A mere 80 miles from Augusta, Georgia, the place sells out Masters week, (and many others) yet the property is so massive it never feels crowded. An escape, not just from Atlanta, but from Savannah (3.5 hours), Nashville (5 hours) and Minneapolis (18 hours). Reynolds is an oasis with no surrounding desert. Korean BBQ Pork Riblets, Buffalo Shrimp Tater Skins, Wings, Swordfish and Cauliflower Tacos chased down by lemonade, a S’mores Brownie, Crazy Shake and some Cinnamon Doughnuts and we could barely move. The National Tavern overlooks the lake that wraps the Bluff nine of the National Golf Course, adjacent a putting green beyond the Tavern patio that Dylan spent a solid six hours on. The National Cottages are not only perfect in their capacity to hold golf groups and families, they also happen to sit only a hundred yards or so from the fabulous Tavern (one of 10 “culinary venues” at the resort). “What do you want to do first?” I asked, already knowing the answer. You never know when it’s going to be your last. We’ve played more than 300 courses together across the country since then, and this trip was for his 18th birthday (the next week). That same adventurous little boy was still in there, and that same joy of discovery was still plastered across his face. I smiled, pummeled with flashbacks from a decade earlier when I’d taken him on his first big golf trip. I love that word - “Dad.” Especially love it when my teenage son uses it fondly. Dylan was surfing back and forth across the wooden floor in his socks, checking out all the rooms and watching golfers hack away beyond the porch. This time we were staying in the National Cottages - 3.2 miles from The Ritz - multi-story houses on The National course at Reynolds. “This place is huge, Dad,” he said - an all too painful reality at that moment, given we had a flat tire and were a speed bump-loaded 15-minute drive from the nearest station with an air pump. it made me appreciate the entire Reynolds experience even more. His appreciation for everything on the property didn’t just affirm my impressions. I didn’t wait long to return - I’d have been there even sooner were it not for - and this time I had my son, Dylan, with me in October 2020. and somehow I had to convince everyone else to come here, too. It may have taken Jack Nicklaus to get me here, but it wouldn’t take jack to get me back. Suddenly, all of that was very much impressive. You’ve never had your feet on the soft floor of their plush suites. You’ve never had your breath taken away by the sheer beauty. If you’ve never been to Reynolds Lake Oconee, you’ve never stood on the patio of the Main Lodge at the Ritz-Carlton and looked out over the sprawling lawn, pool complex and beach running along the aforementioned lake. Suddenly, Reynolds Lake Oconee was very much amazing. Suddenly, the place itself very much mattered. But, then, as Jack was whisked off to meet far more important people, I stopped, looked around and took it all in. Up to that point, the “where” I was hadn’t mattered - at least not nearly as much as the “who” I was there with. The crisp bill, adorned with his smiling, trophy-holding likeness, lit up his face and gave me a huge sigh of relief. Would he think it’s stupid? Would he think I’m stupid? It had been years since I’d asked anyone for an autograph … and Jack was as big of a “someone” as any I’d ever met. I had a framed 5 Pound Note from the Royal Bank of Scotland in my carryon - an invaluable souvenir I’d picked up at The Old Course - hoping he’d sign it for me. On that late 2019 flight to Atlanta I could think of nothing but what I’d say to Jack when we met. Meeting Jack Nicklaus, talking to him in person and shaking that famous Golden “paw” – that’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Then Jack Nicklaus went and opened his restored Great Waters course, and I was offered a prestigious “can’t miss” invitation to attend the christening. I always thought the many water-lined fairways looked cool but never felt like I had to get there. I’d heard about the wonders of Reynolds Lake Oconee as a resort (and the Ritz-Carlton as a hotel) for literally a decade. “Maybe I will,” I mumbled back, still getting used to the communicative restriction. “You should put that in a story,” the friendly concierge insisted, her smiling eyes dulling the embarrassment. “I took my time getting here but took no time coming back.” It was a cliché and pathetic introduction, made even more awkward by the mask.
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