Fairway Adventures

It was King James I of England who climbed the high ground at Blackheath, just outside London, and introduced golf to the region just as the 16th century was about to make its turn. James had come from Scotland, where golf had already been played for some 150 years, and though the crowns of England and Scotland were now informally united, the Scots and the Englishmen still had plenty of loathing for each other, so the new king and his entourage were quite happy to have found so fine a spot for both pursuing the sport they loved and keeping the bloody English at arm’s length. The Royal Blackheath Golf Club, officially instituted in 1608, became the first golf club in the world.

That’s the story told around here, at least, and it’s a story unchallenged for nearly 200 years.

When I came to Royal Blackheath in 2009, the year after its 400^th anniversary, I learned quickly that the veracity of the story is less important than the spirit that the club, and its members, exude. As Blackheath’s website boasts, its greatest tradition is that of a club inclusive and welcoming to all. It proves itself to be that and much more. After taking the tube and the train to reach the town of Eltham, I arrived at the club to be greeted by a variety of wonderfully stout, cheery gents who all seemed to want to buy me a beer even though it was 8:00 in the morning. Their general lust for life was especially welcome since I had just come from a month in Paris, where the surroundings are unparalleled but the people, I’m sorry to say, are just as arrogant and condescending as they’ve always been. And I speak French.

Before teeing off I enjoyed a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausages, fried mushrooms, grilled tomatoes and black pudding that I was fairly sure would kill me within the hour. The pint of orange juice I had with it must have supplied just enough nutrition to offset some of the artery-clogging power of the other bits, though it did force me into several pre-round trips to the gentlemen’s cloakroom.

I then spent a half-hour or so at the clubhouse bar taking in the banter. Though delivered in a different accent, it was connected by many of the same themes one hears at home. For example, from three gents talking about a rightie who’d broken his right arm: “You have to learn to do everything you normally do with your right hand with your left.” A pause, then shared juvenile laughter. Yes, men in the company of men are the same no matter where you go.

Here was another gem, from a different bloke at the bar, talking to one of his mates: “My friend’s son, he’s a charming lad but an inveterate chatterer. There’s a point where you’re thinking just bloody shut up.”

Mostly I hung on every sentence waiting for an instance of the word “stupid,” which here is pronounced styoopid. It’s truly amazing how often the word comes up, and you somehow never tire of the entertainment value it provides.

Before stepping onto the first tee, I noticed the sign on the pro shop window, which informed me that the day’s green speed was 10 according to the stimp meter. The knowledge wouldn’t do me any good, but I hoped other golfers will be able to use it. Chris, the delightfully helpful chap in the shop, asked me if was walking or would prefer to take a trolley. I had no idea what he’s actually asking, so I told him I was walking.

As the group ahead of me teed off, I inspected the first hole, a beautiful 463-yard runway. The breeze was coming directly at the tee, so it would take a good stroke just to reach the distant fairway. As I was picturing just how large a slice I’d be hitting, I was treated to more marvelous repartee, this from the foursome currently hitting, each a proudly substantial example of the average Blackheather. You haven’t really witnessed golf banter until you’ve heard a massively hefty guy with a deep English brogue say to his playing partner after an errant drive, “Follow that one to Upminster all day, eh, Petey?” I hadn’t a clue what he meant, but it nearly reduced the others in his group to tears.

The rest of the day proved a combination of brilliant golf and magnificent human spirit. Royal Blackheath is a lovely golf course and an excellent test of the skills, but mostly it’s a grand experience of the positive, both aesthetically and spiritually. 

And then there’s the museum. On its top floor, Blackheath houses an incomparable collection of golf artifacts that is justifiably protected with the kind of pride and caution usually reserved for gold reserves.

When current club captain Richard Williams admitted me to the room, he blocked me from seeing the entry code.  

Walking in, I understood why. This museum is a sight to behold, not because of flash or pomp but because of its contents, from drivers hundreds of years old to trophies exchanged across continents to golf odes written long before people in North America had even heard of the game. I spent my visit to the museum gape-mouthed at the assortment of relics and grateful for the depth of knowledge with which Richard proudly regaled me.

Then it was back outside for another pint, this time of the golden kind, and more conviviality from the throng of members and guests having finished their own rounds. An especially plump and seriously drunk gent offered me a ride back, but I graciously declined and hailed a cab back to the train station instead. I’d had myself a superb day at Royal Blackheath, as doubtless every visitor does. King James would be proud indeed. 

STARTING AND FINISHING HOLES

Wonderful. The first tee, situated right beside the pro shop, is both quaint and majestic. The last holes finish as strongly as a good English ale.

  

OVERALL AESTHETICS

The Royal Blackheath experience is a sensual treat, from the marvelous clubhouse, built in 1664, to the immaculate grounds highlighted by variously aged trees of silver birch, oak, pine and fir that lend the course its stately-but-intimate feel. The club’s members are as proud of their course as any I’ve ever played, and it shows. The only thing nicer than the tee areas is the fairways. The only thing nicer than the fairways is the aprons. The only thing nicer than the aprons is the artistically ridged greens.

 

REAR VIEWS

The back-facing views at Blackheath are gorgeous, featuring the aforementioned trees of different ages and sizes, spaced out nicely to produce the feeling of a course that really breathes. In fact, this is the rare type of course in which the rear views are similar to the front views – a good thing.

 

TRACK

Though relatively straight, Blackheath does feature some lovely turns and sweeps to keep you on your toes. The course is well signed and sensibly arranged, so that you aren’t spending your time wondering where the next tee is. Instead, at least in my case, you get to focus on where your tee shot went.
 
