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What a pleasure to travel about and be able to take in frequent examples of history! After dropping our little one off for theater camp, I found myself making the turn off of US-3 North into the Mountain View Grand Resort and Spa, conveniently located on Mountain View Road. I had heard the Mountain View discussed among locals. In the golf world, and the closely paralleling world of hospitality professionals, gossip flows fairly continuously and with varying degrees of murkiness. People say the hotel is rebounding after some years of difficulty. People say jobs are once again being sought at the Mountain View. The way it’s been with resorts in New Hampshire’s North Country, positions can be quickly vacated only weeks after being filled.
When I drove up to the front door, at the peak of Mountain View Road, with the state of employment in mind, my eyes feasted on rolling hills in the distance, a clean and well-kept golf course, bocci courts surrounded by Adirondack chairs, a club house beside a pool, and a yellow paint job on a historic hotel that dates back to 1865. The splendor and grandeur of the late nineteenth century is still present at the Mountain View Grand today.
When I drove up to the front door, at the peak of Mountain View Road, with the state of employment in mind, my eyes feasted on rolling hills in the distance, a clean and well-kept golf course, bocci courts surrounded by Adirondack chairs, a club house beside a pool, and a yellow paint job on a historic hotel that dates back to 1865. The splendor and grandeur of the late nineteenth century is still present at the Mountain View Grand today.
Hole one is a downhill 387-yard par 4. The cart guy, a groundskeeper, a father/son two-some with a 9:30 AM tee time who I was apparently squeezed out in front of, and a menagerie of wandering guests seeking restrooms, family members, and bocci courts were all milling about my practice swing. I was taking an impromptu look at this course and so only had my Callaway Par 3 bag with me. I made this separate set from my regular clubs out of hand-me-downs, gifts, garage sales, and impulsive purchases. I was loosening up before the eyes of the world with a seven wood that looked like a steel ball on a giant chopstick. I don’t even know where I got the club, but I know the club head is too small, the shaft is too long and too flexible, and after I had it regripped I can choose to get anywhere from 180 yards with a full swing, down to 140 yards if I take a little off. What matters most, is that I don’t miss with this weird little club. It makes me feel like Robert Redford’s character in The Natural (1984), when he impresses the Knight’s coaches with Wonderboy.
Of course, as is the way, I stepped up to the ball, gave my best, first swing of the day, got a great draw on a windless morning, and hit a brilliant 200-yard (downhill) drive leaving the ball barely 100 yards out from the pin. I looked around to address the grandstand of onlookers surrounding me in my head and saw not a single set of eyes looking my way. The restrooms had been found, the family members were located, and the boccie courts were occupied. The cart guy was getting carts cleaned up for the day, the groundskeeper was keeping the grounds, and the father/son twosome were preoccupied with the wonders of the combination recycling bin/ball washer. I lifted my Par 3 bag off its little legs and strolled away toward my ball, satisfied, if uncelebrated.
Of course, as is the way, I stepped up to the ball, gave my best, first swing of the day, got a great draw on a windless morning, and hit a brilliant 200-yard (downhill) drive leaving the ball barely 100 yards out from the pin. I looked around to address the grandstand of onlookers surrounding me in my head and saw not a single set of eyes looking my way. The restrooms had been found, the family members were located, and the boccie courts were occupied. The cart guy was getting carts cleaned up for the day, the groundskeeper was keeping the grounds, and the father/son twosome were preoccupied with the wonders of the combination recycling bin/ball washer. I lifted my Par 3 bag off its little legs and strolled away toward my ball, satisfied, if uncelebrated.
That’s the game. One can play in private enough times to have sunk a dozen legitimate birdies, but achievements made in solitude remain suspect to all those you tell. It’s the big fish that got away or the compliment paid but not overheard. Golf is a series of deftly dodged impacts with disaster, like slaloming deer as their crossing the road. Had you impacted the deer, everything would have changed. The fact that expert driving, superhuman reflexes, and superior calm under stress resulted in a non-incident, nobody will ever talk about it and your eagerness to relay those events, or non-events, to others simply comes across as awkward, even desperate.
Did I make a 24-foot putt on the 124-yard, hole eight, par three? Sure did. Will you read this part of the article out loud to your friends and loved ones? Hell no. These are the perfectly comprehensible achievements that do not come across in the retelling as great successes. But if you were there, if you were playing with me or against me, my sinking of that birdie after dropping a pitching wedge shot onto the green with brilliant precision and grace would have evoked a response beyond visceral. And you know it.
On the other holes I dodged impacts with further disasters. On hole 5, there is a dog leg right 318-yard uphill par four. I was sure I took the trees too close and hit my ball into the wilds. I climbed the uphill fairway toward the marking flag. I scoured the ground before jumping into the woods. I found a half dozen balls, but never my own. Feeling compelled to give up and take my drop so not to slow the pace of play, I crawled back out into the day, removed the grasses and twigs from my shirt and hat, and right there, right where I was going to drop two to hit three, was my ball. Member’s bounce? Elves, gnomes, and fairies? Was it the luck of a whimsical golfer who mostly plays for the sake of the beverages and the stories, who gets to write about his rounds? The answer is Yes to all. -I parred that hole with a cool little sand wedge shot by the way.
As I walked The Mountain View Grand, I passed a curious llama in its fenced area, a wedding tent where glorious memories were made, a windmill generating green energy, and incredible views of the surrounding mountain peaks. There is such a pleasure in golfing a mellow, unpretentious nine-hole course where the views are the draw, and the round is a mellow escape from all the things one is supposed to be thinking about at 9:30A on a Thursday, having just dropped their child off at a three hour theater camp.
Cheers,
Matt
Did I make a 24-foot putt on the 124-yard, hole eight, par three? Sure did. Will you read this part of the article out loud to your friends and loved ones? Hell no. These are the perfectly comprehensible achievements that do not come across in the retelling as great successes. But if you were there, if you were playing with me or against me, my sinking of that birdie after dropping a pitching wedge shot onto the green with brilliant precision and grace would have evoked a response beyond visceral. And you know it.
On the other holes I dodged impacts with further disasters. On hole 5, there is a dog leg right 318-yard uphill par four. I was sure I took the trees too close and hit my ball into the wilds. I climbed the uphill fairway toward the marking flag. I scoured the ground before jumping into the woods. I found a half dozen balls, but never my own. Feeling compelled to give up and take my drop so not to slow the pace of play, I crawled back out into the day, removed the grasses and twigs from my shirt and hat, and right there, right where I was going to drop two to hit three, was my ball. Member’s bounce? Elves, gnomes, and fairies? Was it the luck of a whimsical golfer who mostly plays for the sake of the beverages and the stories, who gets to write about his rounds? The answer is Yes to all. -I parred that hole with a cool little sand wedge shot by the way.
As I walked The Mountain View Grand, I passed a curious llama in its fenced area, a wedding tent where glorious memories were made, a windmill generating green energy, and incredible views of the surrounding mountain peaks. There is such a pleasure in golfing a mellow, unpretentious nine-hole course where the views are the draw, and the round is a mellow escape from all the things one is supposed to be thinking about at 9:30A on a Thursday, having just dropped their child off at a three hour theater camp.
Cheers,
Matt
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