Amazingly, an award-winning title.

A few weeks back, I visited New Orleans for the International Fly Tackle Dealer show.  I would have preferred visiting Denver, the historical site of the show, as New Orleans in August is a little sticky for my taste.  (The day I touched down, the temperature was 97 and the humidity 90%, giving the Big Easy a heat index of 116 – nice!)  Nonetheless, it’s always fun to walk through hotel lobbies where almost every single person is wearing a technical fishing shirt and a hat bearing the logo of their favorite lodge, and every other conversation you overhear concerns an insect hatch or bait blitz.  I felt right at home.

I had several objectives going to this year’s IFTD show:  to visit with old friends, to take advantage of free beer at any number of industry events, and to help my friends at Anglers Book Supply promote my newest book – Fifty More Places To Fly Fish Before You Die.  My publisher – Stewart, Tabori & Chang – had generously created a blow-up poster of the book and had scrounged up a dozen or so books to give away (no small task, as the book had not officially arrived in warehouses from the printing presses in Asia).  The hope was to let fly fishing retailers in attendance – and anyone else who cared – that a new “Fifty Places” book would soon be available…perfectly timed for the holidays!  (There’s no coincidence there:  we estimate that nearly 75 percent of my books are given as gifts!)

Walking the show floor with friends, I was introduced to many new folks.  My pals would introduce me, saying “This is Chris Santella, the writer.”  The other folks would look at me and smile with a hint of pity, undoubtedly thinking “He must sit in his underwear in his mother’s basement, typing a blog that no one ever reads.”  After the pause, my friends would say, “He did Fifty Places To Fly Fish Before You Die.”  Immediately listeners would perk up, mentally dressing me in pants (at least shorts) and a shirt and placing me in a non-basement room, perhaps even in my own house.  Which is to say—people in the fly fishing world know and respect the book, even if they don’t know me.  And that bodes well for the success of the second Fifty Places fly fishing book.  For better or worse, brands work.  And the Fifty Places series has, much to my amazement, become a small brand.

The award logo -- there's a trophy, too!

It’s my hope that the follow-up to my first Fifty Places book will fare a bit better than some of the big screen sequels that we’re tortured with each summer.  Fifty More Places To Fly Fish Before You Die follows the same formula of my previous books – interviews with knowledgeable people from the fly fishing world talking about some of the world’s most exciting angling destinations – all enhanced with beautiful photographs.  Whether it’s mako sharks of San Diego, golden dorado in Bolivia, bonefish off Los Roques, Venezuela or giant rainbows on Alaska’s Kanektok, the book tries to capture the excitement, the passion and the joy of fly fishing – and how place informs our experience.

There was a new twist to this year’s IFTD show – the new product showcase, which was sponsored by Angling Trade magazine.  Whether it was because of the pretty poster, voter’s familiarity with the first book, or an act of pity, I was very proud to learn on the second to last evening of the show that Fifty More Places To Fly Fish Before You Die had won the best new book award for 2011!

I half expected snow to begin falling through the balmy 92-degree air.

One that can be very hard on trailers.

I own a 1/3 share of a drift boat, and consequently am sometimes asked to donate a trip for a school auction or assist friends with overflow guests.  One weekend last September, I was slated for two such trips, back-to-back, both floating from the Beavertail campground to Mack’s.  Prior to the adventure, I had my tires rotated and checked, knowing the travails that waited.  I picked up the boat from my friend’s driveway and proceeded to Maupin.

At 4:30 the next morning, my friend (and his sturdy Tacoma Supercab) began the drive north to Beavertail.  When we left the paved road at Sherars, my Subaru was engulfed in his dust; but soon his taillights were out of sight.  That’s because I drive very slow on the access road, hoping to get my rig down and back in one piece.  There was a blush of pink above the rim rock as I descended from the road to Beavertail.  Reaching the bottom, I could see my friends at the put-in, wadered up and waiting.  I circled the campground and rounded the final bend to approach the put-in.  As my wheels straightened, there was an abrupt thud.  I stopped, expecting I’d hung up on a rogue rock or popped one my recently rotated tires.  My eyes drifted to my passenger side mirror.  There, I spied one of my trailer tires rolling toward some brush.  Its slow revolutions, with a woozy wobble and finally a dramatic leftward flop, had a cartoon quality about it.  I found myself snickering, even though I sensed that the parting of the wheel from the trailer’s axle had ended my fishing day, and would likely pose other hardships.

I turned off the car, rolled the wheel from the brush back to the trailer, and looked at the axel.  I’m not mechanically inclined, but even a cursory glance in the half-light the canyon made it quite apparent that I’d be needing professional assistance.  The hub was gone, and the odds of finding it somewhere between here and Sherars seemed less than low.  I walked to the put-in to alert my party that they’d be going it alone, and returned to the trailer.  For a good ten minutes I stared at the axel, hoping that I could re-attach the wheel through some force of will.  This failed.  My friends waved as they floated downstream.

It was 5:30 a.m.

In retrospect, I should’ve had the trailer checked out as well.

There’s no cell reception to speak of at the Beavertail launch, and I’d be adding insult to injury if I got stuck with a shuttle fee for a shuttle that would not happen.  So I detached my crippled trailer and drove back up to the access road.  A few miles toward Maupin I found coverage and left my shuttle driver a message.  Part of me wanted to keep driving and leave the trailer to heal itself.

I was back at the trailer by 6:15.

Some campers in Beavertail were beginning to stir, but lacking a flatbed, I doubted that they could offer much more than sympathy.  Then I recalled that Beavertail had a camp host – and the camp host, Chris, was the wife of a steelhead guide I knew.  As I approached the camp, Hawkeye (the guide) was making coffee; he had just come off a trip from Mack’s to the Mouth. He fixed me a cup and I explained my quandary.  “Chris will call Barnett’s for you when she wakes up,” Hawkeye said with a reassuring grin.  “This isn’t the first time a trailer has gone bust down here.”  Another cup of coffee and Chris was up.  Soon she walking around the campground with an antenna-like apparatus affixed to her cell phone to get coverage.  She was smiling when she returned.  “George has one emergency to take care of, but he will be down in about three hours,” she reported.

Hawkeye put another pot of coffee on (and then another), heated up some pop ‘n fresh cinnamon rolls, and we waited.  We chatted about the current steelhead season (okay), the previous season (very good) and future seasons (hopeful).  The cool of dawn gave way to the pleasant warmth of mid-morning.  After the fifth pot of coffee, the rumble of the flatbed could be heard.  Soon the wounded trailer and its cargo was loaded on the flatbed.  I extended Chris and Hawkeye a heartfelt thanks and followed George the 17-odd miles back to Maupin.

It was 11:15.

Back in Maupin, George assessed the situation.  “Your wheel’s okay, the axel is okay.  You just need a new hub to hold everything on.  I’m gonna have lunch, and then I’ll get on it.  Should be a few hours.”  That didn’t seem too bad.  I’d missed one trip, but maybe my second could be saved.  I considered wadering up and finding a run to fish, but didn’t want to be absent if George needed me.  And the sun was high anyway.  I made myself a sandwich, resisted the temptation to break into the beers I’d brought for my guests, and parked myself on the steps of the public library adjacent to George’s shop and perused a copy of The New Yorker, which I’d thrown in the car.  There was a particularly good story by John McPhee on the British Open golf tourney.  One hour passed, then two.  I didn’t want to seem pushy, but I was beginning to become concerned about my auction trip the following day – would I have a trailer?  I meekly approached George in the back.  “How are we looking?” I asked.  “Oh, my wife had to pick up a part in The Dalles,” George replied.  “She’ll be back in an hour or so.  I forgot tell you.  Sorry.”

