Ciao baby, let’s call it a day.

Well, it being over, has made me somewhat wistful. So I decide to reread the blog. L.P. Hartley was right, “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.” I found it hard to believe the courage of that young kid Donnelly back in 2013, taking on car rental clerks. One of whom was on the phone an ocean away and the other was a 4’11” (in both directions), Irishman. Or the bravest action of all (after being back for a fortnight, after the first tilt) announcing to the goddess “You know, I just had the most fantastic time”. Why say that. What good could come from that?

Anyway I have had a number (one is a number) of requests about what the rules of 50 states of golf are/were. So here they are:

• One State – One Course.
• If you didn’t know there was hazard there or didn’t realise you could reach it with your next shot – free drop.
• If you are pretty sure you have hit it down the middle, but can’t find it – free drop.
• If you aren’t sure which way the green breaks- no worries – hit an exploratory ball – free of penalty.
• If you are called through because you are on your own and you hurry on through (trying to do the right thing) and stuff up your drive – mulligan – no penalty.
• A bunker party of more than two shots only counts as two. No penalty.
• No beer for the first nine.
• 2 beers for the back nine.
• Must go back to the clubrooms and have at least 2 beers.
• You can only explain the 50 states of golf if asked. And if they haven’t see you play you can pretend you can play.

The rules may go some way to explaining why a chap who doesn’t appear to have clue south of the equator is able to post some pretty reasonable scores north of the equator.

What next?  Well Wiki reckons that there are 50 countries in Europe. This includes a lot of dodgy ones such as the one that this lad came from:

I wouldn’t mind going to his village where there is his “43-year-old mother”, “No. 4 prostitute in all of Kazakhstan sister”, “the town rapist”, and “the town mechanic and abortionist”.

I’m not sure if this tour happens, it will involve golf. Maybe I’ll go back to killing periodontists. Or just go from country to country solving crime like a slightly younger, slightly butcher, Angela Lansbury.  My preferred option at this stage is to test the medical procedures of each country. I will use the second born to employ Munchausen syndrome by proxy with him being the proxy.

Scene: No 40: Me “Well that finishes it – 4,336 shots (thinks to self, over 60 of which I was quite pleased with), 28,183 kilometres and 50 states”. Her “What was that dear?

So to quote the Doors:

This is the end, my only friend, the end
It hurts to set you free
But you’ll never follow me
The end of laughter and soft lies
The end of nights we tried to die
This is the end.

I now realise I haven’t a clue what they were on about it. But maybe the third last line is apt.

A tale of two tours (part 2)

LA LA land and it is all done.  I play the last round, with Ben, a nurse, originally from West Virginia. Ben is a great fellow and that is just as well as I wouldn’t want to finish off playing with someone who is bit ordinary. After a few holes, Brent, one of the pros joins us for about half dozen holes. Ben skinnies one along the ground and up onto the green. I do the same thing two holes on for a birdie. I explain to Brent that this is my old cricket training that you have to keep the ball on the ground. Brent “Well I don’t know anything about cricket, but I think you guys might be onto something”. I had considered finishing off at Pebble Beach as a celebration after doing the 50^th in LA. But I found out the next day that I would need to stay there and that I would be looking at $2,000 US. So maybe when the $A gets back to $1.08.

Ben and that is all done and dusted.

I decide to fill in the last day by going on a studio tour. The reason I became fascinated by the USA was first through the old man, who loved W.C.Fields, the Marx brothers, Jimmy Cagney and Bogie. I subsequently also fell in love with Looney Tunes, Clint and Seinfeld. Warner Bros had all of Bogie, Bugs and Seinfeld. They also had a fair slab of Clint. So fuck Jaws, I’m off to the house that Jack built. Me and 15 others all jump into a sort of giant golf cart. We have a tour guide who breaks the ice by saying “Who likes the Big Bang Theory?“ Big Cheer. “Who likes Friends?” Big Cheer. “Who likes the Gilmore Girls?” Big Cheer. Well a big cheer from everyone, but one grumpy old prick. WTF! This is where they made Casablanca, where a frog sang “I’m just wild about Harry” and where Harry said “do you feel lucky punk”. The Big Bang Theory? Sort of OK. But you know – they’re nerds – fuck! – we get it – can we move on. Friends? Maybe they have found the fabled long lost episode “The one where something actually funny happened”. The Gilmore Girls. Oh sweet Jesus, the Gilmore Girls. The goddess used to make me watch this, until I started to cut myself.

