Island Adventure
Reading my previous entry, one might be tempted to think that it’s the classic setup from a seasoned sandbagger, a handicap fraud trying to draw the gullible into taking a sucker’s bet. One would be wrong, at least in this case. My golf was as ugly as promised, a 145 for 18 holes, and only that low because they quit counting your strokes on each hole once you reach 10, even though those 10 strokes may not have taken you from the blue (men’s - REAL men’s, goddamnit!) tees to the white (ladies’) tees.
Lest you think I’m winding up to say Mackinac was my Guantanamo, an indeterminate sentence to a squalid and miserable experience, let me say I had a great time. The skies along the route were mostly clear, and the flight from Milwaukee to the island, in a KingAir turboprop, afforded views of a pastoral northern Michigan I hadn’t known existed.
The island itself is comparable, in a way to one of our San Juan Islands, with some important differences. The “dirt” is owned entirely by the state of Michigan, and the homeowners and businesses hold long-term leases from the state, with strict covenants on maintenance and use. Except for a couple of short periods each year (early spring and late fall), motor vehicles are not allowed to operate on the roads. Instead, a gaggle of horse-drawn vehicles ferries people and goods about. In addition to the people-taxis, I saw building materials and produce being transported on flat-bed wagons. One of our drivers told us there were 500 horses on the island in the summer. This culture of horse-drawn virtue also has its tailpipe emissions, however. All I can say is, if you rent a bike here, get one with fenders.
And, as for the golf - it was sort of grueling to require as many hacks at the ball as I did, and I was very conscious of not only slowing down my foursome, but also of infecting the caliber of the others’ play. But every third hole or so, I would somehow hit a ball just as it is supposed to be hit, and the exhilaration of it is like a hit on a crack pipe - you just stand there and say, “shit almighty, I hit that!” and you trod towards the ball absurdly, breathlessly, almost, expecting to repeat the experience with your next swing. Of course, that ball is predestined to a fate at the bottom of a pond or buried in a thicket of briars and poison oak, but you play the next hole anyway, and the next. I told you it was a form of madness, but I’ll also note that there are women who experience childbirth and have more kids anyway, too.
This is Mackinac Island from the air, looking north to south. The Lower Peninsula is visible in the distance, and the Mackinac Bridge is out of the picture to the right.
This is our ride to the island.
My client knows that I’m both an Ohio State alum and a Kerry supporter, both of which he is decidedly not. Early in the week, he was preoccupied with obtaining clubs and a golf bag for me, and I was a bit mystified as to why he would not simply rent me a set on the island, especially in light of the dubiousness of the end product. Before boarding the plane, he produced a black bodybag thing, and unzipped it to reveal the bag you see me holding, emblazoned with Wisconsin Badger regalia and sporting a Bush (”W”) campaign placard. I had to admit it was a terrific ruse.
We disembarked our private propjet in favor of this conveyance, which took us from the airport to the golf course.
The Mackinac Grand Hotel has a commanding view of the strait and the Mackinac Bridge.
Those of you whose only knowledge of golf comes from mistakenly recording a PGA tournament instead of Skinemax perhaps never see this aspect of the game, where people with a combined billing rate approaching $500 will spend 20 minutes tromping through potentially dangerous vegetation in search of a $2 golfball. At least quail have the sporting decency to flush when you’re standing directly over them.
A salve to the unquiet spirit - panoramic view of the Mackinac Bridge from the 16th tee.
