Just as I smashed my wee Titleist into the crisp mountain air, a cool gust of wind slashed through the pine tops and whipped over the tee deck. I tried to steady myself in my off-kilter finishing pose and watched my ball fight the wind and soar against the knife-edge summit of Mount Lorette. It sure looked purdy. But I thought, hmm, I don’t believe my dimpled little “friend” will find dry land. And, as gusts and gravity grabbed my ball and thrust it downwards to its inevitable watery grave, I turned to my wife and said, “Throw me another one, dear. We each get a mulligan. Do-overs are perfectly acceptable in Kananaskis.”
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