 

“NICE HOLE” FACTOR

Several of Blackheath’s holes are memorable, and for the right reasons: beauty and coherence, as opposed to glaze or gimmickry. My favorite sequences were 8-9 and 17-18. The par-3 eighth, more intimate than the other holes and more tucked in, is guarded around almost its entire circumference by bunkers, and is slightly elevated. On the day I played, it featured a tricky little cross-breeze to boot. (I’m not saying I played it well; I’m saying I liked it.) The ninth is a beautiful curving dogleg to an elegantly sloped green. The isolated plateau of the elevated green on seventeen offers a wonderful moment of reflection before finishing, and the sweet dogleg over the hedgerow coming home is a joy.

  

DEGREE OF DIFFICULTY

I shot 101 at Blackheath, a few strokes better than usual, due largely to its modest length – just over 6,100 yards. There are only two par-5’s, so scoring well here is an absolute possibility for skilled players. There are a few creeks and one pond, but lots of sand – and do try to stay away from all those hardy English trees.

  

COURSE MARSHALS

I was bothered not an iota by the marshalls at Blackheath. It’s no exaggeration to say that everyone there went out of their way not to make sure I hurried but to make sure I had myself a lovely time. Which I did.
  

PRO SHOP AND AMENITIES

The pro shop at Blackheath is small by North American standards, and inviting for the same reason. Today’s pro shops are often disproporionately large; they feel like department stores. Blackheath’s pro shop is what a pro shop should be: a small, friendly place to pay your green’s fees, pick up some balls and tees if you need to, or perhaps a glove and shirt as well, and then be on your merry way.

  

Piper’s Heath is a relative youngster among Greater Toronto golf courses, but its charm is decidedly old-school. Renowned architect Graham Cooke designed the course antithetically to the superficial postcard-type courses one now finds everywhere, and the results are, in a word, lovely. Dave, Rob, Andrew and I played the course on a gorgeous June morning, and it won us over from the opening hole not by artifice or pretense but via the seductive combination of simple beauty, an interesting layout, and a deferential nod to nature that plays much better than an architect’s stamp urgently announcing itself on every hole. Even the fact that my new putter cost me countless extra strokes wasn’t enough to dampen my mood.
  
A number of designers have recently tried to find ways to design links-style courses here in the North American landscape. Developed out of a big piece of flat Ontario farmland, Piper’s gets it completely right, both in look and feel. Cooke didn’t cut down the four-hundred-year-old ancient oaks that stood like sentinels on the land, he designed the course around them. These, along with numerous other elements, like the New Zealand black swans, deep pot bunkers, fescue-covered mounds, grassy hollows and undulating fairways—not to mention the, ahem, challenging breezes that greet you at every turn—help the course achieve something elusive on this side of the pond: the feeling that you’re playing not on the Canadian Shield but somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. It was no small effort; Cooke and his team moved nearly a million cubic meters of earth to create wave-like mounds throughout the course that help conjure the feeling of St. Andrews and its ilk. I find myself often comparing the allure of a golf course to the allure of women. To me, courses whose main features are their picturesque fountains, gleaming clubhouses and lightning-fast greens can make powerful momentary impressions, not unlike a woman made up to the nines, but give me an interesting course whose surprising charms I discover along the way, and I’m hooked.

From right to left, me, Dave, Rob and Andrew, ready to tear up the course—literally.  The ball retriever Rob is holding will prove the most important tool of the day.

Dave assessing a challenging sand lie at the fourth.

Dave taking a practice swing and trying to convince himself he has an angle to the hole.

Dave measuring how close his ball is to the lip.

I don’t remember exactly what Andrew was saying here, but I believe it translated to “Doesn’t matter what you try, it’s hopeless.”

Dave finally hitting out. Andrew was right; it was hopeless.

Dave hitting out of another trap two holes later. If he doesn’t see sand again in his lifetime, he’ll be thrilled.

Andrew lining up his second shot at the sixth out of high grass…

 

…and hitting tentatively out. This was a good shot; it got him back to within three miles of the proper fairway.

Dave looking for his ball among the fescue on eight.

 

Me looking for my ball among the fescue on nine. Did I mention I hate fescue? 

Cart girl extraordinaire Brittany. No, really, she’s one of the special ones.

Rob felt it would be amusing to take this picture. I’m trying to remember why I’m friends with these guys.

 

The divot that resulted from my attempted 5-iron at the eleventh. The ball went about as far as I could throw an anvil.

 

Dave and Rob, amused with themselves after loosening the straps on my bag and making it fall off the cart for the umpteenth time in the round. Like I said, I’m still trying to figure out why I’m friends with these guys.

 

Rob showing off the swing that would make any lumberjack proud.

 

Me teeing off at thirteen. There is no possible way to describe just how severely I sliced this ball.

 

Dave teeing off at fourteen. Even his shadow has nicer form than mine. I despise him.

 

The pot bunker in the middle of the sixteenth fairway. Yes, my ball found it.

STARTING AND FINISHING HOLES
The first at Piper’s Heath, a 407-yard par 4 from the blues, lets you know immediately you’re in for both a treat and a challenge. Get past the large lake running nearly half the distance of the hole up the right side and you still might find the lurking fairway bunkers. It’s no accident that three out of the four of us carded 8’s. The second hole, deceptive and snake-like, conveys something equally meaningful: you aren’t often going to encounter consecutive holes that feel the same.

The finishing run is pleasurable and keeps you working for your score until the last putt is sunk. Sixteen is a reachable par-3 and rated the easiest hole on the course, but get lazy or overconfident and you’re going to be punished. It must be said that my foursome is made up of putrid golfers in general, but still. The 17th is a short but tricky par-4 in the same vein as 16. Consider your shots a little longer than you think you need to. Eighteen, a slender monster at over 500 yards, brings you back home the same way you left—soaking in a course that has a little touch of magic.

