At the outset, a shaky commencement.
We go off-trail and capture some great feelings and views, too.
Taking a break in the shadow of a giant at Loch Levon.
Loch Levon: The unusual naming of an Eastern Sierra Lake. (Nearly, a true story.)
Many years ago, probably post-war, a Scottish-Jew named Colyn Levon, decided to emigrate from his beloved country. He liked the country but he had two issues bothering him that were critical and made life difficult. He was allergic to whiskey which in Scotland or ‘Scotchland’, made life almost impossible. He could no longer find excuses to avoid pubs, parties and other social gatherings where people would consume scotch in large quantities. It was not a deal-breaker so to speak but created a tense situation for him.
The second issue was far more critical. Being a Scotsman, it went to his very essence: Golf. He loved golf with passion and a verve that was almost insatiable. No problem. We should all have passions which create a zest for life. So what was the issue? He had a terrible slice. This means that when he struck the golf ball, being right-handed, it flew off his clubhead toward the right. He had tried every remedy available in Scotland, even scotch, but to no avail. Ideally, a golfer wishes to strike the ball and see it fly straight. To the left, it’s known as a hook. The hooker, for want of a better term, will experience more powerful shots whereas the slicer’s will tend to be weaker. Levon developed severe paranoia, bordering on insanity, and rather than wish to hit the ball straight, wanted to hook it. (Years of ‘slicing’ will do that to a golfer.) He became fixated with the idea and no longer listened to reason. What to do? (continues at end...)
Loch Levon and Paiute Lake, hard to believe, a mile from the first to the next.
Birds in paradise.
Can you imagine how many granite kitchen counter-tops the Sierras could produce? Our return from above where the views were spectacular.
A favorite of the day.
'Miss Ice-cube'. A certain irony, warm weather and a massive chunk of snow/ice.
Paiute Lake.
Enjoying a sight into the valley.
Lakes' perspective including the towering mountains.
A little of Scottish treat in the form of Levon.
Colyn Levon, an engineer by profession, had a good friend, Brian Charles Murray, who understood his paranoia. Strange you might think but Young Murray had his own quirks, too. It made it easier for him than most to relate. While Murray was a great sportsman, particularly in the field of rugby, he was an average golfer. He was also not above acting clownish at times, always in good spirits though. He did drink scotch but never acquired a taste for it, often preferring chocolate milkshakes. This did not go down well with his teammates after games and practice. It did not bother Young Murray; he did not care for social niceties.
Young Murray advised Colyn to emigrate because of his golf malady. It was akin to a disease, maybe worse. It affected his well-being, his passion and weighed him down generally.
“Where should I go and why?” Levon asked.
He trusted Murray implicitly. Colyn Levon was incredible naïve and trusting. He was a wonderful person, the best of humans, but the modern world did not treat such people with respect and kindness.
“That’s easy, lad. The ‘why’ is to maintain your sanity which is sliding as we speak. The ‘where’ is obvious. It’s important to retain your connection with your heritage. Therefore, I suggest you head to Loch Vegas.”
“The United States?”
“Sure. They will see you right. The city has a myriad of golf resorts and plenty of hookers. They will teach you skills you haven’t dreamed of.”
“You mean I’ll be able to develop a hook rather than endure my miserable slice?” He exclaimed.
Murray smiled, “Absolutely, lad. I know that’s your life’s ambition. You set yourself up with a Loch Vegas hooker and your passion will return. Many a golfer has arrived in the city, looking for a good hooker to satisfy his passions and improve his skills. That’s exactly what you want. Believe me.”
Levon decided to follow Murray’s advice and set off for Loch Vegas, Nevada. He was excited but decided to take small steps and not seek immigration status yet. He would first wish to confirm that a pro in Loch Vegas would be able to work on his hook. The thought of being converted to a hooker caused him to beam at odd intervals. He was much happier than he had been in a while. What would he do without Young Murray? He wondered.
A month later, after checking into the resort, he could wait no longer. He asked the receptionist where he could find a top-class pro. He had come this far; he knew Americans were great golfers or at least, lovers of the game, so what the heck? He nearly asked for Arnold Palmer, wondered if Sam Snead would be around but decided to let the receptionist make the choice. After all, it was part of her job.
She smiled, barely understanding his thick brogue. “You want one of our best pros? Is that what you asked?” She eyed him quizzically. In Loch Vegas, expect the unexpected. “I’ll send someone to your room, Sir.”
“You sure? That’s very kind of you. I expect we’ll do some paperwork before commencing my hooking lessons.”
She was taken aback but decided this was a strange one. Sally would know what to do.
Levon opened the door after hearing the soft knock. It was obviously not a big tough guy, he thought. However, he was surprised to see a scantily dressed young woman before him, smiling seductively. She was very attractive, too.
“You must be the pro?” He offered his hand.
“I suppose that could describe me but I don’t normally use that term. Should I come in?”
“Of course. How rude of me. I thought you might want to get out to the practice range right away?”
“Oh! Don’t fret, Sir. I don’t need any practice. I’m a top professional. Besides, I need very little warming up. I’m agile and respond well to any requests.”
“Wow! I had no idea. You look so young. Have you had any majors under your belt?” He asked, referring to championship tournaments.
“You be surprised what I’ve had under my belt. Majors? All ranks, sizes and types. I’ve won them all over.”
“In other countries, too?”
“I don’t travel much but when I do, my technique is universal and so I succeed wherever I perform.”
“Wow! He was dumfounded again.
“I’d love to see your swing, right off the bat.” He asked.
Should you wish to read the second section, kindly let me know and I’ll send it per email. While the essay is written from a golfer’s perspective literally, the innuendos and certain word uses may be inappropriate to a non-golfer and others, although everything is per the ‘text book’.
Cheers,
Jenni and Jeffrey
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