For the first hour and half I started to think longingly of a certain Jewish cowboy with a fantastic grasp of international affairs. But then the guided part of the tour was over and things pick up remarkably. It was off to the props department and then the museum.

I know it’s blurry, but it is the most powerful handgun in the world and could blow your head clean off.

This is not the original piano from Rick’s Cafe Americain. It is a reproduction that they used in the 1955 Television series. The original sold at auction in 2014 for $3.2 million.

Supposedly a facsimile of the storyboard for Casablanca. This is obvious bullshit. They didn’t have a storyboard. Up until the last day of shooting, they didn’t even know who would get the girl.

Jack Warner’s phone book. I don’t know if any of these numbers still work. I tried to call Bette, Walt and Salvador, but no luck.

The crucifix from the Exorcist. Probably best that an old ex Altar Boy doesn’t say anything about its role in the movie. Except to say my sweet old headmistress, Sister Urban, wouldn’t be pleased. Conversely, I’m sure the old school handyman, Groundskeeper Bert would be delighted. Sorry, bit of an in joke there.

I didn’t know this, but they also made the West Wing here and I am an absolute wingnut.

Jed’s desk.

Where Jed used to sit others down.

The best thing on the whole tour.

• Epilogue
• What’s next?

A tale of two tours (part 1)

Lake Powell National Golf Course, Arizona, an 85. That is 49 done. Just the Golden state to go. I’ve got plenty of time up my sleeve so I decide to go to LA LA land via Vegas. The second night in, I’m at a whiskey and bourbon bar at the Stratosphere. I’m the only one in the joint and the bar staff have plenty of time on their hands. A couple of manager types drop in and five of them go about inventing new drinks. Eventually they decide (after an hour or so) on two cocktails that are good enough to go on the options board. I ask the barman, after the others drift away, how often does this happen? “Oh about twice a week. Staff from the other bars come in and grab the recipes and use them in their bars”. “It is the second best job in the world”.  “The best?” “You know the one Woody Allen had in what’s new? Pussycat.” “Remind me”.  “He is in a strip club and a friend comes in and asks what he is doing there? Woody “I’m working ” Friend “What do you do” Woody “I help the strippers put pasties on their nipples” . Friend “And how much is that worth?” Woody “$20 a week” Friend “That is not much.” Woody “It is all I can afford”. Hey I managed to get another incestuous paedophile into the blog. Anyway I decide I best try some of their infused whiskeys, whiskys and bourbons. “So what is your best bourbon?” “Best scotch?” and so on and so on. “So you would say this is your ninth best bourbon”. I can’t remember facetiming the enchantress. I can remember a bill that started with a 1 and a 9, but didn’t end there.

So LA. The City of Angels has 11 million people and I don’t have a clue why. It seems to be just a mass of freeways with a couple of nondescript buildings here and there. I decide to go to downtown Hollywood, Hollywood and Vine. A woman approaches. “A two hour tour normally $55, I’ll do it for $35″. This should have set off alarms bells. Open top deck of a two decker bus. 12 Ukrainians up the front, 15 Venezuelans down the back and an Antipodean in the middle. Our tour guide arrives. Jerry the Jewish cowboy is what he calls himself. He has on a cowboy hat with a yamaka under it. Jerry explains that he has a great deal of sympathy for the Ukrainian people and their problems with Putin. He then talks about his concerns for the Syrian refugees and how he admires Angela Merkel’s attitude towards them. He says this all in English and then in Spanish (I think). This goes on for about for about 15 minutes. I not sure what this has got to do with Tinsel town, but we have all got to experience what an urbane humanitarian Jerry is and we have only just started. Whenever we come to what Jerry decides is a Photo op. Jerry says “Foe-toe,  Foe-toe, Foe-toe, Foe-toe,  Foe-toe, Foe-toe, Foe-toe,  Foe-toe, Foe-toe, Foe-toe,  Foe-toe, Foe-toe”. He says this about 50 times at the 20 or so spots he considers photo ops. Jerry says the house below was Marilyn Monroe’s home.

