Alone Among the Dunes

Bandon Dunes

Bandon Oregon 2024 Part 1

Living in Oregon in 2024, even for the short amount of time that I did, taught me to appreciate a few things: its beauty, its unpredictable weather, and the fact that nearly everyone you meet seems genuinely happy to be there.

One afternoon before a long stretch of days off, I found myself staring at my phone debating whether I should call the holy grail of Oregon golf, Bandon Dunes.

This was a dangerous proposition.

For golfers, Bandon isn't just a golf resort. It's a pilgrimage.

Built on a remote stretch of Oregon coastline by Mike Keiser in the early 1990s and designed by David Mcklay Kidd, their vision was simple: build Scottish-style links golf on the Northwest American coast.

What started with one course eventually became six world-class layouts and one of the most sought-after golf destinations on Earth.

Ever since arriving in Oregon a few months earlier, I had dreamed of making the trip.

So I called.

I expected disappointment.

Instead, I got lucky.

The woman on the phone explained that every course was essentially booked solid, but somehow there was one opening available on each course over the weekend.

The catch?

I would have to play thirty-six holes a day.

Before she could change her mind, I accepted.

Then I hung up and realized I had forgotten one very important detail.

I had not discussed this plan with my wife.

A lump immediately formed in my throat.

The excitement of securing the tee times quickly transformed into the fear of explaining them.

Fortunately, I had a backup plan.

I rented a beach house overlooking the Pacific Ocean and presented the trip as a romantic coastal getaway that just happened to involve golf.

To my surprise, she was immediately onboard.

As usual, my worrying had been completely unnecessary.

We packed the car to the roof with luggage, golf clubs, snacks, and enough equipment to survive a minor natural disaster before heading south.

The drive toward Bandon follows winding highways through deep river valleys and forests that seem untouched by time. The closer you get to the coast, the more dramatic everything becomes.

Bandon itself is a small town sitting on an inlet from the Pacific. Once a logging community, it now seems to survive largely on tourists and golfers willing to travel across continents chasing perfect fairways.

We checked into our little beach cottage perched above the ocean.

It was exactly what I hoped it would be.

Waves crashing below.

Salt air through the windows.

A view that made you immediately question every life decision that prevented you from living there permanently.

After settling in, we drove over to the resort.

The property feels less like it was built and more like it was discovered. The courses rise naturally from the dunes above the Pacific, blending into the landscape so well that it feels as though they've always existed.

Dunes over the Waves

Tomorrow I would play Bandon Dunes and Old Macdonald.

I slept terribly.

Whenever golf means too much to me, sleep becomes impossible.

I woke up long before sunrise and headed for the practice facilities.

The range wasn't even open yet.

I found myself putting in near darkness, using the headlights of my truck to illuminate the practice green like some kind of golf-addicted raccoon.

Eventually, the sun began to rise.

A handful of equally obsessed golfers appeared from the fog and began hitting balls beside

me.

The sound of drivers cutting through the cold morning air sounded like church bells.

I knew then this was going to be a special day.

Bandon Dunes was everything I hoped it would be.

Wide fairways.

Huge greens.

Rolling dunes.

Ocean views in every direction.

The course was forgiving enough to allow a player of my limited abilities to survive.

My goal was simple: Break ninety and don't embarrass myself.

The golf itself was solid enough, but more importantly, I found a swing that seemed repeatable. Something I could rely on for the remaining rounds.

Toward the end of the morning, my wife joined us.

As always, I somehow found myself paired with a father-and-son duo and another golfer around my age who was checking a lifelong dream off his own list.

There was a shared understanding among all of us.

Nobody was there for a score.

We were there because golfers spend years imagining places like this.

After lunch, my wife drove me over to Old Macdonald.

To this day, it remains one of my favorite courses anywhere.

The entire layout sprawls across gigantic dunes overlooking the Pacific Ocean. At its center stands a single dead pine tree known simply as Old Mac.

No matter where you are on the course, you can usually spot it.

Standing alone.

Watching.

Old Mac

The fairways are absurdly large and dramatically sloped. A perfectly struck drive can disappear over a ridge and continue rolling for what seems like half a mile before finally coming to rest.

When I arrived, I noticed something strange.

The parking lot was empty.

Not mostly empty.

Completely empty.

Inside the pro shop sat one lone superintendent. Waiting for me.

That was when I realized I was the only tee time on the entire afternoon sheet.

The superintendent personally walked me to the first tee.

For the next four hours, I had one of America's greatest golf courses entirely to myself.

No waiting.

No conversations.

No groups ahead.

No groups behind.

Just me, the dunes, and the Pacific Ocean.

It felt less like playing golf and more like being granted temporary access to a national park after everyone else had gone home.

The silence was remarkable.

Just the sound of wind moving through the grass and waves crashing somewhere beyond the cliffs.

Several times I stopped simply to look around.

Not because I was tired.

Because I couldn't believe where I was.

At the turn, I stopped at the halfway house.

A tiny shack perched on a cliff above the ocean.

Inside sat one woman who appeared to have spent her entire day waiting for exactly one customer: Me.

Feeling guilty, I bought far more food than I needed and tipped accordingly.

It seemed only fair.

The back nine passed quickly.

Too quickly.

Eventually, I arrived at the famous bell beside the eighteenth fairway, used to signal that the landing area ahead is clear.

I rang it.

The sound echoed through the dunes and rolled across the property for what seemed like forever.

For some reason, that moment stuck with me.

Maybe because I knew the day was ending.

Maybe because my feet had finally begun openly protesting their working conditions.

Or maybe because I understood this was one of those days I would remember forever.

When I finally reached the clubhouse, my wife was waiting in the parking lot.

She promptly informed me that I looked exhausted.

She was correct.

We headed back into town, where she treated me to an Irish dinner at a little pub near our cottage.

That evening, I fell asleep almost immediately.

The kind of sleep only possible after thirty-six holes of golf and several miles of walking through giant sand dunes.

The trip wasn't over.

Several rounds still remained.

But the first chapter had already delivered more than I could have hoped for.

For one perfect afternoon, I had Old Macdonald entirely to myself.

And for a golfer, that's about as close to magic as it gets.