I started my career in golf course management in northern Utah at a 9-hole mom-and-pop course, Sherwood Hills, located in Sardine Canyon between Logan and Brigham City. It was a scenic course, flanked by towering cliffs above and heavily forested with native Gambel oak, Bigtooth maple and some aspen, interspersed with majestic, towering Douglas fir.
The course was built by the owner/operator in the early 1970s and was run by him, his wife and a daughter, along with some summer and seasonal help. The course was run very … frugally, shall we say, as most courses of this nature are. I remember that none of the flagsticks were the same height. When one would break, we would just drill out the old ferrule and glue it back on the bottom of the stick. The flags were old and tattered, with different versions of the course logo, depending on the time of purchase.
During my second year, I was in charge of the seasonal staff and oversaw pretty much all of the daily maintenance activities, including mowing, bunker raking, changing holes and irrigation repair. I even did some mechanic/repair work, mostly on the old golf cart fleet that was way past its prime. The equipment was well-used: Toro 300s for greens and tees, and the standard three-wheel Cushman Truck with the shift stick on the steering column. We used tractors, an old Ford and a solid Massey Ferguson to pull gang mowers, a 7-gang for fairways and a 5-gang for roughs.
On this particular day, I was mowing the roughs on the Massey, with its large, wide turf tires, and the 5-gang. Mowing the rough usually took four to five hours, but I would try to finish it all before taking lunch. The course route was an out-and-back layout, with the first hole heading south from the clubhouse, continuing mostly south through the fifth hole. Starting with the sixth hole, the course headed back north through the ninth hole, ending near the clubhouse. The first few starting holes and last couple of returning holes were constructed along a bench/side hill area, so the fairways tended to slope from right to left on the outbound and left to right on the inbound. Holes one and eight were adjacent to each other, separated by about 200 to 250 feet of sagebrush and native grasses, and about 30 feet of elevation between holes. We had a fairly flat spot on the right side of the first hole, up behind some trees and out of the way, where we would park the gang mowers for the night.
I finished mowing roughs, pulled the tractor and mower up on the hill to the “flat” area, and hopped off to pull the tow pin from the mower/tractor connection. After doing so, I decided to stretch my legs and take a short walk through the trees for a few minutes to look for wayward golf balls.
I took only 10 or 12 steps, and out of the corner of my eye saw something moving.
Abruptly and with some panic, I turned back to see the big tractor slowly creeping forward. I had neglected to set the park brake before getting off! I stumbled through the trees back toward the tractor. I had a short moment of relief, as I was gaining on it! I would be able to jump up into the seat and get control of the big yellow machine. I was getting close to the rear tire and, with just a couple more steps, I could grab on.
And that’s when the tractor started picking up speed.
The tractor had rolled through the flat spot and crested the slope above the fairway. It rolled down the hill and then started across the fairway as I ran behind, losing ground with every step. I ran as fast as I was able but could see that I was steadily falling behind. In my mind, everything seemed to be in slow motion, but not in the real-life episode I was experiencing. As the Massey reached the far side of the fairway, it paused momentarily before renewing its journey down the next slope. It bounced and bounded down the sage-covered slope above the eighth green, gaining speed every second as I stumbled, resolute in my hopeless pursuit. I glanced up past the bouncing tractor and, in alarm, saw a foursome putting on the eighth green, oblivious to the massive steel monster bearing down on them.
“Get out of the way!” I shouted. “GET OUT OF THE WAY!!!” I screamed again, almost hysterical, waving my arms in the air. “MOVE!!! MOVE!!!”
Floundering and staggering through the brush, I finally succumbed to the native tangle of sage and grass and sprawled to the ground. As I lay there, gasping for air, I could see below me the golfers scattering like ants on a recently disturbed anthill. It appeared the golfers would make it, as they sprinted off the front of the green. The tractor, though, continued, relentless, headed toward the back edge of the green, targeted right at a lone, innocent golf bag. I was envisioning a violent collision, with clubs, bag and other golf gear exploding into the air. The barreling beast turned slightly, following the slope as it approached the bag. It blew by, barely tickling one of the bag’s stand legs. The bag wobbled and fell slowly to the ground. Thump! Everything unscathed and intact. Except …
The runaway tractor continued to bounce and careen through the native mountain landscape.
At that point, the last obstacle in sight was the four-lane highway below, a mile and a half down the mountain. I watched in despair, helpless, imagining a horrific end to the journey of the yellow beast.
About half of the way down the mountainside to the highway, the tractor curiously appeared to pause. Cautiously, I looked closer. “Is it slowing down?” I asked myself. “Is it still moving?” Maybe … maybe … I stood gingerly and slowly worked down the slope to where the machine was sitting. As I got closer, I could see that the tractor was definitely immobile, caught up and high-centered on a huge pile of logs and tree stumps. Above my racing, pounding heart was a soft, melodic sound. The low, gentle rumble of an idling motor. Put-put-put-put-put …
To this day, I still get chills when I think about the runaway tractor and the multiple, grim possibilities avoided that day by chance or divine intervention. We all make mistakes and sometimes things just happen. Other than safety-related concerns or repeat offenders, I tend to give my staff the benefit of the doubt when slip-ups happen. It’s not like they are going out and thinking, “How can I really screw up today?!”
I recall an incident several years ago, fresh after an exasperated reminder during a morning staff meeting about making sure equipment is fueled up before going out on the golf course. A couple days later, I raced out of the shop early one morning, chasing down several stuck sprinkler heads. My mechanic received a humble phone call about 30 minutes later. With a quiet, embarrassed whisper, I asked, “Can you please bring me some gas?”
I can still hear the laughter.
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