I’m pretty sure he is just making this shit up.

“Do you people know the song, the piano man” Silence. “Oh you are kidding, the piano man! Billy Joel!” Apparently Billy wasn’t big in Kiev or Caracas.  I feel as if we have all let Jerry down. “Anyway down that street there is a club where he wrote that song. You can’t really see it from here.” 

Whenever there is a lull, Jerry fills it in by pretending his hand is a trumpet and he plays tunes just using his mouth. I’m convinced Jerry would knock Simon Cowell on his limey ass.

We go down Rodeo Drive which is full of shops such as Zegna, Bvlgaria, and Hermes being frequented by people you would gleefully help into a wood chipper. We see this car.

Jerry insists it is his car and all these people have to get away from it. He manages to keep this running gag going for the rest of the trip and it never gets old. As we go around Jerry tells how they often see Tom Cruise or Cameron Diaz or a couple of dozen Kardashians carrying Caitlyn about. As we go down another main drag he yells out “there is Jay-Z, there is Jay-Z”. Now, I could be wrong, but I am pretty sure Jay-Z wouldn’t be getting into a 1995 Toyota  fuck’n Corolla. Again, I could be wrong, because I didn’t get a good look at him, but I’m not even sure the dude was black. At one stage, Jerry comes and sits opposite me. Him “Are you having fun?” Me thinks to self, well I could being held captive by ISIL. Would that be worse? Me says “It is fun”.

• Who doesn’t like the Gilmore Girls?
• Bartlett for America

Mormons might be a pain when they are at your front door on a Sunday morning when you are pissed off enough after reading more Caroline Wilson horseshit. But they are great in Utah.

Calico

Calico lies along Ghost Town road. Calico is supposed to be a ghost town. What it actually is, is shithouse. There are the remnants of two rammed earth homes that they have “restored “, to be a candle shop and a leather shop. There are maybe 15 various reproductions of old western structures that sell hot dogs or beer or fairy floss or other various crap. But the most upsetting part to me was their House of Bottles construction. There is no explanation of why this here and no recognition of the grandfather of all Houses of Bottles in Kinglake Victoria.  To those who haven’t been to the great southern land’s answer to the Great Pyramid I urge to go. Like so many great structures it is not how it was built, but why. I note that there is a Google review that says- 5 stars ”Wonderfully quirky! 5000 ornamental shoes and dinosaur bones. Get yourself back to Kinglake and take a look”, Michael Dahlstrom. I am willing to bet that Mike was a family friend. A very close family friend.

Who are they trying to kid!

St. George Utah. I was keen to get to Utah, because I have a theory that all Mormons are good-looking (except for the eldest Osmond). Think the Romneys, all those teeth, hair and perfect skin.

And so it is, nearly everybody is good-looking and happy and contented (the occasional ugly I presume is a Presbyterian infiltrator or you know…… me). Think the Stepford wives on a grand scale. Anyway I play the local course which has the most spectacular backdrop of red cliffs and canyons. I come to the 130 metre par 3 11^th. You hit from a cliff to a green some 70 metres below. Seven iron? I scrub it into the desert below. I need to go big. I pull out the 4 iron. Why would I need to go big? Anyway I pick it up sweetly and it sails directly at the pin and then some and then some and then some. Going down to the green I see that beyond is another cliff and more desert. I‘m pretty sure I hit a ball from Utah into Arizona. Maybe Mexico. Anyway I check my card a few days later and I have got it down as an 80. Does this sound like bullshit to you? Me too.

Utah? or Arizona?…………definitely North America somewhere.

