One writer’s recent trip to Oregon’s Pronghorn Resort left the whole family smiling — except the dog
By Jim Moore
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“No. 10 tee is right this way, Mr. Moore,” said Shawn, our forecaddie at Pronghorn’s Nicklaus Course, as we walked off the ninth green. If Shawn is typical of forecaddies at Pronghorn Resort, just outside Bend, Ore., then anyone making the trip down from Seattle is in for a treat.
We’ll get back to Shawn in a minute.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: Why read this? Of course Jim is going to rave about golf and everything else at Pronghorn — he was probably comped the whole time he was there.
Which is true. But after you go to Pronghorn, tell me there was something to complain about, something you weren’t happy about. Go on, tell me.
Certainly, when it comes to golf, I’m easy to please — I’m happy staying at a Super 8 and playing the lowest-rated course in the country. If are tee boxes and greens with flagsticks, I’m good to go.
But my wife? She’s different. She has standards, high ones. And Pronghorn, in every way, exceeded her expectations. She was content as could be for three days — I even caught her looking in the side-view mirror when we drove away, clearly not wanting to leave.
The only member of our family that did not enjoy Pronghorn was Willie, our 8-year-old golden retriever. Pets aren’t allowed at the resort, so we dropped Willie off at Happy Tails, a dog hotel between Redmond and Bend. The look on his face when we left Happy Tails mirrored my wife’s when we left Pronghorn.
Anyway, back to Shawn — or as I referred to him under my breath, “poor Shawn,” because every time I saw him, he was in the desert looking for my wife’s balls, or my kids’ balls, or sometimes even mine.
If you were to ask poor Shawn what he was thinking about our group, I’ll bet it was something along the lines of this: Man, I wish someone would hit a ball in the fairway. How in the world did I get stuck with these hackers? At the rate we’re going, I’ll never make it in time to meet my mom for dinner. I wish I could have a beer. Mr. Moore is sure downing them.
It took us four hours to play nine holes. We let three groups play through. My kids are 7-year-old twins who have been playing golf since they were two. They’re good little golfers, but need to pick up the pace. And my wife, God bless her, she thinks she’s playing fast, but she’s not. She six-putted the first hole, and I can only imagine what the foursome in the fairway was thinking as they watched.
I felt like the guy in charge of all three rings at the circus.
So it was that as we walked off the ninth green, Shawn politely pointed us towards the 10th tee box.
“Shawn,” I said, “We’re not playing the back nine.”
“Why not?” Shawn asked in complete seriousness.
“Come on, Shawn!” I said. “You think I’m going to put you through another four hours of THAT? Go have dinner with your mom!”
He said what he was supposed to say, that he was ready for the back nine if we were. I thanked him profusely, tipped him, shook his hand and thought about the stories he would be telling his mom about the longest nine holes he had ever walked in his life.