OVERALL AESTHETICS
Piper’s Heath is a true aesthetic treat, but akin to the way an accomplished still life stirs you, as opposed to the more shallower and more fleeting satisfaction of a paint-by-numbers done well.  The course’s various features mix gracefully and harmoniously, hearkening to the elements that make links courses so seductive: fairways that rise and fall, hollows ringing the greens, bunkers hiding in unsuspecting corners, wide corridors, plateaued greens, and plenty of grasses happy to eat your ball when you aren’t looking—or, sometimes, even when you are.

REAR VIEWS
The course’s rear views offer the best testimony to its diverse design. Back-facing scenes change on almost every hole.

TRACK
This is a highly walkable, subtly dramatic, distinctly crafted course. Some courses feel jumpy or jarring, with moments of consistent rhythm interrupted by those when you feel you’ve lost the thread. The best-designed courses, like the best-written books, catch you up in their flow from the first instance and keep you there until it’s over. Piper’s Heath is a shining example of the latter. There’s a decent chance even my dad wouldn’t find anything to complain about here.

“NICE HOLE” FACTOR
While the impression of Piper’s Heath is more an overall one than that cast by individual holes, there are plenty of memorable moments, in particular the three-hole stretch in the middle of the back nine: the par-3 thirteenth that demands you carry a valley (I didn’t), the par-4 fourteenth requiring you to avoid a wide bunker off an elevated tee and then execute a perfect long iron to reach the plateaued green (nope), and the Goliath fifteenth, a 585-yard dogleg featuring the kind of wetlands that prompt a critical decision should your ball land in them: accept the penalty stroke or drench my new FootJoys.

DEGREE OF DIFFICULTY
The type of golf course I most admire is the type that challenges but doesn’t demoralize. Piper’s Heath achieves this delicate balance and caters to games of varying levels, with tee blocks ranging from 5,000 to 7,000 yards. It also pleasantly avoids the driver-followed-by-mid-iron repetitiveness of many modern courses, in which most par 4’s feel interchangeable. At Piper’s you’re going to need to employ your fairway woods (if you can hit them), your pitch-and-run (if you can perform one), your course management (if that means anything to you), and your green-reading skills (if they exist).

The most prevalent factor, and the one that will play the biggest role in your club selection, is the wind. Don’t try to plan your round for a calm day, because a calm day wherever you’re coming from probably isn’t a calm day at Piper’s. The wind was present from the moment we teed off at the first—one of the chief reasons I started the round 8-7-8, which tends not to set things up for an impressive score. Not that my score didn’t make an impression. Just, you know, the wrong kind of impression. Course designer Cooke estimates that the wind can alter shots by as much as seven clubs on certain holes. I said he’s a talented designer, not a kind one.

COURSE MARSHALS
The entire staff at Piper’s Heath, from the girls at the front desk to the men roaming the course in their carts, have the right conception of customer service. They’re there to help you have an enjoyable day, contrasting pleasantly with other courses whose marshals see themselves as Louis Gossett Jr.’s character in An Officer and a Gentleman.

PRO SHOP AND AMENITIES
Piper’s Heath is a first-class facility. There’s a 20-acre double-ended practice academy with a two-tiered tee deck, a smaller teeing area for lessons and larger clinics with a series of target greens and traps, a chipping green, a practice bunker, and a putting area the size of Australia. An attractive clubhouse, service with a smile, clean-as-a-whistle bathrooms. A day at Piper’s is a great day.

BANG FOR YOUR BUCK
The Gruehl family, long-time landowners and residential developers in Milton since its urban expansion, made it their mission to provide quality golf at an affordable price when they opened Piper’s Heath. At $89 per round, they’ve done a lot to achieve this end. If you want to get a taste of links-style golf without putting too big a dent in the wallet, Piper’s is your best bet in or around Toronto. By contrast, Eagles Nest, approximately the same quality and in the same general vicinity, will run you $185. Enough said.

It’s been a few months since I’ve swung a golf club (outside my living room), and it will be a few weeks before I’m in Florida seeking out some new courses while at the same time trying not to be devoured by gators.

Normally this hiatus would have me in the kind of funk experienced by all northern-latitude golfers between November and April. But the usual symptoms aren’t affecting me this year, for three reasons:

1) Winter in Toronto this year has been just the kind of winter one hopes for: great heaps of snow since early December with temperatures just south of zero degrees – in other words, cold enough to make you remember why a perfect winter day is better than any other day in any other season, but not so cold that you can’t take the kids tobogganing for fear that they’ll come back with their features permanently set.

2) The NHL season has been nothing short of outstanding thus far, making it much easier to endure the golf interruption. I can’t understand why Americans have never taken to hockey. It demands unquestionably the most complex skill set of any professional team sport, harnessed at higher speeds (unless you count downhill skiing a professional team sport – which you shouldn’t). It is the only sport that combines the balletic grace of basketball with the elemental, and undeniably gripping, violence of football. The athleticism, passion and resilience of its players rival that of any other sport’s competitors. (Don’t believe me? Play a 48-minute basketball game, a 60-minute football game and a 60-minute hockey game, and then tell me which leaves you more wrecked.) The best hockey plays are just as jaw-dropping as the best highlight-reel dunk or Hail Mary pass. (Here’s evidence: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQOmJ09Pg58.) Like I said, I just don’t get it. NASCAR has zillions of devotees, but hockey can’t buy a viewer? It’s beyond me.