Farmington, New Mexico. The only thing worse than the golf course and my golf is this prick of a joint. I ask the receptionist at the hotel where I should go for a drink and a bite to eat. “Oh there is this great micro brewery that has great beer and food.”  Do you remember the bar in the first Star Wars? That was the Windsor compared to this place. A couple fights broke out while I was there (which wasn’t long). And no one was in the least perturbed.

So I don’t have to do anything……….sweet.

Collegiate Peaks, Golf Course Colorado. I golf ok. Back at the club house I talk to the lady behind the jump. Me “Do you get snow?” Her “Oh gosh yes”. Me “How do you survive financially?” Her “Well then we have all the skiers. It all works out fine”. Me “What happens to the golf course?”  Her “Well the wild life takeover. We have bison, bears and reindeers and elks and such. The reindeer and the antelope spar with the flags on the greens”. I imagine this to be like Terry Cahill of the Socceroos sparring with the side flag, but not as predictable and annoying. So it really is like Home on the range: The buffalo roam and the deer and the antelope play and I seldom heard a discouraging word.

• 2nd best job in the world.
• A tale of two tours

Al, Calamity and Wild Bill.

This where I should have taken a left turn. I never did make it to Pismo Beach.

I play Ontario, Oregon (a 43 without much cheating at all). Lovell, Wyoming 87. Billings, Montana 91. I understand there is not much story telling here. However, you have got to appreciate that this is a lot of driving and not much anecdote gathering. Which is not to say it is not fantastic. You are driving through incredible scenery that changes spectacularly every 10 to 15 miles. But, me being slack-jawed and saying aloud to myself, “fuck!….fuck’n hell!….fuck me!…Christ look at that!” is not exactly Shakespearean or edifying.

Old Faithful. If you like things that are a bit spurty and are regular this is for you, otherwise it’s rubbish.

At my accountant’s urging I go to Deadwood, South Dakota. He, like me is a fan of the HBO series. So despite having already played the Dakotas here I am. If you are not a Deadhead feel free to skip this bit. I do the tour of the town which includes Wild Bill’s and Calamity’s graves on Boot hill. A bit of Wiki on Wild Bill’s murder.

It is reported that Hickok had a premonition that Deadwood would be his last camp, and expressed this belief to his friend Charlie Utter (also known as Colorado Charlie) and the others who were traveling with them at the time. On August 2, 1876, Hickok was playing poker at Nuttal & Mann’s in Deadwood. Hickok usually sat with his back to a wall. The only seat available when he joined the poker game that afternoon was a chair that put his back to a door. Twice he asked another player, Charles Rich, to change seats with him, and on both occasions Rich refused.

 Jack McCall

A former buffalo hunter, Jack McCall (better known as “Crooked Nose Jack”), entered the saloon unnoticed by Hickok. McCall walked to within a few feet of Hickok, drew a pistol and shouted, “Damn you! Take that!” before firing at Hickok point blank. McCall’s bullet hit Hickok in the back of the head, killing him instantly. The bullet emerged through Hickok’s right cheek, striking another player, Captain Massie, in the left wrist.

Wild Bill gets killed at 12, 2, 4 and 6 every day at the local Saloon #10 and never seems to wise up. Wild Bill of course was holding the famous dead man’s hand, Aces and eights. Crooked Nose Jack was acquitted by a Deadwood jury as he claimed he was avenging his brother’s murder. He was tried a second time in  the capital, Yankton and was found guilty, not least because it was found that he only ever had sisters.

Calamity Jane is depicted as being at least a part time lesbian in the TV series. I ask the tour guide about this. He has never seen the show! Deadwood has a population of 1,288 and incredibly has had an enormous hit series based there. But a Deadwood tour guide has never seen it. I’m pretty sure if HBO makes a series about Kaniva and the legend of Roger Merrett most of the locals would have a look.

What is not contested is that Jane worked spasmodically as a hooker. I realise that there was a shortage of women, but you know………..

The person I was most intrigued by was the Slimey Limey, Al Swearengen.  Al has been ranked as the 10th most villainous character in television history. However it turns out that as evil as he is in the show he was apparently much worse in real life. This doesn’t even appear possible. A bit of wiki about Al.