As the sun made its way west, I moved across the street to a set of benches outside The Redside Tavern, downtown Maupin’s premiere (and only) watering hole.  Believing, again, that my trailer situation would not become better with beer, I abstained.  Three guys on Harleys pulled up and waddled into the bar.  They seemed like wannabe bikers; their helmets and panniers were decorated with tasteful stickers like “Thanks, Virgins – for NOTHING!” and “Save a Mouse – Eat a Pussy!”

Several more hours passed.  I read the McPhee article a second time.

At 5:15, George motioned me over.  The trailer was done.  I called my auction guest in Portland and told her all systems were go, reunited with my trailer and drift boat, and rolled back down the hill to my evening’s lodging.  It had been an arduous day, marked by long hours of waiting and brief crises of faith.  Not unlike steelhead fishing.  Though I could’ve easily parked the trailer, popped a beer and called it an early night, I knew the sun was dipping below the rim rock, and decided that the last hour of daylight may as well be enjoyed on the river.

I’m not a religious person, but I do vaguely believe in Karma—or at least the notion that one’s good or bad actions eventually come home to roost.  I had not performed any great acts of charity, courage or selfishness that Friday, but given the problems I’d faced, I’d behaved with a certain level of decorum.  I hadn’t sworn (much) or kicked the trailer when the wheel departed.  I’d been patient in Chris and Hawkeye’s camp, and perhaps even more patient on the library steps in Maupin.  I had resisted the default urge to drown my disappointments, had kept my promise to the following day’s guests, and had opted to persevere and visit the river instead of accepting the easy defeat of sitting my lazy butt on the porch of my rented cabin.

For these reasons, I was rewarded with a steelhead, even though another angler had just left the run I fished…and that I cast for only 15 minutes.  As it was a hatchery buck, I conked it on the head, walked up to the access road and handed it to the first passerby who stopped.

I want my trailer karma to keep circling back.

(A version of this story appears in Fly Fishing Journal.)

The author (and guide Moana Kofe ) with a smallish GT.

As a non-fish eater, I was taken aback when Peter Kairaoi, lead guide for Christmas Island Outfitters, took a healthy bite from a dead and rather pungent milkfish he was shredding and tossing into the water for chum.  My gag reflex was pre-empted by a burst of adrenaline as Kairaoi interrupted his sashimi snack to yell “Trevally!”  A large shadow moved onto the flat, zigging and zagging in search of its next meal.  It sped toward us in the shallows until half of its immense head was above the water.  I cast my 12-weight – a telephone pole of a rod – in the fish’s direction, hoping that my offering would prove tempting, or at least discourage its advance.

Giant trevally are a little bit scary.

Giant trevally (GTs) are the largest of the 33 species of trevally that swim in the Pacific and Indian oceans.  Silver-shaded with prominently forked tails, they are easily distinguished from other trevally species by their steep head profile.  GTs will prey on anything they can catch and squeeze into their capacious mouth—mullet, juvenile milkfish, even bonefish.  Generally found in deeper water, they will sweep onto the flats – often in groups of three, four or five fish – in pursuit of prey.  Giant trevally can reach weights of 120 pounds and more, though anglers are more likely to encounter specimens in the 10 to 50 pound range.  Many are thankful for that.

“Anyone who has had the opportunity to fish for giant trevally knows that if you get an opportunity at a trophy GT – a fish of 50 lbs or better — many things need to go right get the fish to hand,” said Brian Gies, co-owner of Fly Water Travel.   “More often than not, somewhere in the string of events something goes wrong – a rod breaks, knots give way or a coral head severs the line – and you’re left standing on the flat, heart and mind racing, knees  weak,  playing the situation back in your mind.”

It was the promise of bonefish that initially lured anglers to Christmas Island, an isolated coral atoll some 1,200 miles south of Honolulu, part of the island nation of Kiribati.  Since the early 1980s, the atoll’s vast interior lagoon – a mix of sand and coral flats interspersed with deep cuts that usher tidal water to and fro — has been renowned as one of the world’s most prolific and reliable venues for the sleek, finicky sport fish.  In the course of stalking bonefish, anglers discovered GTs – sometimes in hot pursuit of the bonefish they attempted to play to hand!

Dr. John Smith (and Moana) with a more gigantic GT.

There are three ways that fly anglers can pursue giant trevally on Christmas Island.  One can establish a post on a flat adjacent to channels with a healthy current and chum, waiting for the fish parts to draw in other baitfish that will (hopefully) in turn lure in the GTs; one can slowly cruise the edges of the flats in one of the island’s motorized catamarans, scanning for GTs that can then be stalked on foot; or, one can pursue bonefish on the flats while carrying a 12-weight rod in your pack, and switch rods if you happen upon ambushing GTs (easier said than done).

Chumming proved most productive for my group, though it was not until the fifth day of fishing that our flies found purchase.  After capturing a brace of milkfish in a seine net, guides Moana Kofe and T. John anchored our cat on a small coral island and positioned four anglers opposite a channel.  Darkening hues of turquoise hinted at the deepening water before us—the domain of trevally.  As Kofe and John tossed chunks of milkfish into the water, Great Frigatebirds hovered just above them, occasionally plucking a morsel from the surface.  GTs materialized in less than 10 minutes—two fish at the point of the island, a gang of four in the shallows in front of the channel.  They moved deliberately in search of food, churning the water, swirling at our flies.  Two anglers hooked up in rapid succession; one had only six feet of leader outside of his rod tip when the fish took.  Soon we had all hooked and landed fish from the melee, the largest approaching 40 pounds.

Before the fishing slowed, I flipped my streamer, a concoction of long white chicken feathers, to the edge of a group of circling trevally.  A leviathan – Kofe estimated it at near 60 pounds – charged out of the depths, seizing the fly on the run.  Though my drag was tightened to maximum tension, the fish peeled line and backing off as though I were using a toy reel.  The fish raced toward the channel at the far end of the island, and I chased after it, dodging under the lines of my fellow anglers in an attempt to keep the leader and fly line high and away from coral heads.  After 75 yards, I could go no further.  My rod pulsed as the reel gave up line, 100, 150 then 200 yards.  For a moment I entertained the vision of my rod shattering under this immense pressure, shards of splintering graphite piercing my carotid artery.  I would perish by trevally on this lonely coral isle!  There was nothing I could do but hope that the fish would stop and let me regain some line.  Then there was simply nothing.

I reeled in several football fields of backing to learn that my 100 pound leader had been sliced.

At least I had not lost my fly line, too.

(A version of this story appeared in The New York Times on 7/17/11)

The par-3 14th at Pronghorn, just outside of Bend, Oregon.

I wake each day to National Public Radio’s Morning Edition.  One recent morning, the story corresponding to the opening of my eyes did not concern troop withdrawal in Iraq or flooding in Arkansas.  It was about America’s glut of golf courses and how the laws of supply and demand are compelling many courses to close.  “The golf courses that were built, in many cases, were built purely as an amenity to sell real estate, where the developer really didn’t do any due diligence to determine whether the golf course could survive and thrive as a business on its own,” Greg Nathan of the National Golf Foundation said in the report.  The story went on to explain how some of the courses that are closing are being transformed into public parks.

