Caledon Woods, Bolton, ON
Today I’d like to review Caledon Woods Golf Club, located not surprisingly in the vicinity of Caledon, which, a sign informs me as I approach, is “the greenest town in Ontario.” Indeed, driving along Highway 50 past the town of Bolton on the way to the course, I see foliage everywhere, a refreshing change from the pale yellow front lawn that greets me every morning as a reminder of just how horticulturally useless I am.
It’s a lovely summer day, and the sun’s rays are just starting to lay a beautiful warm sheet over our little section of Earth. Seeing 23 degrees Celsius predicted by The Weather Channel this morning, and with an 8:33 a.m. tee time, I engaged in the shorts-vs.-khakis debate with myself in the shower before deciding, in the end, on khakis. They make me feel more professional as a golfer, even if my swing dispels that illusion by the end of the first hole.
I arrive to find Dave waiting in the parking lot, also in khakis – a surprise, since he tends not to even entertain the debate unless the temperature is in single digits.
Dave is a superb athlete and all-around good guy with whom I have for years maintained a friendly competitiveness underlied by deep respect. In other words, we rib each other relentlessly on the golf course while feigning mutual encouragement. One of my regular golf compadres since I first started playing, Dave possesses plenty of latent potential and a frequently decent-looking swing, but, like most recreational players, he gives away shots like Halloween candies. Dave also maintains the hilarious habit of performing exactly five clubhead waggles before every shot, besides putts.
Our other playing partner, Dan Kuzmarov, or Kuz (rhymes with “blues,” as opposed to “fuzz”), calls me in a subdued panic to say he has somehow missed the ramp for Highway 427 and is now backtracking, putting him in serious jeopardy of missing our tee time. I don’t bother reminding him he advised Dave and me yesterday to build in extra time given construction on the 401. For one thing, the joke is too easy. Also, he sounds like he’s considering speeding down the shoulder while making ambulance sounds. I assure him that Sandra and Kendall at the pro shop desk have told us there are no tee times for a full half-hour after ours. Kuz relaxes a bit at this news, but in my mind I can still see him flooring it.
Sandra and Kendall make the Caledon Woods experience pleasurable no matter how embarrassing your score.
Kuz somehow pulls into the course 18 minutes later, putting his average driving speed since his call to me, Dave and I figure, at approximately 150 kilometers an hour. His bright plaid shorts are positively foppish compared to the classic inmate look Dave and I sport from the waist down.
A formidable threesome. You can tell this is the pre-round photo because we’re all still smiling.
Caledon Woods, formerly the 27-hole Bolton Golf Club, opened in 2003 after a complete overhaul by designer Paul Takahashi. Takahashi apparently used as his model older courses known for moderate length but strategic thinking. The first part bodes well for me; the second, not so much. “You have to read every hole from tee to green,” says the website. That’s too bad – I prefer courses that allow me just to whale away illiterately.
Leading things off at the 414-yard par-4 first, I opt for a 4-iron off the tee. We haven’t hit a pail or even performed any of those fake partial stretches so many recreational golfers do, so I’d rather just establish a nice, sound swing over the first couple of holes before breaking out the heavy lumber.
Letting my arms slacken, I muff the swing, trickling my ball just past the ladies’ tees. Kuz insists on my taking a mulligan, so I take a 3-iron instead . . . and put it in approximately the same spot. Dave, after five waggles, takes a swing that I swear is similar to mine (unless you count the fact that he takes a full backswing, whereas my clubs are for some reason scared of the world beyond shoulder-level) and hits a decent, fading drive that finds the left rough.
Kuz is an enjoyable playing partner partly because he plays well, partly because he’s a sweet guy, and partly because he’s a willing and constant student of the game, but mostly for his amusing pre-shot routine and swing, in which he picks out a target from a few feet behind the ball, gets into address, makes sure his feet are shoulder-width apart, holds the club above his head as though trying to channel the golfing gods, slowly lowers his club into place, even more slowly takes it back while monitoring the swing arc the entire way, then torques forward as though someone has fired a pistol. The thing is, he almost always hits the ball straight. I’d like to be able to hate him for this.
He scalds one down the middle of the fairway. “Way to smoke it, Kuz,” I say. Internally this translates to, “I am going to crush you and everything you love.”
After a semi-decent 3-wood, two half-okay irons, a mostly-poor pitch and two not-horrendous putts, I come away with 7 on the hole, pulling my mood slightly downward, though not terribly. There is somehow an enormous difference between 7s and 8s on a scorecard. Given typical first-hole jitters, 7 on an opening par-4 is acceptable, whereas an 8 makes me want to take a buzzsaw to the course. Dave and Kuz manage sixes, meaning I still count them as friends.
Kuz, trying to summon divine intervention.
