Driving down to Augusta, it felt like I’d stumbled onto some kind of personal expedition. Yes, I was finally going, making the trek to watch a practice round at Augusta National—a place I’ve only dreamt of seeing. But let’s be honest, my dreams don’t exactly stretch to the actual tournament day. Those ticket prices? Absolutely bonkers.
So, I, in a fit of what I’m calling “structural ingenuity,” turned what could’ve been a marathon drive into a two-day wandering. Day one was from Michigan through Ohio to Kentucky because hell, who needs thighs of steel for a single long haul? Kentucky was like, not bad for catching some sleep. The second day was all about dodging fatigue—Kentucky, then Tennessee, a curious glance past North Carolina, through South Carolina, and, hi Georgia!
Somewhere in there—and I hope I’m remembering right—I detoured through Daniel Boone National Forest. Found myself drawn to a natural bridge. Just sitting there like a relic from some ancient era that couldn’t care less about my road trip. I mean, it was off the beaten path—which, in my case, is saying something given my usual lack of direction.
Anyway, I made my way through, what was it, the Cherokee National Forest next? Felt like I was crossing TV channels between nature documentaries—Great Smoky Mountains, then Francis Marion and Sumter National Forest. Very geographic. Let’s just say my GPS was earning its keep.
Rolling into Augusta had its own surreal vibe. I always had this mental picture of it being a sleepy Southern town. Instead, I got, well, highways. Plenty of those, really. And suddenly I’m in the middle of exits, overpasses, and a kind of rush-hour chaos that seemed oddly threatening for a golf pilgrimage. The hotel I booked was a sanctuary, until curiosity got the better of me, and I had to snoop around Augusta National ahead of Wednesday.
Washington Road was alive, like a tailgate, but with more hustle and tickets being passed like they’re playing cards in the wrong game. People with signs looking to buy or sell—who buys a ticket on the street, anyway? Big chance, if you ask me. Those three-page agreements are there for a reason!
Ah yes, and let’s talk about John Daly. Because, of course, he’s there too—holding court at the local Hooters, nearby like it was just another day at the office. Augusta’s front gate, though, was nothing like I expected: almost stealthy in its simplicity, with little indication you’re about to step into golf’s Eldorado. Would’ve missed it entirely if not for my terrible habit of scrutinizing hedges.
Come Wednesday, I’ll probably have a whole diary’s worth of musings. Except, here’s the kicker: photos stay with me. Agreement rules, sadly. But hey, official shots exist if you’re itching for a visual. Mine? They’ll be my flickering campfire on those long, bleak Michigan nights.