I’m very much in favor of public green spaces.  Yet as I nursed my coffee that morning, I found comfort knowing that despite some real estate challenges, Pronghorn – an upscale golf course development outside Bend, Oregon – was not going away anytime soon.  And thanks to the aforementioned challenges, the resort was now open (on a limited basis) to the likes of me.

Perception No Longer Reality

I was living in Portland in 2004, and have nary a memory of Pronghorn’s June opening that year, just over the mountains in Bend.  Considering the fanfare that would follow (Golf Magazine Living (2006) ranked Pronghorn “#1 Best New Community in the West”; Travel & Leisure Golf (January 2009) ranked “Pronghorn the #1 Golf Course Community in the Country”; LINKS names Pronghorn one of the 20 “Best of the Best” golf properties in the prestigious Premier Properties Real Estate Guide for 2008-2009…and on and on), this seems surprising.  In retrospect, I’m fairly certain that I blocked out any mentions of Pronghorn because it was clearly going to be the kind of place where I would only spend time if I moved to central Oregon and took up looping…and got pretty good at it.  Pronghorn was ultra-private, and it was unlikely that I’d be able to pony up the half mill (or much more) for a villa or estate while I was still spry enough to swing a golf club.  No one in my golf group traveled in such fiscally blessed circles either, so Pronghorn was written off as another course I would likely never play.  My Oregon golf fantasies focused on Bandon.

Six years and several economic downturns later, things have changed.  Without going into the drudgerous details, some lots and homes at Pronghorn remain unsold, and greens and fairways still need to be watered and mowed.  For now, the 640 acres of Pronghorn (much of it, anyway) are now open for public visits.

Guests at the once all-private Pronghorn enjoy suites or villas along the 18th fairway of the Nicklaus course.

Pronghorn is set in the midst of a vast swath of juniper forest just northeast of Bend, a region of high desert that looks out on both the perpetually snow-clad Cascades to the west and the rugged Ochoco Mountains to the east; rock climbers will recognize Smith Rock to the north.  The property rests four miles from any public road, so there’s truly a sense of being away from it all.  Oregon’s high desert has a special feel – serene with long views, but more inviting than the bleached landscapes of the southwest – all scented with sage.  Lodging for guests is in one of a series of villas along the 18^th fairway of the Nicklaus Course.  Upon my family’s arrival at our appointed domicile, my girls ran from room to room to room, screaming “This is the nicest place we’ve ever stayed at!”  The rooms are very nice, the picture of rustic elegance, with lots of leather, tasteful golf course photos and landscape watercolors on the walls, and a gourmet kitchen with glistening Viking appliances – the stove was far too nice to cook on.

Though the villa was quite inviting, I was a bit more interested in the fairway outside the window.

The Nicklaus Course – Bandon by the Sagebrush

The Nicklaus Course at Pronghorn is billed as a desert course.  By some criteria, this may be so.  But as Central Oregon’s high desert is less austere than

The short par-4 13th, one of the few water holes at Pronghorn's Nicklaus course.

the Sonoran desert, Pronghorn seems less target-, landing area to landing area-oriented than other desert courses I’ve experienced—which is to say, not unduly punitive.  Yes, there was scrub to clear on some tee shots, and I have little doubt that one could find rattlesnakes if you were to slice a drive into the junipers during the summer.  (It was still cool during my visit, and the “buzz-worms,” as some of my Bend friends call them, were still languid.)  But I found the course very playable for someone of my ability (a shaky 20-handicap), with generous landing areas and accessible paths to the green.  A key barometer of playability – I lost only one ball over 18 holes!  In this respect – and in the manner in which the course blends with the contours of the surrounding landscape – it’s oddly reminiscent of Bandon Dunes…albeit a Bandon Dunes where the Cascades have supplanted the Pacific, lava ridges have replaced grassy hummocks, and juniper and sage stand in for gorse.

Location, Location, Location – The Bigger Appeal of Pronghorn

The Nicklaus course at Pronghorn is a treat – and by all reports, the members only Fazio course is every bit as good.  But the real appeal of Pronghorn (and all of central Oregon) for golfers is the abundance of other high quality outdoor amenities available in the region.  I’m

The author with a Deschutes steelhead.

a passionate fly fisherman, and within 25 miles of the resort I can find four first class trout streams (the Crooked, the Fall, the Metolius and the Middle Deschutes) plus a dozen decent lakes.  Expand the radius a bit more, and you can include the world famous Lower Deschutes, with its native rainbow trout and summer steelhead; the Deschutes also attracts rafters and kayakers.  (Guided fishing is available from Deep Canyon Outfitters.)  Road and mountain bikers will find plenty to command their attention in and around the Cascades west of Bend.  Mt. Bachelor – while perhaps not quite up to Vail/Snowbird standards in terms of terrain and powder – is a quality ski/snowboard hill that dwarfs eastern ski slopes…and is open during several months of the golf season, allowing for “powder/putt” days.  There are lava tubes and other interesting geologic phenomena to explore, horseback riding – the list goes on and on.  If you have younger family members along on your visit, Pronghorn offers several pools, and organized kids programs through Camp Pronghorn; in the summer, these programs include week-long camps built around different themes, such as “Discovering Dinosaurs” or “The World of Bugs.”

For a city of less than 100,000 residents – and especially given its humble lumber town origins – Bend boasts a fine assortment of restaurants.  Yet you needn’t stray off property to enjoy a fine meal.  We teed the kids up with mac and cheese one evening during our stay and enjoyed a leisurely sunset dinner of beef tenderloin at Cascada (in the 55,000 square foot clubhouse), which fittingly looks west over the mountains.

The Packages

Pronghorn currently has a number of packages available, including a “Stay & Play”  deal entitling guests to one round on the Nicklaus Course, a night in a Junior Suite at one of the villas, one full-service breakfast and access to many of the resort’s facilities, including pool, sports courts and kids programs ($279/individual; $399/couple).  If you don’t have time to stay, outside play is available on the Nicklaus Course for $195 (plus forecaddie fee).  Visit www.pronghornclub.com to learn about other package options – include the golf/fly fish/ski Trifecta.

The famed #3 at Mauna Kea, a 260 yard carry from the back tee!

There’s a thrill that comes from visiting a new destination and finding that it rebukes every one of your expectations – but that it’s still wonderful.  There’s also a thrill that comes from reaching that destination and finding that it perfectly matches the image you carried in your mind’s eye.   The latter is how Darrin Gee characterizes Mauna Kea.  “For me, Mauna Kea frames the mainlander’s vision of Hawaii golf in every conceivable way.  There’s a perfect juxtaposition of elevation changes, native vegetation, crystal blue waters, expanses of lava and emerald green fairways.   It’s exactly what a Hawaii course should be.  Mauna Kea is not only about aesthetics.  It’s a wonderful strategic design – holes that are challenging, but fair.  There’s also Mauna Kea’s lore.”

