Last Saturday and Sunday if you saw a bunch of folks milling about in Prescott Park, you might’ve wondered what was going on.

Well, I can tell you – they were either building the Arctic Golf course or playing on it.

And what, pray tell, is Arctic Golf?

Essentially, it’s miniature golf with frostbite.

It started as a brainstorm of Colleen O’Neill, a Winter Carnival Committee member who put it in action by hustling whoever she could to build the course. That evolved, so now it’s sponsored by the Winter Carnival Committee and local organizations build the course – each organization constructing one of the holes.

On Saturday the organizations have from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. to build and test their projects. If you didn’t see the course, you really missed something. Each hole was a little piece of art unto itself. There were six of them, created by The Women’s Civic Chamber, the North Country School, Cycle Adirondacks, the Saranac Lake Youth Center, Adirondack Research, and Adirondack Hamlets to Huts.

As I said, each hole was cleverly done. Two of my faves was Cycle Adirondacks’, which was Doug Haney’s oeuvre, crafted out of bike parts and snow,with a bright green bike perched in the middle. The one I liked best was the Women Civic Chamber’s, and there were two reasons why. First, it was the most impressive to me — a beautifully made mini ice palace ( made of ice blocks, with a pinwheel atop each turret). Second, if I didn’t give special mention to the WCC, I’d risk incurring the everlasting wrath of Liz Scammell Murray, something I can ill afford in my old age.

Sadly, I can remember only two others. The Youth Center did a gigantic chameleon, and Adk Hamlets to Huts did a hiking trail, complete with boots at the beginning and little cabins along the way.

In the spirit of friendly competition, prizes were awarded for the three best. Hamlets to Huts took first, Cycle Adirondacks took second, and the Youth Center was third.

Building the course was no easy feat this year, due to insufficient snow. Thus the village was enlisted to truck in loads of the white stuff. Even then, it wouldn’t cooperate exactly, freezing in all sorts of odd ways and forcing some of the builders to ice and re-ice their creations, sometimes having to hammer them into small chunks between each attempt.

Like everything Winter Carnival event, Arctic Golf doesn’t succeed all by its lonesome — it needs a workers to give players clubs and balls and to explain how it works. And perhaps most importantly, the course needs to be groomed during its seven hours of operation by its “whites keepers.” In addition to the aforementioned Ms. O’Neill, the Arctic Golf stalwarts were Milt Adams (of the Boy Scouts), Susan Nolde (also an IPW), and from the Committee, Martha Watts and DJ Fowler.

Teed off

And how, you might ask, do I know so much about Arctic Golf?

Simple. I am an official, ribbon-holding Arctic Golfer. And here’s how it came about.

Every Winter Carnival I try activities I’ve never done before. This year I decided to shave my beard and play Arctic Golf.

OK, I half-lied, I didn’t shave my beard. But I did play Arctic Golf.

Since misery loves company, I invited my pal Jack Drury to accompany me. He agreed and we met at the entrance, where Susan Nolde explained the set-up and then had us pick out our putters. They came in three sizes so kids as well as NBA jocks could join in the fun. That done, we proceeded to the first tee.

Before we began, we agreed not to take more than three strokes at each hole, figuring if we couldn’t sink the ball by then, we’d just be holding up the others in back of us while making fools of ourselves in front of witnesses.

I went first and when I checked it out, it looked a lot harder than I’d thought. It was an uphill slope, about six feet long, at a 75 degree angle. At the top was a small tunnel, so small it didn’t look like a golf ball could go through it. On the other side of the tunnel was a downhill, curvy slide, leading to the cup.

Like Jack, I’d never golfed before, and I had no idea how to proceed. So I just took a stance of some sort, looked up at the tunnel, and gave the ball a whack. It blooped up maybe a foot before it stopped and blooped back down again.

I hit it again, much more forcefully. This time it went up maybe two feet.

Finally, I got set. I planted my feet, gripped the club, wound up, and let fly. And let fly it did — over the tunnel, over the park, and for all I know, over Lake Flower.

“Damn putter’s unbalanced,” I said, under my breath.

Jack stepped up to the tee and just stood there, eyeballing the tunnel. A long moment passed, then he looked down at the ball. Next, he shifted from one foot to the other. Then he stopped, took a deep breath and swung.

The ball fairly flew up the slope and through the tunnel, dropping onto the other side. One more putt and he was in.

“Nice job,” I said, not meaning a word of it.

“Beginner’s luck,” he said, without a trace of modesty.

And thus our day on the links proceeded — me hitting the ball everywhere but into the cup; Jack getting nothing but birdies and eagles all the way.

Arnold Palmer of the

Great White North

At one point, when he was about to tee off, I noticed something about him I’d never seen before. It was an odd light in his eyes. It wasn’t a gleam — gleams are warm, friendly and soft. This was a glint — cold and hard and often paired with the word “maniacal.”

Then it dawned on me: Jack Drury, my easy-going buddy, the guy I thought was here for a fun time, was here for one reason only – to WIN. Though pleasant on the surface in his everyday dealings, it was clear that at his core he’s a win-at-any-cost mercenary. His competitiveness was so blatant, if I find out he cheats at solitaire, I won’t be the least surprised.

Finally, and mercifully, it was over.

“Wow,” he said, “that was fun!”

“Yeah, right,” I said, dripping with an irony he didn’t get.

“Wanna play another round?” he said.

“Oh, I’d love to,” I said, “but I gotta get home and feed my goldfish.”

“OK,” he said. “I’ll call Phyliss and have her come down and play. She’ll love it.”

As if he really cared about his wife enjoying the game. All he wanted was more showcasing of his athletic prowess. It was like Genghis Khan, outside some luckless city’s walls, saying, “Boy, are these folks really gonna enjoy their wholesale slaughter and enslavement.”

I said goodbye and left.

Later, when I was home, warming up and chilling out, I realized how unfair I’d been to Jack.

So he’s super-competitive, loves to win, and is a “shed no tears, take no prisoners” kind of guy. But that’s not all he is. Plus, let’s examine the issue itself, which is his almost supernatural ability to play Arctic Golf. How many other people are blessed with such skill? No one that I know, maybe no one else in the entire world.

When it comes to Arctic Golf, Jack is truly in a category all by himself.

And this is why, after I had some time and distance to think about it, I understood what mattered was not Jack’s drive for victory, but my being accepting and even gracious about it. Which I’m pleased to say I now am.

And to drive that point home, I’ve bestowed upon Jack a title that highlights his skill. even likening him to the royalty of ancient Egypt.

So from now on, anytime I think of him, I will think of him, not merely as my pal Jack Drury, but as the Master of Arctic Golf, himself – King Putts.