After leaving the horses, we cross Diablo Road and head for the Mount Diablo Golf Club clubhouse.
“Dad, what are we going to tell them when we get inside, we are not exactly dressed for playing golf?”
“Follow my lead, I have an idea.”
“Uh, ok.”
We enter the clubhouse and see the reception desk to the right and thirty something woman looking bored. I wonder if I could build a bridge out of her?
“Good afternoon ma’am, my name is Steve and this is my daughter Sally, she is doing a project for school about the origins of some of the historic buildings of the Mount Diablo area and noticed that your clubhouse is on the local registrar of historic buildings.”
“Really, I thought our clubhouse was built two years ago.”
“Yes, yes, the main building is only two years old, but the original building which still stands as part of the bar was built in the 1850s when the gold rush hit this part of California. The infamous outlaw Black Bart once killed a man for looking at him funny in that very bar.”
“Really, Black Bart, that sounds exciting, I do not remember reading in that our brochure. Let me see what I have here. I do have a book about Jack Neville the designer of the golf course.”
“That would be perfect, do you have those for sale or would we need to do our research here?”
“Go ahead and take it, just bring it back when you are done with the project.”
“Thank you, I did not catch your name.”
“It is Jessica, and you are welcome. I am glad to see it go to use.”
“By the way, I noticed your duck lapel pin, that is something I have never seen.”
“Oh that is just our membership pin, everyone in the club has one.”
We head back outside and find a bench and page through the book.
“Dad, do you think that duck pin could be related to DUCK, could this be the headquarters of the Agents of DUCK?”
“I’m not sure, being we made up the name DUCK just so I could have the people chasing us make up the word duck, I think it is a long shot.”
“Yeah, but nothing would surprise me at this point and we now have a book about Jack Neville the designer of the golf course and the fourth line was ‘Our Designer Neville.’”
“Right, let’s go find the 9th hole and see what is in the kettle, I mean cup.”
“Dad, shouldn’t we come back after dark, I’m pretty sure the golf club would not look kindly on us messing around on the ninth hole while people are still playing.”
“Beside, then we could get the horses back to close to 6 PM and Stewart wouldn’t be upset with you!”
“Dad, Stewart has to be like 18, he is ancient.”
“Oh sorry, I’ll just have to tell you the story of when I invented fire as I must be beyond ancient.”
“Dad, that’s not what I meant.”
So, without having to regale the story of how I invented fire soon to be followed by the lever and the wheel, we head back to the horses. We still have two hours to get back by six, so we stop at some trailside picnic tables and eat our sandwiches, dried fruit and apple juice. I tend to the horses as Nancy pages through the Jack Neville book.
“Dad, It looks like the course was built in 1914 and the property was originally an 1874 country estate for the families of railroad barons and gold mining icons. Also, the Carriage Lounge and Bar does date from 1881, though I doubt Black Bart ever stepped foot in it.”
“Good thing Jessica did not know her Gold Rush Outlaw history, Black Bart or Charles Earl Bowles by his proper name was infamous for robbing Wells Fargo Stage coaches on the road from Northern California to Oregon and leaving poems at the scene of the crime.”
“Well at least he operated sort of near hear, you never know, maybe when he retired from stagecoach robbing, he settled down in the San Francisco Bay area and would visit the Carriage Lounge and Bar for a sarsaparilla.”
“Fine , but he never killed anyone for looking at him funny, he was a stagecoach robber and a poet.”
After finishing with our dinner and the horses and a rousing discussion on Black Bart, we stow our gear and get back on the horses.
“Nancy, so being that the horses are walking and not running, would you consider this gait a canter or a lope.”
“I think the proper term is a canterlope.”
“Would that be any relation to the antelope or the spamalope?”
“Dad.”
“Yes.”
“If I haven’t mentioned this today, I wanted to make sure I said that you are weird.”
“Yes, septapi have seven legs, one just for waving and your dad is weird, nothing new here.”
“Dad, uhm yeah, so tell me more about the spamalope.”
“Well, the spamalope is a perfectly evolved creature that conveniently comes with a tail that can be used to pull off the fur, legs and head leaving behind a can of fully cooked Synthetically Produced Amalgamated Meat product.”
“Delicios.”
So after uneventful horse riding and more in depth conversations on canned meats we make it back to the stables.
“Dad, how are we going to get from here to the ninth hole, we left our SUV at the bus station and I don’t think the bus comes out here.”
“I’ll think of something.”