Mauna Kea rests at the northern tip of the island of Hawaii, on the Kohala Coast.  It takes its name from a dormant volcano that looms to the south, a mountain that’s tall enough (at 13,796 feet) to seasonally be frosted with a patina of snow, despite its tropical locale.  (Mauna Kea translates from the Hawaiian language as “white mountain.”)   The original golf course at Mauna Kea and the adjoining Mauna Kea Beach Hotel (now operated by Prince Resorts Hawaii) was the vision of Laurance Rockefeller, the fourth son of John D. Rockefeller, Jr.  Besides helping to oversee the family’s investment and philanthropic interests, Rockefeller established resorts at several locales in the Caribbean.  When he arrived on the big island’s Kohala Coast in the early 1960s – then still largely undiscovered – he saw the potential for a world class golf course amongst the vast expanses of black lava rock.  He purchased nearly 2,000 acres above Hapuna Beach and Kauna’oa Bay and flew in the world’s pre-eminent designer, Robert Trent Jones, Sr., to evaluate the possibilities.   “The story goes,” Darrin explained, “that after the two men walked the property, Rockefeller asked Jones if he could build a course.  Jones picked up some lava, crushed it in his hands and replied, ‘You will have your course.’”  Thus, the 50^th state’s first great course was born.  (Jones would later consider Mauna Kea among his three best original designs.)

“There are so many good holes at Mauna Kea,” Darrin continued.  “All four par-3s are great [each one plays over 200 yards from the back].  There are excellent short par-4s (including one that’s potentially drivable), long par-5s that require two monster shots for a chance at eagle, and dogleg lefts and rights that require players to use lots of different shots.”  A great part of Mauna Kea’s lore arose from its third hole, an audacious par 3 that in its original incarnation measured 261 yards from the tips – nearly all of that two and a half football fields a carry over the Pacific, from one rocky promontory to the next.  If the very existence of such a hole (with its green encircled by seven bunkers) weren’t enough to put Mauna Kea on the golf map, a 1965 match orchestrated to help promote the new course would etch it onto the collective golf consciousness of a generation…and help begin to establish Hawaii as a golf destination.  Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player – all in their prime – were invited to play a “Skins” style competition.  Darrin picks up the story:  “During the warm-up round, the three players went to the back tee on number three, holding drivers.  The wind is said to have been up that day, and only one of three was able to poke it to the green.  Fearing embarrassment, one of the other players refused to play from the back tee on TV – and they instead played from the blues, which measure 210 yards over the water.  For many years the back tee was closed for golf and used instead for weddings.  Now the back tee is open again.  I have to say that whatever tee you choose, it’s a spectacular shot; none of the drama is lost from the front tees.”  (Some sources identify Arnold Palmer as the long hitter on that fateful day in Mauna Kea’s history; he would later return, with design partner Ed Seay, to design the sister course at Mauna Kea Beach Resort, Hapuna.)

It’s worth noting that many players consider the 247-yard par-3 11^th hole an even more challenging hole than number three.  It plays downhill 100 feet, which makes it a bit shorter than the card would imply.  Four deep bunkers guard short right, short left and short center, respectively; a shot that goes long is in the Pacific.  Where number three is largely a play of strength – you make it or you don’t – number eleven has a level of subtlety.  A three here is well-earned; a four is nothing to be ashamed of.

As of this writing, Mauna Kea is undergoing a significant restoration.  In a fitting passing of the torch, the work is being led by Rees Jones, one of RTJ’s golf course architect sons.  “One major aspect of the restoration is the bunkering,” Darrin explained.  “They’re being deepened and fashioned to have higher lips.  While the restoration work is welcome after 44 years, it’s a testament to Mauna Kea’s quality that the course remains challenging to top players.  If you happen to watch the broadcast of the Big 3 match and then play the course, you’ll see that it’s the same, except that the trees are taller.  It’s withstood the test of time.  To score, you have to think and play your best.  To me, that’s a sign of a classic course.”

The bunkers of Mauna Kea (in their pre-renovation state) play into Darrin’s most lasting memory of the course.  “I was out playing the course with a good friend, and we got to the 18^th, a 428-yard par 4 that’s considered one of the toughest finishing holes in Hawaii.  I hit a beautiful drive, but put my approach in the bunker that guards the hole on the right.  I climbed in to make my shot, and my friend stood watch to see where the ball would land.  I thought I made a great swing and pured it out of there, but neither my friend nor I ever saw the ball come down.  As far as I know, it’s still in the air.  I feel like I’m forever playing the course.”

Darrin Gee is golf’s newest authority on the mental and inner aspects of the game. Based on the Big Island of Hawaii, Darrin is praised for bringing people to (and back to) the game of golf. Over 10,000 golfers have experienced his golf program and The Seven Principles of Golf™ since 2000.   Darrin’s The Seven Principles of Golf: Mastering the Mental Game On and Off the Golf Course (Stewart, Tabori & Chang 2007) is a classic akin to Harvey Penick’s Little Red Book and Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.   His second book, The Seven Personalities of Golf: Discover Your Inner Golfer to Play Your Best Game was published in 2008.  He also released two top-selling mental game DVDs, Mastering the Mental Game, Volume 1: Putting and Mastering the Mental Game, Volume 2: Full Swing.  Darrin has been featured in numerous publications, print and TV, and has been featured in several bestselling golf instruction books, including The Secret of Golf by former GOLF Magazine Editor-in-Chief, George Peper and 1001 Reasons to Love Golf.  He is a sought-after motivational speaker for corporations, incentives, meetings and conventions throughout Hawaii, the US mainland and abroad.

If You Go…

Getting There:  Mauna Kea is on the northern tip of the island of Hawaii, 26 miles from Kona.  Kona is served by many major carriers, including Alaska (800-ALASKAAIR; www.alaskaair.com) and American Airlines (800-433-7300; www.aa.com).

Course Information:  Mauna Kea (800-882-6060; www.maunakeabeachhotel.com ) plays 7,114 yards from the tips to a par 72, with a slope rating of 143.  Green fees range form $125 to $175.

Accommodations:  There are two resorts on premises at Mauna Kea – the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel and Hapuna Beach Hotel.  Both are operated by Prince Resorts Hawaii (888-9PRINCE; http://princeresortshawaii.com).  A variety of Hawaii golf packages are also available.

Follow the nationwide golf tour when it goes to the Plantation Course at Kapalua, Kapalua, Maui, Hawaii in January.

This box of Cabot Links Pro V1s easily out values the author's golf ball outlays for the next three years.

Given the imperative to show return on investment as soon as possible, golf course developers cannot afford to take a “build it and then they will come” approach.  Smart impresarios know that they should begin building buzz before the first bulldozer arrives at the proposed sight. Indeed, a high level of pre-pre-opening excitement about a course can keep seed money flowing should unexpected development bumps (like extra drainage work on the back nine or a major investor pulling out) be encountered  on the road to opening day.

As a sometimes golf writer of no major significance, I have yet to receive a leather golf bag emblazoned with the logo of the coming creation from RJT II or Greg Norman.  I have, however, received tasteful postcards from Renaissance Golf Design (Tom Doak’s company) illustrating new projects in progress, calendars from Rees Jones (mostly profiling past designs and renovations) and even a very glossy book highlighting a re-design in progress of the Old Course Hotel in St. Andrews (I can’t recall who funded that project).

Last week, I received my most impressive course-in-development package to date – a dozen golf balls from Ben Cowan-Dewar, one of the principals behind Cabot Links (www.cabotlinks.com), a much anticipated layout on the western edge of Cape Breton (the island of Nova Scotia’s mainland).  First, I must mention that this was not the reclaimed bag o’ balls so perfectly suited to my game that I generally pick up at the local department store, but four sleeves of Pro V1s, an arsenal whose retail value may very well eclipse my golf ball outlays for the last three years.  Inspecting each precious sphere – imprinted with the Cabot logo, a square-masted schooner asail on calm seas – I quickly estimated how long it would take me to lose the entire dozen (1.5 rounds) and weighed the relative benefit of giving the balls to various friends to curry favor instead of sending them into assorted ponds/forests.

