Skead mornings have a smell — part pine needles, part lake mist, part chainsaw in the distance. The kind of air that wakes you up before the coffee does. On one of those mornings, at Timberwolf North (the local nine-hole course tucked between Lake Wahnapitae and a patch of stubborn forest), Evan showed up early — the kind of early only golfers and fishermen understand.
It was June, barely 12 degrees, the dew so thick you could’ve used it to wax your car. He set up on the range with his 7-iron, eyes squinting toward a rising sun that still looked half asleep.
“Grip light, tempo three to one,” he muttered.
To anyone else, he looked like another Northern Ontario guy trying to find enlightenment through ball flight. But for Evan, it was his therapy — his way of surviving the long winters, short summers, and the kind of loneliness that echoes louder in quiet places like Skead.
The first ball took off low and clean — not perfect, but honest. The second one? A cold-top that skipped across the grass like a loon on takeoff. He chuckled. “Atta boy,” he told himself, because up here, encouragement comes cheap and sarcasm cheaper.
Then came a voice.
“Not bad. For someone who’s clearly not awake yet.”
He turned.
She was in a blue jacket, hood down, ponytail poking through a cap that read Aim Small, Miss Small. She had that ski-goggle tan you only get if you spend winters in places with more snow than common sense.
“Mind if I share your puddle?” she asked, nodding at the wet mat beside him.
“Only if you promise not to outdrive me,” Evan said.
“No promises.”
Her first swing was smooth — like butter on a hot pan. The ball climbed into the mist and disappeared, landing somewhere near the 75-yard flag with a soft thud.
Evan whistled. “Guess we’re starting with humility, eh?”
“Best warm-up there is,” she said. “I’m Maya.”
“Evan. Born and raised right here. You?”
“Sudbury — but I hide out here most weekends. Less traffic, fewer people, better loons.”
And just like that, the rain started — soft at first, then steadier, like the clouds were just teasing them. Most people would’ve packed up. Not golfers. Not Northern Ontarians.
They hit balls through the drizzle, both pretending it wasn’t raining, both pretending not to notice how their laughs overlapped.
By mid-morning, the course was open. “Front nine only,” the old marshal grumbled from his cart. “Back nine’s under Lake Wahnapitae.”
“Let’s walk,” Maya said.
“Always.”
The first fairway was framed by birches, wet grass clinging to their shoes. Evan’s drive went right, of course — toward the pines that seem to have magnets for golf balls.
“Breakfast ball?” she teased.
“In Skead, that’s called a mulligan with character.”
She hit a low 4-iron — one of those stingers that make you question your self-worth. It ran forever and stopped dead centre.
“Show-off,” he muttered.
“Natural selection,” she grinned.
They wandered down the fairway, conversation skipping as easily as their steps. He learned she taught avalanche safety courses in the winter (“Ski patrols need love too”), and she learned he was a software developer who moonlighted as a wannabe scratch golfer.
“Golf and coding, huh? Both are just troubleshooting patience.”
He laughed. “And both crash for no reason.”
By hole three, they were already teasing each other about grip pressure and swing thoughts. By hole five, they had discovered they both grew up watching Hockey Night in Canada and believed poutine should be a food group.
At the green, he rolled in a ten-footer dead centre.
“Nice pace,” she said.
He shrugged. “Kind of my thing. I putt like I’m apologizing.”
“Canadian to the core.”
She knocked in hers with confidence. “Assertive,” she declared.
They both grinned — that quiet, dangerous grin that means something just started.
By the seventh, the real Northern rain came — sideways, cold, unapologetic. They bolted for the wooden shelter near the tee, dripping, laughing, both pretending not to shiver.
“Remind me why we do this instead of normal hobbies?” Evan said.
“Because golf humbles you slower than life,” she replied, wringing out her hair.
He looked at her — the soaked jacket, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and eyes that held the whole damn lake in them.
He almost said something. Almost. But instead, he cracked open a granola bar. “Want half?”
She took it. “You’re braver than you look.”
“You haven’t seen my short game yet.”
“Then I’m terrified.”
After the round, the course closed due to flooding — again. But Maya had a volunteer shift at the Sudbury Junior Golf Clinic back at Timberwolf proper.
“You should come,” she said. “They need more people who actually know what a divot is.”
“Do they pay in Tim Hortons gift cards?”
“No. But sometimes the kids give you golf balls they found in the woods. That’s basically currency around here.”
He showed up anyway.
The clinic was chaos — twenty kids in rubber boots, one putting green, and zero attention spans. Maya was a natural, showing them how to chip into hula hoops using a “soft hands, quiet heart” rule. Evan ran the putting station, explaining speed like it was sacred science.
One boy smacked the ball so hard it almost reached Highway 17. Evan crouched beside him.
“Buddy,” he said, “pretend the hole’s the waiter and your ball’s your order. If you fire it at him, he’ll drop it. If you roll it nicely, he’ll serve it hot.”
The boy sank the next one.