The second is a short, tricky par-4, only 320 yards but veering toward a green protected by a cluster of bunkers that seem immensely serious about snagging at least one of our balls, if not more. Unable to shake these bunkers from my mind – are they actually moving, or is it me? – I hook my 5-iron off the tee, and it ends up under the thick canopy of a large maple sure to minimize my already deficient backswing. From there I punch a 7-iron that wants to see the green but decides first to check out what’s happening in the bunkers. Dave and Kuz, after both smacking wonderful drives, skull their second shots and find the sand, too, Kuz joining me, Dave in the one behind. Because of the three other bunkers looming in front of him, Dave is forced to pitch out, back into the fairway. From there he skids his ball past the green and to the base of the forest behind it. I take three shots to escape my bunker. From the forest Dave rips his ball back over the front edge of the green, onto the fairway. Now as tentative as Adam Sandler in Happy Gilmore, he manages to find the green and two-putts his way to an 8.
Dave, showing off his home run swing – from the sand trap.
On the 6th, a gorgeous 407-yard par 4, my graceless swing – I’m using a driver now – produces a solid clout to the middle of the fairway. To make the green, I still have to carry, about 200 yards away, a ribbon of the Humber River, which curls attractively in and out of the course. I remind myself to slow down, then, with my 3-wood, turn so hard on my heels that the ball zips across the fairway into the bushes on the right.
Now I have about 160 yards to clear the ravine. Using a 5-iron, I try to come back across. Though I make it over, the thick grass causes my clubface to open, directing my ball into the woods. Penalty stroke. Taking a drop, I try a bump-and-run, but come up short on the bump. By the time I chip onto the green I’m lying 7. Amazingly, I save the 8 by sinking a 14-foot putt, a feat as rare as fishing around in your pocket and actually finding the scoring pencil instead of a tee. Dave cards an 8 on this hole, too, prompting a lengthy sequence of angry muttering that doesn’t quite fall into the category of self-motivation.
Kuz, to my aggravation – sorry, admiration – doesn’t flub many shots. He hits the occasional worm-burner but doesn’t give strokes away with the creative flair that Dave and I do. For this reason he usually shoots in the high 80s or low 90s. His accessories are better, too.
After the 9th – I’ve shot a severely unimpressive 52 that could have easily been higher – a cart appears as though by magic. While trying to be cool yet seductively witty for the cart girl, Andrea – who no doubt hears the same yawningly predictable banter from every foursome, every day, all summer – we learn of an ingenious new competition being sponsored by Score Golf: the Ultimate Cart Girl. Andrea will be the proud owner of a new flat-screen TV, she tells us, if she wins. We promise to vote for her, then, after every poor shot for the rest of the round, say to the person who swung, “Still thinking about the cart girl?”
Andrea, cart girl extraordinaire. Vote for her at scoregolf.ca/cartgirl.
Ten, a monster at 531 yards, features another band of the Humber about 400 yards out. A big drive and big fairway wood might get you over. I hit a respectable drive to the front of the deep fairway, but my only choice is to lay up. Trying to take an easy swing with my 7-iron, I hook the ball again, which scoots across the fairway and comes to rest under a large tree. Now I have 100 yards to the hazard and another 50 to clear it. Cursing four times at address and three more times on the backswing, I rip at the MaxFli Noodle with my 5-wood, just sneaking over. This doesn’t stop me from carding 8 on the hole, however, because after the successful 5-wood I take a 6-iron, inadvertently open the face, lift my head and introduce the ball to some thick undergrowth, which I then machete down into with a sand wedge, miraculously popping the ball out but still little closer to the green. I get there in 6, two-putt, and resume my cursing while strolling toward the next hole.
The author hitting out from under a tree on the par-5 tenth. That the ball has not moved may become an issue.
The 176-yard 11th is an open shot apart from a small section of foliage-covered river poking into the swale between tee and green. It’s the kind of hazard that seems almost impossible to find yet messes up your mind so thoroughly that after standing there for a few seconds you can’t imagine any scenario other than finding it. I get into address, put it completely out of my mind, and hit directly into it. At about the same time, one of the gents in the foursome behind us bellows, “How about turning up the jets!” I consider starting a rumble, since, given my state of mind, I’m pretty sure I could take them all, Tasmanian-Devil style. Then I then think better of it, knowing Andrea wouldn’t approve.
Arriving at the next hole in his cart, one of the pair of the foursome says, “It was them, not us,” gesturing toward the other cart coming up behind theirs, implying that the member of his foursome who hollered at us is slightly unbalanced – that is, just as big a jerkface as we assumed. The jerkface – in a windbreaker; of course, they always are – arrives and accuses us of cutting in at the 10th. Kuz calmly explains the illogic of this, since between 9 and 10 all we did was devour sandwiches, which took about 10 seconds. Immediately the guy turns into a teddy bear, apologizing profusely. I still feel like starting a rumble.
