Last October, I was granted the fabulous 
priveledge of playing the coolest golf 
course in the world.

Not the best.  Not the hardest.  Not the
course with the most perfectly manicured
conditions (far from it).  Not even the 
most beautiful, though the setting and 
scenery were fetching indeed.  

But this course without a doubt stands 
alone in my mind as the absolute coolest 
place on earth to play golf.

The name of this place is Oakhurst 1884 
Links, which is located in the verdant 
hills of West Virginia, which rise above 
the course on all sides and were alive and 
glowing with the vivid colors of October 
the day I played there.

What makes it the coolest golf course on 
earth is the fact that it is a historical 
recreation of our game as it was played a 
hundred years ago when few had seen a golf 
club; when those clubs were clumsy things, 
yet oddly beautiful; when balls were molded 
from gutta-percha and flew a scant 150 yards; 
and when sheep roamed the green(*), keeping 
the grass low enough to find your ball and 
hit it again toward the thick, short, shaft
of the flag.

This place, for those who would understand, 
is simply too cool for words.  

I arrived about a half hour before my tee 
time, and got the grand tour as all visitors 
do.  I saw the replicas of the Oakhurst 
Challenge Medal, the first ever awarded 
for tournament play in the United States.  
I viewed the actual broken gutta-percha 
balls found on the property when it was 
restored to be a golf course once again.  
I learned of the original heavy metal cups 
that were found on the property in the 1960s 
that showed the reconstructors where the holes 
should lie.

These holes were laid out in the days before
architects, when those who chose the 
route taken, in the words of Darwin, did
not "think a vast deal about the good or bad
length of their hole.  They saw a plateau
which nature had clearly intended for a
green, and another plateau at some distance 
off which had the appearance of a tee, and 
there was the hole ready made for them; whether 
the distance from one plateau to another could 
be compassed in a drive and a pitch, or in two
drives, or perhaps even two drives and a pitch,
did not, I fancy, greatly interest them.

Such a course is Oakhurst.  The routing 
takes you across ponds and over hills and
wild ditches.  The first hole in particular
is striking in the fact that, if a golfer were
not informed of the direction to initially
set out in, might stand on the first tee
for a time considering where his journey
was to begin.  The rest of the holes are 
more clearly laid out before you, but there 
are no definite lines between fairway and 
rough, rough and hazard, fairway and green.  
This course is a course where golf is played, 
and the way you play each shot is determined 
by the lie which the grand old game has dealt 
to you.

I was shown the clubs and selected my weapons.  
I chose a play club, a long iron, a short iron,
a putter, and a rut iron.  The play club is the
wood - a long narrow thing, with a flat spot 
carved on the front where you strike the ball,
and a brass plate screwed to the bottom.  The
irons, other than the hickory shafts that all
the clubs have, were not dissimilar to the shapes
we use today.  The putter looked like the play 
club, only shorter and with a steeper face, and
in fact several times I mistook it for the 
driving club and only corrected my mistake after 
I stepped onto the tee.  But the most unusual 
club is the rut iron, with a concave face slightly 
larger than a silver dollar, and very very heavy.  
Much heavier than today's sand wedge, I found 
that this club would go through anything, but 
demanded great accuracy to strike the ball in 
its intended direction.

We finally stepped outside and I took my first
swings with the hickory shafted clubs.  Swing 
smoothly and slowly, I was told, and indeed, I
had viewed The Life and Times of Bobby Jones in
preparation for this event.  I thought often
of his swing as I tried to emulate at least to
a tiny extent the grace of his flowing motion.

I went to the ninth green and practiced putting,
leaving them all woefully short as I tried to 
read the lush but bumpy surface.  I remembered
the wristy putting stroke of the past and did
somewhat better when I tried to duplicate it.

Finally we stepped to the first tee.  The tee
box was made of sand, and two buckets await you
on each.  I was shown how to dip my hand in the
one filled with water, then let the water drip 
into the sand-filled bucket to make a small wet
portion of sand.  This was scooped between the
fingers and placed on the sand tee box and the
guttie placed atop it.  I was shown the best
line for the first hole, and we were on our own.

My wife had accompanied me, and had decked herself
out in period costume and a large handmade silk
hat.  She spun wool and talked to the sheep and
added immensely to the atmosphere.

I played 18 wonderful holes (twice around the 
course), and gradually learned how to use the 
clubs. They are not forgiving and demand an exact 
strike square on the meat to get the ball to fly.  
The difference between a good shot and a perfectly
struck one is enormous.  The only thing missing 
was a real match to play, as I had no opponent.  
I came close to hitting some sheep on one stroke, 
and they calmly ignored my bouncing guttie.

I had also learned that the Shivas Irons society
had been to the course the day before, and had
a big event complete with bagpipes and other 
musicians, and played all day and into the night
with glowballs (not gutties, I imagine).  I
hope to be a part of that this year. I can only 
imagine the scene, replete with ghosts and 
mysterious forces; all having great affects upon
human performance.

The whole experience of playing this ancient game
with replicas of ancient equipment, on a faithful
restoration of one of the playing fields of old, 
nestled in a valley in the gorgeous Allegheny 
foothills was just... well...

It was SO cool!