But beyond the obvious value of the contents, I was taken with my Pro V1s packaging.  The outer box features a full bleed photo of an emerald green fairway bordered by a fringe of marram grass and the blue Gulf of St. Lawrence to the left and several islands in the background.  Toward the far right of the package lurks the suggestion of a pot bunker and a putting surface.  Each of the sleeves features the same image, wrapped around to give a panoramic perspective.  A greeting card bearing the image yet again on the front (branding is all about consistency!) accompanied the Pro V1s, and it features a paean to the possibilities of Cabot Links – dubbed “Canada’s only authentic links” – by no less a luminary than Lorne Rubenstein, arguably the dean of Canadian golf writers.

The image, incidentally, is of the 15^th hole, a 418 yard par-four that hugs the beach from tee to green.

The promise of Cabot Links is indeed great.  There are few places on the Atlantic seaboard more beautiful than Cape Breton – home to an old school gem, Stanley Thompson’s Highland Links, two hours to the northeast of Cabot Links.  So the setting promises to be stunning.  And the assembled team – entrepreneur and architecture aficionado Cowan-Dewar, who is also co-founder of the Golf Club Atlas (www.golfclubatlas.com) and founder of GolfTI, a golf travel company; Ran Morrissett, Cowan-Dewar’s co-conspirator at GCA; Canadian architect Rod Whitman and Mike Keiser, of Bandon Dunes/Barnbougle fame – brings a tremendous pedigree to the project. (Keiser, who seems to know a thing or two about getting linksters to schlep to out-of-the way places in droves, joined the team a bit later in the game, and has been able to accelerate development.)

Construction is nearing completion at Cabot Links, and the course is slated to open for 10-hole play on Canada Day, July 1^st (a 4,000-odd yard tease that served Keiser quite well at Old Macdonald); the full 18 will be open in spring of 2012.

Great promotional packages are only that.  But knowing Mike Keiser, Ben Cowan-Dewar and Ran Morrissettt – and having heard great things about the work of Rod Whitman – I imagine that Cabot Links will live up to the tasteful hype that will I likely have deposited at sundry municipal courses around Portland, Oregon by the time you read this.

Visit www.cabotlinks.com to sign up for updates on the course’s progress.

The author, on a happier steelheading occasion.

Having recently moved to Oregon and been bitten by the steelhead bug – and having a friend in the fishing travel business who regaled me with tales of the chrome monsters lurking in the famed Bulkley – I decided to make the trek north.  A spendy B.C. lodge was out of the question on my budget, but a tent wouldn’t do either, as my wife and 18 month-old daughter (and the wife and two young children of my fishing companion Peter) would be in tow.  The same friend had assured us that the Bulkley’s hub town – Smithers – would be great fun for the families, and that the most comfortable and economical way to do the trip would be to rent a house on the river that was owned by an area lodge operator…and that there was lots of access for do-it-yourselfers.

It should be noted here that said friend stayed at a spendy lodge, had no children at the time, has a wife who’s an excellent angler and fished with guides.  I knew all this at the time, but was careful to not let such knowledge interfere with my bad judgment.

We started our trek north with a two-day stopover in Vancouver, a delightful cosmopolitan city; our brief habitation here was by far the smartest thing Peter and I managed in our plan.  (The second smartest was an overnight here on the sojourn south.)  Early on the third morning, with memories of our ambles in Stanley Park still fresh in mind, we began the 12-hour drive north in Pete’s new Honda Odyssey; the families would fly up that evening (the only other smart facet of our plan).  As we left the suburbs, an LED sign on the highway warned us to “Beware of Wildlifes.”  We chortled at the misplaced plural, though did not discount the possibility that the grizzlies, elk, wolves, etc. would be so plentiful that the “s” might be justified.  We passed through towns surprisingly devoid of charm – Williams Lake, Quesnel, Prince George – marking our progress with coffee/meal stops at Tim Hortons (a cross between Dunkin Donuts and Dennys, and a culinary mainstay in this part of the world).  After Prince George, we veered northwest for the last 150 miles (or so) of our journey.  As the last light leaked from the sky near Vanderhoof, the clouds gave way to light rain.  By Houston, with its statue of the largest fly rod in the world, the rain was falling in earnest.  We couldn’t make out the shade of the little Bulkley near its junction with the Morice (a much larger river; by all rights the Bulkley should be called the Morice) in the darkness.  This, in retrospect, was a small blessing, as we had at least one night of hopeful steelhead dreams.

When we woke the next morning, the rain had mostly stopped, but the damage had been done–the Bulkley flowed a dismal gray, like washing machine outflow after a very dirty load of laundry.  We decided a trip to town was in order to show our families it’s many child-friendly amenities, and to get a bit of local angling knowledge. We soon learned that Smithers was undergoing a major public works project – the main artery had been scarped down to the dirt, traffic was reduced to one lane, and many adjoining sidewalks were blocked with large sewer pipes.  Traversing the pipes, we eventually found a sporting goods store with a fly fishing section.  When I asked a store employee which dry fly he liked to use on the Bulkley – after all, it was famed for its surface-seeking steelhead – he seemed to staunch a guffaw and pointed instead to an assortment of long black leeches…the kind of thing we’d use at home in the winter.  When I asked about access, he asked if we had guides…and when I said no, he said it was pretty limited, and point out a few spots on a map he sold us.  “Most of the guys on their own put in and float,” he added.  “You guys have boats?”

They were safe at home.

But Gunter, our host, did have a few pontoon boats that he was happy to rent us for the week, and the fee was just a little more than buying a boat of our own.  Gunter was a curious character, a burly Austrian who closely resembled my vision of a “burgher” except instead of wearing lederhosen, he favored a t-shirt promoting his lodge that he wore everyday and that didn’t quite cover his rotund tummy.  He was obviously a festive soul, as a banner reading “Happy Birthday Helga” still hung in the house’s mudroom off the garage.  It turned out that the grounds of our rental home were the nerve center of what he called his “Mobile Unit” – an RV/boat combination that allowed him to take salmon-seeking clients where the action was on the Lower Skeena and beyond.  Gunter was officious in his manner, and suspect of his clients’ angling ability.  “I had three guys from Norway on the Skeena salmon fishing,” he explained shortly after our first meeting.  “They said, ‘There are no fish here.’  I grabbed the rod and cast out and caught a 30 pounder, one cast.”  So there.  Once we had our boats, we had to figure out how to get them down to the river, as the bank was quite steep.  Given Gunter’s general ambivalence toward guest fishermen, I wagered Peter a beer that if we asked him how to get the boats down, he would tell us to jump in them and slide down.

“How do you get the boats down to the river?”

“Get in and slide down!”

As we were roping them down the cliff, he added, “Fish the bends!”

For the next five days, we fished the bends, the riffles and the runs of the eight or so miles between Gunter’s house and the highway bridge just east of downtown—the last take-out before the canyon section of the Bulkley, home, we learned (later) to many of the river’s most famous runs, and pretty much out of the question for day-trippers on their own.  As the week passed, the water cleared a wee bit, going from the dirty laundry outflow shade to the color of glacial till.  Part of the problem, we realized, was the abundance of pink salmon flesh in the system.  After every third swing of our leeches, it was necessary to clean the hook of salmon gook.  And if we weren’t hooking fish matter, we were getting tangled up with the millions of cottonwood leaves drifting toward Mother Skeena.  Beyond flesh, flotsam and one small bull trout, we found nothing.  Not a tug.