At 12, another giant at 540 yards, we must clear a massive section of thickly lined Humber off the tee. I give myself a four percent chance of making it. Miraculously, after both Kuz and Dave scorch their drives, easily clearing the trees, I sneak my ball over the last leaf of the last branch with a swing like an out-of-control gyroscope. Though all my shots between this one and the green are as ugly as they are ill-considered, I end up with a 6 thanks to another accidentally successful long putt of maybe 30 feet.
Dave lining up his tee shot at the par-5 twelfth, forgetting golf’s cardinal rule: It’s almost always better to swing with both hands.
The next several holes, consisting mostly of highly manageable par-4s, prove a major hindrance for me. Every duffer has at least one Bad Run per round, an unavoidable sequence in which his game completely unravels. He simply hopes it doesn’t last long, and that some semblance of a reasonable game will emerge when it’s over. On two consecutive doglegs left – tailor-made for my slice, normally – I don’t get the ball far enough out before the slice takes over, and suddenly I’m collecting penalty strokes as though they’re silver dollars. I crouch, holding the club over my head, praying lightning will find it. Remarkably I sink yet another long putt on 16, to save a 6. Dave and Kuz look up at me strangely. I know what they’re thinking – “How can he play so bad yet hit so many big putts?” – because I’m thinking it, too.
My Bad Run mercifully ends at 18, and I’m able to put one more decent number on the scorecard. I finish at 102. Dave shoots 99, Kuz 90. Despite many more poor shots than good ones, it’s been a perfect day. I’m golfing, after all.
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STARTING AND FINISHING HOLES
Attractive top to bottom, Caledon Woods starts and ends with holes as handsome as they are engaging. Eighteen, in particular, is impressive, with three bunkers evenly spaced along both sides of the fairway and corresponding ridges that produce an interesting optical effect, leading you to think you may be on opium.
OVERALL AESTHETICS
Rather than breathtaking, Caledon Woods is like a long, pleasant exhale – lovely throughout, with frequent moments of inspired beauty. It is, of course, extremely green, with attractive, diverse holes, well-cared-for greens and fairways, and attractive surrounding land. Playing this course is like watching a Tom Hanks performance: It might not blow your mind, but you’ll have a hard time finding flaws.
REAR VIEWS
Many golf reviewers judge holes strictly on how they look from the tee. I judge them equally on their rear views – looking back from green to tee. This perspective often allows a better appreciation of the hole’s design, since, while you’re playing the hole, you’re thinking less about the design than about why you can’t hit a 3-iron to save your life. The rear views at Caledon Woods are often stunning, highlighting the creative thinking that went into them.
TRACK
Though better signage is required throughout the course – there are at least two long walks between holes that aren’t clearly marked – its track keeps one’s interest throughout. Takahashi has done wonderful work with the natural contours of the land and the Humber River ribboning through it.
“NICE HOLE” FACTOR
The status of a course can be determined in part by how often it makes you stop and say, “Now that is a nice hole.” Caledon’s “Nice Hole” factor is on par (pun intended) with most Tier 1A courses: It may not be Pebble Beach, but it’s a heck of a lot nicer than your backyard.
DEGREE OF DIFFICULTY
Don’t be fooled by the three short par-4s on the front nine – they’re the kind that still require shotmaking. These, balanced with a healthy dose of longer par-4s, three very tough par-5s and at least a couple of coronary-inducing tee shots, make for a great mix of challenge and playability.
COURSE MARSHALS
Course marshals with God complexes can ruin otherwise pleasant rounds. You know the type: As soon as you fall four seconds behind pace, they’re on top of you like you’ve just become the prime suspect in a CSI episode but they don’t yet have enough evidence to book you. Caledon Woods, thankfully, has the other kind of course marshal – the kind who, even when you’re behind, is casual and gracious, never making you feel worse about your already appalling game. On two instances, marshals drove up alongside us. The first merely asked us how our day was going; the second mentioned, with a smile, that we were maybe a few minutes behind and and if we could pick it up a tick, that’d be great. As opposed to marshals who treat you with about as much respect as Louis Gossett Jr. showed Richard Gere.
PRO SHOP AND AMENITIES
With a fully stocked clubhouse and clean washrooms, the only drawback here is that the ninth hole doesn’t run to the clubhouse, so the only food available is from a cart. Andrea helps get over this, but she can’t be there all the time.
BANG FOR YOUR BUCK
At $77.50 during prime hours, Caledon is appropriately priced, offering, ironically, between 75 and 80 dollars’ worth of enjoyment – though this can be skewed depending on how many times you three-putt.
OVERALL RATING
Caledon Woods was a genuine delight. Pleasantly secluded, intelligently designed and conscientiously maintained, the course contributes admirably to the diverse palette of Ontario golf.
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Thanks for reading, everyone; it’s been a slice. Tune in a couple of weeks from now for my thoughts on the numerous parts of a golf swing and why they can never be controlled at the same time. In the meantime, feel free to get in touch by visiting www.ijschecter.com or e-mailing me at ij@ijschecter.com.