With that statement, our routing changed counterclockwise to the original plan.  It worked out however, and we toured with them all the way to San Diego, CA.

Moving north of Cheyenne, those memories fade as the scenery really changes. Massive buttes and bluffs start the lessons in geology I would be hammered over the head with for the next few years. The “never a dull visual moment” mentality that totally “geeked” me. I was in the west! “I felt liberated and alive,” Joanie Mitchell said about Paris, and I shared her thoughts, but about here and now. God it was great…. the open road, you know, and the thrill of travel leisure.

 I reached Wall S.D. that evening after an elective detour to Mt. Rushmore, paying homage to greatness.  The feeling of patriotic pride I got while in Washington DC was similar. I was in the Black Hills of South Dakota, staring up at Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln. There was an eerie quiet that permeated the park, and while there were numerous visitors, reverence appeared to be the standard. Leaving the Black Hills, I gave a millisecond thought to Rocky Raccoon.

The second day started with Badlands National Park. A twenty-minute drive south on rolling deserted two-lane South Dakota highway 240 leads suddenly to the geologically surreal. A peninsula of elevated land jutting out over the one-time seabed below, I drove to the end.  “The Park consists of nearly 244,000 acres of sharply eroded buttes, pinnacles and spires blended with the largest, protected mixed grass prairie in the United States”.

 The Badlands are a place of extremes. I thought about the nard do well’s that used the Badlands to hide from John Law after robbing a bank or train. It at first amazed me that they would be caught given the difficult terrain, but then, there weren’t to many people out here in general, and any strangers passing through a town would likely be remembered. Posse’s or Marshall’s seeking their bounty would be able to track most down, even in the Badland’s. I was mesmerized by this place, and since it was the third National Park I had ever visited, I fully soaked it in. I could see for miles and the prairie grasslands were lush and ample.

I had missed Wind Cave National Park, and would find this out later while camping at Yellowstone. I was still learning about the parks and not really gravitating toward spelunking, I passed. My destination for this second day is Billings, Montana and hopefully some golf. Along the way a road sign informs me Devil’s Tower National Monument is twenty-five miles away. Realizing it was “close” and unlikely that I would “encounter” this opportunity in the future, and having seen the movie “Close Encounters….”, I exited via Sundance, Wyoming and headed north on SR14. It didn’t take long for the elevation to increase, and the added strain affected my gasoline reserves. I had planned on being able to make it back to I-90 to tank up, but this was achieved in an unexpected way. I seemed to drive upward forever, and naturally did not see a gas station on the way. When fuel is low, everything seems to work against you, or at least my mind said so. I made the turnoff onto RR24 for the last five miles to the Tower, and got within a mile or so and decided to start back. My fuel was very low now and could not risk going further. I video taped the sight and was thrilled to have been here.

Having climbed up to Devil’s Tower area, I was able to use the gained altitude to my advantage descending. Tuning off any unneeded accessories in the car, I put that baby in neutral and coasted the entire final 24 miles to the interchange gas station, right to the pump. The transmission was in neutral the whole time: I was exalted.

 Pushing on toward Billings, I toured Gillette, Buffalo, and Sheridan Wyoming via I-90, noting again the unlikelihood of a return, and the western look of these isolated important cities.  I arrived in Billings, Montana late in the day, and found Lake Hills Golf Course in time to get in 18 holes. It is a fairly flat, tree lined municipal track totaling 6802 yards. I was alone on the course, like I would be a number of times. I very much enjoy playing golf by myself, as much as with others. It is a very personal matter traversing three and a half miles of grass, sand, hills, valleys, toting a bag of steel golf clubs. Golfing alone is thinking and more thinking about all types of matters, periodically punctuated by the vagaries of striking a little round ball a given distance to a location twenty to two hundred fifty yards away. Add to this seemingly simple endeavor, the bonus of nature, in all her glory. On hole number three, two Ewes who had no fear of humans beset me, and I wished for food to feed them. I stood filming for ten minutes in awe of my surroundings; ever realizing the best was yet to come.

Day Three starts with my usual culinary fortification: bacon and eggs. But this morning was different, for the bacon was like none I had ever tasted. About two inches wide by six inches long these nitrate planks were fantastic, seemingly devoid of processing plant prep. With the delicious aftertaste I set out for Kalispell, Montana to play some golf and to visit the magnificent Glacier National Park.  Beautiful “big sky” country continuously stimulated me throughout the 460 miles to Kalispell. Weaving and climbing across this vast state was an immense joy and rapidly found myself smitten. I would spend five of the next fifteen days in Montana permanently storing images unlike I had ever seen before. Whenever I think of Montana, a longing to return, tugs at my mind strings. Through Bozeman, Butte, and Missoula, a turn to the north is necessary to intercept Flathead Lake and at it’s base, the city of Polson.

Out of the car and onto the Polson Country Club, a 6756-yard test, I am happy to play and my game shows it. The course was not too tough, in good condition and being lakeside, provided fantastic views. The wind was howling and whitecaps dotted the lake. My second round of golf in Montana and it was great fun. Leaving the course I made my way up the western side of Flathead Lake toward Kalispell. The light was waning but there was plenty left to see the continuing beauty. I arrive in Kalispell and find a motel. I had made numerous notations in the AAA guidebooks I brought with me and was able to get a room in each city I wanted. It was too close in a couple towns however, and I vowed to have reservations for each next time, and advise all to do the same.

Relaxing in my room, Kalispell is chilly. There is an outside Jacuzzi, but I’m afraid it’s too far from my room, and too cool outside for a wet return. So far, so good, with one National Park and two golf courses chalked up. Tomorrow will be a big day and my mind wanders as I try to imagine the delights that wait. My expectations of Glacier are piqued and I’m feeling like a coiled spring. Coming here was a gamble as it was really out of the way. I literally have to back track halfway across the state to position myself for Yellowstone.

 Day Four is clear as the proverbial bell and mighty chilly. Fall is in the air here and the crispness jolts me into an accelerated wakeful state. Again, my morning routine is a repeat of the breakfast in Billings: Fantastic. The bacon is the best and very similar to yesterday morning. Montana has the best bacon in America. I’ll repeat this refrain three more times, in three other cities. All five of the Montana cities I ate breakfast in never failed me and is the benchmark by which all bacon is now personally adjudicated. A traveling lesson most are aware of, but bears repeating: always order scrambled eggs. When you’re at home, or at your local Ptomaine Palace, sunny-side up, over-easy, etc., is fine, but trust me, when on the road make it scrambled. I now turn my morning sights to Glacier National Park and travel the 20 miles to the park entrance. The Highway-to-the-Sun cuts from the southwest toward the northeast across the park.

 From the NPS website: 

www.glacier.national-park.com/   “Efforts of George Bird Grinnell and others started around 1885 to gain support to organize this area into a National Park. Finally, on 11 May 1910, President William H. Taft signed the bill setting this land aside as Glacier National Park. Glacier National Park was established to protect the area’s spectacular scenic values, as characterized by the geologic features of the Rocky Mountains and valleys and the native plant and animal life. The park encompasses approximately 1.4 million acres of wilderness and some of the most beautiful mountain scenery in the western United States. A combination of spectacular scenery, diverse flora and fauna, and relative isolation from major population centers have combined to make Glacier National Park the center of one of the largest and most intact ecosystems in North America. The general park area was once the homeland of the Blackfoot and Kootenai Indian tribes and many sites in the park are sacred spiritual sites. There are over 50 glaciers in the park from which it gets its name. There are also over 200 lakes or streams in Glacier. There are over 730 miles of trails for hikers to enjoy in Glacier National Park. Going-to-the-Sun Road traverses the park from east to west. A spectacular drive! For visitors who wish to drive through the park, the Going-to-the-Sun Road is an experience to remember. Bisecting the heart of Glacier, this 50-mile long road follows the shores of the park’s two largest lakes and hugs the cliffs below the Continental Divide as it traverses Logan Pass. Numerous scenic turnouts and wayside exhibits allow travelers to stop and enjoy the park at their own pace.”

 I drove into the park and immediately pulled out my video camera. I commenced to tape an excessive amount; unable to stop, thinking I might miss capturing some part of the splendor. I kept stopping the car, taping and for a while, worried about not getting all of it in. As the car toted me up and over the Continental Divide, I regularly gasp at how close to the edge and how high I up was. There is very little room for driving error, and zero chance of survival should you breech the very small, one to two feet high, W.P.A. installed stone barriers that line the narrow mountain roadway. It clings very high up to the side of a mountain and winds from one peak to another snaking though the range, way above the valley floor. Breathtakingly distracting! The routing is called Logan’s Pass, named for the first superintendent of the park. I had thought Logan was the person who engineered the highway, but no. Logan pushed hard for National Park status and allegedly felt this wonderland his “baby” If so he was definitely right. The way through must have been somewhat known for ages by the Original Americans usually referred to as Native American, and their trails marking the way I surmise. Later, surveyors constructed a continuous way across the Continental Divide. Let there be no underestimation of this engineering feat. From West Glacier across to the east side town of St. Mary and back, Glacier was “all that”, and again I feel privileged to bear witness to its glory, well worth every mile.                                        

Winding back down the mountain, I set my sights on Eagle Bend Golf Course in Bigfork, MT on the northeast side of Flathead Lake. The number one course in the state, and I remember absolutely nothing about it. I have videotape of the course entrance, but for the life of me cannot recall even one hole. My scorecard indicates an 86 at 6724 yards, with a couple of birdies, and a double and triple to start number one and two. I was still in a stupor from Glacier I guess, could still be. Departing Eagle Bend, I head south toward Missoula about 100 miles away. This time I define the eastern side of Flathead Lake and find it equally beautiful. This is a giant lake, as large as or larger than Bear Lake on the Idaho-Utah border. “The history of Flathead Lake began about 12,000 years ago. The glaciers of the last Ice Age carved the lakebed into the face of the earth. The deepest part of the lake, Yellow Bay, can reach a depth of 370 feet. Flathead Lake, sometimes called ‘The Jewel of the Northwest’, has 200 square miles of surface area. The shore is 185 miles long. It is the largest body of fresh water between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean, stretching 28 miles long and 16 miles at its widest point.”   http://montanakids.com/db_engine/presentations/presentation.asp?pid=69&sub=Flathead 

I arrive in Missoula at dusk and find a suitable motel. I’ve packed in quite a bit over the last few days, but tomorrow will be a planned easy day.

Day Five starts again with Montana bacon and scrambled eggs. I now call it Montana bacon, for it is unique and unequaled in America. If you fancy yourself a bacon maven, this state is the place. With a full gullet, Larchmont Golf Course in Missoula is where I strike up my third round of golf in “big sky” country. I was grouped with three retired gents who showed me true Montana graciousness. It was a pleasure to make their acquaintance. I didn’t play too well at Larchmont, by that I mean inconsistent and sloppy. I sprayed the ball a lot that day, taking advantage of the rather flat and open layout. It’s a pretty tough course, worthy of hosting the Montana Amateur. I stopped keeping score on the 7^th hole, so you know I wasn’t tearing it up.

 It was a drive of leisure that retraced the 230 miles to Bozeman via I-90. Passing Butte on both trips, I gazed at the city from my elevated highway perch and continue onward with the recognition that I know very little about the city. I later came to greater knowledge of this fair city from my work related travels to Michigan’s upper peninsular, specifically the Keweenaw Peninsula.  America’s primary source of copper through most of the 1800’s was the Keweenaw Peninsula. Tremendous quantities of ore were mined, including all of the copper used by the Union forces in the Civil War. As nature would have, she yielded all she was going to 110 plus years later. Bowing to Butte MT to take over as the nation’s primary copper ore source. The Keweenaw mining industry has fallen on difficult times. Like all communities whose economic lifeblood centers on precious non-renewable resources, sustained existence is usually tenuous. I arrive in Bozeman; patronize the Best Western Heritage Inn, eat and then retire to prepare for Yellowstone.

 Day Six starts again with the final serving of Montana bacon and scrambled eggs. I am somewhat sad that I’m leaving this great state, but am buoyed by the solemn determination to return soon; I loved every minute. Bright and early I am positioned number one on the tee at Cottonwood Golf Course in Bozeman. With a cracking 3-wood draw, the ball carves to the left just past the dogleg corner of the par five. The approach shot is another 3-wood blast to just short of the green. Cutting over a pond, it was a gamble, especially when a worker on a tractor, mowing the rough, waited for my shot, and being the second shot of the day. Most golfers know what this scenario usually translates into, similar to being waived up on a par three. A poor shot usually follows with regrets for not taking extra time over the shot. But it worked out and a chip shot three feet short of the flag seals the only birdie of the day. I shot 81 from the tips of the 6700-yard course. It was enjoyable, and playing alone, I walked the round in two and a half hours. Now for the meat: Yellowstone National Park, Princess of National Parks if not the undisputed Queen. East about 15 miles to the US89 junction and then south the 57 miles to the outskirts of the North Entrance of the Park and Gardiner, Wyoming.

Passing through Gardiner, I follow a sign and a few minutes later see a small wooden sign on a post declaring the park entrance. As I drive on this gravel road, I begin to worry that the entire park is a gravel road. About fifteen minutes later, I discover that the road is the old entrance to the park and a 180 turn is made. The new entrance is found, admission paid and seeing begins. Within the first five miles, toward the northeast, I spy a major forest fire, biggest I’ve ever seen. I am entranced seeing the mushroom cloud reaching upward to the stratosphere. It totally dominated the horizon and my video camera viewfinder for quite a while. Tearing myself from the fire, the quest to find a campsite and register begins. I really want to camp in the park, and financially it’s the best bet.  I head toward Mammoth Hot Springs and get my first snootfull of sulpher and a visual introduction to geologic thermodynamics. The twenty-one miles to Norris Junction was slightly depressing, seeing tremendous amounts of previously burned out forest. While life spawning, the evidence of this renewal in destruction terms, is nonetheless stunning. Turning east the 12 miles to Canyon, then south another 16 miles to Fishing Bridge were I hope to camp. Once I procure my site, I hoped to see Old Faithful and take in the display. I pull into Fishing Bridge and find the campsites full, but am told there is room at Bridge Bay and to use the direct-line phone outside and attached to the office, to call the park reservation office. It all works out and soon my site is found, tent is erected and am preparing to head to Old Faithful, when my eye catches the plight of my campsite neighbor, struggling to construct his 8-man canvas tent. Thinking it would be “right neighborly” that I offer assistance, I saunter over and very quickly I am engaged, wrestling this behemoths angular aluminum posts. He had the top side of a rectangular shape tent threaded with the tubes, and was attempting to insert them into the angular aluminum sister tubes coming from the bottom sides of the tent. As confusing as it sounds was as confusing to me, that this was how it was to be installed; not a one man job for sure. He thanked me and finally I’m I headed for the geyser extraordinaire. There isn’t a lot of daylight left and the 37 miles seems longer. Arriving at the site, I see small plumes of steam, and head towards it.  A good-sized crowd had assembled by the time I reached my perch and readied the video camera for the “gusher”. As the light decreased, the anticipation mounted until the cascades of steam and water rapidly manifested itself to the mental image most of us have of Old Faithful. There was a good bit of noise and it was audible from the 100 yards I was from it all. It lasted about 5 minutes or less. When it was over, the gathered applauded in appreciation…. Lakota.

I return to my campsite and am soon contacted by the neighbor socially, beers in hand. Accepting his offer of ale, it does not take long to learn about his divorce, and after quickly dispensing with such meaningless piffle as our park travels, the evening conversation is dominated by his marital strife. However, he pointed out Wind Cave NP (near the Badlands never considered) to me and he was good company devoid of this personal demon. Staring into space while  “bedding down”, like the millions before me who looking up into the clear night, visit that part of the brain reserved for awe. The visual charge of seeing a trillion anything is, in and of itself rare, so again I am privileged.

Day Seven brings a big chill in the air, and at 8,000 ft., I didn’t need what I had: drizzle. It started late last night while I slept in the tent. I tossed and turned from the cold. High altitude camping in my clothes, on an air mattress, with only a sheet in this cold spells poor planning and when I got up, I knew something was wrong.  I felt very cold, lethargic, and more disoriented than normal. With the rain still falling, I staggered to the car and started it, now shivering without control waiting for the heat. From feeling very bad to improving with every minute, car heat and corresponding increase in body temperature was the immediate prescription. When I stopped shivering and felt my strength start to return, I broke camp by uprooting the tent in one continuous motion, and continuing the motion, tossed it into the trunk and headed for the nearest park eatery. As the first gulps of hot coffee went down, I felt additional improvement, and by the time the scrambled eggs and bacon were finished, I had recovered about 95%. While waiting for the food, I struck up a conversation with a retied gentleman who along with his wife, worked at the park during the summer. The NPS appears to employ numerous seasonal seniors who augment their travel costs. He and his wife worked at the General Store. They own a large trailer camper and reside at a park campsite for reduced rates.

 Staring out across Yellowstone Lake from our diner stools, we talked of natural beauty, and where we had seen such. He pined to enlist another couple to join them on second trip to Alaska. His sixty-five years plus eyes widened and glistened with excitement retelling excerpts of his past visit. I made a mental note of his perceptions. I had quite a scare that morning and learned a big lesson.  After breakfast, (and to beat a dead horse, not even remotely comparable to Montana bacon), I sat in the car on the shore of Yellowstone Lake and began again to focus on the beauty of my surrounding and less about my health.  The brisk morning air complimented the now overcast skies. Scanning the gunmetal colored lake, I think of Ireland and how my dad would have related to this scene. By now I have regained my wits and begin another full day.

I headed north and was now warm enough to shower at Fishing Bridge and take in a few of the sights. North still viewing the various surreal scenes of Mud Volcano (ok), Sulpher Caldron (really ok), and the then the visual jewel of Yellowstone: Artists Point (flat out stunning), I again had no previous concept. In fact, as I park and walk along the trail to the observation point, I look mostly straight ahead and slightly around. I stopped along the tree lined trail admiring the trees and other tourists moving to and from the point. Suddenly and by mere chance, near the end of the trail, I glance over my left shoulder and see a very steep two-sided canyon of yellow stone of all intensities stretching about a half mile to a fantastic waterfall that appears to spill a thousand feet down. The ever-rising mist frames a tremendous flow of water to the continuing river below me. It takes a nanosecond to see why it is called Artists Point. Spell bound for about half an hour, I tear away to pursue the next eyeful. Continuing on past three major peaks, near and over ten thousand feet, through Canyon Village, over 8859-foot Dunraven Pass to Roosevelt Lodge. Here at the junction to the northeast entrance of the park, I turn south toward the Grand Teton’s.

The weather has improved throughout the morning and I’m feeling fine. Both yesterday and today, the amount of wildlife I have seen is a personal record. Humans are mere interlopers here. The animals own the Park except near the roadways. I have long wanted to see a bear and a moose from a safe distance. Partial satisfaction was afforded me by seeing the antlers, head, and back of a moose moving along a stream away from me. I saw it while crossing the bridge over the stream, and there were 50 cars parked on both sides of the road. I figured that by the time I parked and got there, it would have been too late. Close, but no cigar. Eagles, bald and otherwise, elk, bighorn sheep, trumpeter swans and bison are all mentally recorded.  The streams, trees, mountains, rivers, wildlife, vistas, thermal pools, geysers, canyons, waterfalls, plus the other twenty plus items I’ve overlooked, make Yellowstone the cornerstone of the National Park system. It’s certainly made me proud to live where such beauty is set-aside for everyone, including idiots like me.

Through West Thumb, Grant Village and then past Lewis Lake, I leave Yellowstone spiritually buoyed. It’s about 65 miles to Jackson Hole, Wyoming from the south entrance of Yellowstone. Now driving on the John D. Rockefeller Memorial Highway, it doesn’t take too long for the scenery to change. As soon as Jackson Lake came into view so did the spectacular Grand Teton’s range. Jutting rapidly skyward, there jagged peaks distinguish themselves, Nez Perce, Middle Teton, Grand Teton, Mt. Owen, Tewinot, to name a few. As I was driving, impressed by the flatness of the surrounding terrain until the range jumps right out of the ground, I hear a familiar musical sound on a radio station out of Idaho. It was Phish and their new hit single “Free”; apropos for the experience. I shot plenty of video and marveled at the “grandness” being captured. 

 The Grand Teton’s were refreshing and visually compelling. The views continued in Jackson Hole where I planned on staying. It was about two in the afternoon and moving through the city, I became dis-impressed. I had planned on playing golf here but I was overwhelmed with schlock. A second rate tourist trap appearance blinded my perceptions and instead of staying and playing, I bolted. A few minutes predicting potential distance covered before dark put me in into Logan Utah. South on US89 paralleling Idaho, the road swings west crossing the Wyoming-Utah border toward the city of Monticello, Utah. Memorable for a wrong turn and my only interaction with a custodian of public morality, I was fortunate. 

After a missed turn and while backtracking toward Monticello, as the only person on a beautiful rural road, I spied a SUV on the opposite side of the road. As I drew near and passed, I casually glanced to by left to see the familiar “star” on the door panel signifying a Sheriff. Seeing my speedometer displaying 68mph in a 55mph zone, I felt his radar registering the same. My suspicions proved correct when the perfunctory 180-degree turn was employed and I became prey. Trailing me into the city limits, I was “lit up” shortly thereafter. There seemed to be an unusual delay in the “pounce and inquisition” as he was preoccupied in his vehicle. When the officer did contact me, there were the basic questions. Afterwards he admonished me for my speed and set me loose to continue without citation. I have been fortunate in all my driving days with few tickets. Moving south again, I begin to see the beginning of Bear Lake.  

      “Bear Lake was formed some 28 thousand years ago by earthquake activity. Its unique aqua-blue color is the result of calcium carbonates suspended in the lake. At an elevation of 5,923 feet, Bear Lake is 20 miles long and 8 miles wide, 208’ deep, covering 112 square miles. Originally Bear Lake was called Black Bear Lake by Donald Mackenzie, explorer for the North West Fur Company who discovered it in 1819 while scouting for fur-bearing animals, largely beaver, to satisfy urban demand for hats. The name was later changed to Bear Lake”. http://www.utah.com/places/state_parks/bear_lake.htm

The afternoon sun reflected off the sharply rising mountains bordering the eastern side of the Lake.  The brilliant orange contrasted with the near turquoise hue of the calm waters.  As I was driving south, I reached the highest point overlooking Bear Lake.  I videotaped the entire shoreline, and while doing so, had the point driven home that I was fully out West. The final 40 miles of the day’s drive were through the Cache National Forest, and truly a top 10 scenic drive.  The snaking road through the canyons as the light dimmed, provided the final reward a long day. Finding motel room in Logan Utah was not a difficult task, as I planned for contingencies in my routing. This had been a long day covering two National Parks, Bear Lake, the Wasatch-Cache National Forest, and 350 two-lane miles.    