By our third day of floating what we came to think of as our “home water,” we began to see a few other anglers flogging away.  They shared that a few of the other venerable Skeena tributaries – the Copper, the Kispiox and the Babine – were running fairly clear, and people were finding a few fish.  Had we considered going over there?  “Over there” meant a few hours drive—no problem for Peter and I, who were used to driving a few hours each way to the Deschutes for half a day’s fishing.  But four extra hours of driving meant four more hours away from our families.

Oh yes — our families.

Each early evening when we returned to the house above the Bulkley, our wives greeted us with eyes that shone with a mix of derision and desperation – the former, a function of our fine plan to strand them some eight miles south of nowhere; the latter, a direct correlation to being stranded with three toddlers, very few toys and no town diversions beyond a public pool/water park with limited family hours and the pleasure of dropping off our shuttle vehicle – an ancient pick-up truck whose use came with the house – at the aforementioned bridge.  Had there been somewhere to go, I have no doubt our saintly spouses would’ve thrust the children into our casting-soar arms and gone.  As there wasn’t, they merely opened a bottle of wine and glowered at us across the table, expressing little sympathy for the off-color water, the salmon gook and the opportunity denied of driving to the Babine, Copper, etc…though in the spirit of full disclosure, I should say that neither Peter nor I had the guts to even float the “driving to other rivers” notion, given the current circumstances.

It’s worth noting that in the seven years since our fateful trip to Smithers, my wife has not once expressed an interest in returning.  In fact, I don’t believe that’s she ever mentioned it.

On our fourth day of flogging, it happened.  We were at a promising looking riffle about midway though the float.  I took a spot near the head, and Peter positioned himself 100 yards downstream.  I flipped a purple leech about 30 feet out, and mid-way through the swing came THE PULL.  I yelped and backed up onto the gravel bar to dig in for what would certainly be an epic struggle – me versus the iconic Bulkley steelhead.  I waited for line to scream from the reel, but it didn’t so much as murmur.  The fish was still there, just not doing a damn thing.  I began reeling and it dutifully swam in.  With ten feet of line outside the rod tip, the fish came in view – it was seven or eight pounds, moderately bright – nothing remarkable.  At this point, it didn’t begin to fight so much as thrash about, shaking its head.  Before Peter could scramble up the bar to see this marvel, our first B.C. steelhead, it shook itself free and drifted back into the murk.  Few events in my fishing life have been so anticlimactic.

The next day – our last on the river – Peter took the slot at the head of the very same riffle, flipped a purple leech out and yelped.  Another hook-up!  After waiting for a searing run that was never to come, Pete reeled the fish in, saw that it was about eight pounds, and parted company with it not far from his feet when the fish began shaking its head.

To this day, I’m convinced that it was the same fish, for all I know, the only steelhead that entered the Bulkley in the fall of 2001.

(A version of this story appeared in The Flyfishing Journal.)

Jeff Brineger, head professional at Bandon Dunes' Old Macdonald.

Since June of 2010, Jeff Brinegar has presided over what many consider to be America’s most sought-after “must-play” new course—Old Macdonald, the latest addition at Bandon Dunes.  Assuming the mantle at Old Mac is, in many respects, a perfect culmination of Brinegar’s golf aspirations to date.  The course that brought him here is testament to both patience and the determination necessary to help make your own opportunities.

I visited with Jeff recently on a trip down to Bandon, and had the chance to learn a bit more about his ascendancy at Old Mac – and some of the pleasant surprises he’s found at the northwest edge of Mike Keiser’s Oregon empire.

CS:  One might say that you’ve been steadily making your way to Old MacDonald for nearly ten years.  Can you describe the path that brought you here?

JB:  I took a job as a pro at the Golf Club at Hawks Prairie in Olympia, Washington in 2000.  Shortly after starting, I made a trip to Bandon Dunes.  I had played a few times in Scotland and really loved links golf, and I’d heard that Bandon was supposed to be just like Scotland.  After just one round, I knew this was where I wanted to be.  For the next four years, every time I came down, I tried to meet people on the staff to let them know that if an opportunity ever opened up, I’d be very interested.  In 2005 I got the call, and came on board as second assistant pro at Bandon Dunes.   I spent the next two years at Bandon Dunes as the first assistant, became head pro at Bandon Trails in 2008 and then head pro at Pacific Dunes in 2009.  In 2006 I told Matt Allen, who was then Director of Operations, that I really wanted the fourth course.  (Allen is now G.M. at Chambers Bay in Tacoma, WA.)  I’d had my eye on the land east of Pacific Dunes for a while, and wanted to be part of its development.  It’s been an amazing journey—from giving tours as the course was first being mapped out to being in charge of the 10-hole loop during the course’s pre-opening phase to seeing the looks on guests’ faces as they come into the shop, so eager to play.  People are giddy when they arrive.

C.S.:  To me, it would seem that being the pro at a course that’s the focus of so much attention would be like sitting in a hot seat.  Did you feel any anxiety or pressure as the clock ticked down to opening day?

J.B.:  Old Macdonald was much more exciting than frightening.  The team here has had other major openings in the past, and they know how to do it.  As long as you stay on or ahead of your schedule, you know everything is in place—the course is ready, the shop is ready and the staff is trained.  Frankly, I was more anxious about what the world would think.  On the people side of things, we do everything we can for visitors to have a positive experience.  But the proof is in the pudding.

C.S.:  From my experience – and the experience of every other person I’ve spoken to who’s played Old Mac – it’s a pretty delicious pudding.  How would you characterize the feedback you’ve been receiving in the clubhouse?

J.B.:  The most consistent thing we hear is that people say they’ve had so much fun; they want to play it again.  For those of us in the golf business, the fun factor is key.  That’s what brings people back, and what makes a course appealing to players with a broad range of abilities.  Depending on the tees you play from and the weather, you can get a different course each time you go out. Players of all skill levels are going to hit a lot of fairways and a lot of greens when they play Old Macdonald.  Though when you get on a green like the 8^th, our Biarritz Hole, which is 24,000 square feet, you may still have some work cut out for you.

Once players adjust to the ground game – real links golf – it’s only a matter of time before they figure out how to attack these enormous greens and generous fairways. The strategic qualities of Old Macdonald provide for some wonderful discoveries as players get to know the course.

As I said above, regardless of your skill level we want our guests to feel comfortable.  Old Mac is the first of the four Bandon courses to offer a set of Royal Blue tees for players who might enjoy playing a course that measures out at around 4,300 yards. The response from people who’ve played the Royal Blues is, “Finally, a set of boxes that makes sense for me.” We now have Royal Blue tees on all four courses.

C.S.:  Have you received any unexpected feedback?

J.B.:  I’ve been surprised that many visitors have a decent knowledge of Charles Blair Macdonald’s legacy as a golf course architect.  We certainly did our best to explain the concept of Old Macdonald as the course was being built, but you’re never sure how much that message will resonate.  I’ve had people come into the shop afterwards and say ‘I didn’t  think a Redan Hole (#12 at Old Mac, inspired by #4 at Macdonald’s National Golf Links of America which in turn was inspired by #15 at North Berwick) could be done in such a setting, but I think Macdonald would’ve loved it.’  At the same time, I’ve really enjoyed explaining C.B. Macdonald’s contributions to people who are less familiar with his work, and how the holes that he paid tribute to at National – and that Tom Doak and Jim Urbina have reinterpreted here – have helped set the standard for golf course architecture in America.

