The course is a little livelier than we’re accustomed to. Whoops, laughter and cuss words are not unknown on the munis where we normally play, but they usually don’t arrive from two or three directions at once. Still, it is our first time in the Yukon, and we have no reason to assume this isn’t a simple reflection of local culture: the Thank-God-It’s-Not-Winter syndrome combined with Canada’s highest per capita consumption of alcohol.

On the par-3 fifth hole, we pause to give thanks that we’re not scratch players. Had neither of us hooked our irons over the trap guarding the left side of the green, it’s possible we wouldn’t have realized that just down the cliff at our feet flows the Yukon River. Golf course architects are getting ever more savvy about framing vistas from the tee boxes and other strategically chosen locations. You have to love a course that reserves its best views for its worst golfers.

Another thing to love is the height of the trees. Quasi-polar though the latitude may be, Whitehorse is only a couple of hundred kilometres from the Pacific, and the climate is no harsher than in some southern locales. Even so, in contrast to the canyon-like fairways back home in Vancouver, a lot of the trees here are almost bonsai specimens, possessing a beauty that is particularly appealing to golfers. Left a forest between yourself and the pin? Just pull out a lofted club and over you go.

As the round progresses, the course is getting even louder, and we’re still finding balls all over the place. On the 17th, there’s a cache of three right in the middle of the fairway, and, on the final tee, we happen upon a baggie containing some sort of dried herb – oregano, perhaps? A few minutes before the clock strikes midnight, we arrive at the 18th green and notice a school bus pulling away. Though there’s at least another hour of light, we’re the last group in and the pro shop is shutting down for the day. The bus, we’re told, is carrying away the swaying remnants of a stag party: young men, split into groups, then sent out into the forest with clubs to wave at passing drinks carts. Makes you wonder what might be happening over yonder “on the marge of Lake Lebarge,” doesn’t it? 

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