OCTOBER 5, 2026 – Over the years, a salient bonus of my daily walks to, in and from nearby “Little Switzerland” is my conversations with people along the way. Yesterday’s encounter is a classic example.
It occurred on the (par 5) 8th tee, which sits on a high plateau looking due east down the fairway in the direction of Como Lake a half mile way. I was rounding off another four-staircase-equivalent-high climb toward my daily quota of 75 flights or 750 vertical feet. A stand of old big burr oaks had led me to a brief photo op, and this slight diversion put me on a path headed directly toward a guy in a golf cart at the front edge of the plateau. The occupant was about my age, clad in golfing attire and a Twins cap and wearing a smile. Missing from his cart, however, was a golf bag.
“Gorgeous day out, isn’t it?” I said on my approach.
“Sure is!” said the non-golfing golfer as he broadened his smile.
The exchange launched a 20-minute conversation that led all over the map, starting with his role as a Sunday “ranger.” This post-retirement gig allowed him a waiver of green fees at several area public golf courses. He cast his job description diplomatically as “ranging over the course to remind people of golf etiquette.” His smart appearance and amiable demeanor, I thought, rendered him well-suited for the mission.
“What sort of work were you engaged in before you retired?”
“Social work.”
“Ah ha!” I said. “There’s certainly no shortage of needs in that arena.”
His vocation had been well chosen, I thought, given his disposition, and his present occupation seemed to be a good channel for his experience. From this background, I inquired about his geographic origins (northern New Jersey) and disclosed my own ties to that part of the Garden State. Soon, however, we found ourselves “downhill skiing” in the Adirondacks, where the man’s father had been a weekend ski patrolman, allowing the whole family free season passes. His favorite ski was farther afield: Sunday River in the Mahoosuc Mountain Range near Bethel, Maine. Again, we shared a connection: we’d both skied there many times; moreover, his father had once thought seriously of buying the place (with financing provided by a close college buddy who was a scion of Mellon money).
Skiing in the mountains of the Northeast was the perfect segue to the disclosure that in my imagination, anyway, Como Golf Course is “Little Switzerland,” with Como Lake on the far side being—”Lago di Como.” Only a downhill skier in a golf cart could share my level of enthusiasm for such geographic fantasies.
“How did you wind up in Minnesota?” I asked, bringing us both back to St. Paul, Minnesota.
“Macalester College.”
His response revealed a further mutual connection—his as an undergraduate; mine with the World Press Institute, with its origins at the college. His years there were 1974-78. In financial straits back then, the school had decided to ax its “minority programs,” which set off major student resistance, he said, leading to a reversal by the administration. Wait long enough, I thought, as I considered the demise of DEI, and old thinking becomes new again.
Eventually, we realized together that it was time for us to “range rove” in our respective directions—he to the 8th hole and I back to my home (in Bavaria).
“I’ve really enjoyed our chat,” I said, reaching to shake hands.
“Likewise,” he said with a firm grip. “What’s your name?”
His was “Bill,” and he said he was a regular on Sundays. Back in character, he added, “As I tell everyone on the course, ‘Don’t get hit by any golf balls!’”
With feigned surprise I said, “What do you think this place is . . . a golf course?!”
His laugh made his cap wave in my direction as he turned the wheel of his cart to head down off the plateau.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
