When I cranked up the car in the Mission Inn golf course parking lot, the dashboard temperature indicator said it was 104.  

That was probably an electronic typo. Either that or it got blurred by the sweaty sunscreen trickling down into my eyes and I read it wrong. The 104 couldn’t be right. It was at least 140 out there.  

While I sat and waited for the steering wheel to cool off enough to hold onto, I watched a couple of other groups coming out to the lot. I recognized some of the people because I had seen and heard them in the bar, looking and acting just like my group. 

Men in their 70s and 80s – probably. Maybe a few in their 140s. It’s hard to tell in the condition they were in. Skin was burned to potato chip texture, those who still had hair would have been well advised to keep their hats on. They were dressed similarly funny, weresweaty, smelly, obviously exhausted and remarkably talkative. Everybody had a story to tell over the cold beer that everybody offered to buy. 

Now here is where an anthropologist might get puzzled by what these people thought of as “fun.” Seventy percent of the stories were about something bad that had happened that day to the storyteller. The other 30% were about something bad that had happened to the others in the group.  

Hitting trees, weird bounces into the water, whiffs, short putts missed, almost stepping on a snake, the ball that rolled under a gator, great drives ending in double bogeys. It is very reminiscent of that song they used to sing on “Hee-Haw” – gloom, despair and agony on me, deep dark depression, excessive misery…if it weren’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all, gloom, despair and agony on me.” 

Then they creak and limp out to their cars, shake hands and say “see you next week.” 

Does anything make less sense than this? 

Well… yes. Which brings me to my group. The four guys struggling up and down these steamy hills of Mission Inn, gasping along in this “Africa Queen” climate have a different connection. They were all brought together, here in Florida, by snow.  

We met through the Florida Ski Council, which meets annually with resort representatives to make travel plans. In the winter we get together to struggle up and down much steeper hills in big square states out West, gasping for what little sub-zero air there is above the tree line. Here in Florida, golf balls bounce off trees. Out there, people do it.    

At the end of the “fun,” we creak and limp into the bar, dressed similarly in funny clothing, skin burned to potato chip texture, those who still have hair well-advised to keep their hats on. We buy each other hot chocolate with schnapps and talk about what a beating we took.  

Neither of these activities involves rational behavior, which leads me to a thought that is somewhat troubling. About half my friends are from golf and most of the other half are from skiing. Some of the closest are the ones who do both.  

The only conclusion I can draw from this is that the people who make the best friends are the ones who help you make some of your worst decisions. 

It was a deep thought, but I had little time to ponder it. The steering wheel had cooled, and I had to get back to the room to showerand get dressed for the next round of good judgment.  

We were getting together later for karaoke.