Green Mountain

By Matt Hartley

October 2022

I worked at a municipal golf course in Camas, Washington. Each Saturday at 5:30 a.m., I’d wake up, slam a five-hour-energy (not yet a coffee drinker), and drive through the fog-shrouded, winding roads that led to the course. Such mornings were normally uneventful, until one day I arrived to see a cop car parked along the curb adjacent the pro shop. Its red and blue lights flashed in the morning darkness.

Normally at Saturday opening hour, the parking lot was deserted except for the cashier’s car. The two of us would open the course, then later additional employees – the starter, the cart girl, the golf pro, the marshal, and then finally our infamous manager, Frank – would filter in as we neared the first tee times. Yet today, the cop car sat an ominous aberration to the morning pattern, its blue and red cones of light pulsing defiantly. While uncharacteristic for a Saturday morning, visits from Camas law enforcement weren’t entirely abnormal for Green Mountain golf course. It was actually pretty common. Rising gas prices caused the course’s gas tank, stored in an abandoned barn off hole 4 that looked like a racoon haven, to be frequently robbed. We had regular visitations from the police as a result. I can still hear my boss’s (Frank) expletive laced rant after our portly golf pro Tommy, informed him that someone had, “broken into the gas again.”

Today seemed different however, given the early hour. Excited, I approached the pro shop to find out what the commotion was but then the door burst open. Police led Will, the cashier, handcuffed to their cop car. Will wore a disheveled look with dark circles under his eyes and unkempt facial hair like a college student who’d completed an-all night, alcohol-soaked study bender for finals. He stared ahead with a blank expression as if in a trance, oblivious to the police around him. Perhaps my memory exaggerates but it certainly didn’t look like the Will I’d worked with. Frank stood at the door shaking his head in disgust. It was the latest in a series of debacles for the course.

“He was stealing from the cash register,” Frank mumbled as I entered. It was part hilarious, part shocking as Will had been one of the “good” cashiers to work with. Cashiers were in charge when Frank was out, and Will would let you go hit golf balls on the driving range when we were closing the shop. It was only after his abrupt arrest that I realized he was pilfering the register while I was out perfecting my swing.

In the summer of my high school years

It was odd, but then again odd was normal at Green Mountain. The course was always on the verge of collapse. I started working there during the 2008 recession (my sophomore year in high school) and the course was barely surviving. Chris, the owner, was toying with selling the property for housing development but Frank always fought to keep the place alive recognizing his career was at stake. He even discussed trying to identify an endangered species of fauna on the course to preserve the land from development.

Frank had unsuccessfully attempted to become a teaching pro multiple times, never able to shoot the required score to get certified. Often in the shop, he’d gaze out the glass backdoor that overlooked the first fairway. “You know Matt, anyone can make the U.S. open,” he’d say, as if willing himself to a Kevin Costner, Tin Cup-like rise.

Each time Frank went through the certification process, we always feared the next day, knowing it was unlikely he’d passed. His golf game was just not up to snuff. A fellow coworker and Highschool friend played a round with him and I heard Frank screaming as they walked the first hole, “Hook you son-of-a-bitch! Hook!” – his ball rocketing towards a pond.

But Frank wasn’t the only character at Green Mountain. There was also our two old-salty marshals, Micky and Donald, who were sort of like an R-rated version of the famous Disney characters. Micky was a Mormon who cursed more than anyone I’d met, frequently drank coke and coffee, and told vulgar jokes to the Green Mountain employees. Donald was a former Marine and Micky’s accomplice. The two worked sparingly but excessively made use of their free playing privileges. Tina, was the sweet cashier who’d worked at the course longest – a matronly figure who looked out for the cart boys. “I’d rather have the kids drink at my place, so I know what’s going on,” she’d say in defense of the high school parties she’d hosted at her home. Stew was one of our starters. He mumbled in a low voice and was hard to understand. Then of course there was Tommy, the plump golf pro who spoke to the cart boys like you were a pet dog. “You’re…doing…such…a…good…job,” he’d say. Finally, there was the grounds keepers who worked the morning shift preparing the course for play. They were the shadow crew that we rarely interacted with like Darrell’s warehouse workers from The Office. Every morning, one of the grounds keepers with a distinct ZZ-Top like beard could be seen on the riding mower trimming the fairways. He had an aura of mystery like some cousin of Big Foot that lived in the shadow of the mountain.