My entry into this great state reminds me of my previous travels with my friend Larry.  Specifically, I recall the return from Sacramento CA as being quite long and tedious.  We had lengthy delays obtaining rides out of California, a difficult time in Winnemucca Nevada, and we had arrived in Salt Lake City at about 5:00 in the afternoon.  This particular day had been quite long, and I was in no mood for knuckleheads.  My hair was quite long at that time, and I used to get the peace sign instead of a ride. Sometimes, people would imitate scissors with their two fingers in a haircutting motion near the side of their neck. There came a time in which I noticed a car stopped on the service drive and the driver motioning me to come.  I half-heartedly strolled down the embankment near the car.  I noticed two occupants in the front and one in the back.  The guy driving told me that they were not going far, but that it was going to rain, and they were inviting us to spend the night at their house.  I sort of thought it folly and thanked them for their time.  The driver told me that they would return in a half an hour, in case we changed our mind.  Well, sure enough it started to rain, and sure enough the car returned just like they said they would.  This time I took a closer look at the occupants and seeing only a young father and mother with an infant in the mother’s arms, the danger appeared negligible.  So Larry and I took these folks up on their offer and dined on their hot dogs and beans, and later provided us a warm living room carpeted floor to crash.  The following morning, the lady of the house drove us about 30 miles to a spot in which we could hitchhike.  They epitomized the typical spirit of American hospitality I’ve experienced and their acts of kindness are forever preserved in my warmest memories.  While they never discussed religion, I believe them to have been Mormons, “walking the walk”.

Day 8 would also be another long, but easier day.  I plan to play a round of golf before driving on to Beaver, Utah. I had now driven close to 2400 miles in the last seven days.  Since I had planned to stay in Jackson Hole, but ended up driving to Logan, the 170 miles to Beaver would be a breeze.  As I approached Logan the night before, I drove through the Cache-Wasatch Forest, and as I leave the city today, I’m still in the forest.  This very large National Forest combined with the gray walled mountain cliffs, impressed me very much.

Finally back on the interstate, I head south past Salt Lake City. I was quite surprised at the amount of smog cloaking the city. I-15 and would take me to Springville, Utah where I would play at Hobble Creek Golf Course. I just happened to be paired with the Chief of the Homicide division of the Salt Lake County Sheriff’s department. How weird is that, just him and me playing golf? Two perfect strangers, but one sees horrible examples of man’s inhumanity to man.  He was in Springville camping on a piece of property he owned and was “killing” time waiting for his wife to get off work and join him.  The course was nestled between canyon ranges in relatively flat valleys that rolled and undulated fairly. I didn’t play my best golf that day and attribute it to fatigue. 

But today was an easy one and my destination after golf was Beaver Utah. I would spend the night and prepare for Bryce Canyon and Zion National Parks. Hobble Creek golf course provided a first-rate opportunity to play golf and I obtained some excellent videotape of the course and surroundings.  It was the first time I played golf in a canyon environment, with mountains on both sides being very close to the course.  After leaving the deputy sheriff at the course in good stead I made my way toward Beaver.  Along the way I happened to observe a segment of the Great Basin, and I stared out into vast distances of flatland, not really appreciating the breadth or function of what I was observing. Utah provided excellent views of gray mountains that are too small to be foothills, but not quite the mountains I will be seeing in Colorado.  When I reached Beaver and found a motel, it was getting dark and I was treated to a striking sunset packed with red, orange and purple clouds reflecting the setting sun. 

    Day 9 begins with a hearty breakfast, and as I depart Beaver I chuckle at the gigantic “B” etched into a mountain at the outskirts of town.  The cool fresh air and clear blue sky provide the meteorological backdrop for today’s wonders.  South on I-15 to exit 95, then west on Route 20 to US 89, then south to Route 20 will get you to Bryce Canyon National Park from Beaver.  The hundred or so miles were mostly perfunctory, but things started to change rapidly just inside the park.  As I enter the park proper, the first realization of what lies ahead is provided by Red Canyon.  The road is now carving through terrain bordered on both sides by continuous walled 200 ft. red clay spires, individually pressed against each other forming fortress like walls. Pine, Fir, Aspen and Spruce trees punctuate the landscape.  The first overlooked I come to is Sunset Point.  What I am about to see is camouflaged by trees, so I follow the path to the end.  I point the camera at the ground as I make the trek. Suddenly and below my vantage point I spy an unbelievable sight. Pillars of fantastically shaped rock formed by forces in the earth and two different plateaus geologically interacting, leaving one plateau 2000 feet lower than the other.  Raging river’s and time forged and sculpted intricate formations and colors resulting in fantastic pinnacles and spires.  Depending on the time of day or angle of the sun, the amphitheater below appears to stretch for miles, with gold, orange red and whites’ brilliantly illuminating all that is before me. The park road, terminating in a loop, is 18 miles long.  There are numerous overlooks and I stopped at just about everyone. 

 My words cannot properly describe Bryce Canyon, but there are few places in America more awe inspiring.

 It’s a little after 11 in the morning and I return to US 89, in order to head south toward Zion National Park.  As I head south I realize the Bryce Canyon is about three miles to the left of me and I’m virtually paralleling it now. Without knowing that I had been previously there you would have no idea what wonders lay beyond the tree lined ridge.  Heading west on Route 9 that now, plus 25 miles to Zion went by quickly.  The spectacular cliffs and Canyon landscapes appear rapidly and the sense of being in an area filled with heart stopping beauty grips me once again.  From the U.S. Park service travel guide, “sure, vivid color cliffs tower above you as you follow the road along the canyon floor.  This narrow, deep canyon is the centerpiece of the park.  The canyon sparks a sense of wonder and disbelief and those who stand beneath 2000 to 3000 foot high walls.  Along the bottom of the canyon flows the Virgin River.  It is a river with the looks of Creek and the muscle of the Colorado. This small river almost single-handedly carved a profound rock gorge of Zion Canyon.  It began down cutting more than 13 million years ago and continues its work today.”  I didn’t spend much time out of the car in Zion, but still had time to stop and videotape plenty.  What Bryce Canyon is below ground, Zion is above.  The spectacle of Bryce somewhat diluted my enjoyment of Zion. Should I have the privilege of visiting Zion again off-road exploration to the North is recommended?         

  From start to finish I was looking out and up.  I videotaped the entire way, and to the point that I was virtually out of tape.  The running plateaus whose sides have been worn away by wind, water, and time vividly reveal the ancient layers of sediment. The crystal clear day and brilliant sunshine enhance the truly beautiful colors of Zion. 

 My sights are on St. George Utah and Sunbrook Golf Course, the number two-ranked course in the state.  I knew right away when I pull into Sunbrook Drive, entrance to Sunbrook Golf Club overlooking the course; I was in for a treat.  I was paired with two additional gentlemen from Missouri and from the first tee, I was in visual heaven. The mountains with their tremendous colors are in the near distance, visible the entire time.  It was a little after 4pm; the sun was in starting to set, and casting a optimum combination of light and shadow on all the surroundings.  A beautiful course with varying elevations and picture quality approach shots, I started off like gangbusters paring four of the six first holes, but faded and stumbled the rest of the round.  I did however have a remarkable experience on hole number 12.  A 446-yard par five, slightly uphill the entire way.  This hole slices through a canyon, with both sides of the rough bordered by desert mountain terrain.  My first shot off the tee was obviously going to be unplayable, and then I literally hammered a provisional ball straight up the middle about 240 yards out from the green.  My next shot, a three wood equaled the previous, with the ball reaching the back shelf of the green, pin high, 20 feet from the cup.  I canned the right to left putt and saved par.  It was a terrific golf moment.

 In addition to all the visual aesthetics, I added a roadrunner and an estimated 6 lb., 2 ft. tall jackrabbit to my personally viewed animal inventory.  I got close enough to both to capture them on videotaped and the sightings added to my excitement and enjoyment of the course.  There are some truly fantastic vistas from the tee boxes throughout the course, causing a short delay as we all take in the beauty.  I finish the round, putting my clubs away in the dark, and prepare for the 180 drive to Las Vegas, Nevada.  I figured it would take me about two and a half to three hours to get to Las Vegas, which would get me there at about 11 PM.  Unfortunately for me, I did not have a hotel reservation, and arrived to a town jam-packed with revelers, gamblers, and a heavyweight championship fight featuring Mike Tyson.  I was involved in a perpetual traffic jam and by the time I reached the hotel, Circus Circus, I chose not to spend $100 for a 6 hour rest.  I turn back towards the north off the “strip” and found what looked like an adequate motel.  When the first things I noticed was a security guard in the lobby.  The price seemed reasonable at $38, and after submitting my credit card I noticed numerous signs indicating “absolutely no refund”.  I thought it strange and asked the clerk if this place was that bad that it required such a sign?  Her eyes looked in both directions and she nodded in the affirmative. It was close to 12:30 AM and I needed to sleep, so off to the room I went.  No dead bolt lock for the door, no security chain, two lights, a bed, a 13-inch television, a desk, and a chair.  The walls were sandpaper like stucco and in general were dark as a dungeon.  The whole setup was pretty scary but I soon adjusted.  Besides wanting to gamble before the end of the evening, I needed to call my brother Sean, who lived in Tucson AZ.  We had tentatively planned on meeting in Flagstaff AZ so that we might go to the Grand Canyon together.  Alas, I reached his answering machine, but left a detailed message about my intentions and timing.

Knowing that tomorrow would not be an extremely long day, with only a couple hundred miles to drive and one golf course to play, I allowed myself to the pulled like a magnet to the bright lights of downtown Las Vegas. With the same deft luck as I had finding a hotel room I dropped about $50 in 45 minutes.  I eventually worked my way back to my room, barricaded myself in, and spend a restless night tossing and turning on what I believe to be a convex bed.  This had been a really full day that included two national Parks and first-class golf course, ending in a sorry ass room in the desert.

 Day Nine started with the eyes burning fog usually associated with lack of sleep.  Couple that what 95 degrees and climbing, I eat my breakfast and prepare to push on from Las Vegas toward Arizona.  After eating, a stop by the Riviera Casino lightened my monetary load by $25.  So, I was none too glad to be out of this town, and actually it was the first bummer of the trip.  The plan today is to drive to Flagstaff and meet my brother Sean.  He will work in morning and start the drive in the early afternoon driving from Tucson to Flagstaff.  Once I’ve located my motel room in Flagstaff, I will call his girlfriend with the name and room number of the motel.  He would call his girlfriend when he got into Flagstaff and then have directions necessary to rendezvous.  But before this happens I plan on seeing Hoover Dam and playing golf.

 I exit the city of Las Vegas heading towards the Lake Mead Recreational Area and Hoover Dam.  Traffic is heavy this day and the two lane road bristles with cars.  Finally making it to the dam proved worthwhile.  I got out and walk around the Dam area surveyed the tremendous amount of concrete and contemplated the amount of electricity being generated through the hundreds of electric lines that lead from the dam. It was the first serious dam I have ever been on and quite impressive to boot. Onward now through some of the most boring scenery of the entire trip, that being from Henderson Nevada to Kingman Arizona, a little over 70 miles.  At that time to speed limit was 55 mph, and it seemed to take forever.  I finally got off of U.S. 93 and on interstate 40 I started to make good time, arrived in Flagstaff, obtained a motel room at a Best Western and called my soon-to-be sister-in-law with the directions for Sean.  

When completed, I back tracked to Williams, Arizona and find my way to Elephant Rocks Golf Course for a round.  By the time I finish it’s nighttime, and am the only one left at the course, except the lone worker’s pickup truck, idling in the parking lot.  In my haste, I left my sweater wrapped around the pull cart handle I had rented and naturally discovered it about ten minutes outside of the course.  Back to the course I go, into the night so dark I can barely see my hand in front of my face. I use my high beams to pick out my black sweater among all the other cart handles.  I make my way back too Flagstaff and a wait for my brother.  Mount Humphries looms alongside Flagstaff, presenting as the highest mountain in Arizona at 12,633 feet. 

 A little after 9:30 in the evening a knock on the door signifies Sean’s arrival.  We glad-hand each other and catch up on times.  He and Karen had moved to Tucson to attend graduate school at the University of Arizona.  This was a terrific opportunity to spend some time together away from both of our homes. My plan and routing included Grand Canyon National Park and these plans coincided with Sean’s.  We drove the hour and a half or so to the park, chatting all the way.  Reaching the park we found a campsite, set it up, and then sight saw ‘till dark. We foot toured the rim until we were far enough away to take the shuttle back. Along the way I taped as much as I could, but worried slightly about showers.  Prior to walking we were delayed by a shower. When the rain ended a most beautiful rainbow arced below us across the Canyon. I was a fantastic sight and I captured all of it video.

Back at camp, drought conditions exist, along with ground campfire prohibitions. We make due with the above ground grill and after much coaxing, extract a fire that burned until we broke camp the next morning.  I remember that we were there on September 9^th, as I called my most enduring friend Duane Gibson to wish him a happy birthday. Using my cell phone from our campsite at the Grand Canyon, a terrible cell connection made the message Marconian, at best. It was still a cool experience for me using this technology, in a sort of northern no-where.

Back to Flagstaff we drove in separate directions, he south to Tucson and me toward Tuba City, “gateway” to Monument Valley. Turning northeast from US89, there is 90 miles to cover across the Black Mesa, until US160 reaches Kayenta, Arizona I expected to fuel up there before the final push through the “Valley”.

I enter Kayenta and pick-up the signs pointing the direction to Monument Valley and US-163. In my excitement, do you think I got gas? Hell no, and by the time the initial fog wore off, I was about 25 miles into the Valley and chose to continue on. At these times of stress, you know any signs providing distance information are non-existent. And so, I employ all known tricks to increase fuel economy, be them fact or fiction turning off all electrical items music and air conditioning], reducing speed to 50-55 mph, reducing drag by rolling windows partially up, shifting into neutral on downhill slopes, turning off cruise control if not on level roadway), to make it the next 45 miles to my savior city: Mexican Hat, Utah. Ongoing computations preoccupied my brain as to whether I would make it with between an eighth and a sixteenth tank of fuel remaining. If I was getting 23 miles per gallon, do I have 2 gallons left in the tank? This dynamic matter somewhat detracted from the glory of Monument Valley, but amidst the fuel situation, I managed to steal moments of visual awe. The absolute coolest moment was when I realized I was driving on the same road and had the same perspective as Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda enjoyed in the movie “Easy Rider”. 

Mexican hat, Utah was a welcomed sight, and I won’t forget the feeling I had when it became clear that I could run out of fuel and coast to the small village party store with two gas pumps in a stone parking lot.

Moving into Utah, I had passed through some very desolate land that seemed to stretch on for miles. The Navaho Indian Reservation may be of economic value some day, but until then, hardly productive and very depressing; an insult to the original Americans.

The Reservation made me sad, and like looking away from a car wreck, I eventually narrowed my vision and shrank from it all.  The wind howled and provided my first up close and personal ‘dirt devils’, spiraling cyclones of dust and dirt, zigging and zagging across the desert terrain. They appear with ferocity and then disappear, relieved I surmise by the spawning of another.

”Monument Valley is part of the Colorado Plateau. During the Eocene epoch of the Cenozoic era, huge quantities of these rocky mountain sediments were deposited in the section of land that now contains Monument Valley. At the same time, a regional uplift occurred on the Colorado Plateau. The plateau was pushed upward by pressure from below. It broke and cracked, thus creating a new cycle of corrosion. Most of the breaking was done underground long before the rocks were revealed”.

 From: http://members.tripod.com/~navajo_nation/geo.html

 It is a no brainer to go through the valley if you have the chance. This relatively desert terrain punctuated by “cowboy and Indian movie backdrops” of the 50’s come right to mind.

 My final destination of the day is Durango, Colorado by dark and I’m on schedule. The final 120 miles through Cortez, Colorado and Mesa Verde National Park I had planned to visit if I had time, passed fairly swiftly as the scenery was intoxicating. I find a good hotel in Durango and gird myself for tomorrow.

 Day 10 starts early enough and I’m can sense the impact of nine action packed days. I feel a little bit drained but quickly “snap out of it” when I realize I am doing just what I want to do, and I’m on vacation, to boot. Today will be a little easier, mostly driving and pre-positioning for the final National Park, and the King of the parks” Rocky Mountain N.P.  After a hearty breakfast, I head north 170 miles toward Grand Junction. In 170 miles, I will intersect I-70 and for the first time in three days, I will be on an Interstate highway, and return to 75mph. I have been staring at 55mph signs since getting to Flagstaff, and will be happier when I get there.

I arrived here at night, so the morning brought great visual images of this pretty good-sized town in the extreme southwest corner of Colorado. There are no towns of significant size within an hour and a half. About five miles out of Durango, I overtake a steam locomotive pulling a number of vintage passenger cars. I am suddenly filled with joy seeing this piece of history marching north on one of the few narrow gauge railroads left in the U.S. The “Durango Silverton R.R. still makes the 45+ mile trek climbing to more than 9300ft regularly. I pulled my car over off the road about a half mile down the road paralleling  the track, and position myself and video camera 10 feet from the track. Using the zoom, I framed its majesty rounding a small bend, moving at about 30mph, and spewing a tremendous plume of black smoke. It was a fantastic sight, like something out of a movie, but the west IS a movie, and every minute unwinds into something as surreal.

Thrilled by the sight, I move on north toward Silverton, and climb the 10,900ft Molas Divide. I first view Silverton about a thousand feet above the city, and start a decent wrapping around the side of a mountain. At the sharpest turn, still 500ft above, a guard rail is “trashed” from being struck so many times. Down the side of the mountain, into the city, surrounded now by the range I had driven.

The drive from Durango to Silverton is a spectacular one. Highly packed with visual delights, a never-ending climb to cross the pass. It is one the highlights of my trip. I remember having a choice of turns, hesitated, but picked the right road, and now descending, heading for Grand Junction.

It was raining when I reached Grand Junction, but let up just in time to turn west onto I-70 and rapidly rocket up to 80 mph, the fastest I have gone in days. Bolting by and through western towns of Parachute, Rife, Gypsum, Eagle, Vail, soaking it all in, I tentatively conclude that Colorado has it all: mountains, rivers, meadows, wildlife.

I found a motel in Frisco, Colorado and then backtracked to Copper Mountain Golf Resort where I played. It is the highest altitude golf course in the U.S., at over 8,000ft. Some of the holes were bizarre. A very short par 4 up-mountain that was beyond hard. Conversely, driving down-mountain resulted in the ball going forever. I lost a lot of balls here; in fact, I had to borrow a ball to finish the front nine. I bought some more at the turn, and manage to finish with all but one of the six bought. I had run out of all of balls that I brought on the trip, not bad though, considering the amount of different courses played. The views were great. Ensconced between two mountain ranges, the city of Breckenridge is on the other side of the east range, with Vail over and to the west of the northern range. I head back to the motel, pretty tired, and getting the impression the trip is almost done. The King of the Parks is just over the horizon where I will “put the icing on the cake”.

 

Day 11, I’m boiling with anticipation. The two images I still have from 1973 include looking up at the Rocky Mountains and down into the Grand Canyon. Today, twenty-two years later, a redo. A beautiful clear day supports the desire to see far and after the requisite internal fuel, I’m off.

It seemed to take forever to drive the 70 or so miles to Granby, even though the scenery is just fine. As soon as I hit the Park entrance and paid my money, the uphill climb intensified, and the realization of what was going to happen sets in. The highest you can drive a car in the contiguous US is Rocky Mountain National Park at over 14.000ft. Along the way, I continue to anticipate the “timberline”, the altitude at which trees no longer grow and rocky faces begin. At about 11,500 ft. full-grown adult trees are no more than a foot tall. You can see the progressive decrease in sizes ascending toward the summit. Through the breaks in the trees and the bending of the roadway, I can see a very long way out and along way down. Verification that I am high up is obtained and the natural defense mechanism of muted fear kicks in. Ahead I can see fewer mountains and surmise that around a few more curves and Ill be there. Suddenly I can see clouds below and level with me. When it appears I have reached the summit and the “pull over”, I park and get out. Walking to the edge of the observation point I watch as a huge cumulus cloud the size of a shopping mall is moving my way at my height. There were plenty of other fair weather clouds around, but I hoped this one would continue to work its way to me. It does continue and when it as about a quarter mile away, it became clear that this “white fluffy monster” was on a collision course at about 20 mph. With my video camera churning, I am entombed in a zero-zero environment of visible moisture. I can’t see two feet in front of me; everything is white. It lasted for about 40 seconds and was an incredible treat.

Continuing on now, downward toward Estes Park and Loveland, where I will spend the night. As with other times during this trip I ponder and marvel at the early adventurers and how long and arduous this trek was. Here I am in mechanical transportation motoring at good speed, secure from the elements by climate control toggle switches, listening to my favorite music, tweaking the balance. All this while viewing America’s top vistas, makes for shuddering and disbelief for those who struggled before me, blazing the trail.

I arrive in Loveland, Colorado and find Loveland Golf Course of the same name. I play with a Doctor and his wife. I started off well and then just sucked. The antithesis of the enjoyment I have just had in the mountains. I hung in there and finished limping mentally and was ready for my motel; a great day nonetheless

 Day 12 wraps the trip up with a tour of Boulder and the flight back to Michigan. Boulder evokes memories of a time when I was paid to drive a two ton truck from Detroit to Boulder. It was by chance that I answered an ad in the paper for someone to drive a 10 speed flatbed truck with two big generators affixed to its back. I told the owner that I had experience in such equipment, knowing full well I had never been in one of these things, let alone drive it…..500 mile across country. Well, I think he was desperate and agreed to pay me $100 plus expenses for the trip He gave me an advance for gas. The next morning I got the truck and start the drive from downtown Detroit. Within 15 minutes of departure, the hardest rain I had ever driven in commenced and made my experience with the truck that much more weird. I quickly realized that the fuel consumption would be prohibitive and that based on the mileage, I would not have enough money to get the truck to Denver. I kept wondering what the red knob on the floor stick-shift was, and a few hundred miles later figured it out.  I pulled on the knob like a cigarette lighter and fond that I could move it out. As lark, I down-shifted with the knob pulled out to what I thought was forth gear and suddenly, I was in ninth. A tremendous reduction in engine rpm signified a complete change in the game. I would most likely be able to make to the destination but I still slept in the truck, fearful I would not have enough money for gas.

