u/TheWanderingWedge

The other day we had a normal golf outing with the usual suspects. I'm sure your foursome consists of some of these archetypes: the brazen and brash elder statesman, who screams at bad shots and acts like a general maniac 80% of the time. The young fit father of two who “hasn't played much” but proceeds to stripe it 280 off the tee every other hole; the grizzled golf vet who has seen it all and has stories to fill a book nobody in their right mind would read. And then there was me, an over-dressed idiot with much smoke and not enough fire in the swing department.  
Instead of playing a normal round in stroke play, counting every stroke and pretending that it builds character. We decided on a new game: Wolf
We didn't invent this game, but I thought it might provide us with enough excitement to play without worrying about our current score. For those who haven't played it, Wolf is part golf game, part gambling, and part psychological warfare. 
On each hole, one player becomes the wolf. After all players have hit their tee shot, the wolf can either play as a lone wolf for double the points or play with a teammate against the other two members.  Go lone wolf, and the rewards double, but so does the risk, awarding everybody else a point if you fail.  
By the turn, the group had been absolutely ravaged by the younger golfer who had found his game and the opportunities to slip ahead of the pack.
 Despite having a higher handicap and not playing regularly, he was collecting points like they were being handed out for free at the snack shack. 
This leaves me with a question I never thought to ask: shouldn't the best all-round golfer win? 
Not in this case. Thats The best part about Wolf, 
Unlike stroke play where one bad hole can haunt your whole round, Wolf rewards timing as well as skill: play well when it matters, or hitch your wagon to a player with a hot hand and stop before they cool off. It's less about consistent great play but knowing how to read everybody else's play. It's gambling without the casino.
Toward the end of the round, there were some massive swings being taken. Every time I played lone wolf, I dreamt of glory; every time, reality would promptly inform me that I was not Rory or Scotty. 
As the game wore on, players attempted to stay in the game; the top players became targets, safe players became aggressive, and aggressive players became reckless. It provided a strange and exciting dynamic.  By the 8th hole, I knew I was out of the game; this became surprisingly freeing. My goal had then switched to sabotage. This was the most fun, watching the destruction of someone's plans because you strategically play poorly.
Golf has a way of becoming too serious at times, hyper-fixating on our swings, our handicaps, launch monitors, the newest technology. Then a little game comes along and reminds us of why we play in the first place: for friends, for camaraderie, for afternoons filled with cursing and laughing. 
If your week group is stuck in the doldrums of stroke play, give Wolf a try. You never know, the most unlikely of players might win it all.  
I will say the young man played better than most; it's hard to beat pure athleticism when you're shaped like an inflatable car lot tube man.
I spent the remainder of the day making everyone else's day a little harder. Which for me was more fun than trying. 