The cart boys were the lowest on the distorted totem pole that made up the establishment’s hierarchy. We were the high school laborers tasked with cleaning the golf carts, picking the range, cleaning the bathrooms, and fulfilling other manual jobs for the upkeep of the course. For our efforts, we were compensated with Washington state’s nation-leading minimum wage (God-bless the liberals), free balls at the driving range, and free golf. All in all, a great first gig. My older brother Michael had worked there for two years and secured me a job when I was a sophomore. We both played high school golf and the free-range rounds we received as side benefits were ideal for aspiring young players.

On my first day working for the course, boss-Frank gave me a bottle of bleach and told me to clean out the freezer in the shed out back. I went to work eager to prove myself. My older brother had made a reputation as a hard worker and I couldn’t afford to be labeled the lazy brother, so I dove into the task, vigorously applying the bottle of spray. An hour later, I’d almost passed out from the fumes due to the lack of dilution in the bottle. Frank came by to check on me, gave the shed a whiff, then causally said, “air it out a bit,” not recognizing that I’d nearly killed myself. I recovered from the shed experience and soon learned the ropes of my new job.

On weekdays after school, I worked the closing shift. I’d clean the golf carts and park them in ordered rows on the concrete slab next to the pro-shop. I’d wait by the cleaning station as the final golfers came in from their rounds, often drunkenly stumbling towards their cars. The amount of beer cans we cleaned out from the vehicles suggested the course was pumping out inebriated drivers onto the Camas roads at a rate that rivaled the local bars. The record for a single golf cart was 21 beer cans, four cigars, and one Playboy magazine.

Sometimes when the carts came in, we’d have to take them to the barn to fill up on gas. My friend figured out how to take the governor off the engine by shoving a golf tee between it. We’d get the cart around the corner (out of the view of the pro-shop) then lift the seat cushion, place the tee in, and haul-ass down the road. The marshals soon learned what we were doing and followed suit.

While we waited for the twilight golfers to finish their rounds, I’d drive the picker to clear the driving range of golf balls. I’d sit in the mesh cage of that antiquated machine and roam the green plain littered with flags and yard markers while the golfers furiously rocketed balls towards me trying to hit the vehicle. There was a large hole in the mesh where a ball had shot through the cage and the course staff had repaired it by duct taping a small piece of cardboard over it. This did little to quell my fears while golf balls hit the cage with a sound like a shotgun blast. Then I’d come back and unload the baskets full of balls into a cleaning machine that worked only half the time and seemed a relic from some antediluvian age.

Once all the carts were in and the driving range was fully picked, I’d lock up the fleet, clean the bathrooms, and head home. I’d exit and drive down the long road that paralleled hole 9 as the golf course faded into the darkness of night, resting for the next day’s players.

The course wasn’t just my employer but also a frequent playing location for my high school golf team. My freshman year, I played my first competitive round at Green Mountain. My nerves pulsed through me and on the first hole, I ricocheted shots like ping pong balls up and down the fairway, losing two into the pond on the right side. I ended up with an 18 on the hole. Later in the round, I accidently hit an opposing player’s ball invoking both personal mortification and a two-stroke penalty. My final score was a 70. For nine holes.

The next year, after working on my game for a full summer, the team played the course during tryouts. On the front nine, I shot a 39. I was thrilled at my improvement and progress. Then we played the back nine where my game held together about as well as the French Maginot line. So began my love-hate relationship with the course.

