Skip to main content

Frisbee party gone out of bounds

It’s too bad that a few bad apples had to spoil the whole basket for Magic Valley disc golf enthusiasts. It seems that with all abundant countryside farmland out there, that there would be more than a few options for other courses, where kids still in their single digits could share lighthearted smiles, alongside easygoing Idaho old-timers.

A few years back, a handful of disc-enthusiasts cobbled together a course in the mid Wood River Valley, adjacent to the rubbish transfer station. However, it wasn’t long before an agent of the BLM informed the players that they would need a permit to continue, so the course ended up being dismantled. It could be that a few bad apples here, also ruined a good thing, but I don’t know the full story. For a while, there was talk that a permit was being procured and that the BLM agent was being quite helpful with his advice, but then the efforts seemed to fade away. It would be interesting to hear from any readers out there, who were involved with this effort.

The relative inexpensiveness of installing and maintaining disc-golf courses makes a good argument for more local recreation districts and schools to embrace them; rather than the Disneyfied pay-to-play attitudes, which have now become so prevalent. Injuries rarely occur while playing and many courses are wheelchair friendly. The catching receptacle baskets are designed so that they can be easily moved out of the way, when multipurpose field needs arise. The baskets also lock down onto non-protruding metal bases to prevent theft and so that they can be shifted into different positions in the event of heavy usage - just as real golf holes are moved to help prevent wear and tear on the fragile greens.

Someday, I would like to see some snowshoe-disc-courses laid out around Southern Idaho. Maybe we could start with a prototype in the open area around Billy’s Bridge, just south of Prairie Creek. In fact, I find this idea so appealing, that I would compromise my earlier dignified Disneyfied stance and joyfully plunk down a small fee to avoid another Frisbee party gone out of bounds.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Old post from the Anthropik network

"I noticed, when she delivered the plate of fruit, that my Balian hostess was also balancing a tray containing many little green bowls-small, boatshaped platters, each of them woven neatly from a freshly cut section of palm frond. The platters were two or three inches long, and within each was a small mound of white rice. After handing me my breakfast, the woman and the tray disappeared from view behind the other buildings, and when she came by some minutes later to pick up my empty plate, the tray was empty as well. * On the second morning, when I saw the array of tiny rice platters, I asked my hostess what they were for. Patiently, she explained to me that they were offerings for the household spirits. When I inquired about the Balinese term that she used for "spirit," she repeated the explanation in Indonesian, saying that these were gifts for the spirits of the family compound, and I saw that I had understood her correctly. She handed me a bowl of sliced papaya and...
Secret Lives of Meter Readers If you are looking for a long walk every day with not bad pay, maybe meter reading is the ticket. Generally, you get to spend a lot of peaceful time by yourself, plenty of serene reflecting space, unhindered by a bickering work crew. Simply dedicating yourself to reading meters all day can actually lead to a very ascetic lifestyle. When a vault into the earth is uncovered, great mysteries lie inside. Neighborhood kids dash over and want to spy. Newts and frogs, snakes, snails and polliwogs are all revealed from these tiny underground arenas. If the meter reader does not watch carefully, he may uncover a hornet's nest. Thus, most workers carry a medicine pouch within their toolkits. Meter reading routes are hard roads at first; but endurance soon builds up, as the man (or woman) becomes self-reliant. As he walks along, he strengthens his full character, all the way down to his stem cells. Striding along, his breathing becomes natural and he fin...

Country Bumpkin Charm

Each time I fly back to the big city, I sneak up on my old friend Tim. After surprising him with a traditional Inspector Clouseau / Kato maneuver, we drive around for Auld Lang Syne. While we hit most of our old haunts, the past we worship briefly resuscitates, through the well-regarded stories we share. We exchange our lively anecdotes; some unspoken for decades, as I cruise an old beater past the house where we dropped off a dropsy friend with a fine-feather we adorned in his cap, so his dad could get a good laugh at the boys out on the town. After a sentimental pizza, I hit the free-for-all freeway, where I drive in the slow lane. Tim says I drive like a country bumpkin. We come to a stop light and glance over at the racecar next to us, booming out rapid bass beats from its speakers. Tim doesn’t stare at the people, but I do, ‘cause I’m freshly fallen off the spud wagon, landed directly at Dulles Airport . Fifteen years in Idaho changes my outlook. At the airport, I watched pass...