Swearengen lured desperate young women from far away to Deadwood, then forced them into prostitution through a combination of bullying and physical brutality, committed by himself and his henchmen. The results were highly lucrative: the Gem earned an average $5,000 a week, sometimes as much as $10,000 (worth between $140,000 and $280,000 when inflation-adjusted for 2009.

It seems Al wasn’t even English. He was a twin, born in Iowa. He was killed via a massive head trauma in 1904 in Denver. His twin was similarly dispatched a fortnight later. Neither murder was ever solved.

• Sooo good looking
• Not as good as Kinglake.
• Just like the song.

A slight hiccup

I travel from Post falls in the Idaho panhandle all the way down to Baker City Oregon. Baker City was where “Paint your wagon” was filmed. Ray, an older bloke sidles up to me. Ray was a Screaming Eagle (101st Airborne Division of the Army) during the Vietnam War and has the shrapnel scars to prove it. He was involved in raids into North Vietnam and Laos. Me, “You weren’t supposed to be in Laos were you”. Him, “Not really”. Ray tells me a bit of the history of Baker City. “Baker City was built on lumber, mining and brothels”. Ray points out a number of properties that were previously brothels. This is not a big place with a population of 9,000. But this was a recurring theme throughout the west. Not enough women.

 

The grandest building in town was previously a brothel

TIFU: So I’ve played Idaho. Another one done. Oregon next. I decide to play in Baker City and to stay in Ontario, Oregon that night. Genius Donnelly. You are ahead of schedule and everything going like clockwork. Pull up, ready to play another Tom Watson metronome round.

No clubs! No clubs? I don’t understand! I remember zipping them up. Well, they are not here. I know I didn’t take them out at the hotel. Oh fuck. OH FUCK. I ring the course in Post Falls. “Yes Mr. Donnelly, no problems, we have got them. Chuck ran after you as you left the car park to tell you your clubs where still in the cart”. Well that’s good and least I know where they are. Bad part, Post Falls is 317 miles away and then back to Ontario. This is 1134 kms. More than driving from Melbourne to Newcastle. Alright, let’s weigh this up. It is 12:40 pm. So with straight driving time it is going to be after midnight. Shit! These clubs only cost $600. Option 1 – Buy new clubs. Option 2 retrieve them. Come on – (a) these clubs have done the whole journey. (b) you are an incredible tight arse.  So off I go.

On the way there I try to overtake a truck. Sign saying left lane ends. OK hit the juice. Where the fuck is the front of this truck? Not getting there! Not getting there! He is not going to let me in. Anchors!  ANCHORS! I manage to pull up before running into the guard rail. Dropping in behind him I see the “long load” sign. He didn’t really give a shit. I get around him. I die in a fiery ball. He still gets paid.

I get the clubs and top up juice. Back we go. This is not Australian driving. You are driving up and down steep gradients and through mountains and road works. The whole time I’m thinking a beer and a hot dog. I know this Best Western has a bar that doesn’t stop until 12.30 am. So if I put 8 miles over on the cruise control that means that I’ll make it with 50 minutes to spare despite the road works. I obsess about this ETA the whole way. Eventually I get there.  “Mr Donnelly we were expecting you”. “That’s good, I believe you have a bar”. “ Yes sir”. “ Where is it” “.  ”Umm it shut at 12:30”. “But it is only 11:40”. “Ohh I’m sorry sir we operate on Mountain time”. “Mr Donnelly why are you gnawing on your calf?”

• Some touristy stuff
• But Crooked nose Jack, you don’t have a brother!
• The best little whorehouse in South Dakota

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scenes from the road part 10

How you can tell you are in the Wild West

This was obviously the work of two different people. I imagine a public servant wrote the polite green and white sign then a boss hog type saw it and went nuts. “What chucklehead wrote this. These tenderfoots need to know who is in charge here. Someone who doesn’t like apostrophes”.

This was at dusk and it is hard to make it out but these were scores of  bison all around my car.

These photos obviously don’t do these critters justice, but take my word they are magnificent. When Europeans started their migration to the great plains in the 1830s it was estimated that there were 30 million bison. By 1889 it was down to 1091 head. It is now estimated that there is 500,000. You gotta love these buggers.