July 2024 Palm Springs, CA

I was somewhere in the middle of another questionable decision.
A month-long road trip across the country with my wife, our dog, a truck, and a camper that was carrying far too many things for its own good had brought us back to the western desert. The kind of trip where you stop knowing what day it is, where your coffee is made from whatever survived the last grocery stop, and where your dog somehow takes up 70% of the available sleeping space.
After leaving Los Angeles, we had one direction to go: East.
Naturally, my first thought was not where should we camp? or how do we make this drive easier? It was:
What golf course can I convince myself is worth the detour?
After looking around Palm Springs, the answer became obvious.
PGA West Mountain Course.
It looked like someone took a golf course and dropped it directly into the desert mountains. A green ribbon winding through rock, sand, and impossible elevation changes. A mirage in every sense of the word.
There were other courses nearby, of course. Better known ones. More expensive ones. Courses my wallet politely informed me were not happening. So the Mountain Course it was.
A few days earlier, I checked tee times while we were still in LA. I expected the usual California golf sticker shock.
Instead, the price was surprisingly reasonable. That should have concerned me.
Sometimes golf gives you exactly what you want. Sometimes it is warning you.
After booking, my wife checked the weather. The forecast looked perfect. Blue skies. No rain.A golfer's dream.
Then came the second part.
116 degrees.
The desert had apparently decided that golf should include a survival component.
I started wondering if I was actually prepared. Would I finish? Would I be found years later somewhere around the 14th hole, perfectly preserved like a desert artifact? Would future golfers tell stories about the fool who tried to walk through Palm Springs at noon?
Only one way to find out.
When we arrived at the campground, I immediately realized I had underestimated the desert. Every campsite was covered in solar panels. Not a few.
Thousands of square feet.
At first I assumed it was just an environmentally conscious community. No. It was survival.
The pavement got so hot that tires could actually suffer damage. The solar panels weren't just generating power — they were creating shade. The desert was literally fighting the sun. And I was about to play golf in it.
The next morning I packed my clubs.
My wife, who had walked courses with me in Scotland, California, Oregon, and everywhere in between, looked at the conditions and made a rare but understandable decision. She was staying home.
I couldn't blame her. This was even too much for my most dedicated golf companion.
At noon, the temperature was already 116F. My tee time was at 1.
A reasonable person would have rescheduled.
A golfer sees a tee time and thinks: “Well, I already paid.” Walking into the golf shop, I expected to see golfers everywhere. Instead, it was empty.
The starter looked outside and told me I was basically the only person brave — or stupid — enough to go out. He walked me toward the first tee.
He looked like someone who had spent decades battling the desert. His skin was weathered, his voice carried the stories of thousands of rounds, and he had the calm confidence of a man who had seen every type of golfer make every type of mistake. Before I started, he gave me some advice.
Drink water. Be careful.
And watch out for coyotes on the ninth green.
Coyotes? Apparently a family had moved in.
Also: Watch for roadrunners.
At this point, I had to admit something embarrassing. I thought roadrunners were just a cartoon invention.
Turns out someone at Looney Tunes had simply observed a very weird bird and decided it needed a villain. The course itself was incredible.
The Mountain Course, designed by Pete Dye, climbs through the canyons and foothills surrounding Palm Springs. It feels less built than carved out of the landscape.
From elevated tees, you can see the entire valley stretching out below you.
The mountains. The desert. The strange, beautiful emptiness.
You can even see toward the Salton Sea, a place that feels like a warning from nature itself — once a massive inland lake, now a strange desert relic.
This part of California also carried the ghosts of old Hollywood.
Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack played these desert courses, and legends say the tradition of the golf cart drink culture was born here.Apparently, even celebrities needed hydration.
The golf started fine. The survival started shortly after.
I had dressed in what I thought was a stylish old-school golf outfit.
Unfortunately, it was made of material apparently designed to trap heat.
My shirt became a towel. My outfit became a sauna.
Several times I found myself standing under the only palm tree nearby, trying to convince myself I was not slowly turning into beef jerky.
I drank constantly. Never used the bathroom.
A troubling development. The desert was winning.
By the back nine, the score didn't matter anymore.
The goal was simple: Finish.
My legs started cramping.
My walking pace became less golfer and more exhausted desert explorer.
The starter actually came back out around the 16th hole to check on me and bring more water.
He laughed and told me I was the only person who went out at that time of day. Suddenly the cheap tee time made sense.
It wasn't a deal. It was a trap.
On the 18th hole my brother called. I looked at the phone. I wanted to answer.
But I had come too far.
I was finishing. Come hell or high water. Mostly water.
When I finally walked off the last green, my wife was waiting.
Gatorade. Towel.
The look of someone who loves me but also questions my decision-making. A perfect combination.
After food, a shower, and recovering in the camper, I thought about the round.
It wasn't my best golf.
It wasn't my hardest course.
It wasn't my most beautiful course.
But it was a reminder of why I chase these places. Golf isn't always about perfect swings or perfect weather.
Sometimes it's about finding out what happens when you put yourself somewhere uncomfortable.
Sometimes it's about proving something to yourself.
Sometimes it's about being ridiculous. And sometimes…
sometimes you just want to know if you can play golf in an oven.
The answer? Yes.
Should you? Probably not.
Would I do it again?
Without hesitation.