With $50 to my name. I picked up a few hitchers along the way to pass the time of having no radio. I enjoyed myself, but never could really shake the fear of not having enough dough to get there. I finally got to Boulder, pulled into the prearranged Holiday Inn and found no room booked for either myself or the owner. I persuaded the proprietor to allow me a room, secured with the title to the truck, as the bill would be paid when the owner came to reclaim his truck.

 Another true adventure of the trip included a tragic flash flood which devastated the Loveland area.  Torrential rain had swollen the Loveland Pass area, but unfortunately there had been numerous flash flood false alarms in the past and campers did not take the warnings seriously. When the big Thompson River blew out, a seventeen-foot wall of water crashed through the Big Thompson Canyon for miles.  Over 100 people were killed, and I drove through the area about two hours before the event.  My mother and father knew that I had come to Colorado and were worried when I did not call them for a number of days. When I finally did call them, they were naturally upset. I finally got into a room, took a shower, went to Taco Bell, and bought my first two cans of Coors. Overlooking University of Colorado at Boulder was a beautiful sight. I slept great that night and met the owner the following day, gave him his truck and he my $100. We bid farewell and I took the bus for a dollar to Denver to catch another bus to Craig, Colorado in the northwest corner of the state. A short distance from Steamboat Springs, I would spend the next three weeks staying with a friend and his family. I got an opportunity to work for a bit and earn enough money to stay and party the whole time.

It was exhilarating for me to plan and execute this revisit.  Virtually everything occurred and works like clockwork.  The canyons, the mountain, the people, the sheer beauty of America all made this trip extraordinarily rewarding. I was pretty tired when I boarded the aircraft back Detroit, but exhilarated with the successful experience.

As I nestle into my window seat, the satisfaction is only outdone by the knowledge that my good friend Larry Webber would be very proud.                                                                              

 

This trip covered 5000 miles in 15 days. Starting and ending in Denver, it covered 8 states.

 ___________________________________________________________________

 

Chapter 3   “I Can’t Help It”

 A season has come and gone since I flew home from Denver. Winter is upon us in Michigan, and I drift back the few months to that time of exploratory bliss. I learned some lessons from ‘97 that I would take to heart in the trips to follow. Yes, the trips to follow, for my desire to return to the west is rekindled, with the intensity of a signal flare. Editing the camcorder video tapes, I realize I have played golf in only 9 states. I had given consideration to visiting each National Park, and still harbor these feelings, but during the winter ‘97-‘98, I resolved to play golf in each of the 48 contiguous states. Doing so would require visiting places in America I otherwise may not have. A benefit of traveling alone is unilateral decision making. Not engaging another’s consideration, especially if you are married or residing together is periodically just plain good for your inner self. A veritable return to the person you were before the desire for companionship became too strong to ignore.

I loved it, every decision: window up, window down, radio on, radio off, stop here, go there, eat now, sleep later, from the droll-fully routine, to the strategic. It was all good, and I wanted to do it again. So when I informed my friends and family of the plan, I enticed no one to join me. This second adventure would take in the great states of Idaho, Oregon Washington, California, and Nevada. I would drive more than 3000 mile in 10 days, visit seven National Parks and play at least that many golf courses. Each of the National Parks was expected to be world class and of course, all would be new to me. The end of August 1997 was warm in Michigan as I loaded my gear and “broke loose” via jet aircraft bound for Reno, Nevada. I had improved some of my planning techniques while still incorporating most of the previous methods. I choose my routing with the idea of saving Pebble Beach and Yosemite for last.

 Arriving in Reno, I drove to Winnemucca Nevada before “bedding down” at a motel. This city is the farthest north I-80 traverses the U.S. This town has special significance to me as it plays a role in the stories I tell of the ‘73 trip with Larry. We had been laboring in our efforts to return home to Michigan from California. Stuck in Sacramento for many hours, something like 11, we were finally picked up by a U-Haul van with what appeared to be 2 people seated up front. When the side door opened to let us in, there were five other hitchhikers, their backpacks and two dogs. Packed as it was, we were glad to have the ride and to be moving away from Sacramento. Those fine folks took us all the way to Winnemucca before they exited to spend the night.

 Inside the van, among the many, was another traveler from the same part of Michigan we were, and quickly hit off with him. This was great, here in a van, rolling east on I-80 in the desert taking about streets, places and people from the hometown area. When our ride got off the freeway, we all piled out. It was like the proverbial clown car escapade. When you’re hitchhiking, you certainly don’t want to be part of a crowd. Besides, it was near midnight and we decided to walk east and put some distance between the other travelers.  The people, who had dropped us off, said that they would be continuing with their journey to Arkansas the next day.  Both Larry and I were joined by the person from Michigan as we headed out to the desert.  All three of us slept in the two-man tent that night, to ward off desert varmints. 

The sun rose early and put a molten grip on our tent by 7 AM.  To avoid heat stroke, we put out of the tent and onto the road, pressing on east. At about 10am, a car stopped with room for one, leaving Larry and I again a duo. It was about 2 o’clock in the afternoon when I thought I was seeing a mirage coming down the road.  By this time Larry and I were about out of water and literally hundreds of cars passed us that scorching day.  At first, the people in the van drove by, but when I yelled, waved my arms and ran down the road after them, they pulled over.  Needless to say we were desperate and very thankful they picked us up. We rode with them the 360 miles to Salt Lake City. In two days these fellow citizen hippies had carted us 660 miles, one of the many recollections I have of typical American sprit and generosity. We were parched and dehydrated.  I remember when we stopped at a gas station; I drank two Cokes in a matter of seconds, and bought some junk food and cigarettes. These liquid and solid additions to our system now complimented the “Mr. Natural” our recent friend from Michigan “turned us on to” that morning. Satiated, we spent many miles staring out the back of the van at the endless black ribbon of roadway crossing the desert isolation, routinely commenting often how glad we were to be out of there.  Two extraordinary things happened after we were picked up. First, we stopped and picked up another person, also marooned in the 100 degree plus desert temperature. The guy appeared delirious when he crawled into the back of the van, and instead of wanting water, he kept saying “reefer”. This went on for a couple of minutes until he drank some water and fell asleep. He had on a fringe leather brown jacket on, out in that heat, and what appeared to be a hardcover book. I will never forget the title. When my curiosity piqued I slid his now removed jacket from the book, yielding the title “Going Down With Janice”. I was quite stunned and my predisposition still made it hard to grasp. Of all the books, this is the one he chose to tote? The second bizarre thing on that segment of the 1973 trip was when we stopped for a woman hitchhiking. She inquired as to whether the driver was going past Salt Lake City. When they said no, she passed on the ride. I would have paid to be freed from my previous hell, but she could be selective, knowing some other male Samaritan (sic) would be along moments later. It was a window of clarity into how one aspect of things worked in the world.

 

Day 2

The goal today: drive to and play golf in Boise Idaho and eventually spending the night in Baker City Oregon. Two hundred and fifty miles later, I reach Boise, Idaho and start the hunt for Quail Hollow Golf Course, on the northern side of town. I learned allot about Boise as I drove for about an hour looking for the course. But when I found it, the place was great. Very elevated tee boxes stand out, with a good mix of holes. The course is not walkable by anyone other than a tri-athlete. The gas powered carts appear to have only a mountain gear, and for sure it is required. Though the carts were cheap, the course design is not. I played by myself and took all of it in. I shot 78, so you know I loved it. My first round of the trip and have started well. Striking the ball solidly, no matter whether the course is new to you or not, will usually yield low numbers. It’s great to play a new course, and especially by yourself. The unraveling of new and different golf courses was part of what this whole deal was about. It was a little after 3:30pm when I returned to I-84. Boise is not far from the Oregon border and a sudden reduction in the speed limit. From the 70mph plus in Idaho, to a virtual crawl of 55mph in Oregon. I drove a hundred and forty more miles to Baker City, found a great motel the Royal Motor Inn and called it a day.  Staring out the motel window I note, this is timber country, much different from my entry to the state by way of its southeastern underbelly.  The southeast corner of Oregon is mostly desert, something I never expected. It’s serious too; you could die there. Relaxing after dinner, I rehash the day’s events before tuning my thoughts to tomorrow.

 

DAY 3

I’m headed to Seattle! This is sort of a big deal to me; I have long wanted to “feel” the Pacific Northwest. On the way, I plan on stopping in Yakima, Washington and playing golf at Apple Tree Golf Course. It was overcast the morning I headed towards Washington, and 140 miles to the Columbia River took its sweet time.  I exit to I-82 and cross the mighty Columbia River for the first time. I have crossed numerous rivers, but this was a milestone.   It is another 80 miles to Yakima, and one of the first things I wanted to find out when I got to Yakima, Washington was its proper pronunciation (Yawk-ama).

Apple Tree Golf Course was very picturesque from the start. There was an apple orchard within the course and a huge island green shaped like an apple as well.  While the course was very good, I found the price the excessive. Two ladies and one man, who all knew each other, treated me to a lovely afternoon.  One of the absolute benefits from having played with these particular people was their insistence that I include Mount St. Helens in my Washington travel plans.  Honestly, I had not even considered it, as I was fully focused and committed to exploring Mount Rainier and Olympic National Park.  On this particular day, Mount Rainier was not visible from the course as it is on a clear day.  I sensed that the advice given to me by one of the ladies was born in fact, so mental adjustments to my routing began.  Driving from Yakima towards Mount Rainier I chose to traverse the park via the southern scenic route entrance.  About 40 minutes into the park and still unable to see the mountain because of the clouds, traffic suddenly came to a complete standstill as the result of an accident ahead.  A police officer came and told us all that it would probably be an hour before the road was reopened. I reversed directions onto the primary road 123 north on the eastern side of the park.  Even though I drove all around the mountain, I never saw it.

 This was the day I was going to call Barb. It’s now almost 8 PM Pacific time, making at 11 PM Eastern Time. I pulled off the road to make a call from a payphone which I saw on the front of closed business. As I stood there alone I suddenly noticed four males appear and start walking towards me and the payphone.  I remember I felt quite uncomfortable as it terminated my dialing efforts and returned the car.  I continued driving, the extra 70 miles, eventually finding a hotel in Renton just outside Seattle.

After getting the motel, I went to local Burger King for dinner-to-go.  I returned to the motel room, sit down to watch TV and eat my burger.  When I turned on the TV, every channel was focused on the entrance of a tunnel. Rapidly it appears that something is wrong and I soon learned that I’m looking at the aftermath of Princess Diana’s untimely death. Relaxing, still watching the news, I go over tomorrow’s route.  While doing so, I found I needed to use a magnifying glass to focus a on the small grey roads of my Rand McNally.  It was that moment I made a personal commitment to have my eyes examined when I returned home. 

 

DAY 4

 My first stop after breakfast will be the Space Needle in downtown Seattle. I’m looking forward to ascending to the observation deck.  As it turns out, I’m the first person on the elevator and quickly am videotaping 360 degrees.  It should not surprise you, that from the moment I woke up in Renton it did not stop raining.  Would it truly be Seattle if there wasn’t some form of precipitation?  On one side of the deck about 150 degrees worth of exposure to the wind and light rain; I spent most of the time shielding my camera.  I taped some fabulous shots of Puget Sound, and through the clearing, portions of the Olympic Mountains.  Olympic National Park was part of the plan, had I one more day, but alas another time.  South from Seattle, towards Tacoma, I’m committed to finding the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.  Entering the city from the north, my first view is of the Tacoma Dome.  After what seemed to be an hour, I found the bridge in its entire splendor.  I drove under it on both sides, across it both directions acquiring quite a bit of videotape and mental images.

The day is clear, unlike yesterday, and I am excited about the upcoming views of Mount Rainier.  I drive south on Highway 7 until I intercept secondary road 706 and enter Mount Rainier National Park from the south west corner.  Through, and over a tremendous amount of trees, I can see a weather system associated with Mount Rainier, the highest point in the state of Washington at 14,410 feet.  The immense size overwhelmed my sense.  As I drove, I caught peaks of the different named glaciers on the mountain.  In one instance I saw snow pack that appeared to be a 100 foot thick deck of snow that ran along for half a mile.  Mount Rainier is massive. Cumulous clouds surrounded the peak and limited my view. There are many classic scenes near the mountain including those with lakes surrounded by trees framed in the background and dominated by the reflection of and mountain itself.  I was very moved by what I saw, a right beautiful place.

One of the reasons I did not go to Olympic National Park was because I modified my routing to now include Mount St. Helens.  The 50 miles or so went by relatively easily. The forest splendor did not quit.  But once I hit the entrance to Mount St. Helens, things changed dramatically and rapidly.  I entered the park from the northeast after heading south from Randle, Washington.  There’s also an entrance on the western side of Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument but you can’t cross the range by car.  The 20 or so miles of the park road meandered up, around, and over what was, and still is, complete devastation.  This drive to the summit provided me with a most serious geologic lesson.  There actually was an element of being frightened, straining to comprehend the forces that would cause this kind of destruction.  To see millions of trees lay on their side, up and over smaller mountains for a 20 mile radius is absolutely the most impressive wonder I’ve ever seen.  In all my travels and all the things that I’ve seen, nothing whatsoever compares to Mount St. Helens. I reached what is now the summit, able to see the huge gouge left when a third of the mountain slid down into Spirit Lake.  The mountain once ranked second in size to Mount Rainier, but no more as 1000 feet were lopped off in an instant.  A park ranger was giving a presentation to the crowd at the small amphitheater.  I listened while the ranger explained and imagined the maelstrom of the eruption. I was able to roughly see where Harry Truman had once lived, and realized that if the mountain had a scope, it could not have bore down on Harry any more.  Spirit Lake is a few hundred feet higher elevation today from the debris left by the eruption. The sight that will never leave me is that of thousands of dead trees all clinging to each other creating a virtual walk way almost a mile long.  Besides the millions of dead trees visibly lying on their side surrounding the mountain, in all directions, the river of dead trees will remain burned in my mind.  Needless to say, if you are within a hundred miles of Mount Helens, pay her a visit. 

Leaving the mountain and heading south through the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, I eventually pass through the towns of Cougar, Yale, and Amboy.  These towns had obviously been affected by the eruption. I cross the Columbia River again through Portland, Oregon, on my way to Florence, which is 60 miles west of Eugene.  Along the way I pass through Salem, Springfield, and Eugene, before finding a motel room in Florence.  The Pacific Ocean is right out my backdoor. In the morning I’m going to play the second ranked public course in the state.  It’s been a long day, one that included the Space Needle, the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, Mount Rainier, Mount St. Helens, the Columbia River, and now the Pacific Ocean crashing onto the coast of Oregon.

 

Day 5

An early start finds me in Florence, Oregon, number one on the first tee at the Sandpines Golf Course.  On the Oregon Dunes, this 6954 yard beauty was an absolute joy to play.  It truly deserves its ranking in the state.  A fairly straightforward design, with some elevated tee’s and fantastic greens belies its course index of 75.0.  On a few of the holes, you’re treated to glimpses of the Pacific.  There was only one, but significant, problem, Mosquitoes!  Not just some, but billions.  I rarely could stop and observe the beautiful surroundings.  The light breeze that blew was not enough to ward off the throngs.  I walked Sandpines in just over three hours, and saw no other participants except to the Asian couple in the parking lot who dilly-dallied just long enough for me to get on the course ahead of them.  Standing on the 18^th green looking back, I felt I had played a great course.  Mosquitoes truly put a dent in my experience, but cannot stand in the way of this first-class track. I left the course heading south on Highway 101, the Coastal Highway, with hopes of catching views of the Pacific as I drove.  I didn’t really get to see what I wanted until I reached the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area.  Tremendous amounts of vegetation surrounded by a sea of white sand.  The deep blue of the Pacific provided the backdrop while I walked along the boardwalk.  I spent about 20 minutes there before continuing towards my next destination: Crater Lake National Park.  This particular stretch of Highway 101 did not afford the views I had anticipated, so I intercepted Highway 38 at Reedsport and cut across the 65 miles to interstate 5.  One thing for sure, there is no easy way to get to Crater Lake.  The route I did take was the scenic Highway 138 from Roseburg taking me though such towns as Glide, Ideyld Park, Toketee Falls, Steamboat, and Diamond Lake.

”One hundred years ago it became one of America’s first national parks. Crater Lake lies inside a caldera, or volcanic basin, created about 7,700 years when the 12,000 foot (3,660 meter) high Mount Mazama collapsed following a major eruption. The lake averages more than 5 miles (8 km) in diameter, and is surrounded by steep rock walls that rise up to 2,000 feet (600 meters) above the lake’s surface. The lake itself is 1,943 feet (592 meters) deep at its deepest point, the deepest lake in the United States and the seventh deepest anywhere in the world. It is fed almost entirely by snowfall, which averages 533 inches (1,354 cm) per year. There is no outlet to the lake; evaporation and seepage prevent the lake from becoming any deeper. The lake level fluctuates slightly from year to year. Its highest recorded level was measured in 1975 when the lake’s surface reached a height of 6,179.34 feet above sea level. The lowest level recorded was 6,163.20 feet (1,878.55 meters), in 1942. Because Crater Lake is filled almost entirely by snowfall, it is one of the clearest lakes anywhere in the world. Scientists using a reflector called a Secchi disk  which commonly records clarity readings of 120 feet (37 meters). On June 25, 1997 scientists recorded a record clarity reading of 142 feet (43.3 meters). Lake temperature varies between 32°F (0°C) and 66°F (19°C) at the surface. More than 260 feet (80 meters) beneath the surface, the water remains 38°F (3°C) year-round. The surface of the lake rarely freezes. The last significant freezing event occurred in 1949, when the entire lake was frozen for more than three months. A small volcanic island, Wizard Island, rises 764 feet (233 meters) above the surface of the lake on its west side. A small crater, 300 feet (90 meters) across and 90 feet (27 meters) deep, rests on the summit. Crater Lake was named for this beautiful, symmetrical crater by James Sutton, editor of the Oregon Sentinel in Jacksonville, in 1869.”    www.nps.gov

 Not to mention the beautiful lodge overlooking the lake.  It was very quiet that day, with little wind The Lake was completely still and I videotaped from many different angles.  If I were to have the opportunity, I would stay at the lodge in a heartbeat.  It was getting late in the day when I left the Park and I still had a fairly hefty cruise to reach Crescent City, CA where I plan to spend the night.  75 miles to the south I passed through Medford Oregon and later Grants Pass, leaving me fifty miles to the California border.  Highway 199 brings me California, and shortly after the border crossing, I encountered my first agricultural inspection detour.  I pull off the road into a large shed. Approached by a uniformed female officer, she inquires about fruits, plants, or vegetables.  Having none, I was waved through the checkpoint and considered the need to such an inspection.

 

DAY 6

Today’s driving distances will total about 400 miles, and the end of the day hopes to find me in Monterey California.  Highway 101 heading south and it takes very little time to arrive at the entrance of the splendid Redwoods Forest National Park.  My first encounter with the tall trees was unforgettable.  It appears that the Park stretches for about 40 miles, and every exit off of the Highway provides new and specific treats.  It was a beautiful clear day when I entered the forest and soon found the light dimming quite noticeably. 

”Redwood National and State Parks are home to some of the world’s tallest trees: old-growth coast redwoods. They can live to be 2000 years old and grow to over 300 feet tall. Spruce, hemlock, Douglas-fir, berry bushes, and sword ferns create a multiple canopied under story that towers over all visitors. The parks’ mosaic of habitats include prairie/oak woodlands, mighty rivers and streams, and 37 miles of pristine Pacific coastline....Three California state parks and the National Park Service unit represent a cooperative management effort of the National Park Service and California Department of Parks and Recreation. They are Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park, Del Norte Coast Redwoods State Park, Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park, and Redwood National Park, comprising 45 percent of all the old-growth redwood forest remaining in California.” (www.NPS.gov)  A terrific aspect of visiting this Park is that there is no fee.  As I drove through the various forests, I noted that I was alone.  The eerie feeling I got driving through the Park was magnified by this.  The trees are wonderful!  Soaring in some cases 300 plus feet with broad foliage sprouting three-quarters of the way up, completely obscured the blue sky.  It reminded me of being in an eclipse.  One sight I won’t forget is that of a fallen tree, felled by a saw.  Its diameter was at least 12 feet which really brought home the mighty size of the Redwoods.

 As I left the Park I thought about the fact that the Redwoods and Sequoias, are the largest living thing on earth.  Onward to and through Eureka, I catch glimpses of the Pacific from my Highway 101 cliff perch. Two hours south of Eureka, I have to choose whether to continue on the expressway or branch off to Highway 1, the coastal Highway.  It’s a mighty long way from Leggett California to San Francisco by way of Highway 1.  I chose to stay on the expressway so that might reach Monterey in time to play some golf.  This was a beautiful drive with views of the Coastal Range a continuous companion.  I do not regret bypassing the coastal Highway 101, but could be convinced to travel it in the future.  Passing through wine country, I can feel my pulse rising as I near San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. Descending out of the mountains, and rounding one final curve I catch my first view of the Golden Gate Bridge.  I armed my camera and commenced taping while crossing the bridge itself. Nothing unusual but knowing that you are actually crossing the Golden Gate made it very poignant.  Unfortunately as I reviewed the videotaped at the end of the day I found that for some later to be fixed reason most of the tape was blurry.  Having spent most of my time pointing the viewfinder and driving, I probably visually missed what I thought I had captured on tape. But leave no doubt, from all angles of the bridge I saw was wonderful. I arrived in San Francisco a little after lunch time, and the town was abuzz with traffic.  The rows upon rows of businesses and dwellings reminded me of my previous visit to this great city.  South on 19^th Avenue, cutting through the city I struggled to take it all and while videotaping.  I’m working my way towards Pacifica California to join Highway 1 for the final leg to Monterey. As a break off towards Pacifica, I notice over the ocean a tremendous amount of cumulus clouds.  It became very clear to me within ten minutes that this was not clouds, but fog.  Most of my drive to Monterey was a combination of cliffs and sea level, up and down with magnificent views ocean views.  Miles of beaches dotted with rocks make a most enjoyable view out the right side of my car.  The east side is all mountains. It was a great drive with the beaches and waves visible most of the way.  Memorable images of surfing and sunbathing dotted the way.  Just outside of Monterey, I caught my first sight of what I thought to be migrant workers.  It didn’t take long for me to think of the Milagros Bean Field movie.  For some reason I find this sight very depressive, even though I know the work is honorable and must be done.  But for sure, I did find it very strange, the contrast, between the itinerant workers that I see in the midst of megabuck palaces over and down the hill.