3) My new golf bag. I’ve been using the same bag for…ever, and last season, during a dawn photo shoot I was doing for Golf Canada in which I somehow agreed to wade waist-deep into a water hazard, the old nylon Wilson got quite muddied, turning its pervious faded-ivory to a tone best described as Gray Extra Dull.

I took that as the sign that I deserved a new golf bag, or at least that I should tip off my wife that it would make a great birthday present. (I’m pretty sure I also deserve new clubs, but I can’t come up with a reason why.) The big day came, the ice cream cake was brought out (that’s one point for the wife), the sports channel was put on (that’s two), and then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted it: something wrapped in the unmistakable form of a golf bag, or maybe a Chinese contortionist pretending to be one. My sons helped me tear off the paper, and though I believe they were disappointed a four-foot-high transformer wasn’t revealed, my eyes lit up at the Datrek Iron Cart Bag before me.

This is a tremendous golf bag, one sure to transform my game. On the label is an animated picture of a musclebound, striated golfer having completed a beautiful follow-through. He looks nothing like me, but that shouldn’t matter. Just check out these features:

• Integrated Putter Sleeve
• 14 Individual Divider System
• New Ball Drop Design
• Insulated Cooler Pocket

I know, it shouldn’t even be legal. And I’m not finished. It’s got all this, too:

• New Dual Slope 14-Way IDS Top Design
• Individual Full Length Dividers
• 11 Convenient Pockets
• Vibrant Tone-on-Tone Colorways
• Integrated Cart Strap Pass Thru

You can’t compete with a bag like this. I’m looking forward to the expressions on my playing partners’ faces when I break it out for that first round of the season a few months from now. Will the gawk-worthy moment happen in the parking lot, me slowly lifting the bag out of the trunk, their faces blanching with envy? Will it happen in the clubhouse, them having arrived first, me casually entering, the bag slung jauntily over my shoulder? On the practice range, me the early arrival, them noticing the bag after a few minutes but unable to say anything, me grinning in smug satisfaction? I’m busting.

There is, of course, the matter of my game, which remains, in a word, superbad. But I just can’t see myself playing poorly with a bag like this. Now, I know what you’re thinking: IJ, the quality of your golf bag has nothing to do with how you play. And I’ll be honest: I just don’t even know how to answer that.

Sometimes the best way to enjoy Las Vegas is to get away from Las Vegas — Vegas proper, at least. Listen, I’m no snob; I appreciate that The Strip is required pilgrimage for certain types of people, including those who:

• maintain an inexplicable affection for Wayne Newton
• have seen a dozen Cirque de Soleil shows and are still happy to see another
• want to see if Roy will get mauled by one of the Siberian tigers again
• can’t get enough of second-hand smoke, stale air or casinos whose exits and bathrooms are equally impossible to locate
• enjoy sitting on the same stool for eight consecutive hours while feeding coins from the same plastic bucket into the same slot machine in order to come out seventy-five cents ahead at the end of the night.

Still, it’s too bad more visitors to Sin City don’t broaden their sights, because just a stone’s throw away from the flashing lights and endlessly whirring machines there are some remarkable sights to take in. Today, for instance, I’m standing at the first tee of Reflection Bay Golf Club — part of Lake Las Vegas, a self-contained, 3,600-acre resort surrounding a privately owned lake — and taking a moment before teeing off to drink in the gorgeous scenery. Reflection Bay was designed by The Golden Bear and has been named one of the “Top 100 Best Courses You Can Play” by Golf Magazine. They’d probably feel differently if they saw me play, but I’m still glad to be here.

The grass under my feet is spongy, like the perfect combination of the resiliency you get from Florida grass and the silkiness you get from Toronto grass. This sensation might be a function of my playing in sneakers today — forgot my golf shoes at home — but I don’t think so, since the sneakers lost all their elasticity about three years ago, which was about four years after I bought them.

The clubhouse at Reflection Bay. Scenic pleasures and lost balls await.

“Greens are true,” says the starter, Hal, possibly as a way of asking if I’m ever going to hit. “Not necessarily towards the water. And there is water — on nine different holes.” Hal has succeeded in confusing and terrifying me all at once.

Hal the starter, looking deceptively innocent. 

As I focus in and assess the 379-yard first hole, I see three bunkers on the left side of the fairway configured like a smiling funhouse clown. My heart rate goes up several notches. The natural splendor of the course actually benefits my game, allowing me to be just distracted enough not to overthink. By the time I get to the first green, whose emerald color looks like it was shipped from Oz, I realize I’ve taken only four shots. I manage a bogey, which is reason enough to buy myself a medal after the round. On the second, a short, tricky par-4, I reach the green in three, making me think I should pack it in for the day, since I’ve obviously peaked. I’m right — I three-putt. Still, it’s another bogey. That makes two medals.

On the par-5 fifth, a 519-yard mega-monster with half a dozen fairway bunkers, I haul off and hit possibly my longest drive ever which actually stayed in play. I’ve hit lots of 270-yard drives before, but thanks to my celebrated leftie slice, most of them go 150 yards straight and 120 yards left. This one actually lands in the fairway. I’m stunned. When my fairway wood then flies another 200 yards to just under a tree behind the bunker in front of the green, I not only want to stop for the day, I want to stop forever. I somehow chip on and two-putt for par. I darken the number on my scorecard so much my pencil nearly tears through the paper. The light breeze coming off the lake feels like God saying “You keep making pars, I’ll keep making ideal golf conditions.”

The 150-yard fourth is noted as the second easiest hole on the course. Did the people doing the ratings not notice the deep bunkers trying to squeeze the green on both sides like a giant ribcage they’re trying to crush? I land in one of them, of course — why wouldn’t I — and then, so as not to make one of them feel jealous, I sail my ball across the green into the other. “Triple-bogey” — which is what I get — and “bogey” have only one word separating them, so it’s amusing that one makes me feel jubilant and the other like committing hara-kiri with my sand wedge.

