Fernweh: [fɛʁnve] (German) noun.
(1) Literally, “farsickness.”
(2) The sensation of longing for a place one has not yet been.
I. Gig City Livin’
The flight from Atlanta to Chattanooga is about 30 minutes from wheels-up to touch-down. The idle waiting on the tarmac at the world’s busiest airport was, of course, much longer.
Not that I was keeping track. I didn’t have to. The minutes waiting to push back from the jetway felt like hours, and no one could convince me that they were not. I was sitting in seat 36A on an MD-88, which, for the uninitiated, is a special little corner of personal hell. It is a “window” seat with no window, as one of the fuselage-mounted engines happens to be riveted directly into your left eardrum. To my right, across the aisle, sat a polite but talkative 16 year old girl who left her inside voice somewhere back in grade school. Her entire life story, spilled wistfully to her half-interested seat-mate, became the cadence of my last nerves zapping bright white spots in my narrowing vision, as a feeling of mild claustrophobia welled inside of me. I needed a distraction.
Closing my eyes, I took a few deep breaths while I cocked my head to the side and rested it against the plastic interior of the airplane. In my mind’s eye, I replayed from memory the flyover video I’d watched no fewer than twenty times in the previous seven days–hole by hole, shot by shot–of the reason for enduring the pleasureless vibes of basic economy air travel.
Finally getting airborne was a relief. The whir of the fully spooled-up engines ignited my senses, as did the g-forces that pinned me further back in my already…cozy…seat. I’ve flown all my life, but never had a flight felt so constricting, yet so liberating all at once. The quick hop gave me a few fleeting minutes to day-dream. I recalled, perhaps imperfectly, one of my favorite lines from Travis Hill’s splendid story in The Golfer’s Journal No. 2. “A glorious plume of vape smoke filled the morning air. ‘When that clears,’ he said, ‘you’ll see one of the greatest opening par fives in the world.'”
***
A calmness came over me. Our flight began descending as quickly as it reached its ultra-low cruising altitude of 14,000 feet. We touched down a few minutes later, and even though I was in the last row, I did not feel impatient while watching the passengers filter down the aisle, swiftly turning left and disappearing off the plane in single file. I grabbed my belongings and shimmied my way between the seats and past the flight crew who bid me a good night.
I pulled my suitcase up the jetway’s slight incline until I was thrust into the empty, dark terminal. Looking up, an advertisement crested the only hallway, over the escalator heading down toward the baggage claim.
The Midnight Troubadour
Tough and timeless, this polo is built for the long ride. Featuring a crisp, non-collapsing collar and a rugged, stretchy fabric, it's the perfect shirt for any cowboy's wardrobe.
“You’ve arrived! GIG CITY Home of the Nation’s Fastest Internet,” the mural proclaimed.
Gig City, USA. Photo by Matt Wood.
“Who woulda thunk it?” I mused to myself. As nice as the greeting was, and as ordinarily excited as a tech-literate millennial like me might otherwise be about such a revelation, I couldn’t help but shrug about the irony of such a first impression. After all, the internet had (thankfully) brought me and my companions for this trip together; soon enough, we’d all use the web to tell the world how great our pilgrimage had been. But for the next 24 hours, I wanted to get as far away from the real world as possible.
I deeply longed, in the truest sense of the word, for a place I had not yet been. But I was closer than ever to the destination of my daydreams–Sweetens Cove Golf Club.
II. Too Excited to Sleep
The premise for our trip–or the excuse, if we’re being honest–was a 10 vs. 10 match play team event in honor of D.J. Piehowski’s thirtieth birthday. The Thirsty Cup, as we dubbed it, was nascent in its creation, but already historical in its importance–at least in our own little corner of the golf Twitterverse.
We didn’t have a clear set of rules. Or a definite format. We barely had a trophy.
But we had a vision, and two fearless leaders to execute it. The inaugural matches would be played between Team Tron and Team D.J.
While Team D.J. may have been slightly more golf-inclined, Team Tron, of which I was a part, “put a strong emphasis on team room vibes,” as our captain so eloquently put it. We were fine putting on the nobody believes in us hat.
***
I summoned a ride as I waited outside the terminal in Chattanooga. After a ten minute jaunt through the sleepy river-edged town, my Uber driver promptly delivered me at the front porch of our just big enough accommodations. As a working stiff, I was the last to arrive, shortly after midnight. I barged through the front door to a rousing cheer, obviously fueled by the collective consumption of a few adult beverages. Although the pairings party was already well-underway, it became apparent rather quickly that I hadn’t missed much in the way of locked-down information. I grabbed a beer out of the fridge, shook a few hands, and found my way to the last available seat on the couch.
I sat quietly, watching Captains D.J. and Tron delve out pairings over cross-talk that would rival any cable news show at 2:30 in the afternoon. Thankfully, one of the participants, Kevin Van Valkenburg, kept studious journalistic notes on the matches–pairings, sequence, and all. I listened intently for my name to be called.
My first partner, for the two-man scramble, would be Travis “the Thrill” Hill, of The Golfer’s Journal fame. My second partner, for the alternate shot, would be Adam “So Good” Sarson, our resident ambassador from the Great White North. I could already tell this was going to approach levels of fun I hadn’t even considered.
While the pairings party started to wind down, I knew the only chance of making a contribution to my team was to get at least a modicum of precious sleep. Soly, benevolent soul that he is, offered me the opportunity to set up my air mattress in the master bedroom closet. It struck me as odd, to be sure, but also practical. And when I finally inflated the air mattress within it, I realized that in a house full of 16 dudes, I had actually lucked into a quiet, dark corner to call my own. This was becoming a theme of the day, but the closet was decidedly more comfortable than seat 36A that I’d occupied a few hours earlier.
The final obstacle to achieving a good night’s rest was my own excitement. Spoiler alert: I didn’t overcome it.
Update: 4:06 am pic.twitter.com/ufUb8RQooD
— Job W. Fickett (@jwfickett) April 3, 2018
Less than an hour later, I was tip-toeing around downstairs, searching for coffee-related items, and trying not to wake the whole house. Second spoiler alert: I didn’t overcome that obstacle, either.
III. We out here
Our caravan approached the driveway, and slowed down as our tires crackled over the gravel. The little red sign that reads “Sweetens Cove Golf Club” is slightly overgrown and deliberately unassuming–in other words, the exact opposite of the course itself. A veer to the right reveals a little green shed and an unpaved parking lot–both as unassuming as the sign out front.
Then, you drive to the edge of the hill, and you see it.
A first impression that sticks with you. Photo by Jim Hartsell.
The first thing that hits you is the scale–you couldn’t imagine nine holes could occupy so much playable turf.
The second thing that hits you is the shear, unrelenting beauty of the place. The amber hues of the tall, waving grasses against the subtle hazel of the turf. The rolling mounds that mimic the smoky blue-grey mountains surrounding three sides of the property. For our group, that morning, we were treated to misty fog that settled right on top of us; it served as a bubble enclosing us in our own little world–just 20 young men, a “trophy,” and a little slice of golf paradise.
IV. “Been a rule since day one”
There are many avant garde features at Sweetens Cove; the place feels like a living monument to bold thinking in golf architecture. The course speaks loudly for itself. That’s one reason why everything else about the place is so understated. Perhaps most refreshing is that the architect, Rob Collins, and the general manager, Patrick Boyd, intuitively understand how the course bellows, and they don’t need to add much else in the form of spoken words. They let you find your own way of trying to express it. And if a simple google search for “Sweetens Cove” is any indication, t Source: https://nolayingup.com/blog/unquenchable-thirst-sweetens-cove-golf-club