Golf is ultimately a game you play against yourself. Each hole presses you to handle the highs and the lows of the round. It will throw you a great bounce on a cart path that propels your ball 100 yards closer on one hole, then rebound backwards off a tree where your ball was on the next. If you can’t face each shot anew, you’ll find your score ascending into the hundreds as you carve beaver pelts from the fairway. Great rounds are born from resilience. They also demand integrity. A good round will tempt you to cut corners to preserve your score when you find yourself in a tough position in the woods or in the rough. But if you cheat, you’d only be lying to yourself. As my grandpa used to say, “if you cheat in golf, you’ll cheat in life.” The game also gets you outdoors and away from the TV. It can put you in the company of good friends or provide the solitude of nature. It can also lead to strange side hobbies, like ball hunting.

Green Mountain was excellent ball hunting territory (probably because the grounds were managed about as well as I manage my backyard). Between hole 10 and 18, there was a small pond and tall swamp grass which served as something of a Venus fly trap for golf balls. Thousands of golf balls were lost in that jungle. During one match, my playing partner ran out of golf balls on the front nine. “Give me a second,” he said, then marched into the grass and soon amassed ten new golf balls for his round (their yellow and pink color indicated they probably weren’t Pro-V1s but at that point he didn’t really care). He came out grinning (and a little wet) but ready to continue the round on the back nine. Sometimes, when your score was beyond recovery, you’d take more satisfaction in finding golf balls than your actual play. It was the game within the game.

To many, Green Mountain was (as my Dad described it) a “goat track.” One of the tee boxes was a turf mat (something you could find at your local Walmart) and it rankled my Dad that they never put in the money to seed grass or lay down sod. Divots frequently littered the greens and fairways and flooding from the swamp-like terrain often spilled out onto the holes. Green Mountain wasn’t some exclusive private course filled with members networking for their multimillion-dollar businesses or political aspirations but rather the local municipal that collected a less professional crowd of players. As my friend used to say, the “men’s club” was filled with two sorts of people: salty, old veterans and young chain-smoking jackasses.

Yet despite these qualities, the course (as all golf courses do) had beauty, the kind that doesn’t reveal itself immediately but blossoms over time like the awkward girl in high school who comes back from the summer reborn in maturity. It lay against the foothills of the Cascade Mountains which were covered with tall evergreens and the fairways stretched into the reach of their shadows. On Hole 9, which sat below the pro-shop, a giant, ancient oak tree sprawled over the tee box, providing shade to the players. To me, it became beautiful, and I enjoyed working outside more than working in some dingy fast-food restaurant or in a warehouse stocking product. In the evenings when the course was slow and there was little work to be done, I’d hit balls from the driving range and stare at the green fields beyond as the sun kissed the horizon.

Down the street from our course was our rival, Camas Meadows, an uppity establishment with little regard for our lowly course. It was built in the middle of an upscale neighborhood, frequently chosen as a wedding venue, and chided players who showed up without the required dress code (I regularly saw people play Green Mountain in jeans and NFL jerseys). We frequently ragged on Camas and made fun of their desire to be perceived as an “elite” course when they were simply a solid public one. Still, they seemed to fare better than our course as we squeaked by season after season. Rumors of a closing simmered in the background like a teapot about to boil.

One night, during the summer of my final season working for the course, a bad round of thunderstorms ravaged Green Mountain. Lighting hit the large oak tree on hole nine, splitting it down the middle. Shards of the tree crashed into the adjacent tee box. A few days later it was sawed into pieces and excavated from the hole. Its removal marked the beginning of the end. It loomed over the course like a dark Norse omen forecasting Ragnarök.

I graduated high school, worked a final two months then put in my two weeks’ notice and said my goodbyes. The men’s club awarded me part of the course’s annual scholarship fund, $250 to help with college. It amounted to a couple of textbooks for my “Volcanos” course freshman year (yes, I took “Volcanos.” As a history major I needed a few science courses to graduate and it was better than “Man: Friend or Foe?”) In the fall, I started the next phase of my life at the University of Washington. Back home, the course lumbered on, and I heard about underclassmen on the high school golf team fulfilling the cart boy role I’d once held.

