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AFT goes off course in the frozen north! |
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February 29, 2004; Source: AnyoneForTee Our intrepid reporter breaks the ice with the locals, with the help of a By AnyoneForTee's Nordic Correspondent Archie Pelago |
 SVALBARD, NORWAY. Early morning on an ice fjord near the bustling town of Longyearbyen (population: 15 men, two in-bred walruses and 1,000,000 lemmings... 999,999 lemmings... 999,998 lemmings... 999,997 lemmings... That’s enough Archie, we get your point – Ed), writes Archie Pelago.Courtesy of the sponsors I’m here to preview the world’ most unusual golf tournament – the Drambuie World Ice Golf Championship – and have arrived at the island of Spitsbergen where the event takes place on April 1 to 3. It’s bitterly cold, 30 degrees below, yet I’m in plus fours. Just a few miles to the north, American explorer Robert Peary became the first man to reach the North Pole on April 6, 1909. If I can get round this course in under 120 I’ll be just as famous!  There’s a big crowd here to welcome me, although I must say the locals look a little... strange. Mayor Walter Walrus is a great character but his wife is sort of odd. And aggressive - a real hard tuskmaster. Kept barking at him all through dinner last night, in that... husky voice. Still, I guess it’s hard to meet women around these parts...I ask Mayoress Walrus what people do for a social life around here. "Oh, in the summer we fish and make love Archie," she replies, looking straight at me while fluttering her prodigiously bushy eyebrows, "and in the winter it's too cold to fish..."  "And boy can they drink! Even when they eat! We had a five course dinner last night. Seal terrain swimming in Drambuie to start (I’d wanted something lighter but the Walrus salad was off); reindeer pie in Drambuie to follow - very deer; loin of Lemmings, where the meat simply fell off the bone [that’s enough Archie! – Ed]; polar bear-faced cheek in a Drambuie sauce and of course Drambuie chocolates to finish (the locals tapped into the chocolates and sipped the liquid out!).Afterwards we ended up at the former Eskimo’s Arms for a nightcap. Now it’s called the Eskimo’s Shoulders, since the owner got frostbite. The place is run by – wait for this – a gay Eskimo called Nell (below right). "Life’s tough being the only gay Eskimo for miles," he told me over a pint of Drambuie, "I’ve been frozen out for years. What’ll it be?"  Deciding to put my money where my vermouth was, I ordered a Drambuie-tini. "On the rocks," said Nell. "No, just down on my luck," I replied. The morning after and my head feels like it’s been chewed over by a polar bear but I’m determined to put on a good show for the locals. I reckon there’s also a chance that Drambuie will take us on as the official worldwide media instead of CNN or Sky Sports if I impress them with my game and my coverage. Boy is it cold. As I step outside an Arctic blast pins me against the door. Wonder how my slice will hold up in this? The local chapter of the Duffers Golf Club has kindly laid on transport to the course. It’s a nifty little sled being towed by dogs. One of them I’m sure is the Mayor’s wife, but I say nothing. Today we’re playing the course mapped out by Pen Hadow, the famous British explorer. The press release promises an "Arctic expanse filled with fjords, wide river valleys, jutting peaks, nesting cliffs, and the stunning glaciers which cover 60% of Svalbard, many of them ending in the sea." And that’s just the first hole.  We arrive at the course. Mayor Walrus (think Craig Stadler but larger – talk about Arctic waist!) has agreed to be my partner and we’ve got two Inuit caddies. In a nice touch, one of them is wearing a uniform saying 'Anyone For Tee Caddy', which I suppose makes him an In-suit.On the advice of Mayor Walrus, I do a thorough warm-up. "It’s good for the polar flexes," he says. A huge icicle has formed on the end of my nose. "Here, try this," he says kindly, offering me a flask of Drambuie 90 proof from the local duty free shop. Normal golf clubs snap in the intense cold so the Longyearbyen Duffers Golf Club has struck a sponsorship deal with Duffaway to provide re-inforced titanium clubs with seal-blubber insulation for the members. "Take your pick," says the Mayor. "And you’ll be needing golf clubs as well..." We head down to the first hole. By the tee markers, there’s a large husky paw. "Dogleg," the Mayor says seriously. Through a light snowfall, I can make out the snow-covered fairway 170 yards away. Between there and where I stand lies a fast-flowing expanse of freezing water!  "Here, use these," says the Mayor, throwing me a box of brightly-coloured Titleless golf balls. "They’re full of liquid nitrogen, can’t have you getting frozen balls.""Thwack..." The Mayor’s drive soars into the icy atmosphere and the orange ball lands in the middle of the fairway. "That’s where you want to be," he says, a little smugly for my liking. My hands are shaking with nerves, cold and the effect of five pints of Drambuie. Sure is powerful stuff. The waitress even poured it on my cereal – Frosties, of course – this morning. My head is spinning. No wonder Eskimo Nell had said it was a "vewy stwong wisky liquor".  "Swissshhhhhhhh." Oh no, an air shot! "We’ll call it a Mulligan," says the Mayor kindly, "now just relax."
