June 16, 2009
The Overland Route
When we ran out of gas last night, it was about eleven o’clock. Good thing we were only about half a mile from home via the overland route.
The overland route began at the tee box on the third hole of the North Course (a 446-yard par 4 with a wicked-big sand bunker into which a person might fall and break a leg). We made the mistake of cutting straight from the green over to the fairway of the fifth hole, a 508-yard par 5. I say mistake only because it required bushwhacking through the tall grass in silk blouse and flowing trousers. (I had stashed the slingback pumps in my purse at the outset of the journey.) It is the most direct route.
Once on the fairway of number five, it was pretty straightforward to hike midway and then head right into the rough and down an incline to the side road leading home. So long as you remember to balance the bag of assorted books and magazines with the bag of beef jerky, sports drinks, and champagne, you will not lose your balance on the incline.
On the round-trip return hike back to the abandoned car to retrieve wallet and small container of pills, you may wish to avoid the long grass by heading all the way to the green on number five, then hanging a soft right through the woods directly to the green on number three. So long as you remember that the humongous sand bunker will come up in front of you and slightly to the left, you will be fine.
Do not be alarmed by the abandoned Ditch Witch in the woods. It cannot hurt you.
If you lose your way completely, look up into the night sky and find the Big Dipper. Visually follow its handle away from its cup to find Polaris and fix your sights on that. You will know which way is north.
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May I ask, for future reference, where the charming little buggies are kept that I often see ferrying people around these wretched wilderness areas? I believe I would have stood next to a hole and waited for my companion to fetch me in one of those. I might even sit upon the hole, if forced to wait very long.
And, while I appreciate your advice about looking up into the night sky for direction, a similar attempt at looking upward landed me in the ditch on my last nature outing.
You, Miss Sheila, are a better man than I am.
Cindy, Sheila is a better man than most of us men!
Don’t I know it.
I have always loved a woman with balls and were that possible I’m sure Sheila would have three.
I may bow out of this conversation now as I seem to be digging a pit with steep sides – see, I have no balls, Sheila must have one of ‘em – any offers on who has the other?
I don’t know, Phil. Let’s ask Lucy, she might know.
Lucy, do you know who has Phil’s ball?
Great idea, Cindy – Lucy is bound to know.
Buggies. Balls.
The little buggies sleep together all chained up at night, and besides, real men and women with balls carry their clubs (or champagne and jerky) and walk (or hire a caddy).
I’ve just checked but could not find any balls, Phil’s or anyone else’s, on my person. I believe that what I possess are brass tits.
But I’d be more than happy to help any of you find your balls. I’ll keep a sharp eye out next time I spy those cocks scrabbling in the gravel alongside Highway 20.
I have great incentive to go ball-hunting. If they are in excellent condition and a decent brand (Titleist, Nike, or the like), you can sell them to a reseller for fifty cents each.
I’ve gotten really good at spotting balls in the tall grass.
I suppose I had not considered that the buggies need sleep, just like everybody else. I should have been more considerate. I will avoid the entire situation by simply staying inside, as god intended.
Brass tits. I do not have those. Balls, sure, but no brass tits. In fact, Phil, you want a ball? I can get you a ball by 3 o’clock.
Thank you, Cindy – one is certainly better than none!