My first view of Monterey was from about 1000 above the city.  Through Pacific Grove, California rounding the bend onto    Oceanview Boulevard, I work my way past Spanish Bay to intersect   17 Mile Drive.

 I do this so I can go to the Mecca of all American public golfers: Pebble Beach Golf Course.  As I wind my way along 17 mile drive, I am stunned by the beauty of the peninsula and the homes that sit atop it.  One after another, multimillion dollar mansions quickly made me feel out of place and when I arrived at Pebble, I really felt weird.  I parked my car and headed down a sidewalk bordered by lush vegetation, all finely manicured.  As I rounded the clubhouse restaurant corner, my first view of the course is that of the 18^th green.  What a sight!  I was here! I walked to the clubhouse, videotaping all the time maintaining the mark of the tourist.  It was about 3:30 PM, and for some oddball reason, I thought I might be able to get in “Twilight” or something like that.  I found out from the starter, almost dressed in a tuxedo that play had ended for the day, with the final group having teed off at about 3 PM.  He told me that the best way for me to play the course was to be there at 6 AM, put my name on the wait list, and by doing so I would have a good chance to play.  I thanked him and, with the pressure of playing lifted, headed toward the clubhouse area as if I belonged there.  I bought a few items from the shop, making sure the name Pebble Beach was prominently displayed.  There were about 15 people milling around outside the clubhouse as I walked towards the first tee located directly across from the clubhouse entrance, about 50 feet away.  Finding the tee box empty I walked out and stood upon it.   

 It is difficult for me to describe the sensation standing on this hallowed ground, looking down the fairway of the very first hole of this the storied course.  So many great golfers before me stood here poised for competition.  This is what they saw when the teed it up.  I’m very privileged to have been there. I left the course with a great glow and continued my tour of 17 Mile Drive, eventually working my way into downtown Monterey and securing hotel room.  What a lovely place and was easy to see why people gravitated to this peninsula. Along the way, I went to Pacific Grove Golf Course, a public course on the tip of the peninsula which boasts views of the Pacific and the coastline similar to Pebble Beach.  I also visited Poppy Hills Golf Course and Spanish Bay Golf Course.  I expect to be in Monterey through tomorrow night, leaving the following morning.  I would very much like to play Pebble Beach but there are a few problems.  Pebble Beach is such a great course that it needs to be done right.  Rising at 5 AM to be at the clubhouse by 6 AM with the possibility of playing, and paying $230 for the privilege just didn’t seem right. So I chose not to play Pebble Beach but rather play two other courses, at my leisure, with a cumulative cost less than one round at Pebble Beach.  Tee times at Pebble Beach can be made a year in advance and up to a day in advance if you’re a guest at the lodge.  The thing to do is to spend one night at the lodge  and then make two tee times to play the day of arrival and day of departure.  Figure about $1000 for this.

A humorous antidote to the day’s events was while I was driving in Monterey, I had trouble finding a particular motel.  I decided to pull into what appeared to be a party store, and after entering found out that it was a small grocery.  All of the cashiers were busy, so I walked perpendicular to the aisles looking for a stockperson.  Finding one installing boxes of Rice-a-Roni on the shelf, I inquired, and was provided immediate directions.  He stated that I should continue on the road that I was on, and at the split, veer to the left.  I entered the roadway, but the traffic so intense; I never could get to the left side.  Figuring that there would be a side road crossing between the forks, I didn’t worry too much.  But as I continued to drive I found no cut through and started to get lost.  I drove around and around looking for a familiar road to reorient myself.  After about 25 minutes I found myself pulling off to inquire further directions.  As I got out of my car go into the establishment I noticed a small billboard sign outside the door that looked very familiar.  As soon as I stepped into the store, I realize that this was the exact place I was given the original directions.  I could not believe how weird that was.  So without going any further, I returned my car and this time made sure I veered to the left at the split, and wouldn’t you know, the motel was about 400 yards away. The motel room was not too bad in virtual downtown Monterey with the only exception, being directly below the final glide path to Monterey’s airport.  It seemed that throughout the night small jets landed and landed. 

Day 7

I woke this morning to a typical beautiful California day and set my sights on playing Poppy Hills.  After a hearty breakfast I revisited Pebble Beach, retrace 17 Mile Drive

and made a closer inspection of Spanish Bay Golf Course for possible play tomorrow.  I also wanted to play Spyglass, which would be my first choice if I were not to play Pebble Beach.

”17 Mile Drive and the other roadways in Delmonte Forest are privately owned; the right to pass by permission and is subject to control of the owner as stated in section 1008 of the California Civil Code.  Admission may be refused to anyone.  The license to the roads is subject to the conditions set forth and may be revoked at any time”.  This and other prohibitions are contained in the pamphlet is given you as you pay your money to drive on and around the peninsula.  Leaving Spanish Bay, I can see numerous coastal points including Point Joe, Bird Rock, Seal Rock, Cypress Point Lookout, and The Lone Cypress, before I reach Pebble Beach.  I stopped many times along this Drive and took quite a bit of videotape of one more beautiful spot.  Easy to see why people spend millions of dollars to inhabit this area, I know that I would if I enjoyed that quantity of resources.  Working my way inland towards the Highway 18 gate, I eventually enter Poppy Hills Golf Course.  I belly up to be pro shop and inquire about possible tee time.  I’m given one in the early afternoon and with about three hours to kill, I continued my tour of 17 Mile Drive.  It’s a pretty good stretch to Pacific Grove gate, and I drive to the Pacific Grove Golf course to see if I would possibly be able to play there sooner.  The place is naturally packed the gills, and once again I could see why.  I walked around the clubhouse proper and overlooked the course from the clubhouse vantage point. A number of the holes view the Pacific and rocky points normally associated with the other golf courses on the peninsula. Seeing most of what I came to see, I made my way back to Poppy Hills and prepared for fun.  I would be joined with three fellows of the great state of Texas.  Besides being first-class gentlemen, they certainly liked to wager.  I participated in the folly, and found myself almost $20 to the good as the left course. Poppy Hills was a difficult but fun course.  I enjoyed the layout and the challenges and afforded.  I was thrilled to be playing on the Monterey Peninsula, and being that this was the very first course I had played in the state of California; I gladly noted and chalk it up.

I secured my hotel room Pacific Grove at a place called Sunset Motel.  This bungalow type motel was excellent with a fireplace and chandelier lighting.  I made a few phone calls and determined that I could play Spyglass at 11 AM the next day.  An additional call to Spanish Bay afforded me the tee time of slightly before 8 AM.  Knowing that tomorrow would be a big day, playing golf, driving across the state, and visiting two National Parks, made taking the early tee time at Spanish Bay a no-brainer.

I remember a very bizarre incident occurred that night.  I’m lying in the middle of bed without clothes and suddenly the sound of somebody turning the front door knob.  Within seconds I realize I must not have locked the door. A drunken man starts to enter and with what appeared to be a German accent indicates that he had stayed in this room the night before.  I told him to get out, two or three times, before he finally understood that I really did not care about his purpose for being there.  After he left, I immediately sprang to the door to lock it, then heard him speak to whoever else was in the car.  What a bazaar event!  Needless to say, while I thought I was always pretty security conscience, I tightened up my review of door locks before going to bed.

Day 8

  I started this day bright and early, and arrived at Spanish Bay Golf Links an hour before my tee time. A semiformal dining room overlooks the first tee and the Pacific Ocean.  Being the only one in the dining room that morning, I sat next to window stared out.  It was about hour past sunrise as the morning mist and overcast burnt off.  The view from my dining perch, coupled with the elegance of my internal surroundings and corresponding quiet, is unforgettable. Sauntering to the first tee, I intend to walk this course.  The three gentlemen I was grouped with saw otherwise and motored about.  My home course, Leslie Park Golf Course in Ann Arbor, is very hilly, and considered a difficult walk.  Since I walk this course 98 percent of the time, I am rarely challenged at other places I play.  I consider myself, along with my brother, quick on the course.  We do not dilly-dally, but I will not walk at full speed to keep up with a cart. The first hole at Spanish Bay heads downhill towards the Pacific, with a slight dogleg to the right.  I got off to a good start and hung in their most of the course and thoroughly enjoyed playing and walking in view of the Pacific.  Virtually every hole has a terrific view of the ocean somewhere.  The vegetation separates the holes from the fairway.  I stood with my camera and rotated 360 degrees taking in all of the wonderful sites.  A few of the holes are directly next to the ocean with the beach separating you from the water.  The greens were first rate, the fairway true, and the visuals made for a sensational variance.  While I did not play Spyglass or Pebble Beach, I have absolutely no regrets and loved every second of these two courses.

It’s kinda’ tricky heading east across the California.  It’s a good idea to choose your route wisely.  I headed south on Highway 101, with the intent of cutting across the Coastal Ranges, on scenic Highway 152. This route brought me through the city of Gilroy, and an instant aromatic application of garlic to my nose.  Wonderful garlic!  Probably the strongest smell of garlic ever encountered in my life, and I’m outside in a car.  Did I say smell of garlic was overpoweringly strong?  I loved every second of this treat and will never forget the surprise, intensity, and delight I was afforded in Gilroy California.  I later learned the town fancies itself the “garlic capital of the world”, and from my experience, they do wear the crown.

A little while later I come upon the San Luis Reservoir and the size of this man-made freshwater collection area is staggering.  It was my first experience at seeing a reservoir, or at least one that size.  I’m driving eventually to and through Fresno California, on my way to visit Sequoia and King’s Canyon National Park’s.  Reaching I-5, the forty-four miles go by quickly.  As I enter Fresno, the main drag is lined with palm trees providing an excellent visual welcome.  I intend to stay in Fresno this evening, but for now turn east on Highway 180, the Kings Canyon Road.

As I reached the Parks’ entrance, a decision as to which Park to visit is made, I chose Sequoia.  Headed off to view the giant trees, it doesn’t take long to see one giant and then another.  I drove from and back to Grant Grove, past the Village, Sherman Tree, Lodgepole, Little Baldy, Dorst, Stony Creek, Big Baldy, and Giant Tree. “The Sequoia does grow only on the west slope of the Sierra Nevada, most often between 5000 and 7000 feet.  The General Sherman tree is between 2300 and 2700 years old.  Its larger branch is almost seven feet in diameter.  Its circumference at the ground is nearly 103 ft.” (www.nps.gov) I put my video camera on the roof of the car and found myself against one of the monsters completely dwarfed.  These are the largest living things on earth, but I think I said that also about the Redwoods.  The technical information provided is from the official map and guide of the National Park Service.

I spent a little too much time in Sequoia never thinking that Kings Canyon would rival it.  Naturally I was wrong.  With about an hour and a half of daylight left I ventured into the Canyon and drove towards the end before I was slowed and eventually stopped by road construction. “Steep and barren, the parks canyon area reach the depths outside the park of 8200 feet from river level up to Spanish Mountain’s peak there, just downstream from the confluence of the Middle and South Forks of the King’s River, the Canyon is without peer in North America-deeper then the Snake River’s Hell Canyon in Idaho, or the Grand Canyon in Arizona.” (www.nps.gov) As I drove towards the end of the Canyon Road, the sun was about a half-hour from setting, and shadows were already being cast.  The Kings Canyon park road clings to the mountain side overlooking the seriousness of the Canyon. Most of the time of time, I’m driving above 7000ft, with the road and Kings Canyon, topping out at 7800 feet. As the King’s Canyon Highway winds eventually to the west, the precipitous drop to the unseen Canyon river floor is only exceeded by the seventy degrees sheer face incline of Palmer Mountain, weighing in at 11,150 feet.  The setting sun was brilliantly illuminating Palmer Mountain with a stunning reddish-orange reflection.  The shadow cast by the up-sun mountain I was on, made a visible shadow on Palmer Mountain in the form of a triangle, forming gigantic golden pyramid.

 Finally, realizing that I would not reach the terminus of the Kings Canyon Highway, I exited my car and expended the rest of the day’s videotape.  On this day I will be breaking my personal rule of driving on any mountain at night.  I have about 30 minutes left before it’s completely dark. Darkness intensified as I descended.  Uneventfully, I came down from the mountain, and secured a motel room in Fresno.

I have been fortunate to see much wildlife in my travels.  The trip to Sequoia and Kings Canyon was no exception.  The critter I did not see, but quite abundant, is the Cougar.  It is recommended that you avoid hiking or running alone.  You further are implored to monitor your children.  If you encounter a cougar, do not run or crouch down, stand your ground and back away slowly.  While I did not see a cougar, I did lay claim to my first visual bear sighting.  Rounding a bend, sitting in the middle of the road I spy a bear cub.  I slowed down as I approached hoping not to scare it, but instinctually wary, it scooted up into the woods. I stopped the car in the exact spot it was sitting and looked up to see if I could catch a glimpse.  Suddenly, I realize that the mother may be around somewhere and at the same time, it dawned on me that I’m looking out the passenger window with my driver’s window wide-open.  I quickly rolled up the window and slowly moved away from the area, realizing that I placed myself in a dangerous situation.  Live and learn to live.  Nevertheless, I was thrilled to finally see a bear in the wild. In my motel room, I go over the day’s events, from my breakfast perch at Spanish Bay, last view of the Pacific, my round of golf, Gilroy, the giant reservoir, Fresno’s palm tree entrance, Sequoia and King’s Canyon.  I also consider that this is near the end of the trip, and tomorrow is my last full day.

 Day 9

I begin the last full day of this journey by entering one of America’s most prestigious National Parks! From Fresno, I enter Yosemite via the South entrance. From the Yosemite Official Map and Guide, I find that the park was set aside in1890.  The park varies in altitude from 2000 feet to more than 13,000 feet.  There is alpine wilderness, groves of Giant Sequoias, and the Yosemite Valley.  The park has almost 200 miles of roads, which apparently has become such a madhouse, that the park service has or is contemplating severely restricting automobile traffic.

500 million years ago, the Sierra Nevada region lay beneath an ancient sea. Thick layers of sediment covered the seabed which eventually folded and thrust above sea level.  At the same time, molten rock surfaced and slowly cooled beneath the layers of sediment forming granite.  Erosion eventually wore away almost all of the rock and exposed the granite. Easing into the park, I passed by the Badger Pass Ski Area before encountering the “tunnel”. At every tunnel exit, I try to have my video camera rolling and this was no exception.  Instantly, El Capitan appears and my eyes are riveted.  What a beautiful sight.  I found a parking space, foot toured and soon after see the Three Sisters.

 I drove through the park eventually exiting at the Tioga Pass Entrance. I spent a lot more time in Yosemite than I should have, but the beauty never ended. One thing that stands out, if you want rocks, THIS IS THE PLACE. It must be the finest place in America for climbing, and I saw many people climbing. Some folks were ridiculous without any equipment, save tennis shoes, while others had full gear, including helmets, ropes, etc.

After leaving the Yosemite, I head north towards Carson City Nevada to play golf at Eagle Ridge Golf Course.  Passing into Nevada, I see Mono Lake, a fresh water supply for many inhabitants of California. 

Arriving on the course at about 4 PM, I still had quite a bit of daylight left.  The course was terrific, desert surrounded by mountain ridges.  I took my sweet time on the front nine, replaying shots that I may have fouled.  The topography was elevated and changed frequently.  They call this course Eagle Ridge for a reason, and I heard and saw at least 50 beautiful eagles soaring on the thermals lifting skyward up the ridges.  Besides being remarkable for its desert beauty, three memorable events occurred while I played this course solo.  First, off the course grounds about half a mile away, the sagebrush was extraordinarily thick, and emanating from it was the continuous report of shotguns being fired.  After about 150 rounds it became quite annoying.  Somewhere around 6 PM the firing ceased, but began anew at 7 PM.  I surmise that whoever was shooting had broken for dinner.  The second bazaar memory involved concrete cart paths with spaces between the sections similar to sidewalks.  As my cart drove along the sidewalk the continuous thump-thump was somewhat mesmerizing.  On one particular par five, as I motored to my ball in the fairway, I saw rows of what looked like stones between the cart path and the sagebrush off of the course.  As I approached the stones, they started to peel off one by one back to the desert, and it didn’t take me long to realize that these were jackrabbits.  This peeling off of the rabbits into the sagebrush as a result of the cart’s Doppler Effect was downright hilarious. On the same hole, I had fired my approach shot to the front edge of the green, and when standing over my ball, from behind me I heard fairy rapid pitter patter.  By the time I looked around a giant jackrabbit had hopped passed me through the green. It was around this time that I figured out what all the shotgun blasts were for. The third event was hearing the sound of a rather large piston engine aircraft approaching the area from behind the ridgeline.  About a mile away and several hundred feet below me was a hard surfaced runway.  Suddenly from over the ridge came a medium-size water bomber used for fire suppression, at a good clip. It was a terrific sight and watching the 360 degrees circle to land approach was enthralling. 

I looked forward to playing the back nine holes knowing full well I still had sufficient daylight to complete the round. Imagine my surprise when on hole number 14, I was contacted by a ranger who told me to the finish this hole and return to the clubhouse.  I was not happy about this, and do not remember any signs or being told about a time limit.  I now head to Carson City and procure a hotel room. 

It is the end of the trip, with a drive to Reno in the morning to catch my flight home.  Being that it’s the last night my trip, and after a short nap, I head to one of the local gambling casinos.  Not really expecting to win much, but to play for a while, I started kind of slow.  All of a sudden, I could not lose and my luck increased as the hour drew late.  For the average Joe, gambling hot streaks are infrequent and if you on one, you must run with it.  Starting with $40 I expected to lose, I run my winnings up over $500 playing blackjack.  The four hours I spent in the casino offset a significant portion of the trip costs.  I pulled my self away from the tables and retired with a fat wallet.  I only feared waking up late and missing my flight, but like every other aspect of his trip, it worked out fine, and by noon I am winging my way back to Ann Arbor. 

 

© Copyright 1999-2003 Ken Devine. All stinkin’ rights reserved.

Five states, seven National Parks, 3200 miles, over 10 days.

 

 

 

Chapter 4   “Bonus Side trip” 

By the time I returned to the groove of making a living, I made plans to visit my brother and his wife in Tucson, Arizona over the 97’ Christmas holiday. While there I planned to play golf in three new states. This was my first time in Tucson. This would also be the first visit for Barbara, my best friend and partner of 20+ years. In addition, another brother Kevin and his wife Carolyn would round out the clan in the desert for the first time.

When we drove from Phoenix to Tucson, an incredible hail storm interrupted our progress. It was a meteorological spectacle, and the combination of reddish dirt and off-white marble sized hailstones made for the visually aberrant.

One of the first things we did the second day was to drive to the Saguaro N.P. I believe it was at that moment when my affection for the desert accelerated. As beautiful are the mountains, so is the desert. Teeming with life, my appreciation for ecological fragility was profoundly enhanced.

We tour and hiked the Park with unending discovery. There was great laughter when someone tossed a bolder down the side of a 400 foot decline. We watched it turn end over end, bouncing here and there on its way to level. Naturally, the mesmerizing nature of this caused all of us to start tossing bigger and bigger rocks down the mountain side.  We visited Mt. Lemon and were treated to snow skiing.

Kevin and I headed to Randolph North Golf Course, in Tucson, the site of Welch’s LPGA tour stop and enjoyed the walk very much. The course is high quality for a public course that gets allot of play.

A few days in to the trip, Barb and I headed to New Mexico and Texas. East on I-10 the day was typically clear and the scenery beautiful. The first destination was Las Cruces, NM and driving east through the desert the sky was crystal clear, with unlimited visibility. As we approached Las Cruces, smog reared its ugly head. The city has the surrounding proverbial haze that I came to see in every big city in this quest. The most surprising and worst was Salt Lake City. To see haze in the desert, as isolated as Las Cruces is, cased me to pause. I was able to make out the “three crosses”.

Turning south, we head to the “lone star state”. A couple hours later I was in El Paso, Texas at the Painted Desert Golf Course standing on the first tee. As we entered this border town, I spotted a hard to miss, gigantic Mexican flag across the Rio Grande, planted in Ciudad Juarez. The flag was about twenty times the size of a standard American flag. Direction to the course were difficult for me to obtain as it seemed everyone I spoke with, spoke Spanish, and sadly I’m uni-lingual. On top of the mountain that El Paso is built around, the course is a Ken Dye design. It is built on a flat piece of land and carved out of pure desert brush that did not exceed three feet high. You could see every person on the golf course from the waste up. It was on was a bizarre experience. You could not see the adjoining fairway 40 yards away, just your own. I was paired with 4 others, all natives of El Paso. The five-some that included a lady Texan was affable. I was treated to fine Texan hospitality and enjoyed myself. I played very well making par on 9 of the 13 holes. Unfortunately the pace of play was tortuously slow and I only played 13 holes. I still counted this, as the USGA recognizes a round as at least 13 holes. It was a fantastic course that I would love to replay. It was dark when the round was prematurely terminated and meeting Barb in the lot we headed back to Las Cruces to stay the night. Barb toured that area and found the way we should have come to the course. Actually, had we taken the shortcut, we would have never seen the city or the giant flag.

 

After breakfast the following day, I am in the parking lot of New Mexico State University Golf Course. Unloading my golf bag, Barb is headed to White Sands National Monument, while I play. She is independent enough to head off by herself and discover. When I step onto the first tee, I am stunned to see nothing but golden fairways and golden rough. Since the course did not “overseed” with winter rye grass, it was very difficult to get use to figuring out when the fairway ended and the rough started. It was great fun and I got use to it in time. The problem was the brightness of the sky and the gold grass made it hard to watch the ball; there was no contrast. I wrapped up my 18 holes in reasonable time and was about 45 minutes ahead of the scheduled time to meet Barb. Not finding her in the parking lot, I went back out and played three more holes. When I returned to the clubhouse she still had not returned. I began to worry when almost forty five minutes transpired and my mind started to race. Just at about the time I was definitely concerned, I see the rental car turned into the lot looking like a “beach-buggy”. There was not a square inch of wheel well or sidewall that was not encrusted with brilliant white sand. It was clear that she had made it to her destination. It was another one of those times in life when you wait for someone, worry when they are late, talk to yourself, and then forget all about it when they do appear.

Returning to Tucson, I now have racked up 16 courses toward the goal of 48, and I am now into it for real.