C.S.:  I was speaking to Scott Millhouser (the head pro at Bandon Trails) the other day, and he mentioned that you and he had had a trip back east to play a little golf – including Pine Valley, Fisher’s Island and National Golf Links.  How did National compare to its offspring?

J.B.:  From the very beginning, Jim Urbina said ‘Go play National if you’re going to be part of Old Macdonald.’  I finally got the chance this fall, and it was inspiring.  At National, Macdonald based each hole roughly on a hole that impressed him during his time abroad—though it would be incorrect to think that he merely copied them.  He felt the originals had one or two good strategic elements.  He sought to rethink them to add in new strategic elements where they might improve the hole.

Tom and Jim didn’t try to replicate the holes, but they interpreted them in keeping with the landscape here.  I’d say that 15 are carved from the National template, the three others are originals inspired by the MacDonald ethos.  There are incredible moments on Old Mac – the mystery of hitting a blind approach shot on the #16 Alps Hole, the tee shot on the #3 Sahara hole, the approach shot on the#10 Bottle hole.  When you walk up the hill on #3 and finally see the whole course before you, it’s a spectacular moment.  The wide-open setting, the style of bunkers—it’s all very 1910.

C.S.:  What does the future hold?

J.B.:  I’m right where I want to be.  My experience at all four courses at Bandon has been out of this world.  It’s been a pleasure to work with a visionary like Mike Keiser, who’s so focused on the purity of this game.  He’s the modern-day Johnny Appleseed of links courses.  I hope he continues to plant new links around the world.

Conway Bowman, posing with a bass -- somewhat more benign than the makos he pursues off the coast of San Diego.

As the first of the many makos we’d see over two days snuggled up against our chum bucket, I couldn’t prevent the heavy metal standard “Iron Man” from penetrating my thoughts.  Not because the sight of these blue black predators circling our boat summons a dystopian vision of mayhem, but because Conway Bowman and I had been discussing Dark Globe, the band he used to play drums for, and his predilection for Black Sabbath.  A few sharks later in the day, Conway gamely joins in on the chorus of The Band’s “The Weight” which blares over a set of speakers wired to the boat’s center console, courtesy of shark guide in training Jared Lane’s iPod:

Take a load off Fanny, take a load for free;

Take a load off Fanny,

And you can put the load right on me

On this day, Bowman does not seem burdened by any loads; in fact, he’s flying high, and with good reason: there’s a new TV project close to getting green-lighted; a documentary film (Speed, Muscle and Teeth) nearly ready for release; an endorsement deal from a major outdoor clothing manufacturer; and a recently arrived son, Maximillian, with his wife of five years, Michelle.

Bowman’s catholic musical tastes speak to a multi-faceted, idiosyncratic persona.  A native San Diegan, Bowman has a surfer aura about him – flared jeans, a graying soul patch, piercing blue eyes and brief forays into longboard patois.  Yet bookended by the occasional “dude,” you’ll hear an in-depth discourse on the lifecycle of mako sharks and a thoughtful and heartfelt case for the fish’s protection.  (Bowman is a surfer, by the way, and his frequent trips to the break at Cardiff Reef, just north of La Jolla, help explain his lean and muscular physique.)   Conway’s father John began his adult life as a stage actor, but finding that livelihood too remuneratively inconsistent to provide for a family, became a high school literature professor.  He stayed active in community theater, and that helped make the Bowman home a flourishing cultural center—which, in conservative San Diego, meant a freak show.  “I remember holiday dinners with a roomful of artsy types doing skits before and after the meal, and generally carrying on,” Conway recalled, as he squeezed a bit of menhaden oil onto the yellowtail jack carcasses in the chum bucket.  “We were definitely the weird family in the neighborhood.”

John Bowman’s teaching schedule allowed for extended summer road trips, many of which led to the trout streams of Idaho.  Conway frequently accompanied his dad and caught the fly fishing bug, but found few freshwater opportunities available once he returned south.  In the early nineties, he discovered saltwater fly fishing, and soon learned that sharks were among the most plentiful sport fish off the coast of southern California.   “I bought a 17’ aluminum skiff with a 25 horse tiller-controlled motor and a a compass and hand-held radio,” Conway explained.  I would run that skiff so far out that I couldn’t see  land! There were some dicey times when the fog would roll in and I was 10 miles out to sea but I made it back and look at those times as not stupid moves, but valued learning experiences.  The first time I went fly-fishing for sharks, I conned one of my buddies, Mike Seim (now a we’ll respected guide in Montana) to venture out with me.  We set the slick and by the end of the day we were surrounded by at least 25 blue sharks ranging from 4 to 8 feet long. At that point I realized that I was on to something fly-rodding for sharks.  But it took me two years to catch my first mako on the fly.”

John Bowman, incidentally, has shown no interest in casting to makos.

It’s the makos that have catapulted Conway Bowman to fly rod celebrity—which has all the gravitas in the non-fly fishing world of having once been sent to fetch coffee for Leo DiCaprio or Henry Paulson.  For a time, Conway co-hosted ESPN’s “In Search of Fly Waters,” and has been featured on a number of other outdoors programs and in such august publications as the New York Times.  Though the makos proved elusive to bring to hand in the early days, 15 years later, it’s a different story.  “If I can draw a mako near the boat, we’re almost certain to hook them,” Conway said, not boasting but stating fact.  ““They’re not shy; when they turn on, they’re like a heat-seeking missile.”  This was certainly my experience; of the 13 makos that showed up during my visit, 12 – ranging from 80 to 120 pounds – were landed and gently released…or as gently as is possible with a writhing mouthful of long and sharp teeth 3 feet of 86 pound test steel leader away.  (Barbless hooks and a home-made catch & release tool facilitate the process.)  The 13^th – a larger fish that Conway estimated to be between 150 and 175 pounds – leaped three times in rapid succession to heights reaching nearly ten feet, and sliced through the leader with its rough skin.

Conway’s upbringing may have inspired his eclectic angling choices.  It also seems to have fostered a level of pragmatism that helps keep mako fishing fresh.  He’s held down a day job with the city of San Diego’s Public Utilities Department since he was 17, and now – 27 years later – he’s a watershed manager for a 300 square mile parcel of land in northern San Diego County.  (Conway’s close friends refer to the spread as “The Ranch.”)  “My day to day duties vary from managing farmers’ water usage to doing  habitat restoration  and even performing  micrometer readings on the Hodges  Dam.  It’s a great job for someone who can’t stand to sit in an office and deal with a normal 9 to 5. My days usually start at 4am and I’m off the clock by 2 pm.”  It doesn’t hurt that Lake Hodges offers excellent largemouth bass fishing, and that tailing carp can also be found in the greater watershed…and that if the sharks call, Conway can shift his day activities to the evening.

There is a sense of bravado in big-game fishing, and the audacity to chase mako sharks with a fly rod only ups the ante.  Yet Conway’s eagerness to have his clients stick a shark is balanced by a great admiration and respect for these animals – and a desire to cease their senseless slaughter by “sportsmen.”  To this end, he’s launched Flying Mako, a catch and release fly fishing tournament where proceeds go toward shark conservation efforts.  He’s also tried to persuade by example.

