Golf Clubs & Grizzly Bears
Expect the Unexpected
Ah, so you are still waiting for the next episode of my Bariloche Series so you can find out what outrageous escapades mi esposo pulled while in Northern Patagonia. I haven’t forgotten. Before we go back to the Andes…
It’s time to go on summer vacation to Whitefish, Montana. I fell in love with golf from the first moment I laid eyes on the incredible Whitefish Lake Golf Course. I was star-struck, over the moon, head over heels in love. I had a vision and golf was paramount to my future happiness. In my minds-eye, Hubs and I, fit as a couple of fiddles, would spend our senior years, toodling around the continent in our fully loaded RV, golfing on different courses, and living the good life.
It mattered not that we didn’t own an RV nor that I had never picked up a golf club in my entire life. These were mere minor obstacles to overcome.
And so began my career as a golf student.
I was diligent. I was dedicated. I was committed. I was persistent. I was optimistic. I did everything I was supposed to do.
I set myself up 100% for success. It is called determination. I had a goal in mind, and I would achieve it!
For ten solid years, I gave golf my best shot.
I took a TON of lessons during that decade. If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times: Keep Your Eye on the Ball. Okay, I heard you. Eye on the ball. I got it.
Oh, all right. So, I didn’t really “get it”. I TRIED to get it. I’m no quitter, so I kept trying and that has to be worth something. Actually, it was! One year I played in a golf tournament. I ended up winning a beautiful trophy with a horse’s rear end on it for coming in with the HIGHEST SCORE in the entire tournament. Without my years of dedication and perseverance, I would never have won my trophy.
It takes special talent for a golfer to qualify for the Horse’s Rear End.
My real game-changer came when I decided to spend an entire month in beautiful Whitefish, Montana. Enough was enough!
I arranged to meet with the golf pro for lessons twice a week and practice at the driving range every day. The time had come to stop swinging at air and start connecting with the ball.
Focus and concentration were on my agenda. I followed my plan to a tee.
Three weeks later, Hubs arrived for a week of vacation, and we headed out on the course. My score on the first hole: 10. My score on the second hole: 10.
Before I go any further, I confess I played by “girls’ rules”. I’m not sure which of my friends invented girls’ rules, but she was a genius. Under girls’ rules, you don’t count anything over 10 shots on any hole. Really, if your score is that high, you aren’t in the running to win the game anyway, are you? Girls’ rules help to keep us from getting too discouraged.
Back to the game with Hubs… the third fairway was following the same pattern as the first and second fairways. In fact, it was worst. My golf club did a bang-em-up job of sending giant clods of grass and dirt hurling into the air, while the ball didn’t budge an inch.
Chop, clop, hack, clod, whack, clump, thud, clack, whomp…
My five iron did such an impressive job of chewing up the freshly mowed grass that it looked like a dull rototiller had bludgeoned a haphazard trail of rubble down the entire fairway.
Adding to my misery, the third fairway has a water hazard. I knew from previous experience the pond had a VORACIOUS appetite for golf balls, especially MY golf balls. I opted not to feed more to the insatiable hydro-monster, the bottomless pit of lost-forever golf balls. I picked my ball up and carried it to the other side of the water. Frankly, it was the best “shot” I had that day. Placing the ball back down, I continued my game.
Chop, clop, hack, clod, whack, clump, thud, clack, whomp…
CLICK!! CLICK!! CLICK!! BRAIN ENGAGING!!! Hello, Anyone home? It’s me. Your brain. You are coming to your senses.
Five, four, three, two, one. BRAIN ON!!!
I thought to myself, “Why am I doing this? I don’t like this. I’m not good at it. I’ve given it my ALL and I’ve tried my BEST. And I’m still NOT good at it. I do a lot of things well, and this is NOT one of them!” I got an absolutely brilliant idea. “I QUIT!” I put my club in the bag. Goodbye golf. And good riddance.
Hubs tried to convince me to ride out that fairway and golf the next one. My response was, “No. Ten years is enough. No. Absolutely not. No way. I quit.”
I have NEVER golfed since and I NEVER plan to golf again.
Remember I was told, “Keep Your Eye of the Ball” at least a thousand times? Since retiring my clubs, (throwing them in the trash!) I found out I have double vision and that makes playing a game like golf very difficult. At the very best of times, I only have a 50/50 chance of hitting the REAL ball. 1
I don’t golf and we don’t have an RV. Oh well, it sounded like a good goal.
HIKING BIG MOUNTAIN
When I wasn’t spending time at the golf course as an unofficial assistant groundskeeper in charge of fairway aeration, I was power walking up and down mountain roads and trails.
Every morning before breakfast I huffed, puffed, and gasped for air as I hoofed my way three miles up the steepest inclines on Big Mountain Road, only to turn around at the top and race like Jack-the-Bear back down.
Every morning the same group of wasps flew hot on my track with their venomous stingers cocked and loaded. Those beggars were savage and relentless in their pursuit of trying to take a chunk out of my hide. Although I came through the daily battles unscathed, we had plenty of knock-down-drag-out skirmishes as I passed through their territory. They dive-bombed me going up, and they dive-bombed me coming back down, day after day after day. Ornery, nasty, vicious beasts.
While golfing wasn’t my forte, I sure could hike a mean mile up a mountain.
I decided to conquer Big Mountain, as in the ENTIRE mountain from the base at Whitefish Lake right to Summit House at the top of the mountain. By my calculation, it was an eleven-mile uphill hike with a total elevation gain of 3,790 feet and it was rated as “difficult” by the Parks Department.
