WEEKEND ESCAPE : Operation Desert Bunkers : City Duffers Learn Why Fees at Lush Palm Springs Golf Courses Shrivel on Summer Days

Until I experienced the full impact of summer in the desert, the premise of a golfing getaway to Palm Springs seemed flawless: a rare Boys’ Weekend Out, a chance to play some of the finest courses anywhere and a chance to play ‘em cheap.

The plan was hatched many weeks ago, when 70-degree days were still the norm. Ron Nall, a compatriot at my tennis club, suggested that as soon as the spring tournament season ended, a bunch of us might take an excursion to indulge in a classic refuge of used-to-be athletes: golf. Ron had gone from a “C” to an “A” tennis player in only a few years and now, as he was turning 40, was trying to do the same in the Sport of Grandpas.

But his golf generally was restricted to hacking around Los Angeles-area public courses, where the scenery often is undistinguished, the play agonizingly slow and conditions spotty.

Then, at a local golf shop, he stumbled across a “Golf Passbook” that serves as a fund-raiser for the Boys & Girls Clubs of Palm Springs. For $45, you get two books offering entree--and vast discounts--at many of the top courses around the Coachella Valley. Where normally you might pay $100 or more to play some of the manicured links there--or stay at a top-dollar resort with golfing privileges--the passbook enables you to tee off on participating courses for an average of $30 (including an electric golf cart).

There was one teensy-weensy catch: At most courses, the discount book is good only from June through September. That’s the off-off season in the desert, as anyone in their right mind knows, when it gets very, very hot among the cacti.

But that imagery seemed distant when Ron talked up the trip. Soon he had seven others--two foursomes--signed up to go.

*

Then the temperatures began to rise. And rise. The week of our scheduled departure the last weekend in June, it hit 100 . . . in Los Angeles.

One guy on the list, who had previously suffered a heart attack, wisely dropped out. Having second thoughts myself, I consulted my wife, perhaps hoping she’d insist I stay home.

Instead, she taunted me: “You? Chickening out? The nut who played golf in Saudi Arabia?”

Indeed, on a work trip there a decade ago, I had borrowed the clubs of a deputy ambassador to play the makeshift all-sand course on U.S. Embassy grounds--you carried a square of Astroturf to put under your ball. But that was during early spring, and I played only three holes. In my suit and tie. As a lark. Still . . . .

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll go.”

And my wife said, “You’re all nuts.”

The seven of us remaining--two computer training specialists, a Disney executive, a tennis pro, a former professional harness driver, a bank consultant and me--piled into three cars on Friday morning. Two-and-a-half hours later, we pulled off Interstate 10 at the Date Palm exit and cruised toward the mountains that provide the valley’s refreshing snow-capped backdrop in winter. Now the mountains were parched brown. An electronic thermometer on a bank building flashed an ominous greeting: 114 degrees. It was 1 p.m., not yet peak temperature time.

“Turn up the air conditioning,” I implored Bob Schick, who was driving.

“I already did,” he said.

We headed for Lumpy’s, a golf discount store on California 111, to stock up on towels, broad straw hats and neck coolers--thick bandannas you wet and put in the refrigerator overnight, then wrap around your throat so they act like cloth air conditioners. We already had bags of sodas to supplement the jugs of ice water provided on golf carts this time of year.

Then it was time to head for the first course on our itinerary. Our plan was to play in early morning or late afternoon to avoid the worst heat, so Ron had arranged a 3:15 p.m. starting time at Mission Hills North in Rancho Mirage, a brand new course.

Sheets of hot air rose from the parking lot. I don’t dare put on my golf shoes in the lot, I thought, or the spikes might sink into melting asphalt. Like many of the area’s courses, this one is ringed by bulldozed sand lots for future homes, dusty reminders of the desert environs. But as we peered over the course (designed by Gary Player, the South African golfer), the grounds looked like oases: wide, immaculate expanses of green dotted with ponds, rust-colored boulders and a few small waterfalls.

There were two dozen other vehicles in the lot, providing consolation--we were not alone in this questionable venture. Most were mid-range Buicks and Toyotas, not the Mercedes and Cadillacs you see in season. And few of the occupants were from the gray-haired crowd that abounds in winter. No, this was the tomfoolery of a slightly younger set, not as wealthy or wise.

Part of our prearranged survival strategy had been to limit pregame warm-ups in order to conserve energy. But the vast grass driving range at Mission Hills North was hard to resist for players accustomed to the crude rubber mats of most public facilities. We also didn’t have to pay extra for buckets of lumpy practice balls; mounds of smooth ones were waiting at the range, free. We pounded away at them.