"Thwwiiiiitt." The familiar symphony known and feared by duffers worldwide of the topped shot. I watch dejectedly as the ball plops into the fast-flowing waters in front of me. "That water’s five miles deep," says the Mayor, "which is why we never invite Jean Van de Velde to play here..."
Three more attempts and finally I manage the carry but an 11-over par 16 on the first hole (an 11-over score is called a Great Auk under AnyoneForTee’s pioneering new scoring system - Ed.) is not the way I’d hoped to start. Even the caddies are looking embarrassed. The second hole looks easier. I look down and see three polar bear handprints in the snow. "Paw three?" I ask? The Mayor nods knowingly. I take a large slug of Drambuie to settle my nerves. It works. I play a lovely soft 9-iron right into the heart of the green, while the Mayor is off the edge of the surface in the heart of a snow drift. Maybe this isn’t so difficult after all. As we walk towards the green, I ask the Mayor how long he’s been in politics. "45 years son," he replies kindly, stroking his large bushy moustache. "I come from a long line of Walruses in local office." I watch as the Mayor examines his lie. He reaches for his... snow shovel! Call it unorthodox but this man can play. He splashes out neatly, leaving himself a four-footer for par. Mine’s around 20 feet, on the slickest looking green I’ve played on since the Shell Houston Open. "Gimme?" I ask hopefully, but the mayor’s scowl tells me I’m on thin ice. I hit the ball with the sort of careful caress I normally reserve for Mrs Pelago on our wedding anniversary. "In the hole! After that things got serious –and cold. The Mayor’s a tough competitor but AnyoneForTee readers planning to visit the Drambuie Championship will find him delightful company. Doesn’t it get lonely up here, I ask him on our way down the 8th? "Not really," he replies, "you know we’ve got our own Arctic circle."  By the turn we’re locked in a titanic struggle – not the first in these parts I’m told. I’m on my fourth flask of Drambuie as the bitter cold starts to eat through my thermal protection. Thank God I’ve worn my new 'Snowball' golfing underpants, kindly donated and produced by UK sports apparel specialists GOBRA.But all this whisky is making me see double. "EIGHT!!!!!" I yell as I hit my drive on the 10th straight towards a baby seal. "Thud!!!" Oh no, my ball hits the creature right between the eyes and it slumps to the ice. The Mayor glares at me.  We rush up to the stricken creature. A tiny tear is flowing from its eye. I realise I’ve never seen a seal blubber before...I see my Titleless lying obstructed under the seal’s head. "Three stroke penalty," says the Mayor, making me think fleetingly of Mrs Pelago again. "One for the unplayable lie, two for killing a seal." I look downcast but the Mayor tells me to not to worry, as the seal meat will be sold off to raise funds at the golf club’s annual Fair. "Think of it this way, you’ve just sealed my Fête," he says encouragingly.  One down with eight to play and my game deteriorates as fast as the conditions. Boy is this a challenge in store for AnyoneForTee readers! Where else in the world would you get a chance to play off an ice-berg, the home of the 11th hole. Apparently Drambuie’s thinking of expanding the whole concept with a public float.