On five, another biggie at 494 yards, the breeze picks up about three percent. Unfortunately, this uptick is enough to cause my game to unravel completely. My drive ends up in the deep gulch running along the right side of the fairway.

My view of the fifth hole, including the long, deep gully running along the right edge of the fairway …

… where my drive landed.

My 4-iron back across ends up among a cluster of the ubiquitous deer grass, which looks like a bunch of shaggy-haired muppets sticking their heads just above the ground. There I have to hit out from among dozens of ants whose deep maroon color makes your standard fire ant look like Florence Nightingale. Something’s up with the mutant insects I’m seeing around here. Last night at dinner I was watched over by a midnight-blue bumblebee that resembled Evander Holyfield. Maybe over in Area 51 they genetically engineer military-strength insects and release the rejects into town.

Not a bunch of muppets trying to break the surface but the ever-present, ball-hungry deer grass. 

After a wimpy punch-out, an imprecise approach and two chips that would make most instructors throw their hands up, I finally reach the green, where I three-putt for a merciful nine. I’m not sure there’s a golfer anywhere as skilled as I am at turning a decent round into a poor one in the space of a single hole.

Like a blackjack dealer giving me 21 to keep me in the game, I glance at the scorecard to see that six is ranked the easiest hole at Reflection Bay. I understand why when I arrive at the tee blocks and the breeze that’s been in my face or across me for the first five holes is suddenly, satisfyingly at my back. I kill my drive and then hit a perfect-weight 7-iron that unfortunately finds the greenside bunker. Perfect weight unfortunately counts for little when you have no accuracy. From there, as though running a clinic on how to spite oneself on the golf course, I skull my ball across the green and into the gully on the other side. The thorn in my side, the number 7, has reared its ugly head again.

The result of my drive on seven. That Titleist stuck in the clay wall? Mine. Still having some consistency issues off the tee.

As the breeze graduates into wind, I start giving away golf balls like they’re Christmas candies. My slice adds 20 yards to itself. My fairway woods desert me. The water’s magnetic pull somehow quadruples. I close out the front 9-7-7-5-7. In case you’re not a student of golf, that’s bad.

I pull myself together enough to start the back nine the same way I did the front, with two bogeys, so my previous murderous rage has now settled into a slightly more manageable simmering anger.

 
The tee shot at ten, over a big tongue of Lake Las Vegas, and, today, directly into a ticked-off wind. I’m so guaranteed to put this in the drink it isn’t even funny.

By the time I get to fourteen, I’m still playing bogey golf on the back nine. Though the hole is listed as the course’s second hardest, it appears, at first blush, pretty tame. Quickly I find out how it earns its rating: a deceptive narrowing toward the green that one only notices, in this case, when his second shot gets caught up in the chute and bounces directly into a fairway bunker. Always nice to be retroactively informed. I slash-and-burn my way to the green in four, two-putt for six, and get the hell out of there while still precariously balanced on the psychological tipping point for most recreational golfers: No matter how many sixes you card, they somehow remain tolerable. Whereas one seven makes you want to douse yourself in battery acid.

I struggle admirably through the next few holes like a boxer trying to stay on his feet after a steady thrashing. The bright spot in this slog occurs when, on fifteen, a very small, very trim Japanese fellow asks me in broken English if I’d like to play through. I tell him I’m enjoying the sunshine and in no rush. As we chat, I learn that he is, in fact, Tokyo-born Hide Haginomori, a member of the Canadian Tour. I know he’s telling the truth because he’s able to talk about having played in such places as Calgary. Most Tokyo natives wouldn’t know Calgary from the underside of a blowfish. Hide and his family are here on vacation. His brother and parents are all as small, trim and polite as he is. After five minutes I want to adopt them all just because they can’t seem to stop smiling.

 
Me and Canadian Tour player Hide Haginomori. I’m the one about to duff his next shot.

The tee shot at sixteen. Um, yeah, you do have to hit over that arroyo to reach the fairway. Arroyo pronounced “Uh-oh.”

I pause for a moment at the dazzling seventeenth to admire the scenery, and also because I’m not looking forward to hitting. Seventeen isn’t tough just because of the island green, the wicked cross-breeze or the huge bunker to the left of the green, but because, should your ball find the drink, there’s no clemency — the drop area is twenty feet to the right of the tee. As it turns out, I don’t exactly hit the green, but I don’t hit the water either. My ball lands in the sandy waste area beyond the trap to the left of the green. I chip on to 12 feet and, remarkably, sink the putt.

The partial island green at seventeen. Water back and right. Bunker left. Big swale in front. Pools of sweat on my forehead.

I par the par-5, 502-yard eighteenth, too, making it three pars on the day. Unfortunately, my front half is marred by those three 7’s and the one particularly ugly 9. So the good news is I removed eleven strokes between the front nine and the back. The bad news is, if you’ve got room to take eleven strokes off between the front and back and your best nine is still only 47, you aren’t a very good golfer. Nonetheless, I’m happy. My 105 is in line with my usual performance, it’s been a splendid day of golf, and I made a new friend from Tokyo (I think). It was a true Vegas round: Even though the house came out ahead, I had enough small victories to stay plenty addicted.

STARTING AND FINISHING HOLES
Reflection Bay is like a Vegas showgirl — so inviting-looking you hardly care about anything else. The course’s opening and closing holes both make beautiful pictographic statements that reflect the overall experience. The moment you start, you’ll know you’ve made a great choice, and the moment you finish, you’ll want to play the course again.

