**Disclosure: All opinions expressed here in are own and not by the developing company, and/or it's affiliates, in any way. **
Pristine, green tee boxes, unmarred fairways with crisscrossing mower lines, bunkers with laser-defined edges and fresh sand, and greens that roll predictably and contain holes freshly-cut, ideally twenty minutes or so before my putt, that used to be my ideal golf course experience. But having played Moose Meadows at 485 Rangeley Rd, Stratton, ME 04982, I can now comfortably update my ideals (yes, that’s right, this spot is remote enough that a physical address is more relevant to you, good reader, than a hyperlink to the website they do not have).
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!
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!
When I arrived in my proper golf attire, I realized that I had a choice. I could dress down, lose the collar, trade in the golf shoes for flip flops, or I could square my shoulders, adjust the brim of my cap, and mix a drink. I opted for the latter. Donning my tucked in polo and my ten-inch golf shorts I lowered the tailgate and mixed up a nice Mezcal and club soda with lime in my brand new High Camp Flask Firelight 375. As I unfolded my walking cart and situated my Callaway Par 3 bag, I sipped and looked around. There were no uptight golfers nervous about locating the first tee on time (which at Moose Meadows is across the sixth fairway and runs along the prettiest trickling stream). We heard no golf carts, neither their lawnmower gas engines or their whining electric motors, instead we heard birds and water. As I dug into my bag for a $10 bill to pay for my nine-hole round, a sleeveless guy in a cowboy hat and a backpack walked past me holding a beer in one hand and three clubs in the other, “Nice day for it,” he said as he hurried to meet his companions who were teeing off on three. I watched as he sipped his cold can and hopped over a ball being driven from the fifth hole, “Whoa there Fred!” Spoke the man with the beer to Fred who clearly needed to club down substantially. Fred must have been in his seventies in his faded Dickie’s work pants and suspenders, “Whoa there to you, young fella, I got a hold of that one was all!”
The Maine accents, the casualness, and the comradery were almost too perfect to bear. I can enjoy the insincere hellos between members at my home course. I like when one guy asks another about the game last night or the couples round coming up that Friday, but it all seems to lack genuine familiarity now. Moose Meadows is a community all its own. I watched some Connecticut plated Outbacks roll in with their Yakima boxes and bike racks, I put the finishing touches on my cart and cooler while they argued through open windows about where to park, where to pay, and where the first hole was. I took the hint from the scene I was witnessing and quickly made my escape from the lot to the first tee, keeping eyes peeled for Fred’s errant long drives, and listened as one dad suggested to the other dad from Team Outback, “I think we can drink here, just don’t tell Mary.”
Holes 1, 2, and 3 take you further and further upstream and away from the main road. With each mellow drive (eight iron), 139 yards from one, 137 yards from two, and 158 yards from three, my six-shooter tumbler became empty, my pace slowed, and my stride shortened. There was no reason to rush here, I didn’t have to play 9.75-minute holes. Everybody around me was loose and chatting across fairways.
Holes 1, 2, and 3 take you further and further upstream and away from the main road. With each mellow drive (eight iron), 139 yards from one, 137 yards from two, and 158 yards from three, my six-shooter tumbler became empty, my pace slowed, and my stride shortened. There was no reason to rush here, I didn’t have to play 9.75-minute holes. Everybody around me was loose and chatting across fairways.
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Two of the grandchildren weren’t even golfing anymore but laughing loudly and climbing on big rocks. An elderly couple who must have just finished their round were unfolding lawn chairs out of the trunk of their ancient hatchback and taking a seat at the edge of the parking lot, just in front of the barbeque bus to review their score card. I love the game, I adore the traditions; the etiquette and pride of this game have always been important to me, but this scene, one of inclusion, patience, and connection pleased me and formed a comfortable perma-grin across my face as I played on.
Playing from the “back,” black tees that were marked with decapitated fairway woods spraypainted black and stuck into the ground, I had a cool 139 yards to carry onto the nicest of nine greens. I hit the green with a mellow, almost sleepy Callaway Apex DCB Pitching Wedge shot and then mindlessly two putted for par. It was during a smooth shot on the third hole, 158 yards from the black-club-heads, when I realized I was completely alone. Team Outback must have only had a few holes in them before having to leave in search of the next item on their Carrabassett itinerary. Fred and the cowboy finished up when I was around hole three, way in the back of the course by the stream’s bend, surrounded by old trees and chittering squirrels. It would be between four green and five tee that I would enjoy a light bite and another pour from my Fireside 375.
