(This series is neither well planned or coherent. What it is, though, is the result of spending a few spare hours at Christmas 2021 looking through some recently located files of pictures, and thinking about my golfing journey to this point. I’ve been lucky to have played in some pretty special places, and made some lasting connections along the way, and year end seems as good a time to reflect back on a dozen of these as any. Who knows, it might inspire me to plan a few more exploratory trips for 2022…)
It’s not quite the Middle of Nowhere. From what I can make out, that is actually Mullen, Nebraska - a town the Pontiac roars into at around 9pm the previous evening. Barely visible on the folded map, in the days before sat-nav, Mullen felt like a ghost town on arrival, the surprise at our sudden appearance evident on the motel receptionist’s face, her reaction painting a picture of life at a very different pace.
From there, after the obligatory and welcome morning coffee refills, we were once again on the road, driving through one flat and featureless hectare after another, the mid-plains of America stretched out in every direction, with little sign of human habitation and endless waves of wispy grasses for company.
Brian and I were on the trip of a lifetime, the lucky recipients of scholarships to tour some of the world’s greatest golf courses, with access arranged to many of the hardest tickets in the game. We were a week or so in, with many miles and memories already under our belts, so you could argue that it would make no sense to deviate from this pre-arranged tour plan to take in yet another course.
After all, the itinerary was by anyone else’s standards laughable - famous courses like Riviera and Pebble Beach alongside those only mentioned in hushed tones, like San Francisco and Prairie Dunes. For the architectural student, this was like winning the lottery, although few lottery winners could actually buy access to these sacred grounds; yet here we were, wide-eyed at the hospitality laid on for us.
But with a tiny window in the schedule as our rental battered through the heart of the country, we made a call to a total stranger, the Superintendent charged with maintaining the course at Sand Hills, and as so often happens in this industry, he was happy to learn of our interest, and willing to help. Golf is a small world at times.
An hour after leaving Mullen, the first of a handful of rustic signs indicates that this is where this unlikely new development exists. Sand Hills only opened in 1995, but was quickly included at the top end of several world ranking tables, its architectural reputation a result of the work of Coore & Crenshaw, who spent several years walking a huge property to find the best collection of eighteen holes and a coherent routing in a landscape of staggering potential.
The first sign said simply “Sand Hills Private Road”, and the excitement at this threshold slowly wore off as we continued driving down a seemingly endless track, each minute reinforcing the feeling that perhaps we’d missed the turning. But eventually a building appeared, and we found the way in, and were invited to play this latest masterpiece of strategic design, lost in the silent open spaces of Nebraska.
The experience was nothing short of spell-binding from start to finish. The wild green sites protected by rugged, natural bunkers, and clever, flowing contours. Each hole framed by waste areas of natural sand and tall fescues, and all the while the vast sky above and all around. Our delight in the course brought a euphoric response that has still not waned nearly two decades on, and the re-discovery of the file of photos from that special day in the valley was an emotional moment this morning, a wonderful Christmas present.
It seems a lifetime ago that this stranger and I leapt from the car to this latest adventure, and the excitement I had back then at approaching another new chapter in my study of golf design is far too rarely felt these days. I stare at the photo of that sign that heralded our arrival at Sand Hills, and realise that it is this sense of exploration, of taking a risk and asking the right questions, that I have grown lazy about.
That day built a memory that I will take to my grave, but it would have been so easy to not bother calling, or to assume we wouldn’t be welcomed in the way we were. But for some reason, we did decide to explore a different opportunity, and it paid a handsome dividend. For those of us lucky enough to get to these outposts of the game, where the genius of architectural mastery is manifested in the rolling fairways and irregular sand scrapes, these journeys are like pilgrimages to the sacred grounds of this ancient game, and they build the precious memories and connections that are not possible when simply following the familiar routes, the paths of least resistance.
As we retraced our steps away from Sand Hills, and back to the route that had been planned out for us, I remember reflecting on my wonderful experience there, and wondering just what level of passion and engagement those involved in creating such a work of art must feel. For golf course design at its best is as difficult and sublime an art form as any other I’m aware of, the architect’s command of so many disciplines and factors requiring an incredible degree of knowledge; yet most golfers stroll on, oblivious to the underlying quality and complexity of the great masterpieces.
We went there to build our own memories, and succeeded. Coore & Crenshaw, and the others brave enough to attempt building such a facility an hour outside of the Middle of Nowhere, were not only building their own memories, but following their dreams, and in doing so creating a canvas from which thousands of others would create their own memorable days. In a golfing life spanning thirty-five years at this point, this one day in August 2004 was a profound lesson in taking a chance.
Many of the holes at Sand Hills are templates for the risk/reward element of golf, and this recollection of that visit all these years later feels like a golden lesson. We should perhaps take more risks in our lives, for on the other side of those risks lie the rewards we’ll never regret or forget. I’ll probably never again see those fescues dancing in the wind in this life, but just maybe the year ahead might throw up a few more memories as cherished as this one.