Years later, I returned home to visit my family. I told my younger brother I wanted to go by Green Mountain for old times’ sake. “They sold it for housing development,” he said. So, it finally happened, I thought. I drove by and all traces of the course were swallowed by the new neighborhoods. The pro shop, the driving range, the barn, the holes, they were all gone. I turned around and drove down the long stretch of road that traced the outline of where hole 9 used to be. I thought of the giant oak tree destroyed by lightning.

What is it about golf that interests people? That keeps them coming to the course bad round after bad round? Half the time you’re hunting for your ball in the trees or the weeds. There’s no tackling. There’s no teams. There’s not even mascots (unless you consider John Daly a mascot). Some of the angriest moments of my life have been on a golf course, and I’ve had far more bad rounds than good ones. I’ve cursed, thrown clubs, and had complete meltdowns. But then every once in a while, you hit a good shot. Knock in a birdie. Keep it together and have a great round. And then like my old boss Frank you start to think, hey, maybe I could make the U.S. Open. And for just a moment, you forget about the daily grind of your job and life.

It was this feeling that kept people coming back to the Green Mountain “goat track” day in and day out. It brought people from the nice side of town and the bad. The rich and the poor. The gifted and the hacks. I’d watch them come in from the course, some leaned over their scorecard intensely reviewing their numbers, others hooting and hollering from a raucous round with friends, some, frankly, too drunk to stand. And I’d look out over the fairways and think, for a high school job this isn’t too bad.

None of my fellow employees and managers were titans of industry. They weren’t maverick entrepreneurs, doctors, or star salesmen. They were simply a bunch of people that loved golf. That wanted to get free rounds and range balls and spend their working hours on a golf course.

Capitulating to nostalgia, I went online to read old player reviews of the course. There were many that hilariously captured its “goat track” vibe which, I imagine, only got worse in its final days:

Virtually unplayable...because of poor drainage on the fairways and greens. Ball plugging on nearly every hole. No pride in course appearance...beer cans, garbage strewn about, downed trees, last year's dead weeds, etc.

Goat Trail / Cow Pasture: Simply nothing more than the worst golf course in the Portland/Vancouver metro area. Don't waste your time...

But there was one that struck a different tone:

While you still can: This nice and very friendly course is slated for residential development later in 2014, which is too bad because it is a very fun and relaxing golf course with wonderful staffs who remembered your names. I will miss it where my caddy wife can tag along for free.

I love that phrase, “a very fun and relaxing golf course with wonderful staffs who remembered your names.” It captured the essence of the people there. Different, odd, funny, but ultimately people who loved golf and were just trying to get by like the rest of us. People who gave me my first job, looked after me, and taught me a thing or two about work and life. People who also taught me not to rob the cash register when you think no one’s looking.

I never found out what happened to Will. The day he got arrested was the last time I ever saw him. Sometimes I wonder where he is. Maybe the arrest was what he needed to turn his life around. Maybe he has a family now and looks back at that day as the moment that everything changed. Or maybe he didn’t and he’s sitting in a jail cell somewhere full of regret. I sure hope it’s the former. He was a nice guy and fun to work with. He certainly helped me improve my golf swing (while he improved his pockets) from all that time he let me spend out on the range.

I also never saw Micky, Donald, Tommy, Tina, Stew, or Frank after my last day working for the course. You don’t think about that sort of thing when you finish a job, graduate college, or move to a new town. You think, I’ll see them again, but those moments are often few and fleeting. The golf course, as I said, no longer exists. It’s now a nice Camas neighborhood where kids will likely grow up playing in streets that covered the golf holes I once zoomed around in a golf cart. They’ll never know about the time Frank took a tiger shaped driver cover and talked through it like a puppet all day at work. Or when Tommy setup a high-tech security camera system to keep the gas barn from being robbed only to come back the next day and see it had been. They won’t know those stories or countless others. But I will. And in that way Green Mountain lives on.

Matt Hartley is the cofounder of The Hart & The Cur.

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