Like an Airplane Seatmate:
Monotonous, Scruffy, Forgettable
Timber Creek Golf Club
Spanish Fort, Ala.
Date: July 3, 2019
Greens fee: $47.95 (walking 18)
At some point, someone decided that coastal real estate demands golf courses. It’s the Pebble Beach factor, I guess — one of America’s greatest golf courses is on the ocean, so nearby oceans create great golf courses (or so the backward thinking must go). The truth, of course, is that the same rules apply to inland and seaside sites: golf courses almost always need good land. And that’s to say nothing of how much thought a solid routing across that land requires.
The fourth green on the Dogwood nine at Timber Creek Golf Club.
I’ve come at long last to the realization that the overwhelming majority of golf courses on the Gulf Coast bring neither: their sites (like all the land across this region) are flat and unimpressive, and their designs are thoughtless and lazy. Sure, you can build a golf course across boring land through a boring layout — but why would you?
Timber Creek Golf Club, just east of Mobile Bay in coastal Alabama, is not the only golf course in this area whose forbearers did not grapple with this question. Or perhaps they did grapple with the question, and the answer is in the golf course’s backdrop: houses, everywhere. Either way, Timber Creek is an appropriate representative of most golf in this region: fine, but forgettable.
. . .
I left nearby Orange Beach — perched on the very southeasternmost dollop of dry land that Alabama’s Gulf Coast has to offer — a couple of hours before my tee time. Timber Creek was only about an hour away, but arriving early was not my only priority.
At bottom, Buc-ee’s is a gas station. But it’s so much more than that: it is a chain of massive, cars-only travel centers (no 18-wheelers allowed) with hundreds of gas pumps, truckloads of snacks, countless t-shirts and toys, and truly pristine bathrooms (I have been in courthouses less well kept). The New York Times described it as “a Disneyland of roadside capitalism,” and every time I’ve ever been, I have navigated Disneyland-like crowds. Buc-ee’s has been a mainstay of Texas interstates for years, but it only recently opened this location on I-10 in Robertsdale, Alabama. I stopped in for my round’s necessary provisions: beef jerky and a couple of bottles of water, along with a couple of unnecessary provisions too (animal crackers, which I would buy again, and a popcorn ball, which I wouldn’t). Regrettably, the exceptional beef jerky turned out to be the most pleasant surprise of the day.
The multitude at Timber Creek was not so bustling. There were a couple of kids hitting balls on a chewed-up driving range, and a group coming through at the turn every now and then. But the course was quiet — not empty, but not stirring either. Maybe it was the weather — overcast, but hot. Maybe it was something else.
The cloudy sky blew a strand of false confidence into my mind: maybe I could walk? Even for those of us who prefer walking on the golf course, golf in the Deep South comes with the understanding that at a certain point on the calendar, carts become a heat-induced necessity. But I had already sided against my better judgment once: here I was, looking for a hidden gem at a golf course winding through a suburban subdivision. Might as well double down.
. . .
The Pines’ fourth hole at Timber Creek Golf Club. The greenside bunker is actually not terribly greenside, as it is separated from the putting surface by a wide swath of rough. This frustrating presentation presents itself again and again at Timber Creek.
Timber Creek is a 27-hole facility with three nine-hole sets: Magnolia, Pines, and Dogwood (incidentally, all I saw were pine trees; I never found that creek, either). I started on the Dogwood, which is a typical residential course: narrow fairways, lined with trees to keep stray shots off the houses situated a few yards away. It’s representative of the work of architect Earl Stone, who designed a dozen golf courses along the Gulf Coast before dying in 2016 at age 90: generally formulaic, with a fairway bunker near the landing area, and a generic greenside bunker thrown in against a fairly mundane putting surface. Lots of people prefer that style of golf, and that’s fine. But my experience at Stone’s courses has been that the holes are forgettable and indistinguishable from one another, and that execution is tested more than creativity.
By the third hole, my execution wasn’t the only thing being tested: the decision to walk was already looking extremely questionable. So was my ball-striking: I’d pulled an approach shot into the woods on No. 1, and my rightward tee shot on the par-5 second hole had left me positioned with a tree right in my layup area. I made par on No. 3, but then tugged my tee shot slightly long and left on the 160-yard (from the blue tees) par-3 fourth. Some retiree’s backyard was waiting to welcome it. Similarly, the sixth hole — a short par-3 fronted by large but awkwardly unnatural mounding — runs right by a neighborhood street. Even the fairly enjoyable holes out here don’t escape the real estate development.
At its best moments, Timber Creek’s Dogwood track delivers echoes of a scruffier Pinehurst No. 7: long, but routed across decent land, albeit surrounded by homes that disturb its potential tranquility. Ultimately, though, the homes on the Dogwood section constrict play far more than the ones at Pinehurst, and the bunkering at No. 7 is more creative. To be clear, No. 7 is fairly soulless in my view — but Timber Creek falls short even of that.
By the time I putted out on No. 9, I’d admitted defeat: not on my score (which was holding up well enough), but on my walking (which wasn’t). I limped into the pro shop and rented a cart for the second nine. The woman across the counter was nice enough not to mention that she’d known better when I asked to walk.
A long, squiggly bunker running along the right side of the Pines course’s sixth hole at Timber Creek Golf Club, reminiscent of the 16th hole at Pinehurst No. 7 — albeit with less artful presentation.
The Pines nine reflects a genuinely different character than the Dogwood course: it’s flatter, but it has fewer trees. It feels more open and spacious. For a moment, my optimism rose. But I quickly realized it suffers from the same cramping that is endemic on the Dogwood nine: lots of houses, not much fairway, and not much creativity. Fewer trees make the space feel more airy and open, but the actual playing corridors are no broader.
I recall Tom Coyne imparting a few months ago his view that a great golf course is one you’re sad to finish playing. By my 13th hole at Timber Creek, I was ready for some air conditioning and the rest of my popcorn ball. Coyne would think the same thing about Timber Creek that I did.
. . .
I’ve been coming to the Alabama Gulf Coast for nearly 10 years to play golf. In the early years, my choices gravitated toward the area’s higher-end courses: namely, Craft Farms (a 36-hole Arnold Palmer facility) and Peninsula (ironically, another Earl Stone 27-holer). At the time, I hadn’t given much thought to why I liked some courses and didn’t care for others — but I still realized that the top-shelf courses in this area left something to be desired. So I started going off the tourist golfer’s beaten path, trying to find something different — something that stood out, that defied formulaic, paint-by-numbers golf course design.
I’ve played enough courses in the area now to understand that the hidden gem I’ve been looking for doesn’t exist. With the notable exception of Kiva Dunes — a genuinely terrific course, albeit pricey ($99 for 18 holes on the weekend in July) — everything is pretty much the same along this stretch of the Gulf Coast. At least the Craft Farms and Peninsulas of the coastal golfing world can claim great conditioning; Timber Creek can’t. Instead, Timber Creek contributes to a monotony that pervades golf courses along the Alabama Gulf Coast: most of them are OK, but just OK. Sadly, Timber Creek would do well to enjoy that description.