OVERALL AESTHETICS
Reflection Bay offers a truly eclectic sensory experience, from the glittering lake to the dusty arroyos, the beautifully manicured greens to the variety of flora referred to as “enhanced desert” — including native Creosote and Burr Sage, Encelia Farinosa, Acacia Redolens, Vitex, Mexican Bird of Paradise, and Mesquite trees.

REAR VIEWS
Well-designed courses always reveal themselves best not only through the views from tee to green but also from green to tee. Reflection Bay scores brilliantly on this measure, with a number of rear views that had me awarding a private thumbs-up.

TRACK
The pleasure of Nicklaus’ design starts well before the first hole. Your cart drive from the clubhouse follows a cascading stream with waterfalls to the first tee, where the stream opens into the four-acre private lake. Then, in true Vegas style, a pleasant trick is performed, with each nine following the same pattern: early holes ascending along natural canyons and then sloping back down with dramatic downhill views before reaching a crescendo along Lake Las Vegas’ 10-mile shoreline. Though Jack designed the course, he made optimal use of his silent partner, Mother Nature. “NICE HOLE” FACTOR
Each hole at Reflection Bay presents something distinct, and numerous memorable features are sprinkled throughout the course, like the bridge made of large sun-baked stones one uses to walk to the green at the fifth. In particular, the two par 3’s that border the lake, 8 and 17, are breathtaking pieces of golf architecture.

DEGREE OF DIFFICULTY
From the whites, I shot 105, which is just about what I usually shoot. Reflection Bay is a challenging, fair golf course — it victimized me in plenty of ways but didn’t feel gimmicky or over-designed. You’ll need your whole bag here — and, in my case, about a dozen extra balls.

COURSE MARSHALS
The stewards at Reflection Bay couldn’t have been a more amiable group. Three times marshals addressed me during my round — twice to ask how my day was going, once to offer help looking for my ball. That’s what you call no-pressure marshaling, which I only wish every course would implement.

PRO SHOP AND AMENITIES
There isn’t anywhere in the world that does customer service quite like Vegas. Reflection Bay is more than a golf course. It’s also home to the renowned Golf Institute at Lake Las Vegas, a 32,000-square-foot clubhouse and beach area, including MiraLago, the waterside restaurant, a fully stocked golf shop, a bar and lounge, an outdoor snack bar and nicely appointed locker rooms. In other words, you’ll be taken care of. In case you aren’t convinced, over the eighteen holes I played I saw about two dozen workers attending to various parts of the course. And the carts were the most nicely upholstered I’ve ever seen, with a fabric strip down the middle of both seats. Nice touch.

BANG FOR YOUR BUCK
A single round at Reflection Bay will run you anywhere from $150 to $250 depending on the day and time. If you’re staying at the resort, however, golf can be baked into the overall package. Either way, this baby’s worth it.

“Concept” movies often leave me underwhelmed. Concept books, too. But a concept golf course? Now, that’s intriguing—especially if the concept is a dozen separate famous golf holes sprinkled throughout one course. Wooden Sticks, located just north of Toronto in the township of Uxbridge, and designed by architect Ron Garl, opened at the turn of the new millennium and immediately drew golfers of every stripe who were curious to see a) just how well the famous holes were replicated, b) how many of the holes they’d recognize, and c) how many shots it would take them to stick on the island green imitating that of the 17th at TPC Sawgrass.

Today I’m playing Wooden Sticks for the first time with my friend Laurence and his colleague, Jeff, who works for one of Canada’s Big Five banks, which shall remain anonymous. (Hint: the initials are CIBC.) Laurence is a Vice President at Salomon Canada and a professional schmoozer. He could talk a pelt off a beaver. That’s why I accept whenever he asks me to do anything, because I know I’m going to say yes eventually. Greeting Laurence in the parking lot, I feel the wave of warmth you feel whenever you see one of your pick-up-where-you-left-off friends. We haven’t seen each other in a few years because he’s been working in Munich, but once back in each other’s company we don’t skip a beat.

 

Me and Laurence, moments before he hit me in the groin with the head of his driver.

 It’s a pleasant early July afternoon. Our tee time is 5:00 pm, but that isn’t cause for worry. With sunset called for 9:02 (by Mother Nature), we’re confident we’ll get the round in despite the fact that the guidebook tells us it will take four hours and forty minutes. Golf is about blind confidence if nothing else, so off we go. The round will be followed by an abundant steak dinner. At Wooden Sticks the value proposition is the packaged experience, not just the golf. But let’s not kid ourselves: It’s about the golf. You can get a steak anywhere, but not a famous hole. “During your round,” the website informs me, “you will envision yourself playing off a road in Scotland, across a famous creek in Georgia, onto an island in Florida, and through pine forests in New Jersey.” While playing off roads or through forests is not new to me, doing so in Scotland and New Jersey in the same round would be, so my anticipation is high.

The guidebook also tells me that any player who scores a natural eagle on any hole automatically earns enshrinement into the Wooden Sticks Eagle Club, gets their name engraved on a special tee block, and gets invited to a season-sending tournament just for Eagle Club members. I’d better check my schedule to see what other season-ending elite-performance events I’ve been invited to before I decide whether to card any eagles.

The first hole, modeled after Oakmont’s church pew bunker, is stunning. The eponymous bunker is prominent in one’s view from the tee. The track sweeps directly down into a valley before swinging back up to the left, skirting the little grass-and-sand chapel. Before teeing off, I imagine the grass pews filled with people praying for me to hit a solid tee shot. This somehow fails to work. After my drive, Laurence correctly notes that I swing off my back foot while letting my front side fly open. “It’s funny,” he says. “In baseball you can do that, but not really in golf.” I thank him for the observation and tell him to shut his trap for the rest of the day if he wishes to stay friends. Not to mention that it’s bad to do that in baseball, too, except sometimes you get lucky and accidentally hit an opposite-field flare that drops in. In golf, opposite-field flares are not cause for celebration. I salvage a 6 on the hole, which isn’t bad when you consider that I’m a terrible golfer.