“Order up!” he yelled.
Evan looked over. Maya was watching, smiling like maybe he’d just earned par in life.
Summer rolled on.
They started golfing together every weekend. Sometimes just nine holes, sometimes all day if the mosquitoes were tolerable. They played ready golf, talked about everything from broken dreams to good coffee. They laughed at bad swings and worse advice.
“Why do you always fix divots that aren’t yours?” he asked once.
“Because I like leaving things better than I found them.”
He didn’t know yet that she was talking about more than fairways.
On Wednesdays, they met at the driving range after work. On Sundays, they kayaked Lake Wahnapitae, racing loons and daring each other to swim even when it was too cold.
And somewhere between the fifth tee and the ninth green, Evan realized something dangerous — he didn’t just like her company. He needed it.
One Saturday, they joined a charity scramble at Timberwolf Sudbury — loud shirts, moose jokes, and more Labatt than water.
Their team was electric. Maya chipped in from the bunker on 11. Evan dropped a 25-foot putt on 14.
By the 16th hole — a par-3 over water — they were tied for first.
“Your honour,” Maya said.
“Ladies first.”
She smirked. “Scared?”
“Terrified.”
Her swing was poetry — smooth, fearless, beautiful. The ball flew dead straight, kissed the flag, and stopped three feet away.
Evan stared. “No pressure, eh?”
He chunked his. Of course. Straight into the pond. The frogs applauded.
They finished second, but neither cared. On the cart ride back, she said, “I’m heading to Killarney next weekend. Want to come? Bring your clubs. They’ve got a nine-hole course that’s basically wilderness.”
He nodded before his brain caught up.
Killarney was all wind and wilderness — granite cliffs, clear lakes, mosquitoes with ambition. They played barefoot on dew-covered fairways, no scorecards, just swings. After, they sat on the dock, feet dangling in the water, passing a can of Northern Logger back and forth.
“You ever think about leaving Skead?” she asked.
“Sometimes. But I always end up back here. The loons would miss me.”
“Maybe they’d follow you.”
He looked at her. “Would you?”
She didn’t answer. Not with words.
Fall came too soon.
The mornings turned crisp, leaves went full-flame, and frost delays became an excuse for coffee and long stares across the fairway.
Then one day, she wasn’t there.
Carla from the clinic said, “Maya had to go to Sudbury. Family stuff.”
He texted. Nothing.
He tried again two days later. “Hope everything’s okay.”
The reply came three days after that. “Dad took a fall. I’ll be in town for a bit.”
Evan didn’t hesitate. He showed up with soup, a Sharpie, and a shy smile.
Maya’s dad, Arun, was sitting in a recliner, leg in a cast, TV showing Hockey Night in Canada from three nights ago.
“So you’re the golf boy?” Arun said, eyeing him.
“Trying to be.”
Arun nodded like that explained everything. “Golf teaches humility. Patience. And that you can do everything right and still lose.”
Evan smiled. “That’s also love, sir.”
Arun grinned. “Then you’re already learning.”
Winter came the way it always does in Northern Ontario — early, loud, and relentless. The course shut down under snow, but the rink opened up. Maya taught him to skate again, laughing as he clung to the boards.
“You’re a natural disaster,” she teased.
“Complementary to your natural grace,” he countered.
They skied Laurentian, drank hot chocolate in the chalet, and counted the days until spring thawed the fairways again.
When it finally did, they were back at Timberwolf North, the same course, the same misty Skead air.
“First swing of the season,” she said.
“Don’t remind me,” he said, pulling driver. “This thing’s got more dust than my snowblower.”
He swung. The ball soared high and straight — a miracle.
“Kind,” she said softly.
He turned. “Patient,” he replied.
They played nine holes, both shooting something between par and who cares. On the last green, under a sky just turning gold, Evan set down his putter, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small box.
“Maya,” he said, voice trembling like a nervous putt, “I used to think golf was about control. Turns out it’s about trust. And love’s the same. Will you keep walking with me?”
She laughed through happy tears. “You’re proposing on a green?”
He nodded. “It’s the only place I ever find peace.”
“Yes,” she said. “Obviously.”
They got married the next summer — right there in Skead, on the fairway by Lake Wahnapitae. Her bouquet was made of wildflowers and broken tees. His boutonniere was a tee marker painted gold.
The kids from the clinic carried the rings in a ball retriever. Arun cried through the whole thing, muttering, “Patience, humility, love.”
After the ceremony, they played a scramble. Maya birdied the first hole. Evan four-putted the second. She called it “balance.”
And when they told people how they met, they never said it was destiny.
They said it was Skead.
It was rain, and range mats, and kindness on greens that don’t owe you anything. It was soup and Sharpies and laughter that sounded like loons.
It was walking a fairway together — one swing, one step, one season at a time.
Because love, like golf in Northern Ontario, is short, unpredictable, and absolutely worth showing up for.
“Growing the game — one slice at a time.”
Socially Out Of Bounds 
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