 © Copyright 1999-2003 Ken Devine. All stinkin’ rights reserved.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 5     “Half Way Point”

 Nine months had transpired since my trip to Arizona.  In my professional capacity, I traveled every other month to either Kansas City, Missouri or Omaha, Nebraska in order to visit a town in the northeast corner of Missouri named Tarkio. I would use these as starting points to attack the central states in completing my quest.  In August 1998 I went to Tarkio for the first time to take over a project, and was going to accompany a colleague who did not play golf.  Since I was taking over this particular project, he was to have introduced me to the major players, but for some strange reason he missed the flight.  Since he did not play golf, I chose not to bring my golf clubs…. pretty big mistake.  But I still seized the opportunity to play and chose Tregaron Golf Course outside of Omaha, Nebraska.  The course was nestled in the middle of a new housing project, and as usual the clubhouse was very difficult to find.  I had no equipment with me, so I had to rent clubs. Further purchases included balls, a glove, some tees, and as it was over 90 degrees that day, a hat as well.  Never underestimate how much stuff you carry with you in your bag and how much you take it for granted. I used a mish-mash set a rental clubs and played terrific.  I was quite surprised how well I played considering the appearance of complete disorganization and lack of preparation.  I was paired with three local gentlemen who played fairly well and were excellent company.  The trip to Tarkio only took three days, but long enough to get a lay of the land, stimulated planning for the next phase. Tregaron Golf Course would mark the 17^th different state I played golf in.

Later, I would use Omaha, Nebraska as a start point to play in Minnesota, North Dakota, South Dakota, and Iowa. I would use Kansas City, Missouri as a start point to play in Missouri, Kansas, Okalahoma, and Arkansas.

 

© Copyright 1999-2003 Ken Devine. All stinkin’ rights reserved.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6     “8 States, 8 Courses, in 8 Days”

 

Having completed playing golf in 17 different states, I have 31 new experiences left to complete my folly. Eight of those would occur over the week of Labor Day, by making a circuitous route through the upper Midwest.

 So, on September 4, 1998 I set out toward the east and Bolivar, Pennsylvania for Champion Lakes Golf Course in.  Roughly 60 miles east of Pittsburgh, I was drawn to it because I read it was part owned by former Pittsburgh Pirates baseball player Dick Groat.  As a kid, nothing meant more to me than baseball.  I probably knew about 90 percent of the players in both the National and American League.  Even though I grew up in Florida and  a Detroit Tiger and New York Yankee fan, I knew who Dick Groat was, so playing golf at the his course was a no-brainer.

 Champion Lakes Golf Course, at 6600 yards, was fairly challenging.  Lots of trees, a few lakes, and excellent greens made for pleasant start to the trip.  I played by myself that day, and actually did not play very well.  The course was straightforward enough, but there was a lot of wind that day and I was not very sharp.  One thing that does standout was the typical difficulty I encountered trying to find the golf course itself.  I am a competent navigator, but golf courses are still plain hard to find.  This trip employed internet tools for mapping, lodging, and courses.

 The drive from Ann Arbor to Bolivar, PA, was as expected through holiday traffic, while dealing with the near Nazi-like traffic enforcement of the Ohio State police.  While I was not stopped in Ohio, the feeling that I would be at any time never left me.  As rigorous as these custodians of public morality apply the law, the apparent relief of Ohio drivers being out of their state, in Michigan shows. 

 Pennsylvania is a long state to drive across.  I remember back in the energy conservation days when for 20 years, America crawled at 55 mph.  Pennsylvania used to have very large signs on the roadway informing the driver of the cost of tickets for speeding.  It would say, 0-4 MPH over would cost $65. Right below that, the sign with printed to say 5-9 MPH over would cost $90, with two additional fines listed I no longer recall.  I remember reading the sign and looking at my speed.  I thought to myself, I can afford that. Well, a couple of minutes later I was passed by someone.  I did not want that person to think I was poor, so I caught up with them.  The next thing I knew, there were about 10 cars going 100 MPH because of “peer pressure”. 

 I am now headed to Virginia, to Front Royale where I will play golf tomorrow. When I got into town, and obtained the hotel room, I realize to that was relatively close to our nation’s capital.  So, quickly I headed east toward Washington D.C.  This was the beginning of the Labor Day weekend and the amount of traffic leaving the city westbound was staggering.  While my inbound routing was relatively quiet, and when I got into the city I found myself at the large park between the Washington Monument and the White House.  I got out my video camera and taped all that I could. While I was walking across the mall, I saw many people of all different nationalities, and speaking many different languages. I felt very proud and lucky to be born here and I sensed the important symbolic nature of this city to people throughout the world. The architecture was fantastic and very federal looking if there is such a thing. I walk to the White House and became part of the throngs on this sidewalk outside the wrought iron gates, and peered in. The place was crawling with Executive Security and there a sort of pall over the experience. The streets have been modified with concrete barriers redirecting traffic from 1600 Pennsylvania Ave and the esteemed occupants. From the White House, I headed back toward the Monuments and once again, struck by patriotic pride. After filming as much as I could, I headed toward the Capitol, so that I could do my “Rocky” thing on the steps. But when I ascended, I felt like I was in church, and a powerful reverence beset me. The sun was setting and the orange autumn sunset lit the city in a visual way that permeates my memory. The symbol of democracy was hard to misinterpret. By now it was really getting dark and I had to head back to Front Royale to sleep, and prepare for tomorrow’s course. I did not have total confidence in my egress routing of the city, and at dark, I was quite fortunate to have chosen the absolute correct way back to the motel in Virginia. 

Day 2, up and at em’ pretty early, I was on to Shenandoah Golf Course, which I learned from my golf partners is just outside Shenandoah National Park. What an idiot, I completely missed an opportunity to visit and chalk another National Park up. I did not see the trees for the forest. My golf partners were a man and woman. The lady was quite good and was responsible for the guy picking up the game. She shot better than he did, and he was o.k. I played sporadically and had moments of brilliance, and then crap. The course was in pretty good condition, but the bane of fall golf was there, and the “plugs” from aeration of the course was apparent.. 

Day 3 finds me in Maryland, and I played at Black Rock Golf Course in Hagerstown. I had never been through this town, and can now say I’ve been there. The course was pretty good, and I played well. I was a little nervous teeing off the first hole with my two male partners. I hit last and “flat out busted” a draw about 280 yards down the middle the opening hole. Now when this happens, and I really haven’t warmed up, there is often a crappy second shot, but no, a stiffed four iron left me in easy birdie range. I played well the whole day and have good memories of the day. Completing the round, I make my way to West Virginia. 

Day 4 starts with rain and continues throughout the day, save for a slight window, which I capitalized on at the number one ranked public course is the state, Lakeview Resort Golf Course, in Morgantown, West Virginia.

When I got to the course, I was stunned to see about 50 seniors pacing back and forth out side the clubhouse. I could not believe I was going to be shut out of this much anticipated course. The radar in the clubhouse yields no relief in sight, but after an hour and a half, a break appeared. I have a cart cover for the golf cart. It cost $100 and the cost split by my brother. We have used this together and individually many times, and is clearly one of the best golf investments I ever made. (That, and my Callaway driver and 3-wood). So, while the seniors were discussing if they should play, I was able to, in the slight remaining rain, get off first. The course was beautiful, narrow, and tree lined. A premium is on good shot making, as this is an older course with character and a requirement to shoot straight. I made it through the course in one piece and in great time. I think it took a little more than two hours to play. I recall playing sloppy, and but thought that I would have been able to play it well under different circumstance. Pulling out of the course, I realize I have one of the longest driving legs of the trip ahead, to just south of Cincinnati, Ohio.

Day 5 put me bright and early at Liaising Point Golf Course, the number one ranked public course in Kentucky. I really wanted to play here, as I had read the reviews. The price was very low for the quality and the pictures of it were wonderful. But… on this day the course was closed for a month or so for repairs and I was bummed. Now what? Well I headed south to Kearney, Kentucky and played a fabulous Pete Dye gem named Kearney Hill Golf Course. It was fantastic and made up for the disappointing morning. I played with two large gentlemen from Kentucky who sported there colleges teams caps. There was a little friendly banter regarding University of Michigan and Kentucky, but I did not pursue it.

The course was in great shape, and I wish I had played a little better but no matter, Pete Dye courses are always a treat.

Leaving Lexington, I head toward Louisville, and am amazed at the amount of horse ranches. Everywhere I drove in the back woods roads were on after another and the sights cemented my previous ideas of how fine this city and surroundings are.

Day 6 starts at the Indianapolis, Indiana airport to meet my golfing partner Jeff, who was flying in to hook up with me for the last three courses of the trip, most importantly Cog Hill outside Chicago Illinois. We found each other and after breakfast, headed to Eagle Creek Golf Course, the third ranked public course in the state. When we got to the course, we both knew we had to walk, as this how we play back home. We always walk, and for the most part, the only real exercise I get anymore. When we started out toward the first hole, we were passed by two guys in a cart asking incredulously whether we truly were going to walk. For a minute or two, we both wondered if this was the right call, but surveying the course did not make it appear harder to walk then our home course.  We both played pretty well, and the walk was great. It was great to play with Jeff here in Indiana and it was good to have company when we played the next course.

Day 7 is special. Outside Chicago, Illinois is the famed Cog Hill Golf Course. We will play the course I have pined for since the first time I saw Tiger Woods win the U.S. Amateur. We did not have a tee time, but hoped they could fit us in. They have a very stiff reservation procedure of payment in advance. I think we paid $80 to play and worth every dime. We got to the course pretty early and got on the waiting list. We waited and waited, and finally around 11am we got the call. I remember how nervous I was playing at this premiere course and decided to play the tees closest to par. When we took the tee, we were joined with another person very knowledgeable about the course and just as anxious to play it. I started out a little tight, but soon calmed down and played some pretty good golf. The greens were faster than any I had ever played and was stunned by the amount of sand traps,. The problem with the sand was the speed of the greens. When I got to the backside I really turned it on and pared six of nine. Every hole was great and the experience was everything I expected. We were so geeked by the round that we spent almost six hours talking in the hotel room about it. Jeff enjoyed the course as much as I and it was great to share the experience. I’ve know Jeff since 1989 and he has been a great golf companion back home. He and my brother Kevin have traveled to Myrtle Beach for a week or more a number of times, and I always enjoy playing golf with him. He has a beautiful natural swing, and standing over six feet, he has a lanky ability to be automatic when he is on.

Day 8 would be the final day, and we drove the 100 miles or so from out Chicago motel to Milwaukee, Wisconsin to play Dretzka Golf Course. The drive seemed to take forever, as there were at least 2,000 trucks passing through the Windy City at the same time and direction we were. We finally got to the course, and it was sort of a let down from the day before. I really expected to tear the place up, but that did not happen, and in fact I played quite poorly. We played with a husband and wife from the area and they were quite nice. I remember the lady’s assessment of Michigan…”we can speed there”. The course was in ok shape, and would have liked it more if we didn’t play a great course the day before.

We bid good bye and started the 350 mile return to Ann Arbor. We got back around midnight and were glad of it. On the way back from Milwaukee, Jeff and I stopped at some sort of mini mall-gas station and inside the mall was a machine that looked like one that takes your picture. You know, the ones with the curtain the goes only half way down, takes three pictures, and the spits them out the front of the machine where you put in money. Well in this case, the machine rendered pencil drawings of you employing various famous artist styles. I had the Michelangelo and it turned out great. If you see one of these machine, by all means, get it done, it was great! I still have the original and I am very impressed.

So, upon completion of this “8 states in 8 days” trek, I boost my total to 25 courses, breeching the half way mark in the quest to play the contiguous 48. The trip covered 2500 miles. Thanks Jeff. 
 

© Copyright 1999-2003 Ken Devine. All stinkin’ rights reserved.

 

 

Chapter 7   “The Central States”

By August 1998, I had completed 26 rounds of the 48 planned, and was getting anxious to address some of the states in the lower central U. S. It seems I have put these states off, but now, it is time to learn of their own distinctive beauty. I returned to the Kansas City area, and set sight on Arkansas. It was my intention to play at a course near Rogers, AR, and drove straight there from the airport, about 200 miles. The entire time it rained, but I thought I would get it in. Finding the course, I rapidly encounter a double steel gate, padlocked shut. I couldn’t see the course for the trees and naturally I was pissed. Nothing like driving three plus hours to a course that is closed. Since I planned to drive to Tulsa and spend the night after the round in Arkansas, an unexpected early start was had.

The weather possibility had been entertained; I knew if this happened, I would need to play two courses the next day, in order to get back on schedule. This was needed because I still had two days of actual work to do for my job, which was why I was out here.

I spent the night in Tulsa at a nice motel, and got to sleep early after watching the local news. I always make it a point to watch the 6 or 11pm news to get a flavor of the area, the local issues, and the news personnel themselves. The following morning, after breakfast, in Battle Creek, Oklahoma, I am standing on the first tee of the Broken Arrow Golf Course. It’s overcast, and steamy. The temperature is supposed to climb into the 80’s today, and I can feel it already.  I played well, and felt this from the pent up frustration of not being able to play yesterday. It was one of those rounds of golf that went by very fast, in that I didn’t loose any balls, and made alot of pars. I completed Broken Arrow, shooting 81 from the tips, in just under three hours, walking no less. It was a little after 11am and am now headed back to Bill Clinton’s home state.

The 50 odd miles to Siloam Springs, Arkansas took a little under an hour.  Arriving at Dawn Hill Golf Course, it doesn’t appear crowded and again I am able to tee off on number one, with no one in front of me. This time, I took a golf cart, as there was no need to be wiped out driving the 200 plus miles drive back to Kansas City. The course was fairly straight forward and not too hard at all. I was still playing pretty well, making pars with few bogies. At the turn, prior to the back nine, I noticed I had played the front side in an hour; what a pace! The back nine went just as fast and I completed my round in just over two hours, finishing with a score of 83.

What a days so far, two complete rounds of golf and an hour’s drive in just over 6 hours! Racking up course and state number 27 and 28, I head back to Kansas City, to play in Kansas tomorrow.

The rain is mostly gone the next day when I cross the Missouri River, to Leawood, Kansas a suburb of Kansas City, and the Ironhorse Golf Club.  Where the rain let up, the wind picked up and up, to full force by mid round. I employed the choked up iron shots, abbreviated swings keeping the ball low, and striking the ball nice and easy, thereby crunching it all day. The fundamental of playing golf in the wind requires the discipline to stick with it and swing easy. Besides the game being hard, in and of itself, adding the instinctive desire to strike hard at the ball, when it is windy, is powerful. Doing so usually yields crap results. Leawood appears well healed. Adjoining the course are literally estates, replete with mansions, gates, acreage, and the appearance of significant wealth. The clubhouse personnel appear to conduct themselves with class, as if regular interaction with the filthy rich is common.

Heading back to Missouri, I head north to Maryville, Missouri, to play golf the following day. I find a Best Western motel and prepare for work and Mozingo Lake Golf Course. This part of Missouri is not very populated and there are fairly significant distances between towns. The golfers who live in the area are fortunate for Mozingo, as there are no other comparable courses within 60 miles. On this day, I sucked, and staggered in with a high 80’s score. This was after making some miraculous shots to save bogey; it was that kind of day. Mozingo mirrors the topography of northern Missouri, with rolling hills and there are alot of hills at Mozingo, yet a terrific public course. The last two days increases the state and course count to 29 and 30.

Next spring, I intend to use Omaha, as a jumping off point to finish the central states. I’m looking forward to Minnesota, Iowa, South and North Dakota.

 

© Copyright 1999-2003 Ken Devine. All stinkin’ rights reserved.

___________________________________________________________________
 

   

 

Chapter 8    “Thanksgiving 1998”

 

Its Thanksgiving, 1998, and instead of eating turkey with family, I’m headed south with a flock of fellow road travelers to play some more golf.  The roads were packed, but the weather was good, and I got an early start. After driving through the nazi-like traffic enforcement of the Ohio State Police (really oppressive), the trip calmed down. A comment on Ohio expressway driving, remain vigilant. At just about every possible place, and means to detect speed, the Ohio State Police appear to pay their salaries based upon their ticket writing. I have never seen more “gung ho” intense presence on any of the nation’s highways I have traveled. It’s appears to be a relentless hunt, and their idea of “showing the flag” is having someone pulled over ever three miles.  It’s is no wonder just about every car with Ohio plates crank through Michigan, I assume to shed some of their pent up anxiety from dealing with this kind of crap enforcement in their own state. I was fortunate to escape the intense net cast by those boys and girls in gray uniforms, sporting the white Ohio State Patrol car. Taking I-64 toward I-40 through Indiana toward Memphis moved at a fair rate. I passed an area that had a sign pointing out how many people lost their lives in a bus accident on that spot about 1990, and I think I remember it. It was a Greyhound and the roads were icy and it skidded off the road into a guardrail, commenced to open like a sardine can spilling passengers onto the roadway, before rolling on it side down the requisite ravine.

After about 500 miles, for some reason, I thought I was getting close, and was just stunned when I saw a sign that said Memphis: 260 miles. I could not believe it. What was I thinking? The total distance from Ann Arbor is approximately 760 miles! I don’t know where I got the 500 mile idea, but after the bitching to myself, I settled in for another 4 plus hours of driving. I had to get gas, and obtained it for $.79 per gallon. This was November of ‘99 and I got gas for 79 cent a gallon!  Arriving mid-evening, I drove across the river into Marion, Arkansas for a Best Western motel room with a reasonable rate ($40). I am glad to get out of the car. I have found myself staying at Best Westerns quite a bit. They meet my minimal standards, and like that I know what to expect. Most of us develop an affinity for a motel, like Holiday Inn, Comfort Inn, etc.

Day 2 starts after breakfast with a visit to the banks of the mighty Mississippi River. I don’t think I have ever done this before, and watch as a barge pushes lazily up the river. I know that a stop at Graceland is imperative, being here and all, but I arrive too early and it’s not open. I can’t wait for the King’s home to open and head toward Olive Branch, Mississippi and play golf at Cherokee Lakes Golf Course.  The town of Olive Branch is about 5 miles into Mississippi, and it and the course were quaint. The course had some pretty tough holes, and I remember taking longer than I wanted to. The course was busy and no one seemed to be much in hurry or to be playing at a reasonable pace. Maybe it was the $50 greens fees. Even hitting two balls did not keep me from having to wait. A few years after playing here I met a golfer in Florida who went to school in Memphis, and remembered Cherokee Lakes G.C., with a grimace. He did not let on about why, but played college golf, and may not have excelled there. It was still strange interacting with someone who was familiar with the town and course that is the 31^st state I have played around of golf in.

I commence the 400 miles south on I-55 to Cajun country and its ceremonial playground, New Orleans. If you look at a map of this great state, you will see just three freeways. On I-55 I drove through the heart, from the top to the bottom. The road was in great shape, and the very pleasant views made the seven hours pass without boredom. Traffic began, as expected when I passed through the capital, Jackson, and I had this strange feeling, observing downtown and the buildings that make up the framework of the city. Nothing negative, just weird. Of all places, I never thought I would be, this was one of them. I was somewhat surreal for no definable reason. Once I passed through Jackson, I had eight-five miles to the Louisiana border and then 90 miles to downtown New Orleans. I have never been here before, and I was anxious for a full-on taste. I soon figured I was in and around the bayou, and all the images I have seen in the past, and the current aroma, associated with swamp, gave me that clue. Over many causeways and bridges, it’s getting dark when I see the old “Saints” Superdome and know I’m close. Finding my hotel room was mostly without incident, and now to prepare to see the sights, and party New Orleans style.

I’m pretty tired but I get in the car and head the mile or so into the “French Quarter”. The place is packed to the gills and there is nowhere, I mean no where to park”, Couple that with leaving the maps on the hotel room, I have to be cautious and not get lost turning on what appears to be a shortcut. I didn’t get to where I wanted and after numerous attempts; I abandoned my plans to stroll around. I could not believe the amount of people, and the amount of people made me think what it must be like at Marti Graz. It was getting late, so I wrapped up the day at a local dram shop that had plenty of native flavors.

Day 3 has me headed to Slidell, Louisiana and a round at Oak Harbor Golf Club. I am paired with a father and son in their 30’s and fifty’s respectively. They both worked for Mobil Oil and were talking about how layoffs and corporate belt tightening was starting to hurt the area, which appears to rely heavily on oil. They were excellent partners and I enjoyed their company. Oak Harbor was a pretty tough course with plenty of water and I played well on the excellent greens. After leaving the course, I start toward Alabama. Passing again through Mississippi, passed Biloxi, on into Alabama, the first big city to greet me, as I make my way northeast the 320 mile to Gadsden, is Mobile. The next big city is Montgomery, the state capital, another city I never thought I would have reason to visit, or even pass through. I arrive in Gadsden a little after 7 in the evening and after checking in to the reserved room, I eat dinner, watch TV and hit the sack.

Day 4 starts in Alabama on the Robert Trent Jones “Silver Lakes” Golf Course”. The minute I pulled into the complex, I knew this was a gem. I had heard plenty about the numerous courses called the Robert Trent Jones Trail, and this was strategically perfect for this trip. I paid the very reasonable $50 to play and was pair with a local man and his 14 year old son. The man was a stone mason, and would later, in front of his son, point out a water fountain that he had personally built at the course as a contactor. The course was lavish in hills, and sculpted fairways, and traps. The golden dormant winter grass made the over seeded green fair ways and greens contrast well.  This is simply a beautiful golf course, one of the nicest I’ve played. I shot well that day, especially when I was concentrating, which sees to be a requirement at Jones’s courses. Playing with the local gentleman and his son was a terrific bonus. Learning how much we are alike than different is comforting. His perspective was solid, and he seemed well oriented. He had a good temper, and did not like misplaying shots. He was not that good, and he was quite exacerbated on numerous holes if I recall. But, I mostly remember him and his son as fine gentle people, and was pleased to have made their acquaintance. I shot 84 that day and could have done better, but it was tough and I played pretty well, all in all. I would love to return and play all the “Trail” courses. I am sure not to be disappointed. Sixty additional miles to the northeast on SR-441 and I am in the “Peach State”.