She seemed lovely to me. I gave her money she gave me beer.

This was on the front door of the town hall of a little town in Colorado. Apparently they got sick of all the hooping and a hollering and gunplay while the Mayor was trying to address the council.

Mt Rushmore. Again I apologise for the standard of the photography. You can’t tell from this, but below the tree line they have tiny little bodies. They are in reality giant bobble heads.

The Bayonne Bleeder

I nick into Jackpot, Nevada. Jackpot lies just over the Idaho border and only exists because Idaho banned gambling in 1954. Cactus Pete Piersanti  and Don French decided to move their operations of Twin Falls Idaho just south of the border in 1958 and so began the fair city of Jackpot. And so it remains, just fair. Maybe that is pushing it. Jackpot has a population of 1190, five casinos, a post office and a golf course and let’s be frank, it is a shithole. The golf course, surprisely, is quite good. It is obvious it shouldn’t exist as it is carved out of the desert and I’m sure it takes a lot of water they don’t have. Bizarrely up on the top of the course on the 10’s left hand rough are three gravesites. The headstones reveal that these are three people who were involved in the setting up and initial operation of the golf course and died in the 70s. You can just bury people here? It appears so. Anyway my ball lies just a couple of metres away. I make a pretty good recovery with a four iron. I’m sure that is what they would have wanted.

Anyway I repair to Cactus Pete’s for a beer and lo and behold there are a number of pictures of Charles “Chuck” Wepner, the Bayonne Bleeder. The Bayonne Bleeder had been there to open something or other in the 80s. I love the Bleeder. Chuck claimed that when he started fighting he was 6′ 1″ but was 6′ 5″ at end of his career due to all the uppercuts he had received. He fought Sonny “The Night Train ” Liston in 1970. Sonny was well over the hill by this stage, but nevertheless Chuck needed 72 stitches post fight. Ali gave him an undeserved shot at the title in 1975. In the ninth round Chuck knocked Ali down (Ali claimed that Wepner stood on his foot which appears to be borne out by photographs). Wepner ran to his corner and said “Al, start the car. We’re going to the bank. We are millionaires.” To which Wepner’s manager replied, “You better turn around. He’s getting up and he looks pissed off.”   In the remaining six rounds, Ali gives him the greatest ass whupping you have ever seen before knocking him down in the fifteenth with nineteen seconds remaining and the ref awarding a TKO. Chuck (post Ali) fought Andre the Giant. Does this all sound a tad reminiscent of a certain fight film, (long shot white hope, the fight by Rocky against Thunderlips) Chuck thought so too. Initially, Stallone refused to pay Chuck when he claimed that he was the inspiration for Rocky, but eventually he settled.

The fight against Sonny. Check out the Ref’s shirt.

• Lumber, gold and prossies
• TIFU – my biggest so far.

How the west was won

So I am on my way in the lower 48. I start in Seattle Washington, which is the North West corner of the country and besides being the home of Starbucks, Microsoft and Amazon was more importantly the locale for Frazier. One of the running gags in Frazier was that it was always raining and appropriately enough I run into rain for the first 40 kms. But then things change dramatically. The clouds clear and the wind springs up. Throughout the North West they have wildfires (bushfires). They think that it may end up being the worst fire season ever. By the time I get to the Columbia River (which is the fourth largest in  the country with a drainage basin the size of France) visibility is in scientific terms, piss poor. I go over the Vantage bridge and then begins a steep climb. Up on this ridge the dust and smoke comes in waves. Sometimes you can see 50 metres in front of you. Sometimes you can just see the bonnet. The Interstate is full of cars. You are just relying on that the car in front of you keeps moving. As I get into some clearer air an announcement comes over the radio that the Vantage bridge is now closed because of high winds and poor visibility. This is something we share with this part of the world as it is very reminiscent of Black Saturday.

I don’t know if this really does it justice. This is the third day driving. By this time I’m in Idaho, but it is much the same across the West. You can’t see anything further than 50 metres.