Laurence teeing off at #1, the church pew hole from Oakmont. The pews are visible are on the right. I’m offscreen praying for a decent tee shot.

The second hole, a non-replica, is nasty nonetheless, a short par-4 whose green is guarded by eight bunkers. I manage to navigate my way around them like an Arctic explorer trying to avoid massive ice floes and come away with a 5. Based on the trend of my first two holes, I expect to card an ace at the sixth.

A view of the fairway and green on #2. A million dollars to anyone who doesn’t end up in a bunker.

The par-3 third is Augusta’s 12th, a narrow green sitting 155 yards away with a big lake angling in front of it. In the guidebook the hole actually resembles a happy face, with two squarish bunkers the eyes above the green and a U-shaped bunker the smile below it. I’m not falling for it. The 12th at Augusta is part of Amen Corner—which only makes sense, since two holes earlier I was summoning prayer.

“This is a funny kind of par 3,” Laurence says. Funny, yes. Into the cross-breeze I thunk a five-iron that rolls toward the edge of the lake and then disappears—one of those agonizing shots where you hope desperately that it stopped on the downslope, which happens about a quarter-percent of the time. Laurence drills an iron that hits the far bank of the lake and bounces back into the water. Jeff, with a deliberate swing that reminds me of a toy soldier hitting a golf ball, sends his high and left and gets a lucky kick onto the green. Arriving at the edge of the lake, I naturally find that my ball has vanished. Taking a drop 15 feet from the far bank, I pull out my sand wedge and smack it right into what would be the lake’s breastbone if it were a person. Now lying 4, I find it in me to work a regular wedge to the green. Two putts give me a 7. So much for the imminent ace.

I bogey the par-5 4th—the 13th at Augusta, completing the religious portion of the round—by narrowly avoiding the creek that skirts the length of the hole before snaking in front of and around the green.

 

Laurence teeing off at the par-5 fourth and displaying compact form that will annoy me all day long.

 

Me teeing off right after Laurence. Everyone knows the power in a golf swing comes from the back foot.

The fifth, a short but narrow par-4, is a hard dogleg left, and therefore tailor-made to my slice. Before I get into address Laurence says something about envisioning the ball boring through the air. I tell him to envision a knuckle sandwich boring through his teeth, then I hammer my Nike One around the corner, leaving me 80 yards to the green. It’s at this point I want to go home, since I know I have no chance of hitting a better shot for the rest of the round. As though to reinforce the thought, I get to my ball to find I have a downhill-sidehill lie, which would make even seasoned pros quake a little in their FootJoys. With a 9-iron I swing hard and down, trying to remember to aim right of the flag, keep my wrists firm and make a complete motion. Amazingly the ball ends up just off the green to the right. I chip on and two-putt for 5, which is acceptable if somewhat aggravating.

Laurence hitting out of the sand. This shot sailed the green by about 30 feet.

Co-endorsing Arnold Palmer’s lemonade.

Lining up an approach shot at the fifth. I’d like to say my feet are aligned well right of the green to account for the wind, but unfortunately there was none.

 

Watching the shot fly well right of the green. Inexplicable.

After our drives on the sixth, a long, non-replica par-4, Laurence mentions that, between the two out-of-bounds fescue-laden areas one can usually spot a small basketball court. Jeff suggests each golfer should get to try a three-point shot and, if he makes it, be rewarded with a stroke or two removed. I find this an extremely cool idea and get to wondering why more sports aren’t done in combination format. Threes as part of golf, slap shots in the middle of basketball games, field-goal attempts during seventh-inning stretches. This seems so obvious it’s scary. I card 5 by draining an accidental nine-footer, amazingly recording two bogeys in a row.

The approach on seven: hitting over a massive bunker to a green protected by a large ravine and several other, smaller traps. Could someone remind me why I play this sport?

After a double-bogey six on the seventh I hit an angry 4-iron about half the distance to the green of the 179-yard eighth. The hole is downhill and downwind, so it’s perfectly expected that I’d hit a wimptastic shot. Laurence catches a beautiful 5-iron that sails the green, hits a branch and kicks straight back 15 feet left of the pin. I tell him and Jeff I’m going to hole my next shot to earn entry into the Eagle Club. Laurence informs me the rule counts only for non-par-3s. Every one of my plans is being squashed today. The shot lands in a bunker short of the green. I chip on and two-putt for 5. One of these days God and I are going to have a serious heart-to-heart about why he hates me.

After closing out the front with a 7—finishing strong on each half is just one of my signature golf traits—we proceed to the tenth, one of the simplest yet most charming golf holes I’ve ever played. Inspired by the first hole at St. Andrews, ten shares its fairway with eighteen. The combined fairways form a giant expanse of immaculately trimmed meadow. Golf course design usually concerns itself with memorable object-images like fountains or bridges. This is refreshingly natural.

Laurence comments that if you don’t hit the fairway on this shot, you shouldn’t play golf. He’s right, since the fused fairways offer about 260 yards of unhampered green in which to land one’s ball. A small creek fronts the green, but that’s an issue for a few shots from now. I slice my drive and come within 30 yards of missing the fairway. Laurence, on his second shot from about 70 yards after a bullet drive, sends a divot that looks like a landing strip ten yards forward and the ball twenty. I catch my 3-wood on the sweet spot and get on in two, leaving me a 90-foot putt through some abandoned ant hills and over a swale. I go a little long on that putt and then miss the one on the way back for 5.

