The Angry Golfer

October 16, 2007

I first made the pilgrimage to Bandon Dunes about 2 1/2 years ago, and like everyone else, I was permanently affected by the experience. Beyond the stunning beauty, native charm and a pair of sensational golf courses (a third has since been added), the Oregon resort exuded a low-stress atmosphere that truly resonated with a bunch of uptight Northeasterners.

This can-do mentality and the opportunity to play the newest layout substantiated the need for a return voyage, and I can assure you, it's quite a hike. No overprivileged golf writer takes a cross-country plane ride, then drives 4 1/2 hours through the Pacific woods in the dead of night and drops $3,000 of his own cash for anything less than the absolute best, and Bandon Dunes is certainly as good as it gets.

That said, it wasn't the same hospitable hideaway as it was in April 2005. Pushy starters, cranky bartenders and go-through-the-motions marshals left our party of seven a bit disillusioned. America's friendliest and most fabulous links farm felt more like a factory.

My buddy Pierre was nearly thrown off the grounds for putting with his wedge on the practice green, a so-called violation of the "no chipping" rule as perceived by an employee who must have been having a very bad day.

Much to his credit, the head pro came out and apologized profusely, a measure of sanity on a day that began with the big starter jumping the little starter because we wanted to send out our threesome ahead of the foursome. Most of us were unaware that a single walk-on would be joining the three-ball, an addition we enthusiastically welcomed, but it was the manner in which the situation was handled -- one raised voice making the lone outsider feel about two feet tall -- that got under my skin.

After hiring a caddie for Wednesday's 36-hole jaunt, I elected to carry my own bag over the next two days, both of which we had scheduled only 18 holes. This decision did not go over well with any of the loopers, even though my guy quickly found work within my group. I expected no help raking bunkers or picking out lines off the tee, but I was totally unprepared for the gross lack of acknowledgment from either caddie during the second of those two rounds.

Not a single word was exchanged between us over the four hours. It was as if I didn't exist, my presence null and void, an act of petty protest so discomforting that the Angry Golfer felt more like the Humiliated Hack. My friend Dan was so bothered by the episode that he headed straight to the pro shop afterward and called the caddie master, a touch of class from a man of resolute principle, but I saw no purpose in agitating the situation any further.

For Saturday's 36-hole finale, I enlisted the services of the same guy who had given me the coldest shoulder one day earlier. We got along wonderfully, his caddie skills proving nothing less than superb, but much like the resort at which he works, a high commitment to quality eventually yields a discernible dose of attitude. Bandon Dunes will always be a must-visit for serious golfers, but this time, the drive back to Portland seemed a bit longer, the plane ride home a little slower.