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Now give me roughly defined tee boxes, fairways that resemble my back yard, bunkers I can leap over without needing a running start, greens that are actually pretty damn nice—with holes cut in the last few weeks that can be counted on to ring that ball right around the hole and send it laughing off the other side. Give me a flowing mountain stream, a “Barbeque Bus” (see picture) surrounded by abandoned and retired golf clubs, give me quiet remoteness. Make my only distractions the guffaws of fellow golfers and grandparents instructing grandkids in the finer points of the game. I want the bare foot guy in the tank top, the pickups parked with open coolers of beer in the back, the barrel where I slide a $10 bill to pay for my round, and that quiet cart-stroll while I whack a ball along the way. Give me Moose Meadows in the Carrabassett Valley of Maine!
This former casino houses the current golf clubhouse for the Maplewood Golf Club. Among its many amenities, the clubhouse also provides lodging, a ballroom, and quiet reading rooms (reminding us of an era when a quiet escape from the carriages and ships that rattled and clanged the cacophonous soundtrack of city life was highly valued). The clubhouse also happens to provide one of the finest outdoor seating opportunities in the White Mountains. We’ll get to the Donald Ross course in a moment but let me mention here the pleasure of ordering a simple mezcal and soda with a lime, seating myself beneath a fluttering beer-branded umbrella, and viewing the first tee with the back nine in the distance. I usually have an acute aversion to eating and drinking where the sound of road traffic can ruin a good story or a well-planned punch line. But despite Maplewood’s proximity to route 302, the patio and course remain relaxing, and tranquil.
I was teeing off on one, with the historic building behind me, and an aged cart-guy who, without getting up from his reclined position in one of the Maplewood’s shiny new golf carts, suggested, “better hit it straight, it’s okay if it goes left though.” Perhaps in a moment of youthful rebellion, perhaps as a result of opening my wrists, I hit it right. A couple of the members waiting to tee off congratulated me on my member’s-bounce. My ball struck one of the many, many old growth trees along Maplewood’s eighteen holes and bounced brilliantly into the center of the fairway. I naturally threw back my shoulders and offered a modest wave to all those in the viewing section before mounting my cart and cruising in the direction of the green at a dignified pace.
I was teeing off on one, with the historic building behind me, and an aged cart-guy who, without getting up from his reclined position in one of the Maplewood’s shiny new golf carts, suggested, “better hit it straight, it’s okay if it goes left though.” Perhaps in a moment of youthful rebellion, perhaps as a result of opening my wrists, I hit it right. A couple of the members waiting to tee off congratulated me on my member’s-bounce. My ball struck one of the many, many old growth trees along Maplewood’s eighteen holes and bounced brilliantly into the center of the fairway. I naturally threw back my shoulders and offered a modest wave to all those in the viewing section before mounting my cart and cruising in the direction of the green at a dignified pace.
Just before the turn I teed up my ball on Hole 9, a 361-yard par 4. The clouds slowly parted, and the sun shined down on me in a single beam. I swung my Callaway driver, and it made a sound I hadn’t heard all season, a precisely clean hit. My ball was down the hill and out of sight. As we proceeded toward our second shots, I grew more excited each time I expected to come upon my ball and didn’t. To my fairly well contained moment of giddy surprise I was 125 yards out from the pin. I pulled my pitching wedge from my Callaway stand bag like Arthur drawing Excalibur. I lined up my shot and all sound ceased in my ears. As I swung I felt my heart respectfully pause its pounding beats. When the ball landed, I realized I had never even looked at the green, just the flag poking its flapping face above a hill; the green sat mysteriously below a wraparound berm. Mounting our cart, my partner and I said nothing. We approached the green. As the berm fell away the green revealed itself, and so did my ball, a short gimme tap from the hole. I raised my 6-shooter tumbler to my playing partner, to the grounds guy, then to each of the neighboring holes. With my refreshing beverage in hand, the sun above, and the hole ready and waiting for me, I clutched my putter in one hand, and smiling like a winner I tapped my ball, it circled two hundred degrees around the rim, and then it rolled four inches away on the other side of the hole. I downed my drink and tapped my ball again for par.
Golf is perfectly designed to be the thing I do to remind myself, over and over, that I can’t win them all.
Golf is perfectly designed to be the thing I do to remind myself, over and over, that I can’t win them all.
Whenever I have a conversation about challenging greens in New England, it is almost inevitable that the Maplewood will be brought up. Sages among the North Country’s golfing community speak of putting at Maplewood in the same tone that Robert Shaw delivers Quint’s speech at the meeting of the citizens of Amity Island. The way it goes for me, if I’m lucky enough to get on the green in regulation, is either to drain a perfect put, or three-putt. No matter my finesse, the imperceivable angles along the green surfaces and the smooth, physics-defying ball speeds that are reached there, every hole is successfully defended. -But with the right kind of focus, a golfer can drive the ball, make the approach, sink the putt, and birdie the whole damn thing.
I too often choose to trade in the focus of Cam Smith for the products of Highcamp Flasks, and so rarely birdie anything at all. For my Maplewood outing, in honor of their super fun 656-yard Par 6 on hole 16, I sipped on what I dubbed The Par 6:
2 large ice cubes
3 oz Sailor Jerry’s Rum
2 dashes Campfire Bitters
3 large grains Red Hawaiian Salt
Small slice of lemon squeezed into drink then rubbed along the rim of the tumbler.
Directions: Approach hole 16 at Maplewood. Swirl this drink while everybody tees off. Swig a sweet and smoky mouthful. Tee off. If your ball falls 100 yards short of the next shortest ball, raise your glass. Swig again. Repeat five more times for par.
Cheers,
Matt
I too often choose to trade in the focus of Cam Smith for the products of Highcamp Flasks, and so rarely birdie anything at all. For my Maplewood outing, in honor of their super fun 656-yard Par 6 on hole 16, I sipped on what I dubbed The Par 6:
2 large ice cubes
3 oz Sailor Jerry’s Rum
2 dashes Campfire Bitters
3 large grains Red Hawaiian Salt
Small slice of lemon squeezed into drink then rubbed along the rim of the tumbler.
Directions: Approach hole 16 at Maplewood. Swirl this drink while everybody tees off. Swig a sweet and smoky mouthful. Tee off. If your ball falls 100 yards short of the next shortest ball, raise your glass. Swig again. Repeat five more times for par.
Cheers,
Matt
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