I play in Spokane Washington. It is a goat track. On the second I slice. I don’t see some people on the third and nearly pick one of them up. “Sorry I didn’t see you” “That’s ok” Every hole has a portable toilet. This is a tad strange. Are they trying to appeal to the enlarged prostate set. “Throw away your incontinence pads we’ve got you covered”. Anyway on the third, I duck hook my second into one of these portables. When I get up there a lady emerges from the convenience.  Her, “I thought someone had shot the can” Me “Sorry again”.  I finish off the third. They are waiting for me. Her “You play through”, Me “You are just worried I’m going to get you”, Her “You are not wrong”.  It is a par three. Just relax stupid. Duck hook fifty metres – drink. Second. Duck hook seventy metres – drink. Summoning what is left of my dignity I stride to the point of entry. Blade one into the pot. Then I have a bit of a bunker party followed by a few putts and I’m on my way. Driving back to the hotel I consider a change in course. Why couldn’t be it forty states of golf and for the last ten states I kill a periodontist in each. Gum disease, what a scam. I would be doing everyone a favour.

I decide to have another crack in Post Falls Idaho. Two chappies in front of me who I follow for the first nine offer to let me play through or join them for the second nine. I’ve got a 41 for the front. “No that’s ok, I’m playing alright following you fellows”. 42 for the back.I think to myself –  I am better on my own, private in Idaho.

• The Bayonne Bleeder

 

 

 

 

North to Alaska go north the rush is on

A sports bar in Honolulu and the Pies and the Bluebaggers are on half of the televisions. Our American cousins are completely bemused by this spectacle. Ed sitting next to me asks “What the hell is this? Is it rugby?” I explain it is Australian Football and these our two most universally loved and respected sides. Matt on the other side of me can’t stop chuckling “They didn’t think through those uniforms” “What do you mean?” “They are all dressed like referees it is just stoopid”. I explain that our umpires wear……well……..lots of different things. “Oh…….do they have those sticks at both ends?”

I fly to Anchorage on Alaskan Airlines. I ask the steward for a scotch. “Where in Australia are you from?” “Melbourne” “Oh I love Melbourne. I worked in Trafalgar East on a visa for 6 months” “How was that?” “Fantastic, I would still be there if my visa didn’t run out.” Now Alaskan flies between Hawaii, Alaska and Seattle. I would have thought it had the Latrobe Valley covered. But apparently I underestimate the charm of being in close driving distance of Morwell, Moe and the Pig’s head gang. Anyway, the steward doesn’t charge for the scotch. “Thanks for that.” “No worries.” “Still got some Australianisms happening.” “My mum says when I have a few drinks I start sounding like an Aussie again”.

I play golf in Anchorage with Sue, Dave and Presco. I drive it well but everything else is just OK. I make 14 bogeys. Talking to Dave about bears he reckons black bears are the real aggressive ones and you have really have to fight them to have a hope. His theory with Grizzlies is that you just play dead and they’ll just gnaw on you awhile. On the news last night was a story from Yellowstone that a Park employee had been half consumed by a Grizzly. Who knows whether he played dead or not. Well he is not playing now. There are as many theories on bears as there are bears. Be submissive. Be aggressive. Look them in the eyes. Look down. Play dead. Try to make yourself look as big as possible. The one thing they all agree on is don’t run. The one thing you would have an overwhelming desire to do. If you run they think you’re prey. This is not good. Bears are faster than horses. So if you are going to run you need to have someone with you can outrun or trip up. On the ninth? a golfer coming up the opposite fairway comes over to tell us that to be aware that there is a black bear and her two cubs over the hill. Sue says I should go take a look. Inside voice “Fuck off! They kill you”. Actual voice “Ohhh I don’t think so”.

Dave, Sue and Presco. Just good fun.

 

So that is Alaska done. Look, I know this is only a bullshit travel/golf blog and why should you take any notice of me. But this place is incredible. It is the antithesis of the wide brown land. The snow capped mountains, glaciers and lakes are awesome in the true sense of the world. I had 4 full days here. You need a month.

• The lower 48
• Just like home but not in a good way
• My Leonardo moment