“I got to know a commercial fisherman who caught and killed a lot of sharks with a handline,” Conway recalled.  “I think he thought I was one step above the village idiot, casting to them with a fly rod.  One time we were fishing pretty close by each other, and I hooked a shark.  It nearly jumped into his boat.  He came over afterwards and said, ‘Boy I thought I fished light tackle!’  We moored our boats at the same marina, and he’d come over some days and ask how I did.  When he decided that I wasn’t a threat to what he was doing, he began to share hints about where to find the sharks on certain tides.  It really helped things comes together for me.

“I changed marinas and didn’t see him for a number of years, and then I ran into him.  He told me that he’d gotten out of commercial fishing – killing makos just started to feel weird.  ‘I want to do what you do – take people out to catch makos so they can see what a great adversary they are, then put them back.’   After his first trip, he stopped by my house to tell me about his day.  ‘I had two kids and a dad, and we released ten makos. I apologized to every fish before I let it go for all the sharks I killed.  Seeing the look on those kid’s faces when we got the sharks up to the boat — I’ve never had a better day on the water in my life.’”

(A version of this story originally appeared in Fly Fishing Journal.)

The 4th at The Glen Club, a downhill par-3.

Question:  where was the site of the first 18-hole golf course in America?

In New York, somewhere on Long Island?

In the sandhills of North Carolina, around Pinehurst?

Try again – it was just west of the city of Chicago, in the town of Belmont.  The year was 1893, the course was the first incarnation of the Chicago Golf Club, and its creator and most energetic booster was Charles Blair MacDonald.  MacDonald hailed from a wealthy Chicago family and attended university at St. Andrews in Scotland, where he befriended Old Tom Morris and fell in love with the game of golf.  He became well-versed in all aspects of the game – equipment manufacturing, architecture and playing (he was U.S. Amateur champion in 1895), and the enthusiasm he brought back to the Midwest helped make greater Chicago an important early golf outpost in the United States.  Many venerable golf clubs sprang up in the wake of Chicago Golf Club (which relocated in 1894 to its current location in Wheaton) – Butler National, Medinah and Olympia Fields, to name a few.   Chicagoland also has an abundance of fine facilities open to the general public—some 500 courses in all, including The Glen Club, which opened in 2001, yet harkens back to an earlier time.

“There are so many great, old private clubs around Chicagoland,” Josh Lesnik observed.  “The Glen Club is built on the tradition of these old clubs.  When you enter the grounds and the clubhouse, you feel like you’re discovering something special.”

The Glen Club, with its 195 acres of meandering streams, valleys and copses of mature pines and catalpa, is a surprising sanctuary in the suburb of Glenview on the North Shore, just 15 miles from the hubbub of The Loop.  It’s even more surprising when you realize that until 1995, the grounds of the Glen Club (and 800 surrounding acres) were the site of the Glenview Naval Air Station, which operated sea planes on nearby Lake Michigan, as well as anti-submarine planes.  The land here didn’t lend itself to a first-rate parkland course in its unadulterated state.  To help make this happen, the course’s developers, Kemper Sports Management (which oversee operations at over 75 courses around America) brought in Tom Fazio, an architect who’s been known to move a bit of dirt around to realize his vision.  “When you consider the location of The Glen Club, you expect flat terrain,” Josh continued.  “It’s actually quite contoured.  Fazio brought in two million cubic yards of dirt and 4,000 trees.  You’d never know that much of the back nine was built on a runway.  (Before the course was built, the base had an elevation variance of 3 feet; post-Fazio, some holes have as much as 40 feet in elevation change.)  The last two hours of your round, you’re in the center of a natural haven, surrounded by blue herons, egrets and ancient trees.  I think Tom did a great job in capturing the spirit of the old clubs of Chicago.  When I walked the course with Tom Doak, he stood on the seventh green and said it could easily be a Macdonald green at Chicago Golf Club.  While the fairways are wide enough to give the average player a good level of satisfaction, there’s plenty of challenge from the back tees for the guys playing the Nationwide event that’s held here.

“I always feel that if I survive the first seven holes, I can start to score a bit.  Six and seven are long par 4’s, as much golf hole as you’d want anywhere.  The fourth is a short par-3, maybe 40 feet downhill.  The green is surrounded by fescue-covered dunes-like mounds.  It’s fun to hit a big downhill shot.  Though the moniker ‘windy city” really comes from the bluster that our politicians can generate, the wind can blow on this hole and make club selection tricky.  The 8^th hole is a favorite, a short dogleg left par-4.  There’s a creek that meanders along on the left side of the fairway, eventually emptying into a lake.  You don’t necessarily need a driver off the tee, but you need to be accurate.  On the back, the par-5 14 is a reachable in two par-5 if you risk flying the fairway bunker on the left.  The green here is surrounded by huge old trees; one holds an owl’s nest.  Number 16 is an uphill par 4, with a challenging approach shot to a two-tiered green.  You get the feeling you’re playing a hilly course, which is an odd sensation for Chicago.”

Part of the appeal of The Glen Club are the nostalgic touches that speak to old Chicago golf.   The clubhouse is home to the Illinois Golf Hall of Fame exhibit, which features plaques for each member, including Charles Blair Macdonald, Chick Evans (the first player to win both the U.S. Amateur and U.S. Open in the same year, who later established the Chick Evans Caddie-Scholar Fund) and PGA tour winner D.A. Weibring.  The 48,000 square foot clubhouse features a grand ballroom and 21 overnight rooms for visiting golfers.  “Each of the rooms are named after old clubs in Chicago,” Josh added, “and are decorated with black and white photos of the clubs.  The food and service at The Grill are memorable.  Overall, The Glen Club has a very old-fashioned feel.  Though it’s a public course, it has the ambiance of an old private club.”  In keeping with the past, the course has instituted a caddy program (rare for a daily fee course), which since Chick Evans’ day have been an important element of Chicago golf.

“One of my favorite moments at The Glen Club came in 2001, as we were preparing to open the course,” Josh shared.  “One of Chicago’s great amateur players, Bill Sheehan Jr. (who, among other achievements, won 1998 and 2000 U.S. Senior Amateur and 1999 British Senior Amateur), came out to play a pre-opening round with me—I was the General Manager at the time.  We were joined by Mike Keiser, who owns Bandon Dunes.  I was amazed by Bill’s ball-striking – the best I’ve ever seen.  And I was taken with Mike’s ideas about what people like about golf and golf courses.  As we made our way around, it was thrilling for me to see each of these men enjoy the course in their own way.”

Josh Lesnik is the president of KemperSports Properties.  From 1998 through 2000, Josh spearheaded the opening and operation of Bandon Dunes Golf Resort in his role as the resort’s General Manager.  He also served as the pre-opening and first-year General Manager of The Glen Club.   In his previous post at KemperSports, he served as vice president of marketing.  Josh holds a Bachelor of Arts degree from Drake University and a Master’s degree in marketing from Roosevelt University.

IF YOU GO

Getting There:  The Glen Club is in Glenview, IL, conveniently located to O’Hare and Palwaukee Airports.

Course Information:   The Glen Club (847-724-7272; www.theglenclub.com ) plays 7,149 yards from the back Gold Tees to a par 72; slope rating is 138.  Green fees range from $105 to $175, depending on the season.

Accommodations:  The Glen Club (847-724-7272; www.theglenclub.com) has 21 rooms available for guests; stay and play packages are available.  If you decide to stay in the city, the Chicago Convention and Tourism Bureau (877-244-2246; www.choosechicago.com) provides an overview of accommodation options.

(From Fifty More Places To Play Golf Before You Die)