Playing from the “back,” black tees that were marked with decapitated fairway woods spraypainted black and stuck into the ground, I had a cool 139 yards to carry onto the nicest of nine greens. I hit the green with a mellow, almost sleepy Callaway Apex DCB Pitching Wedge shot and then mindlessly two putted for par. It was during a smooth shot on the third hole, 158 yards from the black-club-heads, when I realized I was completely alone. Team Outback must have only had a few holes in them before having to leave in search of the next item on their Carrabassett itinerary. Fred and the cowboy finished up when I was around hole three, way in the back of the course by the stream’s bend, surrounded by old trees and chittering squirrels. It would be between four green and five tee that I would enjoy a light bite and another pour from my Fireside 375.
To accompany my mezcal, I selected a Blueberry Almond Crawl Bar. I like weird stuff. I like energy. I really like to have a snack while I drink to avoid the kerfuffle shots that send my ball into the woods or dead center on the wrong fairway. I have packed along nuts, jerky, sandwiches, and an assortment of energy bars. The nuts and jerky just leave me parched and guzzling booze in a futile effort to slake my thirst. The sandwiches are often a two-handed affair and never are there enough napkins to get all the mustard out from the corner of my mouth. Bars are great. They are easy and they satisfy. However, for a drinker on the go like me, one who appreciates flavor and ingredients equally, few bars satisfy like Crawl Bars. Some bars are too sweet, some are too thick, some taste so much like a bad impression of the food they are trying to be that neither my pallet nor my stomach can take them seriously. Then there is this tasty bar of mashed up crickets and blueberries. The texture is nice (not buggy at all). The flavor is protein enriched blueberries, also known as awesome! Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Mezcal pairs with this amazing little treat beautifully! Crawl is a Maine company, Moose Meadows is a Maine course, and the doubling down on Maine-feels today made my fifth hole a memorable one and worth telling readers about.
The eighth hole, 127 yards, was pretty enough to want to attend a wedding there. The grounds hut is to the right, a noble old building that screams as much charm as it does Carrabassett Valley ingenuity. The tiniest little bunker I have ever seen steadfastly guards the left side of the raised green. It is uphill and enough tree branches reach out to swipe your ball from its trajectory that I decided to swing a strong Callaway Mack Daddy 50 degree wedge. My ball soared off the toe and encountered the tiniest space between two rocks. Anybody else’s shot would have surely bounced erratically or brilliantly, but not mine. As if I were aiming a rifle at a notched target, my ball wedged itself between the stones so tightly, the drop should have cost me an extra stroke.
I finished the hole and, still sipping my beverage and fortified by my cricket protein, decided to do as the locals do. I parked my cart. I pulled up an old plastic chair, and I sat, my feet on my cooler, and took in my last moments at Moose Meadows. With the rustic rack of abandoned clubs behind me, the dirt parking lot below my feet, and the feeling of total aloneness at the end of the day, without a grounds person nor cart person puttering around or finishing up daily tasks, Moose Meadows felt like a culmination of my various outdoor pursuits. Maybe in Yosemite lines form to get that great shot from the summit, perhaps in the Whites parking is more complicated than the class IV scrambles, often at the courses on the Vineyard the starter stares you down while you try desperately to focus on teeing off, and at Maplewood the old cart guy simultaneously heckles while also advising newcomers, but at Moose Meadows I got the deep feelings of belonging, flow, and peace.
I finished the hole and, still sipping my beverage and fortified by my cricket protein, decided to do as the locals do. I parked my cart. I pulled up an old plastic chair, and I sat, my feet on my cooler, and took in my last moments at Moose Meadows. With the rustic rack of abandoned clubs behind me, the dirt parking lot below my feet, and the feeling of total aloneness at the end of the day, without a grounds person nor cart person puttering around or finishing up daily tasks, Moose Meadows felt like a culmination of my various outdoor pursuits. Maybe in Yosemite lines form to get that great shot from the summit, perhaps in the Whites parking is more complicated than the class IV scrambles, often at the courses on the Vineyard the starter stares you down while you try desperately to focus on teeing off, and at Maplewood the old cart guy simultaneously heckles while also advising newcomers, but at Moose Meadows I got the deep feelings of belonging, flow, and peace.
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