• You go on a mission to find the course that is rumored to be near Butte, Montana.
• You forget to look it up online but decide to ask for directions from the locals (hey, Butte is a small town; they should know these things, right?).
• You follow the first directions pretty well, until they cease to make sense.
• You reroute yourself thanks to the directions of some passers-by (while you’re out in the hills south of Butte, getting lost on dirt roads): Go back to where Highway 2 splits off, take a right, drive 9 miles and then you’ll see a sign on the right for “Eagle’s Nest” (the name of the course).
• You follow these clear and helpful directions. You drive into a canyon and through a small mountain pass. You see no sign. You go at least 10 miles. You double back. You scour both sides of the road for signs, trails, anything that looks like it could be related to disc golf, Frisbee golf, anything.
• You drive up and down the same stretch of road at least five times. Searching, searching. Nothing.
• You give up for the day. You’ll try again tomorrow. (You know you’re really addicted.)
• The next day, before driving the same road again, you get directions from two women on an ATV (the fourth set of directions). They are very specific. A green gate, she says, on the right, with a sign that says “Eagle’s Nest.” You remember this gate (you drove the road at least five times, remember). You drive off, filled with new purpose.
• You get to the gate. It’s green, as you remembered. It’s on the right side of the road. There is a sign, but this is apparently not the right place. However, the sign also bears a detailed map of the area. You find “Eagle’s Nest” on the map. It appears to be just across the road. You recognize the road it’s on. You drive on, feeling empowered.
• You find the road, easily (you’ve passed it at least six times by now). You notice that there’s no sign near the highway that says anything about eagles or nests. You shrug. You’re on your way. Signs don’t matter so much anymore.
• You drive up the dirt road about a mile. You pull into a cleared area and park. There’s a sign by the bank. You’ve found it!
• You are overjoyed. You pose by the sign for a quick photo.
• Off you go to find the first tee (there wasn’t a course map by the sign…what a surprise).
However, the story doesn’t end here. No, indeed. There is more. Much more. If you’re truly a disc golf addict, this much-sought-after course in the middle of Nowhere, Montana, cannot be an average course. It must be laid out in the woods, up and down many hills, with trees marked for tees and holes. Many, many trees marked. And no map. And apparently no tee 1. Or 7, 8 or 9, for that matter. And the number 3 emblazoned on every other tree. So what do you do? You play. You make it up as you go. You hit a lot of trees. You make it worth your effort. You are valiant and creative…. Or something.
This was our story. The short version goes like this:
• It took us a long, long time to find the course. People weren’t very helpful with their conflicting directions.
• Through trial and error (and wandering), we made it there. (It was a beautiful day for disc golf, by the way, although a bit windy.)
• We (Wes and I) were thrilled to finally find the course.
• They call it “folfing.”
• Butte is stupid. (What are they, anyway? Butters? Buttites? Butteoans?)
This took place Sunday and Monday. It took me a while to find a clever and appropriate (though long-winded) way to describe it.
I from Helena, which is an hour away from Butte. I now live and go to school in Butte. Butte is kick fucking ass just like everywhere else in Mt!!! You should come back for St.Patty's Day!
Posted by: Tiffany Lawrence | October 22, 2009 at 12:56 PM