The course was different than others we’d played before, with heavily wooded, narrow fairways, steep ravines, and chipmunks exploring fallen timber. In fact, out on #6 one of the critters crept up to me, and accepted a bit of cookie I’d brought as a snack…before then viciously biting my thumb, and scurrying under a fern as I cursed his bastard kind.
Actually, that’s a lie.
The chipmunks on-site were very cordial, especially for tolerating my actual profanity (as in “God dammit!” or “Ratfuck!”) whenever an oak tree deflected my shot. Truthfully, this intense form of self-expression in disc golf is not uncommon. Players cursing freely after a bad shot (or even a good one) is a key difference between the culture of disc golf and it’s more traditional, white-collar cousin with the Lexus in the driveway.
But I digress. My first impression of Campton Hills was trash. That is, water and beer bottles discarded by players (slash) idiots too lazy to hold onto them. This, despite a refuse bucket being available at every tee pad. Between us, Mark and I picked up a dozen bottles and cans, discarding them properly along the way, as we did the week before at another course in Bartlett, IL (Sunset Park).
Not to come off as self-righteous or a grumpy old man (I’m 38), but it’s no secret that most disc golfers are young, college-age guys. So to these mopes who feel it the mark of a slick, non-conformist rebel to treat your local course like a flophouse, kindly stay the hell in your parents’ basement until you can treat it right.
Edgar The Trash Golem Greets Disc Golfers at the First Tee
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