Have you ever golfed alone at the end of October in New England? Well if you haven’t, let me see if I can describe it for you:

The day will be cool – somewhere between 55 and 60 degrees Fahrenheit. There will be a chilling breeze, which will make it seem colder than it actually is. And the sky will be a deep and brilliant blue with nary a cloud in sight.

The sun will paint blonde highlights on the course, accentuating the emerald green fairways from the flaming foliage beyond. It will be quiet…and peaceful. You will place your tee in the ground at the first and realize that whenever you dream of golf from now on, you will dream of this moment.

But sight is not the only sense stimulated: As you hoist your bag onto your shoulders and begin the walk down the fairway, you’ll detect the aroma of decaying leaves. There’s something very bewitching about that earthy smell – it draws your attention to the tree-line.

Your ball lies in the fairway next to one such stretch of forest – a large grouping of Maples. They tower above you, the chlorophyll slowly draining from their extremities until a leaf finally detaches and floats down to the rough beyond your approach shot.

Below the canopy of glowing oranges, reds and yellows lies an army of trunks and twigs that sink into a carpet of more colorful foliage. A slight gust picks up just before you take your shot, which fills the sky with leaves. You pause.

If you stare too long into that darkened jumble of woodlands, you begin to see things – things that may or may not be there – is that a figure, or just an 18th Century stone wall? It’s a haunting feeling for sure – but a tranquil one as well. Though you mustn’t linger too long – the days are shorter this time of year and playing the last few holes in the dark is a somewhat eerie notion.

The putting surface is smooth – the aeration holes having disappeared more than a week before. But now you have new obstacles to contend with – those dead leaves, which seem to spring back to life in the breeze. They blow into your line as you eye your put, but if a larger gust picks up, all of them at once will race in one direction – as if the forest has summoned them home.

As you walk through the woods to the next hole, you feel an urge to veer-off the cart path and create your own trail. The forest is enchanting for sure – it silently begs you to enter and once you oblige, it’s hard to escape its enticing charms.

But that bright green patch up ahead seems to have just as much gravitational pull as the forest itself – perhaps even more. You climb out from the underbrush and stroll onto the second tee. You’ve made it. Your focus goes back to hitting that little white projectile as far and as straight as you can…

…that is, until you hook your tee shot into the adjacent woods. Take a drop or go search for it? Choose wisely.