I pull back a stroke at the 12th and halve the next three holes as the wind howls in from the Antarctic? Or is it the Arctic? (ever since my first assignment, reporting on the Warsaw boxing championships, I’ve never been able to tell my poles apart). As we reach the 16th the Drambuie is taking its toll. I need a comfort break. But where? After all, I can’t afford to stain this pristine natural environment. But in preparation for April’s big tournament, the locals have thought of everything and the Mayor points me towards a sign saying 'Ig – loo'. [Warning to readers: You need to be quick. Frostbite can affect exposed parts in less than 1 minute.]Feeling more comfortable I line up my drive at the 15th, a tricky shot over a fjord onto an ice plateau, up over a sheer cliff and onto a tiny glacial green. I advise AnyoneForTee readers to lay up, rather than try to make the 275 yard carry.  That’s exactly what I do. A nice soft three wood puts me onto the plateau. Pity about that overhanging branch in my way, laden with snow. In fact the whole cliff in front of me is packed with snow. All this Drambuie has made me hungry. The Mayor reads my thoughts and through the swirling snow I can make him out 50 yards away by his own ball calling out "have a lunch... have a lunch!"How kind of him. How typical of the man. "What’s that roar?" I think as I hear a strange whooshing noise. "Ave a lunch!!!!!", the Mayor calls, the Drambuie effect obviously making him drop his "h's". "I heard you the first time," I yell back. Suddenly I realise too late what he was saying as a mountain of snow crashes on me. Avalanche! I find myself buried alive. It’s all gone dark. And white. I realise I’ve been pole-axed! Even the pot bunkers at St Andrews aren’t this bad. I start to panic. What if I don’t get out? What if the bar’s closed by the time I do? What will my editor say if my copy is late? He’ll never believe I was snowed under. I dig frantically towards the surface. With a stroke of genius I pour the Drambuie in front of me to melt the snow. Nothing like a little Drambuie on ice, I think. Fifteen minutes later, I climb breathlessly to the surface, gasping for breath and reaching for another flask of Drambuie. There’s the Mayor looking relaxed. "Try not to slow up play old man," he smiles, "and as you’ve lost your ball you’ll have to go back to the tee." I concede the hole. The 17th passes in a blur but somehow I halve it by holing out with my picking wedge. One down, one to play.  The 18th at Spitsbergen is one of the most daunting holes in golf. Go left and you land in the island’s world famous Polar Bear colony. Go right and you’ll find the icy waters of the "Cold Coast", home to the killer whale mating season from February through April. The hole is a short par 4, just 270 yards but straight up a glacier flow to an icy green so difficult that the Norwegian speed skating team practices there each season. Special climbing equipment is needed to scale its difficult terrain and several golfers have fallen to their deaths through overextending on the back swing. The Mayor finds the centre of the fairway. I make a good connection too but my ball starts to drift off to the right towards the water. Oh no! But with a stroke of luck it lands in a heavy snowdrift right by the water’s edge. Nasty stance though...  I arrive at my ball and it’s playable, just. Mustn’t lose my balance, I think as I line-up by the water’s edge. I can see the AnyoneForTee headlines already... "Correspondent killed by Orca-ward stance!"Out of the side of my eye I can make out the menacing dorsals of the killer whales, making strange siren-like noises as they mate. "Fin-nish sex habits," I mutter disgustedly as I swing as hard as I can. Somehow, I make a glorious connection with my eight iron, sending my ball high into the Arctic skies. It clears the glacier and lands in a small rocky outcrop, just to the right of the green. The Mayor gives a nod of approval. "Well done Archie," he says. Getting your ball onto the green on Spitsbergen’s 18th is one thing. Getting yourself there is another. The climbing equipment weighs me down and I feel my legs stiffen as I climb towards the hole. Yes, just like lots of explorers before me, I have a crampon. The Mayor is on the green but at least 50 feet away on a green that slopes wickedly eight ways simultaneously. His putt looks as though it’s going to break left... right... right again... left... straight-ahead... left at the junction... runs down the slope... and right again. He’ll do well to get down in two.  I look at my lie. I’m only just off the edge and around 15 feet from the pin but the ball’s in a pool of ice. Never mind. My father Archie Pelago Snr worked in airline catering so I know all about cold chips.
I take out my seven iron and gently nurdle the ball holewards. Not a bad connection but... what’s that? A polar bear dropping! My ball comes to a sudden steaming halt, well short of the hole."That’s not f...f...fair," I stammer. "Do I get relief?" "No," the Mayor replies, "only the bear does." I glare at him. "Natural obstacle. Local rule 4.2." "But it’s fresh," I say, sounding very off pat. "Call that fresh?" the Mayor says, holding his nose. "Sorry you have to play it as it lies. And no cleaning your ball. Local rule 4.3." Suddenly I realise why the Mayor has never been beaten on his home course in 45 years and is hot favourite to win the 2004 Drambuie World Ice Golf Championship. I look at my own unplayable position. I’ve been in the s*** many times before on the golf course but never this badly. I realise the game is up... and after all, the Mayor has been a great host. I hold out my hand to him and say sportingly, "Your’s is given..." "You’re a real sportsman Archie," beams the Mayor. "Let’s go to the 19th. Anyone For Drambuie?..." Answer the question and win a special "Ice Golf" prize! Win a bottle of Drambuie and a "Drambuie On Ice" polo shirt from the world's finest whisky liqueur by answering the following simple question and e-mailing your answer to Icegolf@AnyoneForTee.com. Killer whales are sometimes spotted (usually plain, but sometimes spotted) off the coast of Svalbard. What is another name for a killer whale? Is it:
NOTE: There's still a month to go before the World Ice Golf Championship begins in earnest. Watch out for more reports from AnyoneForTee's Nordic correspondent Archie Pelago! |
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| The beautiful Polar Bear cartoon above (and many other fine prints) can be viewed and purchased from Bob Patterson's Fine Art Galleries. |
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