Day 5 in Rome, Georgia begins after breakfast by driving to Calhoun, GA. , and the Ferris Fields Golf Course. I really had a good time at this course and played smart and finished strong with a 78. I always feel empowered when I break 80 at course I have not played before. The layout was thick with pines and the smell of them reminded me of South Carolina. I got done pretty early, and now wanted to haul ass 60 miles north to Chattanooga to play the last course of this trip. It

I took a while to get to Chattanooga, Tennessee to play Brown Acres Golf Course, but when I found it I knew I would most likely still have enough light to get it in.  I played with a few guys my age and I played as well as in Georgia. The best of the threesome, I swear he had a very “downes syndrome” look about him. He has a girlfriend with him who was pretty attractive. The best of the three would smash his drive right up the middle, and I would be right behind him, and in some cases he was way ahead of me. I would always shoot first, being away, and stuck a number of shots within 10 feet of the pin. Then my guy would hit the fattest approach shot and go off on a nut. He would get very angry and since I didn’t know the guy, I was unsure of how to react. One time I know I left my approach on the green, but walked to the back to scout out another so, as this guy thought that the ball next to the pin was his; it was mine. He would explode and throw clubs, very unnerving. Later, his girlfriend started to come and talk to me and this worried me, because this guy was getting so out of hand when he made a bad golf shot, I didn’t know how he would react if he thought I was “making time” with his girl. Thankfully, they only played the front nine, and now I could make up time. I headed out with the cart to #10 when just before the approach shot a guy caught up with me and told me that I could not use the cart, they were only for 9 holes. So, back to the clubhouse, and started walking with my bag. There were no hand carts available and my bag has gotten larger and heavier over time and I did not think I could walk all nine, but knew I needed five more. I folded my towel, put it on my shoulder, and started off. I was surprised when I sailed through the first four holes, and eventually walked all 9 arriving back at my car in the dark I was the only person in the lot, and it was kind of weird.  But all’s well that ends well, and I had just completed the 35^th golf course in as many states.

It was shortly after 7pm and I have 320 miles to get to Cincinnati, where I will spend the night. I make good time on I-75 and use my cell phone driving near Jellico, Tennessee to call Barb and tell her that I am safely on the way home. I start to make better time, the later it gets. It is Sunday night, Monday morning and the only people on the road are me and the police. I call Barb back and tell her not to chain the door. I had determined that at my present rate of progress, I would be in Cincinnati at midnight, and it’s only a three and a half hour drive to Ann Arbor from there, so onward. I would rather drive the extra time and wake up in my own bed and not have to get up until I was ready the next day. So it was with great delight that I safely made it through Ohio again, and into Michigan, and my own bed a little before 4am.  I have played thirty five states and was almost done. I just had two segments left and planned to complete the mission the spring and summer of 1999.

 

This trip covered 5 states, five golf courses, and covered 2500 in five days.

© Copyright 1999-2003 Ken Devine. All stinkin’ rights reserved.

 

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Chapter 9 “The Dakota’s”

 

 

Over Memorial Day 1999, I returned to the Omaha to check up on the project I was overseeing in Tarkio, and when I finished I headed north.

The 230 miles went by slowly with fairly similar views, but limited traffic, which is what makes driving in the west fun. I am headed to Worthington, Minnesota in the southwest corner of the state, and Prairie View Golf Course. This was a terrific course that was much better than I thought it would be. Not much prairie to view if I remember, though. I was four over par on the front nine and the started the back with two doubles in a row. I staggered in with an 84, and regretted I did not take better advantage of the good start.

Backtracking toward South Dakota, I spend the night in Sioux Falls, with the idea of playing in town at Prairie Green Golf Course tomorrow, before driving further north to Fargo, North Dakota.

The next day was sunny, 77 degree with a 20-30mph wind buffeting the course. I thought I had my wind game, but a triple bogey on the first hole tells me, I need to bear down. It took a couple more holes before I pared, and then a mix of good and bad holes. I did not keep score on some holes, so this means a high number. I most likely shot somewhere in the 90’s and was beaten by being over anxious. The course was wide open, fair, and challenging. Add the wind, and there is no place to hide if your swing is off. It was a fair test and upon its finish, I head the 340 miles to Fargo.

The drive has little traffic, if any. The scenery is filled with prairie grasses and sharply rolling topography. I am driving from virtually the bottom of South Dakota to about a third up into North Dakota. I know about the lack of gasoline stations the father north I go, and had plenty, but as time goes by, I realize I should start paying attention. I drove for at least 60 miles, almost an hour before seeing a gas station related sign. When the sign indicated gas, next exit, I got off. At the end of the service drive, another sign had the words “GAS 20 MI” and an arrow pointing toward my right. Well this was ridiculous, and I retuned to the interstate vowing to run out of gas 40 miles closer to Fargo. Twenty miles there and twenty back to the interstate made no sense at all. I motored all the way to Fargo with the fuel I had, but I doubt I could have gone another ten miles. Onward to the course to take a look at how to get there and scope it out for tomorrow when I will play it.

There are a few courses to play in Fargo, North Dakota, and one is ranked 2^nd best in the state. Edgewater Golf Course is the 37^th state I have played a round of golf in. I shot 40 on the front and 44 on the back. I just have not hung in there on the back nines like I should and ruined any chance to break eighty. It was overcast all day, and if it wasn’t almost the summer, I would have thought it would have snowed.  After the round was completed, I drove around Fargo for about an hour before heading back to Council Bluffs, Iowa, to play one more course, before I return to Ann Arbor.

It is 400 miles to the Omaha area, and about six hours of driving to get there. The return trip was long, and I figure I am beat from the golf, work, and driving, I am tired and want this part of the trip over. I finally arrive In Council Bluffs, Iowa, just across the Missouri River from Omaha, Nebraska, and check in to my room. After a quick dinner, I lay on the bed all evening watching TV. In the morning, I will play in Iowa at Shoreline Golf Course. I had seen this course many times and planned on playing it. It was the first course I saw in the Omaha- Council Bluffs area and the last one I played in the central states.

The Shoreline Golf Course was a municipal course in fair shape. It was pretty long and some of the holes were along the Missouri River, replete with river aroma. I had a good time these, shot pretty crappy, and always had my eye on the time, since my flight to Michigan left at 2pm. I finished the blustery overcast round and headed toward the airport knowing that I only have 10 states left, and that I’m going to get this done.

This trip was from May 27 through June 2, 1999. Golf was played in Minnesota, South Dakota, North Dakota and Iowa. There were 950 miles driven in this pursuit segment.

 

 

 

© Copyright 1999-2003 Ken Devine. All stinkin’ rights reserved. 

___________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

Chapter 10    “Oh Canada”

It is the morning of July 1, 1999 in Boise, Idaho. “Pretenders”, are what I see and what I call any violent earthly upheaval that does not have the words, “Rocky Mountains” directly attached, thus cementing the adage “ignorance is bliss”. But in this case, the view smacked of what I knew was to come, along with some highly touted and ranked golf courses. Boise is the site of the Quail Hollow Golf Course, on the northern side of town. I came to this course in 1997, when for the first time in 24 years, I had returned to the West. What first struck me was that carts were $9, and Golf Digest Subscriber comments made it clear this was not the place to walk. After playing 18 holes, it is obvious that in most cases, it’s not practical for a mere golfer to traverse all of Quail Hollow “schlepping” or pulling a bag ‘o’ clubs around this track: calls for a Sherpa, not a caddie. Fantastically elevated tee-boxes, with mountain paths leading to them, require close attention to the signs and score card to find. The tee box is usually rectangular with a sheer drop-off, in some cases 7 stories, to the fairway below, or so it seemed. Desert-like terrain surrounds dogleg fairways eventually defining very good greens. Since this was my first golf course “out” west, I promptly shot 78, hence I love the course. Imagine my delight, when after returning home from the ‘97 adventure, I see a familiar par 3 on the inside back page of the monthly USGA Golf Journal. It was hole #2 at Quail Hollow, and seeing it again was a real treat. Sadly, due to time constraints, although I had planned to, I was not able to play the course again in ’99.

Checking out, I take the motel shuttle to the Airport to pick up the rental car, and while doing so, enter into the hallowed “ring knockers” Emerald Club with National. The shuttle ride was quiet, save the driver pointing out how the town had changed since her youth, and in general singled out Californians for relocating to her fine city and attempting to turn it into San Francisco East. I nodded, but was unmoved. My three canvass traveling containers were already a test of stamina. At the National counter everything moved smoothly. I was welcomed to the club and dispatched to the lot. With my bags, the walk seemed endless, but when I got to spot H-2, the Grand Am looked ok, considering I had hoped to test the Monte Carlo. But to my horror, I vapidly realize, there is NO TAPE PLAYER. I drop my bags and clubs run back to the counter to change, knowing full well there is no chance I will drive for 10 days in the mountains without a player for the music I brought. No problem at the counter, I come back to spot H-3, I see it from 100 yards away: intense fire engine electric “arrest me” red, and again, I decline for excessive visibility reasons. I do note the light silver/gray sister auto in H-5, check it for tape player, and back to the counter again. By now the computer won’t allow the clerk to re-issue and it takes a supervisor to assist, who knows a “ring knocker” when she saw one apply, and sends me on my way with the car in H-5. Sleek, 6 cylinder, and sporty, the Grand Am performed well and changed my perception of the make and model.

Finally, I’m off. Heading east on I-84, to Thayne Wyoming, doesn’t seem so far at 77 mph, yet its four hundreds odometer clicks. Wyoming is required to complete the final course played west of the Mississippi. Completion will leave ten New England states, in the quest to golf in all the contiguous states, recognized as a great achievement by all knowledgeable golf mavens. The drive was uneventful, and I sort of eased into the topographical changes, replete with soil tended by corporately owned sodbusters. The route south of Pocatello, I-15 and US-30 east was nice enough, but somewhat boring. I half expected to play at a your typical 18 hole course, but to my surprise, it turned out to be a Star Valley Golf Course, one of the latest schemes capitalizing on the golf boom. In Thayne, Wyoming, I found this short golf course in terrific shape and adjoining a nice looking RV Park. I was to later see a number of these in my travels through the Northwest. Family golf appears to the motive, shielded from the pace demands of modern courses and the likelihood of flatbelly-limberbacks driving on them, or at least making their presence known with the tried and true hands on hips posture. From here, I motor about 20 miles south to Afton and stay at a Best Western, but alas, it was a converted bungalow ranch, and barely did the job.

Day 2 is greeted with high expectations, for I plan to play the Old Works Golf Course in Anaconda, Montana. This course is built on a former EPA Superfund cleanup site that provided huge amounts of copper ore in the late 1800’s, but also huge amounts of cyanide, and had been all but abandoned for the last 100 years. Jack built the course and it’s ranked #1 in Montana. Seeking breakfast at a small town north of Afton, I lope into the local Ptomaine Palace and see about 10 men all seated playing some kind of game with dice in a plastic glass, tossing it onto the table, seeming to wager on the outcome. If this wasn’t irritating enough at 7:15 in the morning, I soon got to indirect earful from a 70 year old idiot ranting about guns rights and how the eastern liberals are compromising his God-given right. This went on ad nauseam for the rest of my most cherished meal of nitrate planks and chicken embryos. It struck me that someone who had seen so many days and nights could be so unwise. His logic was unsound and it caused me to walk out of there shaking my head. It prides me to say, I said nothing to him or the sheep that listened to his piffle, for it would have gnarled my day. Still shaking my head, I’m about 60 miles or so up the road, when the southern foothills of the Grand Teton appear. I won’t be heading through them or to Yellowstone, as I have 430 miles to play and I’ve been there before. I haven’t been through Northeast Idaho though, and it was a planned deviation. Hanging a left at Alpine WY., I again break into Idaho, which was a little nicer than the southern east to west run. I’m looking forward to Beaverhead County and the Beaverhead River in southwest Montana. On US-26, I snake northwest looking for I-15 via a shortcut through Rigby, ID thereby missing Idaho Falls and perceived congestion. A fairly unremarkable drive, worth the detour. North now to Anaconda, which is about 40 miles west of Butte, where I spent the night.

It seems that the minute I hit the Montana border, the topography changes from “foothillish” agriculture, to vast ever rising mountains. By now, I’m ready for golf and blow into Anaconda, off US1 from I-90. Ten miles to the east I spy a huge smokestack on the side of a mountain and surmise the course is close. In town, a couple of right turns onto and off of Cedar St, and your greeted by a very large ladle with Old Works embossed upon it defining the course entrance. I had a little trouble getting on but gave me a chance to scope out the area and shoot some videotape. The course is packed and I and paired with a man about my age and his two sons. They were perfect gentlemen and I enjoyed their company. Dad didn’t play to well and attributed his lack of prowess to not having played but once this year. They hailed from Northwest Montana, and try to play the course on their way to visit relatives in Spokane. The course proper is picturesque and desert-like. The fairways are like carpet and as good as some greens I’ve play, while the greens were excellent and challenging. The course and its surrounding can easily qualify for #1 in the state. An interesting element of the course is traps are filled with black slag instead of sand. The wind was in my face on every trap shot, so was slag. I’ve not said the word slag more in my proceeding 45 years than on and after playing this course. While the wind howled, my score was not that bad. I hit every fairway and played much better. Along with the wind, the temp dropped very quickly and by the time I was finished, I was finished. Here it is in July and I’m freezing. But on the way to Butte, with the car heat on, eventually I am revived. My motel in Butte is a Quality Inn and quite nice. It’s located next to one of Butte’s version of a casino: Pull-tops, and really sorry poker machines. There are Laundromat / Casino’s here too. I spent $5 and left, which was preceded by terrible service at an adjoining restaurant. I stand at the “wait to be seated” sign unchallenged for 3-5 minutes, then when I do get seated, no water or coffee or menu, or acknowledgement of my presence, so up and out the door to Burger King, where I really didn’t want to go. On the way back to my room, as I walk down the hall, Whopper in hand, a Cincinnati Reds minor league team, just off the playing field and bus lay siege to the hallway and stream to their rooms. All the second looks and stares were understood when I removed my lucky Detroit Tiger hat. I expected a lot of ruckus that evening, but there was none and I quietly reviewed the day and tomorrows events. Butte, by the way, the “butt” of Montana jokes, once supplied the U.S. with half of all the copper production. It would take the lead from the Keweenaw Peninsula in Northern Michigan after it was mined out.

The third day would also be a haul, heading to Kalispell by way of Helena, Great Falls, and Cutbank. I chose the route to see more of this great state. The northeastern side of the great Rocky Mountains provides an agricultural bounty, with very little arable land left fallow, because of the limited growing season I suspect. Montana ranks among the states largest producers of wheat and barley. Additionally, sheep and cattle ranching are abundantly apparent. The early Sunday morning start has me heading north on I-15; again I own the road. Periodically, a farmer will have a huge homemade billboard on their property, making some form of political statement. One that stood out was a very simple sign that stated, “Our Rivers Are Not For Sale!” I pondered that for about 40 miles. Most pertained to guns and “gun-tot’n”, or a small font rant that could not be read unless you stopped. Onward towards Helena, the state capitol, I find the Rockies continuing north by northwest with me on I-15 veering Northeast. I know they will be back, and I’m excited about my routing and the approach to Kalispell. Helena comes and goes with maybe two exits. The state capital and only 30,000 people live there. The largest city in Montana is Billings, weighing in with 90,000 citizens. The state itself shelves about 800,000 and I’m now headed to Great Falls, the state’s second largest city. I remember very little about either, as neither Helena nor Great Falls revealed their beauty to me. Scurrying past Shelby and Cutbank, I turn west to sneak up on Glacier National Park from the east. Ahead lays the Blackfoot Indian Reservation, a huge tract of land immediately east of Glacier. Further west on US2, I come upon road construction. 30 miles of flying stones and a speed limit of 45, vigorously enforced. Part of the speed limit was to reduce flying stones and I had a couple of yahoo’s blow by me “stones a popping”. Gone are the days of unlimited or prudent speed in MT; now a posted limit of 75mph. means nothing to me on US2, but soon the construction is over and before I know it the mountains loom on the horizon. However, massive rain clouds move in and pour over the beautiful peaks, eventually masking the entire chain. I fear a rain out at my golf destination, Northern Pines Golf Course, the second ranked course in the state. I reach East Glacier, MT a small town at the southeastern base of Glacier NP, and define the southern park border by continuing on US2. The drive was rain drenched and I worried about what was next, the further up and into the mountains I got. I took quite a bit of video of the approach and the spectacular weather. Through Columbia Falls, MT and by Whitefish, MT into sunlight and a clearing “big sky”, Northern Pines Golf Course is a very solid difficult track with little or no northern pines. I think there is a stand or two, but basically pretty open, with penal heather. I traipse up to the first tee behind a gentleman who I am to join. He appears to be a nice enough bloke, and he’s walking. Then speeding up behind me in a dreaded cart is a guy who looks like David Duvall, with his girlfriend, who was a good observer for about three holes, then just wanted to stay warm. “David” was an inconsiderate jerk whom I wished badly for eventually. He took the tee with no consideration for honors, hit balls long, but always with the “did you where that went” query. At the turn, I could tell David wasn’t having a good time and his girlfriend was having one even less. They split! My fellow player, who lived by and later pointed out his home from the course, worked for a lumber concern (imagine that) in Kalispell as a programmer. He was really poor at the game, but didn’t look it. He was a gentleman, and we both had a fine evening stroll covering all manner of subjects. At the end of the round he advised me of directions to his favorite seafood diner, we shook hands and bid adieu. The course was fairly tough and my card reflects it, a 44-42=86 from the second to back tees. Now to my motel, for dinner, TV, and relaxing. Pulling into my reserved room’s lot, it looks nice, and I’m not disappointed. A very nice room with a balcony, but no view to speak of on the second floor. I settle in at about 7pm and promptly nap. Next thing I know, its about 9:30pm and with that nap look, I hop in the car and drive into town looking for food and maybe some wagering. Finding neither, I eventually patronize that nearest gas station for junk food and coffee. Every time I get coffee to take back to the room I remember one fateful occasion, anticipating how delicious this giant 24oz hot chocolate I had purchased was going to be. I place it in the car’s drink receptacle and proceed to make a turn onto the highway when the entire contents pitch forward toward the passenger floorboard with the speed of electricity. In fact, a peripheral blur of its flight was mentally recorded, but the impact was with crystal clarity. I could feel the pressure of the cup’s plastic top, as it strained against the instantaneous application of the 10 “G” chocolate tide. Now if this wasn’t cool enough, the carpet was light blue. After the cup emptied is contents, I pick it up to find exactly one drop of hot chocolate left in the Styrofoam vessel. All this while driving at night in a strange small town. Two thoughts stream forth, return for another, or get to the motel and deal with the saturated floor mat. I choose the latter, and with the deft care of a teamster, carefully lift and pour off what I can and race to the tub to give it the full-power rinse treatment. Then like a shot, I’m paralyzed by the need for analysis: hot or cold! With the confidence of someone playing Russian Roulette, I throw open the hot and watch with wonder the resilience of plastic fibers. Back at the room, I prop myself up in the usual fashion, slumped in a chair with my feet over the corner of the bed, coffee in one hand, flipper and map in the other. Mind you, with the best view of the room’s most cherished visual icon. Nothing like reviewing the local news stations when you’re on the road to make you appreciate the worst of your own local anchors’. Add the sideshow weather and sports personalities, and you have a good flavor for what is important around the Channel 2, 4, ,7 local viewing area. Most motels these days subscribe to the “family lineup” so that even the horniest kid or adult is left with visual stimulation from the likes of “Silk Stalkings”. Very limp.

My chosen route took me through Canada’s Waterton National Park, the sister of Glacier, and provided a reason for my visit. Departing Kalispell, I waxed melancholy of my first visit, and how impressed I was to be here, then and now. It could be named “Kenispell” for the effect it has on me, with the emphasis on “spell”. As I head north, I am again reminded of how excited I was in 1996 when first touring the “Highway to the Sun” from West Glacier to St. Mary. Glorious is still the word I use as I revisit the various landmarks that so impressed me earlier. I recall video taping about an hour’s worth here, resolving not so use much battery this trip. I had a lot of miles to go to get to Canmore, Alberta, and made only three minor stops while in Glacier , but I did stop at the Visitor Center located right on the Continental Divide. Now in uncharted territory, I push north on US89 to Rabb, Mt. turning off on Hwy 17. I can feel the tension starting to build and I don’t fully engulf myself in Waterton. Rounding the final bend, I am cautioned to reduce speed as the United State-Canada border confronts me. Pulling up to the booth, I remove my sunglasses in respect for the obstacle to continuation of my quest. Inquiries are made, answers are returned, and I am approved for entry. One hundred yard into this country, I videotape myself against a “Welcome to Alberta” sign. I breathe a sigh of relief and commence phase two. Onward to Calgary and Kananaskis, with a few hundred miles to travel before I play. I hope to get to K-country to play before it’s too late, but the weather is overcast, and remains inclement all the way to Calgary, Alberta. While on Canada 2, I see way back in my mirror what appear to be twinkling headlight. I think that the twinkling is an aberration or mirage of distance, so I disregard. I later conduct a perfunctory glance and see that it’s a SUV closing rapidly with flashing headlights in the pattered used by emergency autos driven by custodians of public morality. I pulled to the side of the road partially, never believing that he was after me, and by me he zoomed. About 5 minutes later, I see the same type scenario and I’m prepared. Other then that, a pretty boring drive. But this boredom was about to change as anticipation of seeing the home of the “Stampede” was tempered by an absolutely ridiculous method of advising drivers of directions to anywhere. I must be spoiled in the US, spoiled by the logic of excellent road signing. There are no such things as a by-pass, so right through to the center of town and the attending congestion hoping the tiny Canada 1 signs continued every mile or so to lead to itself. What a joke, I really could do very little viewing of the city, as it rained and maintaining directions was a preoccupation. Finally, after about an hour and a half of completely cramping my progress, I’m west on C 1 heading the last 70 miles or so to Kananaskis.

