MoreThe 17th epitomizes the what's-new-is- old theme. The original 17th was long lost, but Forse and Nagle found a hint of it in the background of an old photograph.
Forse designed an entirely new Redan-style hole — an angled green guarded by a large bunker — on that spot. Ronnie, as the hole is called, holds its own with Tiny Tim, the Volcano and Gulley.
"The name wasn't my doing," Forse says. "The owner thought Ronnie sounded Scottish, like bonnie or something."
My second-favorite hole — I think you know what's No. 1 — is the 6th, labeled Ross's Cathedral. This short (361 yards) par-4 requires a drive over a creek to a fairway flanked by bunkers. From there, it's uphill to the green. The hole is beautifully framed by hardwood trees.
On the fun scale, the Old course is a 10. Busy as I have been describing my misadventures, I haven't told you what happened on the 2nd hole during my first round. Leporati launched a bullet of a five-wood shot that landed just short of this par-3 green, 205 yards from the tee.
"Give him a bounce!" I yelled. His ball bounded onto the putting surface and began running toward the pin in the back of the green.
"Anybody ever make a hole in one here?" I asked, finishing my question a split second before his ball disappeared into the cup.
"It went in!" Ron shouted. He flipped his club into the air and held up his arms in disbelief. "That's my first one!" I high-fived him, and in a moment of exuberance he hugged me. We whooped it up for several more moments, then Ron said sheepishly, "Sorry about the hug, man."
Not at all. I've witnessed a dozen aces, but none ever felt this big — at a resort that spans 200 years in a town where "George Washington slept here" is no idle boast.
When the valet brought my car around to the front of the hotel after the round, I imagined that long-ago day when a fancy sedan pulled up to the entrance and a charismatic man wearing a fur coat stepped out and asked a young bellman for directions to Cumberland, Md. Satisfied with the answer, the fellow theatrically flipped a coin to the bellman. "Someday," the stranger said, "you can tell your grandkids you got a $20 gold piece from John Dillinger."
Then Public Enemy No. 1 climbed into the sedan and drove away.
At that moment I understood what Forse had told me earlier.
"This place puts you back in time," he said. "Instead of simply looking at history, you're in it."
The morning fog had burned away. I squinted into the sun for a last glance at the restored resort before I, too, drove away.
I wondered why I had goose bumps.
