We lived in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula for ten years. In all that time of living in God’s gorgeous creation, I never golfed there once. Zero. Nada. Nil. It’s not like there wasn’t a course nearby—I worked at Michigan Tech, and they owned the Portage Lake Golf Course.
It wasn’t until three and a half years ago while living below the bridge near Lansing that I finally hauled hybrids up to St. Ignace, a four-hour trip north to the U.P., to golf nine holes with my now grown son, Ryan.
Courtesy: St. Ignace Golf and Country Club
It was Memorial Day weekend, and the weather was beautiful. The sun was shining as we arrived at the St. Ignace Golf and Country Club. Being new to the course, we talked to the guy running the pro shop about layout and distances and then made our way to the first hole.
There was a threesome waiting their turn to tee off. A younger guy in the group turned southward away from the course and began firing tee shot after tee shot into the woods.
“Is there a driving range here?” I asked.
The young guy replied, “This is our driving range.” The two older golfers chuckled as the thirty-something drove a couple more Titleists deep into the forest.
Ryan and I laughed. We talked about how that was funny, as we had never witnessed someone warming up in that manner. Overhearing the group of three guys talking, we noticed they had Finnish accents, and made us feel like we had gone back in time to twelve and a half years earlier, when we were living on the west end of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.
Michigan’s Upper Peninsula is heavily populated with people of Finnish descent. They have a tendency to say “eh, “ “touke” – what “trolls” (people living below the bridge) – call a stocking cap, and “turd” which comes after first and second.
Living in the U.P. also means access to Yooper jokes, featuring Eino and Toivo:
One day, Toivo and Eino were hunting in the woods. Toivo instructed Eino that if he got lost, to fire three shots into the air. Eino agreed, and they went on their way. After a few hours, Eino had gotten lost. He aimed his weapon into the air, fired three shots, and prayed, “Please, God, let Toivo see my arrows.”
The nine holes we played were awesome. Well, Ryan’s playing was awesome. I had a couple of shots that were nice, but nothing spectacular. At the end of the nine, we packed up and made our way back across the Mighty Mac to return to fellow flatlanders.
Since then, every time Ryan and I have gone golfing, we have talked about our trip to St. Ignace. We have reminisced about the seventh hole which was a blind shot over the hill. The only thing you could really see was the top of the flagstick. We also recalled the beauty of the Upper Peninsula and the dude hammering his practice tee shots toward the Straits of Mackinac.
Earlier this summer, Ryan asked me if I would be interested in taking another trip up to St. Ignace and playing nine holes for old times’ sake. He and I both love golfing in the cooler weather, so we waited until just a few weeks ago—early September—to once again drive four hours north across the Mackinac Bridge and onto the St. Ignace Golf and Country Club.
“Where are you guys from?” asked the guy in the pro shop. He was the same guy who had taken our money three and a half years earlier.
“Lansing,” I answered. “Although we lived ten years in the Houghton/Hancock area,” I added, wanting to make sure he knew we weren’t total flatlanders.
“Are you staying in the area?”
“No,” I replied. “We drove up today just to play your course. We played here a few years ago, enjoyed ourselves, and wanted to come back.”
“Well, we’re backed up today, so you might have to wait a little bit,” explained the golf pro.
Ryan and I headed out of the pro shop toward the parking lot to pick up our golf cart. We heard someone talking and turned around.
The guy doing the talking was chatting with two older guys. They were in the group ahead of us and were waiting on a married couple who were just getting started in slowing down everyone else on the course.
Ryan looked at me. I looked right back at him.
Way?
No way, eh!
“Does the younger guy ahead of us look familiar?” I asked.
“Yea, he does,” answered Ryan. “He reminds me of the guy who was teeing off in the woods last time we were here.”
“Wouldn’t that be something?” I chuckled.
On the golf course, we spent more time talking about this guy than Rory, Tiger, or Phil combined.
We watched and listened as the group in front of us teed it up and took off down the fairway.
“You don’t think it was that guy from before, do you?” I asked Ryan.
“Don’t know for sure,” answered Ryan. “I would have to listen to him talk again.”
Finally, it was our turn at the first tee, and—just like old times—I lost my drive in the rough.
Lovely.
We finished up our putting on one and caught up with the threesome ahead of us on holes two, three, four, and five. And the old married couple? Not only were they slow, but they were a wee bit unobservant as well. They did not allow anyone behind them to play through. A goat and a yak playing with niblicks could have golfed nine before Lucy and Ricky.
Later on, I bombed a drive that landed way down the middle of the fairway. Unfortunately, it wasn’t my fairway.
“Fore!” I yelled. And then I chuckled. There is a bumper sticker that’s been around for years that reads, “Say yah to da U.P., eh?” I thought I needed my own bumper sticker that would read, “When golfing, say Fore! to da U.P., eh?”
At hole five, we took an unintended break while waiting on the Ricardos. It was an excellent opportunity to hang out with the guys in front of us.
“You guys golf here often?” Ryan asked the younger guy.
“Yea, we golf here all the time,” came the reply.
“Where are you guys from?” asked one of the older golfers.
“We’re from downstate, near Lansing. Drove up just today to play here and then we’re headed home,” I answered. “But we used to live in the Houghton and Hancock area.” I wanted to make sure da guys kinda knew we were one of them, eh?
Before long, the golf course conga line began moving.
“Well, now, what do you think?” I asked Ryan.
“It’s him. It’s definitely the guy we’ve been talking about all these years. Same Yooper accent, chewing tobacco, and biceps the size of my thighs.” Ryan admitted.
Little Eddie tees off
“Well, I think so, too. I remember the guy before having a great looking swing, and this guy does too. And when we get close to that group again, I’m going to let them know.”
Heh. I considered how much time, gas, and money was being spent on this trip, and so far, most of the attention focused on da Yooper.
We caught up with them while they were waiting to tee off on hole nine.
“Hey guys,” I said. “Want to hear a funny story?” I asked.
“Sure!” came the replies.
“Well, three and a half years ago, Ryan and I golfed here at St. Ignace. While we were waiting on the first hole, a young guy in the threesome ahead of us was drilling tee shots into the woods. And we think the guy hitting the tee shots was you,” I said while pointing to the owner of the biceps the size of Ryan’s thighs.
“Well, now, it coulda been me,” said the golfer.
The young guy walked up to tee off; we kept on talking to one of the older guys.
“Do you guys live around here?” asked Ryan.
“Yea, we all do,” replied one of the guys. “Me and Eddie retired from working on the Bridge, and Little Eddie works on the Bridge now.”
Little Eddie? The dude was rock-solid and could kick half the butts in the lower peninsula.
Ryan and I teed off at nine and on the walk up admitted it was The Guy. We laughed about the odds of following the same three golfers we had followed three and a half years earlier. After Ryan and I finished our nine, we returned the cart keys to the pro shop. There was a nice lady working the desk. As I chatted with her, she asked, “So are you guys here to walk across the Bridge tomorrow for the Labor Day Walk?”
“No,” I replied. “We drove up from the Lansing area to play your course, and then we’ll drive back home when we’re done.”
“That’s nice of you to do that. Thanks for coming all this way to play our course,” she said.
“We love playing here. I’m sure we’ll be back sometime.”
And I do hope we can go back sometime soon and have time to play eighteen holes at the St. Ignace Golf and Country Club. Even though we had hoped it would be cooler temps—we started at 82 degrees and ended at a tepid 88 degrees—we loved every minute we were out on the golf course. Who knows? If we time it just right, maybe we can follow Little Eddie and his engaging group again next time.