Things started to change pretty quickly when I entered K-country. I made the exit and headed south off Hwy 1 toward Kananaskis Village. I knew I was going to be impressed because I was in the Rockies, pretty much full on, but didn’t anticipate the abject splendor. Two large peaks, Mt. Lorette and Mt. Kidd dominate the 15 mile entrance. What I am now seeing are very steep mountains, which instinctively make me think of avalanches. It is always a treat to have scattered knowledge suddenly collapse upon itself like a magnet when confronted with the right magnificent visual aid. I could see what looked like rivers on the slopes of Mt. Lorette as I approached, but they soon revealed themselves to be ski slopes. Not just any slopes mind you but Olympic caliber, hosting the 1988 Winter Olympics. All the slopes looked to exceed a 50 degree angle and left a lasting impression on me. Excited, I continue onward to the course, but notice a large amount of snow on the peaks and the absence of traffic into the village. I arrive at the course and my heart starts to sink realizing the lack of cars in the lot, can only mean one thing. I get out and go to the clubhouse, hoping against hope that I have the course to myself, but alas, I spy snow on the fairways and become stoic. Tomorrow is the war cry and I decide to saunter around videotaping all that I saw. It’s about 3pm now and I decide to check in to my Canmore villa, and consider the rest of the day. I find my digs with a little hassle considering the façade of the facility on the brochure is not visible from the roadway entrance, but rather is on the back of the motel, but this is Canada. The room was very nice and I had an exceptional view out the front door and sliding glass doors of the back. Waiting for the weather on the tube, Canada’s version of the Weather Channel predicts good weather for tomorrow. So, with some extra time to kill, it’s off to Banff to check out the city and Banff Golf Course and all that. When you drive Hwy 1 in Canada, you will have to go through Banff National Park to get to Banff, and you have to pay. It was sort of steep, like $8 US, but is good for 24 hours and I could blow through the speed aisle the next day, without stopping while on my way to Jasper. Banff was a very nice tourist town with an Alpine motif. Naturally it was very busy and if you are driving, be very careful as there a lot of pedestrian traffic. I had to drive through downtown to get to the course. Since it had snowed in Kananaskis, I figure to see the same in Banff, as Canmore is about 7 miles west. Imagine my surprise when the first things I see at the course entrance beside elk, are golfers. I realize that I had blundered by allowing myself to become hypnotized by K-country and fart around looking and this and that. As I continue winding my way through the course and to the clubhouse, I get to see quite a bit of the famous Banff course built by Stanley Thompson for the Canadian Pacific Railroad in the 30’s. I have seen pictures of the course and the adjoining mountainsides and wanted to play. I feel sad as I continue and note a course in poor shape, and thought that the $130CD for Banff compared to $50CD for Kananaskis with two fabulous courses was just not worth it. So, with some disappointment, altered my plans and set my sights on Mt. Lorette tomorrow. Back at the motel, I order food from the bar/grill and settle into coffee and Canadian television bliss.

Morning in Canmore, Alberta is filled with sunshine and crisp mountain air. I call the Kananaskis Golf Course and they tell me, “It’s on” or something like that. After breakfast, I’m off and gird myself for some golfing beauty. I belly up to the clubhouse and order up a round, and like a popular steakhouse in the states, I’m given a pager and wait for the call. Strolling around, I note how the scenery is so calming that even before I play, I am content. Finally, the call, and I join three gentlemen from Calgary, who epitomized the term gentlemen. I enjoyed myself very much and they made me feel at home. The Canadians, as a whole are a class-filled nation, and I continue to be impressed by their “grounded-ness”. Sadly, the round did end and we parted ways better for having met. From the course, I start the 200 mile to Jasper, but first I have to return to Banff to tape all that I saw the day before without my camera. If I wasn’t going to play, I had better film some highlights anyway. Finally, I’m through the tourists, (as if I am exempt from the same status), the Banff National Park entrance and heading north along the eastern side of the Canadian Rockies. I tighten my seatbelt and push on. Hwy 93 takes you to Jasper, and further. By further I mean, in my case, it marks the quintessential drive of all my expeditions. I would estimate that I have covered forty thousand topography seeking miles in the U.S. and declare this, the best. Noting that I utter this refrain almost every time I enter a new National Park or an intentional alternative route, the sheer spender of the Canadian Rockies has made a permanent impact on the way I see beauty and comparisons thereof. Chemistry of the human psyche percolates involuntarily in their midst.

Lake Louise was not officially viewed, as again, the atrocious lack of directional signs disrupted an anticipated and much advised experience. A low, mostly broken strata form cloud deck, speared by towering peaks much different than the U.S. Rockies, cramps my visual style. Again, there is a definite uniqueness amongst them. In the states, you drive around and on the mountain, as they are very wide at their base with a usually incrementally smooth rise toward the summit. In Canada, the mountains are narrow at the base, and rise very sharply to the summit. Each have peaks well over 12,000 feet, but the feeling of intimacy with a mountain, for me, “melds” with the ones to the north. The closest comparisons for me are the Grand Teton, in Wyoming, also occupying a top spot in my travel history. As the weather starts to clear, or at least the rain lets up, grander views continue to appear. About half-way to Jasper, you enter the Columbia Icefields. At first, I thought the massive open expanses, with tons of broken tree branches and other organic debris, strewn about between myself and the peaks, were the Icefields, and that this was what’s left after the Icefields melted. I was soon to receive a definitive natural cue as to my error. Swivel-necking through the valley, continually awestruck by the peaks, I look west and see the Columbia Icefields. Mentally isolate two 8000ft mountains peaks, about 7 miles long by 3 miles wide, among many. Lapping over and between the two peaks, a fifteen stories tall, and mile wide sheet of ice carving its way, three quarters of the way down. People massing at its base appear as very tiny specks. On the glacier, near the middle, half way up appears to be tents and some form of Sno-Cat. The Columbia Icefields are millions of years old and continues its trek east, moving downward each day. While it advances a number of feet per day, evaporation reclaims most progress. A staggering sight which, along with Mt. St. Helen’s in Washington, frightens me. There comes a time in each person’s life where you are squarely confronted with your insignificance. This is what is frightening about it. The feeling differs from falling from heights, water, or fire. More like weather or electricity. The wonderful sight piques my interest in Alaska, as I ponder all the past data filed in my brain, over the years, from different sources, now coming to bear in my conscience. In addition, this previously unconnected data seems to coalesce, and rapidly I am smarter. Closing in on Jasper, it’s late afternoon, and after another long day, I am anxious to check-in to my reserved hotel.

At 53 degrees North latitude, Jasper is the farthest north I have been. It is a rather quaint Alpine village full of A-frames and out –of- towner’s. Main St. parallels the Canadian Pacific Railroad, and the right away I see an unusual train. The Canadian Orient Express with its sleeper cars and green ornate exterior made it look like the real deal. It traverses some very beautiful terrain on different runs from Whitehorse to L.A., and beyond. Quickly finding the Hotel, I am sort ‘o non-plussed, but quickly realize the Astoria Hotel is rock solid, and right in the middle of this tiny village. Up the grand stair case with finely carved banisters, handrails smoothed by many years of use, it gets quieter as I seek my room. After keying in, I am met again with this instant need to assess the bang for the buck. Extra care was given to make these small rooms elegant. The room could have been used for a promo as it was great. The only downside was a poor view and excessive morning noise from garbage truck emptying all 30 cans from the adjoining businesses. After touring the room in the usual manner: initial view, bed location, TV size, remote, bathroom, shower, chairs, coffee maker, window view, I rapidly set myself up, again in the usual manner, and consider the past hours. After my head is right and body recharged, I’m starved and set out for some good eat’n. I stroll down Main Street and spy a four foot tall chalkboard with the menu of the day, and a smoked glass door that leads downstairs. Seeing seafood on the board, which I hankered for, I resolve to return. Continuing my walk, motivated by the fresh air and relaxing atmosphere, I window shop and people watch. Nearing the end of the boardwalk, I spin around, and make haste for my earlier choice. Entering the smoked glass door, a stairway leads downward. Part of its allure was my picturing a dark secluded quiet eatery that few patronized. But as the stairs went down to the left, they then rose to the right, up an entire flight breaking out into a Frank L. Wright virtual atrium, all but filled to capacity with diners. Directly to a table, I start to relax, when another giant panel-like chalkboard menu is placed at my feet. No problem reading what’s for dinner here. Along comes my waiter, it could have been Sam, who inquires about my beverage selection. I asked for Labatt’s Ice, being the daring one, but was informed of its absence. I asked for a recommendation, and was steered to a regional brew called Kootenay. Dispensing with this I mentioned my next culinary quandary: Swordfish or the Salmon. This was easy since Sam said the host specialized in salmon. The atmosphere was nice and after the alcohol commenced its affect, I was impressed by all of it. Soaking it in, an allowance was made for the general feeling of accomplishment. Along with the salmon was another Kootenai, and it was on. I left with a glow of contentment. Sam received the largest tip I have ever bestowed on a waitperson.

The next morning finds me heading to Jasper Park Golf Course, a much anticipated stop. I am joined with three very nice Korean ladies, all of who appeared to love the game and playing it with each other. I was paired with Margaret who moved to Toronto with her brother and became the Canadian version of a CPA. She was the better ball striker of the 3 and proved to be an excellent partner. When I first informed them that I was to be joined, I was sensitive to their reaction. I immediately opened my “best behavior” file and did my best to be a positive American memory for all of them. I happened to be “striping” the ball well and was conscience to be humble. Margaret’s mother-in-law introduced herself very haltingly as Mrs. G, and with her head bowed, I was instantly struck by “old school”. It was very uncomfortable for me striving to respect her socialization, i.e. not doing or saying something misunderstood. But, it doesn’t take long to settle down, as golf has a universal language.

The views were as advertised, with mountains all around, and a solid feeling of being far north in Canada. The course is carved through the terrain with little trick, and most tee boxes offer such a wonderful view, that it provides additional inspiration in the pre-shot routine. Jasper Park Golf Course is another Stanley Thompson tract built around the same time as Banff, as part of the Canadian Pacific Railroad quest to “rail” Canada. One additional first was sighting a “wolf” trotting down the cart path, the opposite direction of ourselves, 30 yards away, regularly glancing at us as it made its way. My terrific excitement was simultaneously tempered by a primal alarm of “what if” survival concerns. I never lost track of it and was happy to see my first wolf, when at the turn we were told it was a coyote. I was saddened at this news. Wrapping it up on #18, we all bid adieu and I was off to Kamloops, British Columbia.

Now driving west across the Canadian Rockies, I turn southwest on Yellowhead 5 with most of the 277 mile leg left before me. Around 2pm, there is plenty of day light left for the “run”. I am first impressed by the complete lack of traffic, people, and towns. I drove for many miles without seeing anyone, and was struck with the thought that it would take quite a while to receive assistance in an emergency. There are just vast distances in and around continuous ranges of 6000ft mountains. Most impressive: hundreds of waterfalls everywhere. The steepness of the mountain ranges produces a constant runoff in the forms of falls. I am reminded of a golf partner in Kananaskis who said he had always been able to drink the water from the mountains, whereas, I had read that you should not because of a bacteria that would make me sick. I make it to Kamloops and check into an ok motel. I did not explore much of the city as I was tired and was preparing for tomorrow when I would play a very nice course outside of town and then head to Vancouver. I ate, smoked, drank coffee, watched TV, while again musing at the day’s events and tomorrow’s schedule.

Well, the weather finally caught me and a constant drizzle on a cool day made my decision not to play golf at Kamloops somewhat easy. I drove 15 miles to the course, in the opposite direction of Vancouver, and was somewhat surprised to see people playing. The river banks were nearly breached and flood warnings abound. I stood outside the clubhouse, under the awning, scanning the course and its beauty, while oscillating about playing. It was the type of rain that doesn’t quit, the slow moving high pressure system, which at best, lets up just enough to tease you. I know from previous experience that I’ll be 70% wet and unhappy about the 7^th or 8^th hole, and I didn’t need to hurt my back. Couple this with realization that I would be driving to Vancouver, without a complete change of clothes, quite damp, was all it took. Maybe the weather will break toward the west, and I might be able to play in Vancouver. Too bad, the entire drive was in the rain, with varying degrees of intensity: a washout. I was not able to see much of the scenery because of the low clouds and focus on the Canada 1.

Finally, late in the afternoon, the rain starts to break as I near the city. I worry about the ingress. The horror stories I read about the city being as congested as NYC, as all roads lead through Vancouver, and the previous borderline debacle in Calgary, caused me to gird for the worst. Naturally, the preplanned route to my Hotel made it quite easy, and I had time to take it all in. When I planned the trip, I decided that I would splurge for a fine abode here and I was not disappointed. In fact, I was glad that I was not wearing jeans when the doorman greeted me. Realizing this Executive Inn was a first class hotel, in the heart of the city, close to Stanley Park, overlooking the river, made my request for a room near the top of the 15 stories seem normal. Upon request, I was told that the hotel had upgraded my reservation to a two bedroom suite. I choked back abject excitement, not to seem like a rube, and said nothing, as if this was a routine occurrence. Replete with this upgrade came the second key that gained access to a private elevator to get to my floor. I brushed off the lone bellman and made a bee-line for the private elevator to see this upgrade, before the front desk staff realize their mistake and assign my real room. I get to the floor, the elevator doors open and it just gets better. Thrusting the second key into the lock, I enter a beautiful hotel suite. I walk through every room, aghast at being the only one in here. This was great. Suddenly a number of things become clear. I wasn’t playing golf today, I had to call Barb, and didn’t even want to leave the confines, so as to lap it up. The views were fantastic, with widows to the floor everywhere. There were three 25” tubes and a first class sound system. A washer and dryer, in which I did all my laundry, was provided along with a very large fully outfitted kitchen, The master bedroom was beautiful, with all the appointments, including a full size Jacuzzi in a fabulous bathroom.

I scurried to call someone and gloat or at least register my joy. Naturally, I call Barb. I wished she were here to see and enjoy this. Not being satisfied, I call Sean in Tucson and fill him in on my bonus. Sean and his lovely wife Karen honeymooned in Vancouver, and I felt an externalized kinship in having been in the same city. Their advice was to visit Stanley Park, and I resolved to comply. However, I chose to make an auto tour of the Park, on the way to the Tram at Grouse Mountain.

After descending back to earth in my semi-private elevator, I head toward North Vancouver, through Lord’s Stanley playground. Realizing the park is the first or second largest public park in North America or Canada, I decide to tour the park via the perimeter coastal loop. In order to get to the Tram at Grouse Mt. from Stanley Park, you cross the Capilano Suspension Bridge. There is an exit to the bridge from the coastal road, but it is not open during rush hour as I found out. So, I had a complete tour of the coastal road and ended up virtually at my hotel door. Back on the proper road, I cross the bridge and head for the mountain. Reaching Grouse Mountain, I prepare to be yanked up the side 2500 ft to the summit. It was a fabulous sight the higher we got. The city, harbor, park, all revealed themselves through the very cool misty air.  It appears to be a difficult climb but many people do it regularly and I saw at least 25 hurdle the summit. The ride down the mountain is free for those who climb. You do not have to show a return ticket from the summit. It’s worth the drive, but make sure the weather is good, or you waste time. Heading back to the exquisite abode, I resolved to order from room service, noting that this may be my first for such folly. It’s decided early that Salmon will again grace my plate. When the knock at the door and the “room service” words follow, its about to be set off. Preparing the table to maximize the now evening-lit downtown area, I position myself to take it all in… and do. After a while I need party store stuff and use this opportunity to street walk. It’s a beautiful night and the streets are alive with pedestrians. I walk up and down the streets in search of candy, and or some other junk food befitting this time of night. I eventually found a store and stock up on Canadian sweets. Anticipating the end of this episode of the quest, I retire to consider my fortune and tomorrows plan.

Up early, I decide to play golf at the University of British Columbia, and maneuver my way to the course. Upon appearance, in full regalia before the cashier, I learn of an outing that will preclude my appearance there. Onward to Frasierville to play at the originally planned course. After an across town escapade, I learn of another outing comprised of displaced Amish dwarfs with hickory clubs. Not wanting to interfere, I push south toward Surrey, British Columbia to play Northview Country Club, the home of the PGA’s BC Open. I find that there are two courses here and I am unable to play the champ course, but was offered the sister, which was a very nice alternative. Since I had been trying to play since about 8am and it was now well after 11, I resisted not. I was paired with three locals, and was shown an excellent time by all, confirming my suspicions that Canadians are generally a classy lot. At the end of the round, I note my thanks for the hospitality and gentile manner, but was proud to learn that they felt the same way when playing with Americans while in the US. Without additional fanfare, and after refusing a free drink with the ‘fellas, I made haste toward the good ole United States. Upon the official border “wave through”, I add to the U.S. Customs Officer how glad I was to return, and how I felt the Canadian road signs left much to be desired. One of his queries upon entry was where I had been and the purpose. After explaining it was for golf, he commented that I must really be into it. Translation: he didn’t play and thought I a nut. He may have had a point, but it escapes me. Fired up and cranking south on Interstate 5, I’ve still got a few hundred miles to go and hopes to see the Cascades dim as the sun looses its effect on the day.

Tuning east, I start to make time toward National Park #19, and what the early “settlers” dealt with after the Rockies. The Cascades are beautiful and their severity is subtly hid. Upon deeper review, their treachery comes into focus. Curving and carving through these mountains in the late afternoon, he sun’s angle highlighted and shadowed the scenery. The virtual absence of traffic made the drive even more splendid. The Northern Cascades are well worth the trip from Seattle or Vancouver, and deserve their National Park status. Onward toward the motel in Wenatchee, Washington, where it’s 11pm when I arrive ending a full day. Two more days, one more course. This pre-positioning in Wenatchee, Washington is for Desert Canyon Golf Club, the #1 public course in the state.

The next day, which is the last full day commences with a return drive north to the course, and after a excellent breakfast, I tour the west side of the Columbia River only to realize, the nearest bridge is about 40 miles north of where I was playing. The next bridge was in Chelan, famous for its lake and lifestyle. Returning to Wenatchee, I cross at the correct bridge and restart to drive to the course. About 45 minutes later, I make the turn to the course and proceed up a mountainous dirt road, anticipating the course at the top. Arriving at the clubhouse, I scan a course carved out of a desert with very deep canyons in plain view. Being paired a while later with a threesome of guys who travel from all ports to compete and socialize with each others in some form of annual gathering of golf and cheer. I played fairly well competing with the better of the three from the back tees, holding my own. The course is rated #1 public course in the state, and played like it . There were excellent views, with canyon gorges and desert terrain contrasting the lush and undulating fairways. There were many difficult holes, but all in all if you kept ball in play, scoring was possible. Wrapping up the round, I realized the end was near, with a final 400 mile cruise to Boise, and an early a.m. flight to home. I was just about to complete another leg in the journey with few hitches. The planning paid off and the aspect of room reservations made a lot of difference. I needed to make time. Forgetting that Oregon is still sort of out-of-it, I swear it was 55mph to 65mph tops through the whole state. By the time I got to 70mph in Idaho, there were only a few miles to go. When I did get to my room in Boise, it was late and there were only a few hours to sleep.……….zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

This tour consisted of eleven days and covered four States and two Provinces. The ride was powered by a National Car Rental Pontiac Grand Am SE V6 and covered 3223 miles. It was conducted from June 30, to July 10, 1999.

 

 

 

Chapter 11   “To the Bitter End”

 I knew it would take a little luck, a lot of stamina, a strong back, and good planning to finish what I had set to do in 1997. Playing golf in the 48 contiguous was not a life long or even a fanciful goal prior to then, but one day after counting the states I had played, the fuse was lit. This trip, over Labor Day 1999, required playing nine rounds of golf in six days and I would need to cover nine states in order to finish this lark.

In planning, the trick is to locate two or three excellent courses in each state, and attempt to choose a circuitous route that makes the most sense. By “connecting the golf course dots” the shortest distance to and from your point of origin is usually revealed. If done correctly, you may be able to treat yourself, as I did, to route deviations. However, always make sure you have a back up course that is on the way to the next state or better still, in the same area. You never know what type of “club championship” or pancake outing is scheduled to commence at the very moment of your arrival to spoil your fun. After much work, it turned out that Newark, New Jersey was the point the trip would start, as they had the lowest fares and flexibility in schedule. I planned a tight trip that left little room for problems.

Enhancing my completion odds, I chose to fly standby on an earlier flight out of DTW, with a bonus of playing golf in New Jersey a day early. Getting to the airport two hours in advance, I received a seat confirmation immediately at the counter and felt the stroke of luck right off the bat. The flight left the gate almost on time and even the half hour “holding pattern” around the New York City area didn’t really cramp my style. Getting my golf clubs from Continental did!! After retrieving my clothing without a hitch, I head down to the last carousal in the airport to get my clubs. With each passing bag and minute, panic starts to set in. When the carousal stops, my clubs are still not in view, and now I’m struck by what to do next. I decide to bitch at the security guard at the end of carousal 8 about my plight. After a while, I head to the Continental Claims Office to unload.

Finding a line of people to register their despair, I eventually make my way to the counter. There can be fewer jobs in the country that parallel the nightmarish hell of a job like this. This is where it appears the company exiles employees until they quit or are lucky enough to transfer. I did everything possible to make my point about this baggage handling debacle, short of being arrested. I was left quite literally in the lurch, without the primary tools of my quest. Being informed that lost bags are usually found and delivered within 24 hours did nothing to abate my frustration. I decide to wait until my originally scheduled flight arrived; again yielding no golf bags. I was resigned to driving to Wilmington, Delaware and spending the night without my clubs. Heading toward the car rental counter, one important bag short, I look over toward the back of carousal 4 and see about 100 bags. I stroll over to them and within 15 seconds, I spy what appears to be a bag like mine. It is! I’m so happy I could spit. After proving ownership to the security guard, he informs me that it’s been there for a good while, and that the amount of lost baggage is normal. I’m relieved on one hand filled with abject anger that so many plans and expectations are ruined by this pathetic example of inventory control. Every one of those bags is a tale of heartache and broken plans. Passenger safety has to be number one, with delivery of personal property a close second.

Busting out of Newark in my shiny Buick Century, the full-sized rental is a free upgrade for want of available intermediate size vehicles in stock. Headed for Wilmington, I now have some juggling to do. I had a fatalistic feeling before I left Michigan that finishing this thing might not happen and I was somewhat prepared for partial failure. I resolved however, to chalk up as many as possible. I figured, what the hell, one or two short wouldn’t be all that bad in the big scheme of things.

Relaxing later, in the motel, I sit down to rearrange the trip. I had planned a visit to Acadia National Park and Cape Cod National Seashore, but now something may have to give. Resolute in my concentration, I stare at the map as if hypnotized. I mentally drift to the movie “Searching for Bobby Fisher”, the scene in which Ben Kingsley implores his young chess master charge, “don’t move until you see it”. It was eerie when all of a sudden, there it was, right in front of me, fourteen moves ahead. I would have to make up the time by playing an additional course in Connecticut or thereabouts, to catch up. If I can play twice a day for three out of four days, I can make it.

Newly buoyed, the next day started with a round outside of Wilmington, Delaware at Delcastle Golf Course . The ravages of drought were apparent on this course, with burned out fairways and rough. The only water restrictive exemption was for the greens. I was glad to be playing, thrilled to have my clubs, and elated to notch up state number 40. I played with single from the area and it was enjoyable. A bizarre anecdote about this course was the lighthouse-like command post for the starter. From here, he could survey his kingdom. The starter guy would climb down the five steps to a golf cart, and motor past us to the parking lot to assure that people with tee times were not running late. He would then drive back past us, without acknowledging our presence, climb the five steps to the throne office and only then speak to us through a small window. It was really strange the first time, but the second time he did this was pure comedy and frankly weird.

