Weekdays at High Noon, Troy Harward and Don Rasmussen rush to Liberty Park for a round of golf.
Frisbee golf, that is. Their quest: a "pole in one."Bored by the standard lunchtime routine, Harward and Rasmussen, golf enthusiasts and Frisbee flingers, decided to expand on both sports.
They playfully plotted a fast-paced diversion, with the intent of shattering PGA guidelines while developing a unique style of exercise.
Liberty Park, a popular spot for picnickers, joggers and car waxers, was soon transformed into their fantasy creation.
Harward and Rasmussen, employees of nearby Redd Engineering, refer to the area stretching across 7th East as "Flying Meadows," Salt Lake's ultimate Frisbee Golf course. However, Salt Lake County Recreation had a similar idea when they recently refurbished a Frisbee golf course in Creekside Park, at 16th East and 48th South. Both courses offer a new twist to leisure play in the Salt Lake area.
For Harward and Rasmussen, self-proclaimed "architects of the absurd," Bob Hope's philosophy holds true - "If you make a bad shot in golf, you can always claim you knew a shortcut to the green."
At Flying Meadows there are no membership fees or scrambling for tee times. Gone is the arsenal of golf paraphernalia - the cumbersome bag filled with numerous clubs, balls, tees, towel, glove, spike replacements, and a menagerie of head covers.
Frisbee golf requires minimal equipment and investment.
"Just an $8 Frisbee, the heavier the better," says Harward.
It all sounds simple, but a variety of hazards challenge these pros.
A misjudged flick of the wrist or a sudden gust of wind might carry the Frisbee into a startled blanketful of picnickers.
Volleyball pits become "sand traps" and the tall pines scattered along the "fairways" often halt a Frisbee in flight.
Like real golf courses, "doglegs," or sharp curves to the left or right, create havoc. But here, doglegs of the canine type might scurry off with the plastic platter.
Lawn chairs, trash cans and porta-potties are barriers that come into play. Harward and Rasmussen manage to pull off trick shots to escape seemingly inescapable trouble.
In their imaginary Flying Meadows, they might as well be playing Pebble Beach.
The rules are uncomplicated.
The tee is one of the sage-colored antique lamp posts that wind through the trees.
Beginning at the first tee, the Frisbee is tossed at the next designated lamp post. Although each pole looks identical to the next, Harward and Rasmussen know exactly which pole to aim for.
Par is 33 on the front nine, 32 on the back, for a course par of 65. A typical round is 4 or 5 over par, which is entered on a "custom-mimeographed" Flying Meadows scorecard.
A pole-in-one, the ultimate achievement in Frisbee golf, has been hit by both men this season.
Birdies? A few.
But the Tracy Aviary has more.
Sporadic squawks and catcalls greet Harward and Rasmussen as they move swiftly past the bird cages.
They each have their own style of tossing the plastic disk, but the secret to a successful throw, according to Harward, is arm extension and "keeping it low."
One "mulligan," or extra shot, per nine poles is allowed, "in case you really dork a shot," says Rasmussen.
Their friendly rivalry culminates at the 18th pole on 7th East. Scores are tabulated, with the loser buying the victor a Slurpee - high stakes for this low-budget sport.
Rasmussen jokingly sums up the daily lunch hour odyssey this way:
"It's pure mockery."
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(Additional information)
We can thank Fred for Frisbee
The Frisbee evolution is speculative.
Some say that Cedar Beach, Conn., residents originated the sport by tossing around cookie tins from the Frisbie Sugar Cookie company for relaxation.
Californians, who delight in claiming new crazes, contend that film cans used by Hollywood movie crews were the first Frisbees to fly in the 30s and 40s.
The most widely accepted theory of Frisbee's origin is that students from Yale University developed a game of throwing metal pie tins from the Brisbie Baking Company of Bridgeport, Conn. As the tin sailed through the air, the Yalies would yell, "Frisbie!"
Then, in 1948, Fred Morrison, a carpenter and ex-fighter pilot, began experimenting with the latest post-war material - plastic.
His interest in flight and aerodynamics eventually brought him and his invention, the "Pluto Platter," to the Wham-O Company.
Wham-O eventually marketed the platters as the Frisbee, and it caught on immediately on college campuses and at beaches, parks and backyards.