Heli-golfing

 

Heli-golfing New Zealand with new friends

        It was spring of 2016 in the USA, autumn on the South Island of New Zealand and I was taking a break from hitchhiking. I had been recruited by a wealthy family to help with their elaborate gardens in return for lodging and food. When I say recruited, I mean “accidentally employed,” but that is a story for a different time. For the past month, I had been spending a few hours every day revitalizing the fifteen foot wooden boat for the neighbors of my hosts. After a morning of songwriting and gardening, I would ride my bike down the hill to the shore of Lake Hayes, where I would grind, sand, caulk and repaint the inside and outside of this antique boat in return for grocery money. When I needed sanding discs, I would climb in their jet black Maserati, and cruise down to the New Zealand version of Home Depot. Clad in a respirator and safety glasses, life was good.

One day, I arrived like I always did in the early afternoon to find the Land Rover idling and Bertie waiting with a bagged lunch. I hopped in the backseat with the family book editor, Kayla and Abbey, Bertie’s nineteen year old daughter, who was decked out in a giant kangaroo onesie complete with a tail. “Do you play golf?” Bertie asked from the driver’s seat? Sensing an adventure, I shrugged and said “sure.”

We pulled up to the private side of the Queenstown airport and drove out onto the tarmac. Bertie’s friend owned one of the larger private helicopter companies in Queenstown. As we shook hands with the owner, I noticed the pilot loading a couple golf bags in the storage compartment. We climbed into the chopper behind a couple rich Texans who clearly had paid good money to do this activity and were not exactly pleased that three boisterous youngsters were joining them. 

I felt the helicopter shimmy as the engine purred, then all of a sudden a sensation of floating overtook us. Up we went, over the shores of Lake Wakatipu, climbing through the Southern Alps to the top of Mt Cecil. 4000 feet below us, Queenstown hugged the shores of the lake, ski lifts rising out of the distant side of town. As we crested the ridge, a perfectly normal golf hole appeared, resting quietly on the mountain’s flank. The pilot circled one time then continued up the ridge passing three separate tee boxes. At the highest one, we landed on a large rock outcropping. The pilot pulled me, Abbey and Kayla aside, giving the Texans the first shot at the green. He handed us each a canvas sack, seven-iron and driver, then said that once the Texans had smacked their balls off the green and climbed back in the helicopter, we were free to wail away on as many golf balls as we could find. 

So we did. The Texans and the helicopter jetted off towards the next tee box while we golfed. One person would stand in the tee box while the other two would scour the ridgeline for golf balls. There were old golf balls everywhere. Far below us, the Texan lady was wandering around in the scrub looking for her ball. The husband was on the phone on the far side of the green. After we had sent a few hundred balls hurtling into the void towards the lake, we started our little trek down the ridge to the next tee box. Along the way we would fill the bag with more golf balls and at the next tee would send them skybound. Eventually, we wandered up to the green where the Texans were arguing in subdued voices. We ignored them and practiced our putting. Abbey sunk an incredible forty foot putt and set off on her little kangaroo dance. The pilot smiled. The Texans ignored us.

We piled back into the helicopter, chatting incessantly about the adventure, asking the pilot questions about the mountains and taking silly group selfies. Below us a Boeing 747 was taking off from the Queenstown airport. It was a strange feeling to be above a flying airliner. The pilot got instructions from the airfield and we swooped in a big loop around the path of the jets. The waves on the lake rippled like fabric in a breeze. A couple bungee jumpers plummeted from the nearby canyon bridge. Cars zoomed below us like ants. 

And suddenly we were back on the ground. We shook the pilot's hand. I slipped a golf ball in my pocket as a souvenir. Then we drove back to the lake house. The whole journey had taken two hours. I donned my respirator and glasses. Before I turned my attention towards the boat, I looked up at Mt Cecil in the distance. The golf hole was invisible, but a little black dot was circling the ridge.