Sign me up! I’m ready to engage in combat with the wasps, play dodge-the-grizzly with the bears, and hit the trail!
I invited Hubs to put his golf shoes aside and come strut his stuff up Big Mountain with me. He didn’t decline, but he wasn’t exuberant either.
Whitefish Lake & Big Mtn. - Danny On Trail is toward the right of the mountain.
The day came for the big trek and off we went, bright and early. We zipped tickety-boo up Big Mountain Road for the first four-plus miles. The walk moved smoothly along the narrow road as we gradually gained elevation. Douglas firs, junipers, alpine larches, spruces, redwoods, ponderosa pines, and a vast assortment of ferns and flowering lupines provided shade that lined our pathway.
Then we rounded the corner, straight into WASP Territory, where the bomber squad was revved up and waiting for us; stinger wasps on the frontline guard, biters flanking the rear.
Battle stations! Battle Stations! Sun visor in hand. Swat! Flick. Watch out for the rear. Twirl around. Sidestep to the left. Triple swat, swat, swat. One o’clock position! Swat! Two yellow jackets overhead. Flick! Flick, swat. Move it, fast…. swat, swat! Quick, get that striper! Flick. Gotcha covered. Yea! We’re in the clear. Whew.
For the wasps and me, it was just another day of duking it out on Big Mountain Road.
Hubs, on the other hand, thought he was attacked by a swarm of wasps.
Onward and upward we went to the bottom of the ski hill at Whitefish Mountain Resort. Lunch and a break before hitting the mountain for the REAL hike.
We were heading 5.6 miles and 2,353 vertical feet up the Danny On National Recreation Trail. Used by 15,000 hikers annually, the trail officially opened in 1981 to honor the memory of Danny On, a highly regarded and much-loved National Forest Service silviculturist, and photographer who was killed in a tragic skiing accident on Whitefish Mountain (Big Mountain) in January 1979.
If you know what a silviculturist is, you are more in the know on your forestry terminology than I was. I admit, I drew a blank on that one. A silviculturist is a person who deals with the development and care of a forest. (sil-vi-cul-tur-ist) Congratulations. If you just learned something new, you proved once again that old dogs can learn new tricks.
Big Mountain and the Danny On National Trail are smack-dab in the middle of Bear Country so we needed to be on the alert for Bruno and Griz. Glacier National Park, with a known population of 300 grizzlies and 600 black bears was just a stone's throw to the east of us. YUP… that is 900 bears in the vicinity, a LOT of Ursus!
As the official animal of Montana, the grizzly bear is NOT an animal to be tangled with. Formally known as Ursus Arctos Horribilis, grizzly bears weigh up to 900 pounds. Fortunately, the sub-species that roam around Montana max the scales out at 450 pounds. They can run 35 miles an hour, and do the 100-yard dash in less than six seconds flat.
Kiss your butt goodbye if Griz catches you.
Her paws can be up to 11” long and 7” wide, with retractable claws that are 8” long. Eight-inch claws!!! And after she’s played swat-and-toss-the-human, she might decide to sink her pearly whites into you. Not to worry, there’s only 1,160 psi (pounds per square inch) pressure driving those razor-sharp chompers, so chances are it will be game over real quick!
If, by chance, you survive your run-in with Griz, and some actually have, you will be interested in knowing that gorillas, sharks, jaguars, hippos, and crocodiles ALL pack more powerful bites. The Griz chomp is a mere love nip compared to the walloping lethal force backing the bites of these formidable creatures. So, look on the bright side, it could be worse.
Do not be mistaken into thinking that black bears are cute, cuddly teddy bears with a sixth sense for showing up at the right moment for a perfect photo op. Not quite as aggressive as their larger cousins, these Brunos are still dangerous and they are responsible for the majority of bear incidents that occur every year. Not only can Bruno weigh up to 400 pounds and run 35 mph, but he also is a tree climber. Because he is less apt to avoid humans, it is wise to follow the advice on the signs: BEWARE OF BEARS!
Why would I choose to hike in BEAR COUNTRY? Because I could.
We didn’t have any encounters with Griz or Bruno. Thank goodness. My hind end was safe for one more day.
As we tackled the last half mile of our uphill climb, the trail disappeared under six inches of snow, lingering from the previous winter. It is not at all unusual for snow to still remain in July in the upper elevations of the Whitefish Mountain Range. It had the effect of making our final push to the summit a slushy, sloshy, muddy, slippery mess.
My shoes were plastered with gritty mud and water-logged from plowing through the wet snow at the end of the trail. The water oozed around my toes through my soggy socks, causing every step I took to make a distinct squishing noise.
Squish, squish, squish. Squish, squish, squish.
It wasn’t exactly how I’d envisioned my triumphal arrival.
We sat on the outdoor patio of Summit House overlooking the Flathead Valley below, enjoying the view and the mountain breeze. I tried to convince Hubs to rest a while and hike back to whence we had just come. He protested. He was finished. Sometimes you just have to give a little. I conceded.
We headed for the chairlift to take the easy way back down the mountain.
It was a good day hiking and my goal to hike UP Big Mountain was accomplished.
See the previous Substack posting: Woman-of-a-Certain-Age: New Eyes & New Ears for the complete story about this predicament.
Big Mountain officially changed its name to Whitefish Mountain in 2007. It is called both. The road leading to Whitefish Mountain Resort is still called Big Mountain Road.