Bacon Scrapins are the little bits of meat left in the greasy fry pan. They’re tasty, but the ‘nutrition’ needs searching for. This tale is a bacon scrapin.
What do you do in the middle of a January snowstorm? Talk about walking with the family through a wooded path in July. What do you do in the sweltering heat of July? Talk about maybe taking up cross-country skiing next winter. What do you do in the midst of a July downpour? Get together with 3 buddies and talk about golf excursions down meandering fairways, of course!
Four of us were gazing out Pete’s back window across the broad expanse of drenched open green that separates homes in our ‘nine-stop-signs-sized’ community. It was a Monday, our usual community men’s golf day, and the threatened summer rain had come through at the last minute just as we were hoping to get off the starting tee. The best consolation was to retreat to a cozy spot to refresh-our-spirits. That took us to Pete’s.
Pete travels a lot, and writes about it. The other three of us travel a bit, read some, and expound about everything as retired guys can. Today, the topic was, “Your worst and best shot on a course more than 2 but less than 5 hours away.” That’s a lot of golf courses.
Talking about the worst was a waste of time because it became patently evident that we all had too many options to put forward. We got off topic for a short while as we discussed the best brand of golf ball to use. We quickly concluded that we all could hit a Titleist, Top Flite, Callaway, Wilson, Nike, Srixon or Kirkland equally far into the bush.
After an appropriate replenishing of our brown-pop cans, the discussion finally got to best shots. The downpour through the window became a hazy lens through which we all could imagine ourselves being ‘out there’ with the narrator, making the swing with him.
All three of my fellows expounded on how they had approached the tee, peered at the target flag, made their practice swings, done a mental review of their lives as they made a final check that the flag-was-still-there, addressed the ball, made the controlled back-swing, put all their focus into contact and then a comfortable follow through.
It was mesmerizing stuff. We were all there, reliving it. Visualizing the ball sailing through the air. But all the stories ended the same. They all had a hole-in-one. How can anyone top a story that ends with a hole-in-one? It’s nirvana, ecstasy, the ultimate goal, the epitome of a golf shot!
That left the last tale to me. Never had a hole in one. Never came closer than 5 feet. I’ve had shots roll within an inch of the hole and then keep rolling 10 feet right on past. What to do? Go with a second best? A ‘hole-in-two’ with a miracle shot?
It was in Michigan. Gaylord. 5 hours and 9 minutes by Google maps, but I was driving the vehicle so we squeaked in under 5 hours. Treetops Resort is an awe-inspiring challenge. It has 5 courses mixed into the one property. The landscape isn’t much different than this side of Lake Huron, lots of rolling hills. But when a golf course is cut into those treed slopes there are many places where the slopes become hills, valleys, crevices or canyons as seen from your spot beside the ball.
Number 5 on the Threetops course (all 9 holes are par 3s) has a 90 ft. vertical drop from the tee to the green. The idea is to hit the ball straight out into space about 110 yards, watch it fly away, then gradually see gravity’s effect as it drops, and hope it doesn’t land in one of the 5 surrounding sand traps, but rather plonks onto the green. It was so much fun, I hit 5 balls off into space and still don’t know where they landed. But it was exhilarating!
My “second-best” story happened on the Treetops Signature Course, designed by Rick Smith after he had toured courses in Ireland and Scotland for inspiration. I hit from the “whites’ and the second hole is a par 3, 144 yards. My first shot sailed off into the distance, bounced and rolled down the middle, drifted left with the slope, and ended up in a sand trap beside the green. When I stood over my ball, sand wedge in hand, looking up over the trap’s edge toward the flag, I couldn’t see the flag. The trap ledge was higher than me standing at its bottom. This appeared to be a five-shot effort, just to get out of the trap.
I walked out, around the trap to orient myself to where the flag really was. Back into the trap, I squidged both feet firmly into the sand, opened the club face, took a deep breath, smooth back-swing, and a strong blast of sand obliterated my vision. While shaking sand off myself, and looking around to see which side of the trap the ball had hit, I heard a yell from above, “It went in! It went in!”
I couldn’t see the ball anywhere in the trap but these guys have well-earned reputations. I yelled back, “Quit jerking me around! Did anyone see where it went?” Answer, “It’s in the hole!” ‘Oh yah!’, I said to myself, walked out and around the trap to the green and my ball was nowhere to be seen. With doubt I peered into the hole. Yup! With casual nonchalance I picked it out, gave it a confirming glance and said, “Got my birdie! You guys done here?”
A trip to the U.S. these days requires some deliberation, but a trip down memory lane to Treetops, on a sopping summer day in July, makes some stories into souvenirs.
NOTE: Bacon Scrapins are ‘made up’ tales. Except for the first-person singular, the characters’ names are fictional.
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