Surprisingly, I felt I had a good chance at sinking the putt. I’ve talked in previous posts about the fact that in each round, one of your clubs is going to be effective, but you never know which one, and sometimes it takes six holes to find out, by which point you’ve usually given away several strokes using other clubs in the bag. By contrast, at least two of your clubs are going to be hopelessly bad on a given day, but again, you never know which ones. It’s golf’s version of Russian roulette. Today, for some reason, my putter is the good club. Though my score isn’t anything to celebrate (it never is), I’ve made three different putts of 10 feet or longer over the first nine holes. You’d never know it, since my scorecards aren’t the type to suggest that strokes were actually saved anywhere, but the fact is my putter has turned two potential sixes into fives and one potential seven into a six. Like I said, nothing to celebrate, but mildly interesting.

Eleven is the famous Postage Stamp 8th at Royal Troon with the seemingly bottomless pot bunker in front. The guidebook tells me the prevailing winds on this hole are always right to left. I naturally overcompensate and go way right, ending up beyond the cart path. But on the way to the green we see a wild turkey family, which provides a nice temporary distraction from my inability to make a golf ball go anywhere near where it’s supposed to. Jeff carves out a bogey; Laurence and I card doubles.

The wild turkey family we encounter on eleven. The one in the middle told me to keep my front arm straighter.

The twelfth, inspired by Pine Valley, is the kind of hole that would be physically easy to play if one didn’t possess a brain to screw things up. Your standard 400-yard par-4, it would seem straightforward enough were it not for the massive bunker between the tee and the first cut of fairway. The more I look at it, the more this bunker looks the size of Texas, or at least Delaware. To carry it you need to hit the ball about 180 yards. Not that the difficulty ends there, according to the guidebook: “Use an extra club on your second shot as it’s all carry to the green. The bunkers in front are very tough to get out of.” My drive barely escapes the fairway bunker, but then I sizzle a 5-wood along the ground as though bowling on an inclined plane. I was in perfect position and messed it up. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it before, but I just adore doing that. After a nice high sand wedge that stops short of the green and settles on the rough ridge, I let my wrists go on a classic flub-chip and then two-putt for six. It could easily have been a par. I stink. Laurence makes par. “Attaboy,” I tell him while thinking about how to poison his drink later.

Though the rest of my round features two sevens and three sixes, my par at the seventeenth—TPC Sawgrass’ famed island green—makes it all worthwhile and somehow gives me bragging rights in the clubhouse despite finishing five strokes behind Jeff and sixteen behind Laurence. My 102 includes, as usual, an abundant variety of poor shots and a handful of decent ones, encapsulated by my performance on thirteen, which started with a drive off a tree and ended with my sinking a long putt well past the point of it making a difference. Still, that putt, along with the par at seventeen and the other few respectable shots, make me want to play another eighteen as soon as possible. That’s golf.

Seventeen, featuring TPC’s celebrated island green.

Jeff taking aim and firing away. If you listen closely, you can hear the splash.

Laurence giving the ball a severe lecture. It responds by going for a swim.

Testing soil levels in order to place my ball strategically. Somehow this results in a par.

STARTING AND FINISHING HOLES
The church pew hole snaps you instantly to attention. Not only is the hole physically beautiful and perfectly maintained, it also makes a charming statement about the experience to come. The latter half-dozen holes, featuring, among others, Hogan’s Alley at Carnoustie and The Road Hole from St. Andrews, are a treat for the senses. The eighteenth in particular—St. Andrews’ eighteenth, highlighted by the “valley of sin”—is worth absorbing for a couple of minutes before you tee off.

OVERALL AESTHETICS
No stone has been left unturned in making the Wooden Sticks experience a pleasurable one. My playing partners could have been better looking, but that isn’t the course’s fault.

REAR VIEWS
Back-facing sightlines throughout the course are as impressive as front-facing ones. That’s the sign of a coherently designed and marvelously executed course.

TRACK
Owing to its original concept, Wooden Sticks serves up a track that contains surprises at almost every turn. Even the more typical holes aren’t that typical. Holes are logically connected and well signed, allowing a player like me to focus not on getting around the course but instead on the much more important task of losing as many balls as possible.

“NICE HOLE” FACTOR
Wooden Sticks starts its Nice Hole tally right at the first and maintains a healthy rate throughout. Though most players will look forward to reaching seventeen, they shouldn’t let this anticipation blind them to the elegant challenge of several other holes, including 4, 6, 9, 11and 13.

DEGREE OF DIFFICULTY
I usually score in the area of 105. My 102 is therefore an accurate indication of the subtle trick played by Wooden Sticks: It allows you the experience of playing professionally inspired holes without making you feel inferior. The course’s highly intelligent design places you in the pros’ shoes while still letting you feel you’re a golfer of moderate skill. Then again, we played from the whites.

COURSE MARSHALS
Wooden Sticks has a friendly hands-off policy: Marshals intervene only when necessary. Our round was enjoyably unrushed.

PRO SHOP AND AMENITIES
Wooden Sticks’ operation is predicated on a positive overall experience. Your round includes snacks and drinks on the cart, a driving range plus putting and chipping greens, and two meals, one before the round and one after. Amenities are plentiful—including six on-site luxury cabins for those interested in “Stay & Play” packages.

BANG FOR YOUR BUCK
Green fees at Wooden Sticks run between $160 and $220 on weekdays and between $140 and $175 on weekends and holidays. For everything this cost includes, it’s a great price. However, if your desire is just to play an interesting round of golf and go home, it may seem steep.