Departing the course, I now haul ass toward Colts Neck, New Jersey, to play Hominy Hill Golf Course. The drive is a little more then an hour, and rain is following. It started during the last few holes of Delcastle. Hominy Hills is a Robert Trent Jones design built in 1964. It was beautiful and hard. I played with a Chinese man who obtained his Ph.D. in Computer Science and worked for AT&T. He had a terrific game and laced the ball almost every hole. He was married with two children. I enjoyed his wisdom and skill. I struggled big time the first few holes, but settled down to play some adequate golf.

I have a hundred and thirty miles more to Poughkeepsie, New York, by way of the New Jersey Turnpike to I-95 and then north to the motel. I drove north in NJ, on the eastside of Manhattan Island. NYC was a beautiful sight from this perspective, and I was able to pick out many of the buildings. I was aided at the final toll booth on the NJ Parkway with directions by a very helpful attendant, as I thought a wrong turn may have been taken. None had, and it was reassuring to be headed correctly in this densely populated, auto-laden area.

The Travelodge in Poughkeepsie, New York did the job and it was only a few miles to Casperkill Golf Course to play another Robert T. Jones design built in 1944. It was fabulous and I enjoyed the company of another fine gentleman of Chinese extraction. His game was not on, but mine was, and I was flattered by his compliments. A very pretty track with typical R T Jones sculpting. Alas, it would be the last time I played well on the trip.

Onward to Danbury, Connecticut and Richter Park Golf Course, a course of note, built by Robert Ryder in 1974. Ranked the #2 Public Course in the state, it was very picturesque with a number of holes crossing a 150 yard wide river. At the start, I am dispatched to the tee to join three others primed to go. The first gentleman to introduced himself and asked me is I had played there before. I should have said “yes” because he instantly seemed to be inches from my face to explain the vagaries of the links. When I stepped back to regain some personal space, he filled it like a vacuum and with a loud voice to boot. Well, I informed him of it and right away I felt bad. So, immediately walking of the tee, I acted as though nothing happened and made friendly. He name was Dick, oddly enough, and his father had graduated from U of M in 1934 with a degree in Electrical Engineering. After Michigan, his father returned to Connecticut and made good, good enough to farm his son to a private boarding school. It was my first “up close and personal” with someone so socialized. I could see the differences, and imagined how out of place he must feel with my “commoner” demeanor. He tried to conduct himself as a good “ole” boy, but his training made this impossible. It was if an entire chapter on pure folly had not been visited in boarding school. I felt it shameful, then like the adrenaline rush of a near car crash, I felt him thinking just the same about me, and how I had lacked a certain refinement by not being a “have”. I feel comfortable in making personal assertions about another human after a four and a half hour golf walk with them. The accuracy deteriorates when there are others in the group, but for the most point, observations are pretty much on point. Aside from Dick, there was golf, and there was rain and more rain. It had finally caught up with me for good, and as if I needed another wrench in the soup, I was soaked by a steady downpour from the third hole on, and considered for 2 seconds, quitting at the turn. The thought was rapidly extinguished by picturing me staring out the window of my apartment at the snow laden earth, wondering why I could not “hang” with 60 degrees and rain. I vowed to push on, and did. The back nine revealed itself more so as the rain abated for periods long enough to actually enjoy the surroundings. We finished in the dark, and I just racked up course numbers 41 and 42. My back was holding up, even in the dampness, but I had five more courses to play. Dick showed his true class at the end of the round by offering to lead me through the residential maze to the Interstate so I could head toward Brattleboro, NH. I’m glad he did, for I would have gotten lost. It was pitch dark about three miles from I-84, leading to I-91. It would take me about three and a half hours to travel the 160 miles to my Quality Inn Suites motel. I was happy to get there, to shed my still wet clothes, and relax. I was satisfied with the current progress, but rain is following me north and tomorrow looks bad.

Arising early, I head south about 15 miles back to Massachusetts to play Crumpin-Fox Golf Course in Bernardston. It is a Roger Rulewich design rebuilt in 1978. The course was a private nine hole escape for the Crump (candy barons) family. Drizzle greeted the dawn and persisted when at 8am I arrived. After preparing for the round, shoes, weather gear, etc, I am informed at the Pro shop that the course is having its Club Championship and that I would not be able to get off until around 10:30. Well this would not work for me and I choose to employ an alternative in Greenfield, a small town about 15 miles south of Bernardston. Once in Greenfield, I pull into a Mobile gas station at the entrance of town to inquire as to any 18 hole golf courses in town. How do you think I felt when the guy behind the register with ONE ARM defers to the woman in the back office? She explains and off to the country club I go, still in the rain, only to be foiled again. I am told that they also are also having their tourney, but no matter, since I was not a member, I would not have been able to play before 11am. So back to Crumpin-Fox I go, still in the rain, to play there. I decided that I would play the 3^rd ranked course in the state. The second to the last championship paring teed off when I arrive and it’s still about an hour before I play. I’m in the very nice log cabin snack shop and overhear a man extolling the virtues of the Robert Trent Jones Trail in Alabama. I am compelled to interrupt and agree with him about the quality of these courses, having played one of the many. It turns out that the guy was a member, out to play, and we end up playing together.

My bag was still very wet. The day before, I threw my soaked clubs in the trunk, disgusted with the deterioration of my swing. I just wanted to be away from them, and staying in the trunk tonight was their punishment. When I cracked open the trunk the next day I got a surprise. I have no personal knowledge of what a corpse smells like, but the odor emanating from the truck was incredible. My head could only have snapped back quicker had it been a small gasoline explosion. In the rain, Bill, the member playing partner walks, and we move quickly through the first few holes. My swing has not gotten on track and I fear it is just falling apart. I think that the playing and driving are affecting my concentration and hope to work out of it. I make very few good shots all day and am glad to terminate the soaking nightmare after the 17^th hole. The rain by this time was a driving rain, and I have totally had my fill for the day. The plan was to head north after playing Crumpin-Fox and play  in Keene, New Hampshire at Brentwood Golf Course, that afternoon. It did not take long to realize I could not make up time on this day, and was be lucky to have gotten this one in. No matter, I had completed #44 with only four to play.

When I planned this trip, I expected to have completed play in New Hampshire and Vermont, by the end of this day, and stay about 60 miles east of St. Johnsbury, Vermont. I attempted to cancel my reservation at this motel, but was told that I had to have called by noon. I was stuck with the full payment, so it was another obstacle to add, but, on the other hand, I did have a place to stay. So, arriving at the motel, in Gorham, NH about 1130pm, I realize that tomorrow will have to be big, and completion hangs on playing two rounds in two states.

I know that it will take an hour to backtrack west to Vermont and St. Johnsbury Golf Course to the play the course. I arrive at about 7am, and am the off right away. I had passed a course in New Hampshire on the way, and figured to play it on the return. I played in just over two hours with time out to enjoy the views. All alone on an elevated tee box looking at the vista ahead, at that time of the day was great. As usual, it was overcast, and rain threatened, but it appeared to be finally leaving. Finishing #45, I head east toward Gorham, New Hampshire to play Waumbeck Golf Course, thus completing New Hampshire. It was a sorry course, and I played very poorly. I had played pretty bad at St. Johnsbury, a Mungo Park design, built in 1923. It was a beautiful course with the back nine built on side of a mountain. Great par 3’s, with excellent views; I paused on a few tee boxes to enjoy, making note of playing golf in northern Vermont. It was before 9am and I was almost done. It was a good start to another full day. As I finished the 18^th and headed to my car, I saw people just arriving and suiting up. It is bizarre to have already played 18, be about my business, and thinking that they had 4 to 4.5 hours ahead of them. There is something to be said for being the first off, if not the first, which I have experienced before. Once, in Broker Arrow, Oklahoma I was first off in the morning, and was motoring to a great 2 hour pace, when all of a sudden, I am passed by two carts with two players and clubs heading in the opposite direction. It did not take me long to figure out that a “shotgun” start outing was occurring, and in front of me on #17 was a foursome initiating their round on a 200 yard+ par 3. Forty five minutes later, I left the 18^th.

Headed east back to New Hampshire, I play 18 holes an hour and a half later at Waumbek Golf Course near Gorham. It was a piece of crap, and hardly representative of the courses in this state. I am glad I have this opportunity though, and since I was not playing well, it was just as well. Rack up #45 and #46. The possibility of success now presents itself. I will eliminate the Cape Cod tour, and attempt to play the final round in Rhode Island first thing in the morning, on the day I return home. Cutting it close, with a little more luck, might do the trick.

As I learned in planning and execution, there is no east-west thoroughfare in northern Vermont, New Hampshire, or Maine. You must plow along secondary roads zigging and zagging through lovely countryside. I had no complaints as I had plenty of time to get to Waterville, Maine, about 50 miles south of Bangor. I thought about being able to make a run at Acacia National Park, but determine I would not arrive prior to dusk. I did start to drive there, but returned to my motel in Waterville and forced myself to rest. I took the extra time to recalculate the requirements from hereon, and it was soon to pay off.

Another big day would find me at Penobscot Golf Course in Orono, Maine a little before 8am. I was lucky enough to be able to tee off just before the ladies Wednesday league started, and again motored through the course. I played pretty well on this day, and could feel parts of game returning. My back continues to hold up, in extreme conditions. One thing I have not commented on is the terrain. New England is genuine solid bedrock; the idea that anything grows is a surprise. I literally hammered my back in carts. A washboard would have been smoother. My clubs clack and clatter for days in this part of country, giving me a headache. I spent a lot of time arranging them not to bang each other. The idea that my back could hold out seemed remote. I can go on and on about the unforgiving terrain. Walking would be fine. Another thing I learned: when you hit a ball in New England through the rough and into the trees, there is bedrock sticking out at various indiscriminate locations. Knowing that just under the sod is granite rock, struck fear into me. Roots from serious-sized trees are above ground, and spread out like an octopus. The rock is gray-black and appears harder than the Rockies.

Penobscot Golf Course is a classic design built by Donald Ross in 1923. It is like most Ross courses: gentle doglegs, fair approaches with slightly elevated greens. The rough is not too penal, and I seem to play his course designs well. This day would be no exception, and I made some very good shots, and was actually quite surprised about the turnaround.

I now head southeast toward Acadia National Park. Through Bangor, Maine and I then turn east toward Bar Harbor. It’s overcast with periodic breaks in the clouds. The drive to the Park was a two lane road and very busy. There appears to be one main way to get to the park, and everyone was on it. I thought it would be slick to turn onto a perimeter road to define the southern coastline of the Park. It was cool, but all extended views were obscured by fog, dense fog. I managed to trek to a Coast Guard Lighthouse and could only see about 50 yards into the Atlantic. It was easy to see why the lighthouse was there. After some video, which was rarely utilized on this trip, was taken, it was on to the Park proper. Parks appeal to people for different reason, some climb, some camp, some hike. Acadia is for hikers. Coastline views are negated by the forest, but when you are able to sneak a quick peek, it is world-class. I drove through quite a bit of the Park, staying away, for the most part from the pure tourist area of Bar Harbor, but did scrape the outskirts. I regret that I did not fully partake of what this beautiful Park had to offer. It certainly met my personal National Parks standards, and if you like to hike, don’t miss it.

I fly home tomorrow and I am in Maine, a long way from Newark. Finishing #47, I head for Rhode Island, a hefty cruise. I have no way of heading for Cape Cod now, and resign to jettison it from the plan. The drive was somewhat hectic, skirting Boston by way of a giant Interstate rotary looping the city. I stay at a nice Ramada in Seekonk, Massachusetts, just across the border from Providence. I can smell it now, it’s almost over. I’ve had a belly full of travel over the last few years. Folly is not easy. In my case it required a lot of money, time, energy, planning, desire, golf balls, coffee, maps, motel registrations, fast-food, video tape, gasoline, long distance calls to home, early wake up times on vacation, mountain driving, construction barrels, two lane roads, greens fees, music cassettes, beef jerky, more coffee, luggage lugging, club lugging, airline peanuts, check-in lines, airport parking fees, screaming babies, flight delays, cigarettes, motels rooms, small towns, shitty drivers, highway miles, missed holidays with family, persistence, and pure unadulterated selfishness.

There is one thing that remained constant throughout this three year mission. Golf courses are really HARD to find. I am sure that most golfers will agree. Golf courses usually are located on a private or obscure road or a road baring the course name, not likely listed on any standard road map. The Internet has improved this data access tremendously, and it very much aided me in the late stages of it all. It doesn’t seem like they would be hard to find, but trust me. I’ve been all over the country chasing this thing, and it never got easier. If I did not know closely where the course was, I would pull into the first gas station, and start the search with the aid of some local knowledge. This helped a lot and I saved myself “mucho” grief. This brings me to the final day of plodding along.

I had between a 3.5 and 4 hour drive from Providence, Rhode Island, to Newark, NJ. My flight left at 4pm, so I knew that I had to be on the road to the airport by no later than 11am. I got up at about 5:30am and was at the course at 6:30. The sun was barely up and there was still plenty of dew on this Donald Ross beauty built in 1933. Triggs Golf Course is located near the center of Providence, Rhode Island, and it was again a little tough to find. I prevailed upon a native at a Duncan Doughnut for expert direction. I arrived at the course and hurried to the clubhouse. I found three golfers milling around the entrance, waiting for something. I hear one of the men wondering out loud about the whereabouts of their fourth partner. I take this cue to accelerate the greens fee process and bolt to my assigned cart, and race to the first hole. Ah, I’m number one on the course and tee off at 6:50am. The first shot is a cracking 260 yard draw to the middle of the fairway. I continued to play well throughout the round, and therefore moved rapidly through the park. Then came the moment on the tee box of the 14^th hole, a moment  I’ll always remember. I paused. It was similar to getting up in the night to use the bathroom. It was like trying to remember something you are supposed to do. Then it came to me: I AM DONE. If it’s good enough for the USGA to consider it a complete round after 13 holes, then it’s good enough for me. From that moment on, I enjoy the rest of the swift round with a smile and escalating peace of mind.

While driving toward Newark, I hardly remember passing through Connecticut or New York. I seemed to be in a trance. It was personal pride I was feeling then, now, and will continue to into the future. I’ll remember with fondness, stories about every state. I feel a superficial kinship with cities I see on the news, cities that I was in or near. For me, the United States has become a little smaller, but at the same time, my appreciation for our country, its land, and fellow countrymen has grown. I don’t think I’ll do anything like this again, but allow a little time to transpire and who knows. There are places I want to return to, and there is still a number of National Parks to see. Golf has taken me to places I would not otherwise have gone. I’ve used this passion to learn more about myself and the world around me. Barb, my supportive partner for 21 years has teased me about my future golf travel plans. She has been wonderful in her understanding of my quest. She chides me about playing in every country in Europe. While outwardly scoffing, I secretly consider golf on all the continents, save Antarctica. ????????

The last leg on this tour covered nine states in six days. It covered 1815 miles and was powered by a 99 Buick Century from National Rental Car. Nine golf courses were played. Air transport provided by Continental Airlines.

© Copyright 1999-2003 Ken Devine. All stinkin’ rights reserved.

 

The playgrounds: 

ALABAMA : Silver Lake @ Gadsden Robert Trent Jones 1993

ALASKA : Anchorage Golf Course

ARIZONA :   Silverbell @ Tucson ***** Elephant Rocks @Williams Gary Panks 1990 * * Randolph North @Tucson William P. Bell 1925 * * Del Urich @ Tucson William P. Bell 1964   

Santa Rita @Corona Red Lawrence 1962 * * Fred Enke @Tucson Benz/Poellot 1982 * * Papago @ Phoenix William F. Bell 1963

Wigwam G&C @Litchfields Park Robert T Jones 1961 Kokopelli @Gilbert William Phillips 1993 * * Raven @Tuscon Robert T Jones Jr. 1996

ARKANSAS : Dawn Hill @Siloam Springs Ralph Jones 1966

CALIFORNIA : PoppyHills @ Monterey Robert T. Jones, Jr. 1986 * * Links at Spanish Bay @ Monterey 1987 Robert T. Jones/Tome Watson

COLORADO : Loveland @ Loveland * * Copper Creek @ Copper Mt. 1976 Pete Dye / Perry Dye

CONNECTICUT : RichterPark @ Danbury Edward Ryder 1971

DELEWARE: Delcastle @Wilminton Edmund Ault 1972

FLORIDA : Cocoa Bch GC @ Cocoa Beach Charles Ankrom 1992 * * Savannah’s@Sykes Crk.@Merrit Island Gordon Lewis 1990 * * Habitat @Malabar Chas Ankro 1991

Sandridge @ Vero Beach Ron Garl 1987 * * Ft. Meyers C.C.@Ft. Meyers Donald Ross na * * RedlandG.C @ Homestead (9) Red Lawrence 1946

World Woods G.C.-Pine Barrens @Brooksville Tom Fazio 1993 * * Orange Lake Resort @ Kissimmee Joe Lee 1982

Legends-Orange Resort @Kissimmee Arnold Palmer 199? * * Viera C.C. @Viera Joe Lee 1994

GEORGIA : Ferry Fields @Calhoun Arthur Davis 1992

HAWAII : tba

IDAHO : Quail Hollow @BoiseVan Hagge & Devlin 1982

ILLINOIS : Cog Hill-Dubsdread @Lemont Dick Wilson 1964

INDIANA : Eagle Creek @ Indianapolis Pete Dye 1974

IOWA : Shoreline@Carter Lake Pat Wyss 1991

KANSAS : Ironhorse @Leawood Michael Hurdzan 1995

KENTUCKY : Kearney Hills @Lexington Pete Dye & P.B Dye 1989

LOUISIANNA: Oak Harbor @ Slidell Lee Schmidt 1991

MAINE : Penobscot Valley @Orono Donald Ross 1923

MARYLAND : Black Rock @ Harrisburg Robert Elder 1989

MASSACHUSETTS:  Crumpin-Fox @Bernardston Roger Rulewich 1978

MINNESOTA : Prairie View Golf Links @Worthington Joel Goldstrand 1983

MISSISSIPPI : Cherokee Valley @Olive Branch Don Cottle Jr. 1996

MISSOURI : Longview @ Kansas City Benz & Poellet 1986 * * Mozingo @ Maryville Don Sechrest 1996 * * Shiloh Springs @ Platte City Gary Martin 1995

MONTANA : Old Works @Anaconda Jack Nicklaus 1998 * * Northern Pines @Kalispell Andy North / Roger Packard 1996 * * Lake Hills @ Billings George Schneiter Sr. 1956 * * Eagle Bend @Bigfork Hull / Nicklaus Jr. 1988 * * Polson @Polson Fred Hummel 1936 * * Larchmont @ Missoula Roger Lilje 1982 * * Cottonwood @ Bozeman ?

NEBRASKA : Taggaron @ Omaha

NEVADA : White Pine @Ely * * Eagle Valley @ Carson City Homer Flint 1987

NEW HAMPSHIRE ; Waumbek @ Jef ferson Willie Norton 1985

NEW JERSEY : Hominy Hills @Colts Neck Robert Trent Jones 1964

NEW MEXICO : NMSU @ Las Cruces Robert “Red” Lawrence 1966 * * Pinon Hills @ Farmington Ken Dye

NEW YORK : Casperkill @ Poughkeepsie Robert Trent Jones 1944

NORTH CAROLINA : Brick Landing @ Ocean Isle Beach H. M. Brazeal1988 * * Brunswick @ Calabash William Byrd 1992 * * Gauntlet at St.James @Southport P.B.Dye 1990 * * Lions Paw @ Ocean Isle Beach Willard Byrd * * Lockwood Links @ Holden Beach Willard Byrd 1988 * * Panthers Run @ Ocean Isle Beach Willard Byrd / Tim Cate * * Pearl (W) @ Sunset Beach Dan Maples 1987

NORTH DAKOTA : Edgewood GC @Fargo Robert Bruce Harris 1951

OHIO : Detwiller @ Toledo Arthur Hills 1971 * * Maumee Bay @ Maumee Arthur Hills 1960 * * Heather Downs C.C. (Pvt.) @ Toledo ? Rockefeller 1925

OKLAHOMA : Battle Creek CC @Broken Arrow Bland Pittman 1997

OREGON : Sandpines @ Florence Reese Jones 1993

PENNSYLVANIA : Champion Lake @Bolivar Paul Erath 1968

RHODE ISLAND : Triggs @ Providence Donald Ross 1933

SOUTH CAROLINA: Bay Tree (Silver) @North Myrtle Beach Fazio / Breedon 1972 * * Belle Terre@ Myrtle Beach Reese Jones 1995 * * Blackmoor @Murrells Inlet Gary Player 1990 * * Buck Creek (C,T,M) @Longs Russell Breedon 1990 * * Deer Track @Surfside Beach Toski / Gibson 1974 * * Dunes @Myrtle Beach Robert T. Jones 1991 * * Heather Glen (2^nd,3^rd) @Little River Byrd /Johnston 1987 * * Heritage @Pawleys Island Dan Maples 1986 * *Heathland @Myrtle Beach Tom Doak 1990 * * Moorland @Myrtle Beach P.B. Dye 1990 * * Parkland @Myrtle Beach Larry Young 1994 * * Long Bay @Longs Jack Nicklaus 1988 * * Pawleys Plantation @Pawleys Island Jack Nicklaus 1988 * * Pine Lakes @Myrtle Beach Robert White 1927 * * River Hills @Little River Tom Jackson 1989 * * Tidewater @N.Myrtle Bch Ken Tomilson 1990 * * Wild Wing(Humbird)@Conway Willard Byrd 1992 * * Willbrook @North Litchfield Dan Maples ? * * Wizard @ Myrtle Beach Dan Maples 1996 * * Wicked Stick @Myrtle Bch John Daly 1997

SOUTH DAKOTA : Prairie Green Golf Course @ Sioux Falls Dick Nugent 1995

TENNESSEE : Brown Acre @ Chattanooga Grant Wencel 1975

TEXAS : Painted Desert @ El Paso Ken Dye 1991

UTAH : Hobble Creek @Springville William Bell 1966 * * Sunbrook @St.George Robinson / Harbottle 1990

VERMONT : St. Johnsbury @St. Johnsbury Mungo Park 1923

VIRGINIA : Shennandoah @Front Royal Buddy Loving 1991

WASHINGTON : Apple Tree @ Yakima John Steidel 1992 * * Desert Canyon @Orondo Jack Frei 1993

WEST VIRGINIA : Lakeview @ Morgantown Jim Harrison 1953

WISCONSIN : Dreska @Milwaukee Evert Kincaid 1967

WYOMING : Starr Valley @Thayne 1970