Ah, Portland Golf

Three peaks looming in powder-white freshness at the end of a clear spring day, obscured again by misty drizzle the following morning and many mornings after,

the sun searing all summer, cracking the powder, drying it up until all that’s left looks as tiny as a little white ball smacked into the air, down the center cut, the short grass shimmering in the morning dew, hooking left, under the willows of Broadmoor, or the blackberries of Heron Lakes, rolling past a 140-foot Douglas Fir onto the walking paths of Glendoveer, or nestling at the base of a thick elm at Eastmoreland, or a red Solo cup at Rose City… Ah, Portland golf.

Grey-haired marshals nodding democratically as they pause for a backswing before their carts drone past, the crows who swarm hawks and hop onto unzipped bags to forage for lunch, ponds with fake crocodile heads that shout “Danger!” to the migrating geese louder than any F-15, the indifferent coyotes who trot across the green, the deer who nervously munch heavy rough, nutria gliding through the murky shallows, blue herons watching intently from one leg in the cattails, spreading their wings and lumbering into the air when a lost ball splashes too close for comfort... Oh, Portland golf!

The green stacks saved from junior rates and twilight rates and senior rates, golf for less than a ballgame in Boston or a movie in Los Angeles, weekends with anxious amateurs clustered at the first tee, the fivesomes in Blazers jerseys who zig-zag across the fairway, businessmen in crisp khakis and collared shirts with logos stitched above the breast pocket, the angry high-schoolers who smash their clubs into the ground with each wayward drive, retired singles gnashing their ulcers because they can’t play through fast enough… Oh, sweet, short getaway to nature, relaxation, frustration, camaraderie and pollen and cigar and weed smoke in the air.

The short doglegs of Greenback that will make you feel powerful, the steep bunkers and narrow approaches of Great Blue that will bring you to your knees, the putting surfaces of RedTail that undulate with horror, the lost driving range on 82^nd from which grew a vacant meadow, the lost course of Colewood from which grew a new driving range, the grandmother who swings like a metronome and hits it straight as an arrow, the granddaughter who contorts every inch of her body and smashes the ball, the men’s club locker room with old carpet that smells faintly of urine, the men’s club that takes all the late afternoon tee times, … Ah, working on your pesky handicap in Rip City, giving yourself the bogey because that sand trap wasn’t properly raked.

The half-full clubhouse restaurants where once-mighty athletes return sunburned or rain-soaked and muddied to examine their scorecards and lament three-putts and bad luck, display racks of trail mix and sour balls and Bit-O-Honey and yogurt-covered pretzels and orange slices and butterscotch and cashews, the ding of a cash register, patio decks where co-workers and neighbors and gamblers gather around pitchers of Mirror Pond, meat hitting the grill with a hiss, a small bag of Lays potato chips with every hot dog… Oh, Portland golf, treasure of Bridgetown, of OHSU doctors and Emanuel nurses, sanctuary of the food service worker, port of call and beloved landmark for the schoolteacher, the IBM programmer, the Nike marketing director, the real estate developer.

The barbed wire fence of the airport, the concrete sheds on the other side for target practice, the low-flying UPS planes that seem within reach of a well-struck pitching wedge, the starter who can just squeeze you into the handwritten schedule he has secured to a clipboard so it doesn’t flap in the breeze, the four-lane roads with semis that roar by before giving way to the squawk of ducks, the gentle sigh of wind in the leaves, the scent of pine… Ah, 18 holes in the City of Roses, spiraling, lush oases that cross roads where bikers scream at motorists and motorists honk back with one finger raised to the cloudy sky, splattered among strip clubs and ramen restaurants and new luxury apartments and the huddled masses of homeless at street corners and off-ramps and MAX stations.

Saving your greens fee receipt for the snack shack guy after hole three, a tall boy of Arizona Iced Tea, a boxed turkey sandwich with the bread soggy from yellow mustard, a King Size Reese’s, buying your playing partner a round, sharing a nip from the birdie bottle you have tucked away for emergencies, like when you pulled your approach into a rhododendron and topped a screamer of a third shot that was sure to fly into the slough, and then—the metal flag standing fast, secured properly in the hole, absorbing the contact, your ball falling straight down and landing in the cup with a soft click, and you felt the joy of a restless Chinook as it swam from the Sandy, back up to the Columbia, and out into the boundless waters of the mighty Pacific… Portland golf. Ah, Portland golf.