Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)
Who Says You Can’t Folf In the Winter?
Smart people, that's who.By Bob Wire, 1-26-10
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| Jonathan unloads a sweet drive, while Rusty looks on. Tragedy would strike moments after this photo was taken, when I fell on the ice once again. (photo by Bob Wire) | |
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We’re trying to get through the long Montana winters by getting outside more, trying a variety of physical activities to keep our minds and bodies occupied, so we don’t just sit around watching the clock for seven months. And there’s the added benefit of not being morbidly obese by the time Splash Montana opens. So when my friend Jonathan called up and invited Rusty and me on an outing last weekend, I welcomed the chance to try a new sport. But I was a little confused about the timing.
“Isn’t Frisbee golf more of a summertime thing?” I asked.
“Folf,” he said. “Or disc golf. We play it year ‘round. Bring Rusty, I’ve got some discs you guys can use.”
Oh, it all seemed so harmless, so wholesomely outdoorsy. Four hours later, as I gobbled Advil and nursed my bloody wounds, I limped into the kitchen and scowled at the big wall calendar, cursing the three months that stand between now and spring thaw.
Jonathan and our friend Glenn took Rusty and me up to the Blue Mountain folf course, where 18 holes have been thoughtfully laid out by some madman who is angry at trees. It’s the most popular course in the area, they told me, but in the dead of winter it wouldn’t be too crowded. Except with sledders. Sounded to me like these two outdoor winter sports would mesh smoothly like, say, kiteboarding and ice fishing (I’m looking at you, Georgetown Lake).
So we parked at the foot of the trail that leads up to the first hole. Jonathan handed Rusty a dozen discs for us to share. I asked if ten other guys were coming. No, Jonathan patiently explained, there were different discs for different shots, just like golf. And a few beat up old discs for when you had to hack your way out of a bushy situation. Which I did. A lot. He explained the aerodynamic differences in design, but I was distracted, looking at the ground. I toed through a couple inches of snow, and beneath it was a thick sheet of ice. It was as if Blue Mountain were a pile of mashed potatoes, and someone had poured gravy over the whole thing, and then it froze. We took a few steps up the trail, and everyone immediately fell down. Man, this was some hard gravy.
The normally well-groomed path had been transformed into an icy luge run, so we quickly abandoned the path and took a direct route up the hillside, grabbing trees and branches and clawing at rocks, anything to get a grip. Our rubber-soled boots were useless on the ice, although Glenn had been smart enough to wear ice cleats. He made it up to the first hole in short order, but the rest of us took about 15 minutes to travel 20 yards. I finally flopped over the top of the hill like an exhausted walrus, huffing and wheezing, patting all my pockets in vain for the asthma inhaler I’d forgotten to bring. I hadn’t brought gloves, either, so both hands were red and numb from clawing at the ice and snow. Jonathan helped me up and took pity on me with a pair of spare gloves. He and Glenn had been out a few times already this winter, so they had come prepared. Still, they both agreed that these were the worst conditions they’d seen. I promised myself I’d get serious about going to the gym, and we were off on our first hole.
For the uninitiated, folf uses a disc that’s smaller and heaver than the normal Frisbee you see scattered across everyone’s roof. You hurl this disc toward a goal that looks like it was designed by an S&M washer/dryer repairman. The disc hits a cluster of hanging chains, and drops into a metal basket. Very clever, but also harder than it looks.
The first hole at Blue Mountain is an easy par three, with the basket situated just inside the edge of a group of well-dented Ponderosa pines. The last 10 yards or so is on an uphill slope, and I slipped on the ice and fell a couple of times trying to get to my wayward disc. I’d plopped it onto the slope off to the left, so I had to climb above it and work my way down, inching along like I was creeping through a mine field. I was already losing my sense of humor about this whole endeavor. I used to fall down all the time when I was younger, playing flag football or chasing a pop fly in the outfield or jumping from the second story window of a sorority house bedroom or whatever. But that was 30 years and 50 pounds ago. Now gravity is my enemy. When I fall, it hurts.
By the time we reached the third hole I’d crashed down onto the ice so much that I felt like one of Mike Tyson’s ex-wives. But I was learning to throw the disc. At first I tried to throw it like a regular Frisbee, backhanded, but my momentum caused me to pirouette on the ice and slam heavily to the ground on my follow through. To make matters worse, I’d sliced across the tip of my right index finger that morning washing a knife (which of course I’d just sharpened), and was trying to throw with just two fingers.
Rusty was faring much better, having picked up the intricacies of the forehand flick. He was starting to throw the disc pretty straight, and falling a lot less than I was. Jonathan had one spectacular spill when some sneaky ice caused his feet to fly out from under him, and he landed on his back with a breath-stealing thump. He said he was fine, though, but I was glad I wasn’t the only gravity-challenged guy out there.
We managed to avoid the sledders, and one of them even pointed out a disc I’d thrown way off target. We trudged our way around the course, until all we had left was to simply negotiate a slope down to the 18th tee area. Jonathan and Glenn attempted to go cross-country, while Rusty and I, using our mad snowboard skillz, tried to slide down the path on our feet. He went before me and fell, then I fell, then gravity took over and hurled me down the path right into the poor kid as he was trying to work his way past a huge frozen pine cone. I knocked him down like a bowling pin, and he landed right on the pine cone. Jonathan had even worse luck, sliding straight down the hillside and maneuvering at the last second to avoid some barbed wire. He smashed into a rotting log, sending a shower of wood chips and frozen termites everywhere.
We finished out the course and made our way back to the steep path that led to the parking lot. My knuckles were bleeding, my cut finger had opened up, and my back and neck were already sore from multiple falls. Still, Rusty and I had a blast, and we’re grateful to Glenn and Jonathan for initiating us into this new sport. We’re already looking forward to returning to Blue Mountain for another round.
Sometime in August.
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