During the long days of summer in Yellowknife, golf seemed natural. Except there wasn't a course -- until one local golfer took a swing. By Randy Freeman
The trap was set. John Anderson-Thomson dusted off his golf clubs and carefully leaned them against the wall of his porch. It looked as if he’d just returned from a session on the links. As his prey walked up the path, one glance was all it took to spring the trap.
Golf was in Anderson-Thomson’s blood, and the prospect of going another year without it was almost unbearable. Summers in the tiny mining town of Yellowknife were ideal for the sport: warm and dry, with almost constant daylight. If you had a high tolerance for bugs you could play all night. But there was one big problem: The town had no golf course. That, Anderson-Thomson had decided, was going to change.
Anderson-Thomson and his wife, Janet, had been seasonal residents of Yellowknife since 1944. He was a surveyor and consulting mining engineer, and every year they migrated between Montana in the winter and the NWT in the summer. The situation had its upsides, but it was hell on Anderson-Thompson’s golf game. So, during the long drive back north during the spring of 1947, he decided he’d build Canada’s northernmost golf course.
It would be a huge job, of course, and would require all sorts of help. So, Anderson-Thompson hatched a devious plan. He invited a couple of Yellowknife newcomers to join him for an evening drink. Percy Atkinson had just come north to manage the Toronto Dominion Bank, and Sandy Scott was the new Hudson’s Bay Company store manager. Anderson-Thomson suspected – perhaps based on their Anglo-Scottish backgrounds and management positions – that they were as keen on golf as he was.
When Atkinson and Scott entered Anderson-Thompson’s porch they saw the clubs and, sure enough, got excited. Where was the golf course? How early in the year did it open? How much were the greens fees? From the anticipation in their voices, Anderson-Thomson knew the trap had worked. Grinning, he said, “There’s no course yet. But we can make one.”
He went on to explain that the rocky terrain around Yellowknife wasn’t well-suited for a course – but he did know of an area out past the Yellowknife airport near Long Lake that just might work. The next Saturday, the three went for a walk there. Anderson-Thomson had already spent a lot of time at the site, and had figured out where nine fairways and greens could be placed. Though it was mostly flat and sandy, parts of it looked like a war zone. Only a few years before, Con and Negus mines had logged the area, seeking timbers for their docks on Yellowknife Bay. The slash from this operation had been left in long windrows. Surveying the mess, Scott shook his head and said, “It looks pretty grim.” He and Atkinson were ready to put their golf clubs back in the closet.
Anderson-Thomson, however, wouldn’t give up. It took all his persuasive skills to convince the two not to abandon the project. They eventually came around – the golf addiction being difficult to shake. Other keen golfers were recruited as well, and volunteer work parties were formed. During the early summer, many of Yellowknife’s leading citizens spent their evenings and weekends clearing the sandy expanse of deadfall and slash.
Then construction of the course began. The fairways were a snap: After the logging, large areas of course native grass had sprung up, and with a little care, and perhaps even the future purchase of a fairway mower, they figured these should be fine for golf.
The greens, though, posed a problem. Lush turf – the type suitable for putting greens – doesn’t grow North of Sixty, so the team got creative. Anderson-Thomson asked Con Mine to donate a length of rail from the supply they used for ore-cart tracks. At the first hole, one end of the rail was anchored where the cup would go. A length of rope was tied to the other end and the volunteers dragged it around and around in a circle until they’d packed the “green.” Then they used discarded motor oil, also donated by Con, to pour on the sandy circle to firm it up. Once a golfer putted out, they could erase their own footsteps and ball marks by dragging a mat over the oiled sand.
Building a clubhouse was another challenge. As the golf-course effort was strictly a volunteer operation, there was no money to construct one. So it was a pleasant surprise when one fell from the sky. One day, a Royal Canadian Air Force DC-3 was taking off from the nearby runway when a propeller broke and came through the cabin, severing the pilot’s ear. Though bleeding profusely, he still managed a belly landing near the course’s first hole. The crash tore the wings off, but the fuselage remained intact, and it took little to convince the RCAF to leave it there. The Yellowknife Golf Club, which by the fall of 1947 had three completed fairways and greens, quickly gained a reputation for being the only one on Earth that had an aircraft as a clubhouse.
Over the winter of 1947-48, more fairways were cleared, and the next spring additional greens were constructed. The official opening was held on the Sunday closest to the summer solstice, June 20, 1948. That day, Dr. Ollie Stanton (for whom Yellowknife’s hospital is named) received the honour of driving the first ball at what was to become the annual Midnight Sun Golf Tournament, which continues every solstice to this day.
Over the years, the Yellowknife Golf Club expanded to 18 holes, but it had growing pains along the way. Though impressive, the original course was hardly ideal. The oiled-sand greens, for instance, were as hard as a billiard table, and a light tap of the ball would often send it spinning past the hole. Another complaint was that the oil smelled bad and soon covered player’s balls, clubs and glove. Today, blessedly, the oil is gone: All the greens are artificial turf and some even have a fringe of real grass.
The fairways, too, changed over time. Though the original grass looked tough, it lasted just a few years under the spiked shoes of Yellowknife golfers. Today the fairways are mostly sand, and for fairway shots, players carry a piece of artificial turf off of which to drive their ball.
As for the clubhouse, the DC-3 fuselage also survived only a few years. It was too small for the growing membership, so in the early ’50s, Anderson-Thomson got Giant Mine to donate an old war-surplus Quonset hut. Though now long gone, for many years its corrugated steel confines were a watering hole that became known as the Sands-I-Bar Lounge. Their, golfers heard tales of exaggerated drives, impossible putts, and toasts to John Anderson-Thomson and all the volunteers who made golf North of Sixty, while perhaps not pleasant, at least possible.