Finally, tee time. On the grass, it seemed far cooler than in the parking lot. And the motion of the carts provided a hint of breeze. I had figured sweat would pour off our bodies, but I found I hardly needed my towel; the moisture evaporated the moment it reached the skin. We soon were lost in enjoyment of how far the ball carried in the thin, dry air.

*

We were just hitting our stride when the desert winds whipped up and the shadows began to lengthen. Eyes squinted into the lowering sun. Concentrations lagged. A few too many tired shots flew into the tangled chaparral and greenside water hazards. As we finished, the sprinklers began their night-long chore of keeping the grass alive.

We were ready for water ourselves--showers or dips in 95-degree pools. With Ron Nall having set a goal of keeping the trip “nice, but el cheapo,” most checked in to a Travelers Inn motel on California 111 in Palm Desert, sharing rooms at summer rates of $48 a night. I got the best deal: staying for free with Blake Todd, a Disney exec who has a condo at Mission Hills.

It was past 9 p.m. by the time we cleaned up for dinner. Much of the valley shuts down in summer, and finding a restaurant that serves late is no easy task. We settled on Redondo Don’s, a burger-and-brew joint on California 111 in Palm Desert that even had a band going in its bar. It was there that Ron, our organization man, confessed to a minor hitch in the plan. Every golfer in the desert, it seems, wants to play in the early morning. But under the terms of our discount book, our coupons weren’t good at most courses before 11 a.m. on weekends, leaving the prime times open for hotel guests or full-paying players.

There was only one hope of not broiling to death: The Field Golf Club in Desert Hot Springs, not far from the huge windmill farms that mark the drive from Los Angeles. The Field did allow discounted early tee-offs, but unfortunately all the morning times were booked on this particular Saturday. However, the pro told Ron over the phone that if we were ready when the gates opened at 5:30 a.m., a starter might let us tee off before the “official” launch of play.

“Sounds great,” said Steve Foster, the tennis pro, who is used to getting up with the roosters to give lessons at the Toluca Lake Tennis Club.

*

The alarm clock rang at 4:22 a.m. I saw a light already on in Blake’s room and called out, “Good morning.”

“What do you mean good morning?” he said. “Good night.”

“This is crazy,” he muttered as we got dressed.

A dozen cars were lined up at the gates of The Field course when Blake and I pulled up at 5:26. The others had taken bets on whether we’d make it. The starter agreed to squeeze us in before the first tee time, so we rushed off with barely a practice swing--and with the sprinklers still spewing on the first fairway.

The early wake up call was worth it. Though public, the 5-year-old Field course is one of the gems of the desert. It winds through a well-treed terrain of wildflowers and tangled natural foliage--no bulldozed lots. And the greens were remarkably soft, while those we found elsewhere were often hard--almost like billiard tables--in the summer.

Best of all, the sunrise start meant that we completed 18 holes by 10 a.m. There was time for a leisurely lunch and a short nap before our next stop. (You thought we were finished for the day?)

We reassembled at 2:30 p.m. at the Citrus Course--so named because it winds through orange and lemon groves--affiliated with the legendary La Quinta Hotel. Though designed by Pete Dye, the golf architect known for brutal “target” layouts (steep hazards fortified by railroad ties sometimes guard the greens), Citrus was more wide-open, and easier, than The Field. The early holes included a welcomed flurry of birdies.

But halfway through the round, most of us went numb in the intense heat. Suddenly, it was hard to remember which day it was, much less what hole we were on after playing three courses. By dusk, Ron was shanking his shots off to the right. Blake was frustrated too, popping up shots with his expensive new graphite driver. And me? I “yipped” no fewer than four putts on the final hole.

Discouragement hung in the air Saturday night by the time we made it to Smokey’s, a local steak-and-chops hangout, barely before the kitchen closed at 10 p.m. We were bleary-eyed. And we couldn’t find another course in the discount book that would let us play in the morning. We pondered going home early. But then, after a few drinks, a new plan emerged.

Blake suggested we play at the Mission Hills County Club, were he is a member. We could all play as his guests, but it would cost $45. That’s a bargain: Outsiders normally pay $175 in winter to play the Old Course, site of the Nabisco Dinah Shore women’s tournament. What’s more, we didn’t have to wake at 4 a.m. to play. We easily got an 8:30 a.m. tee time.

The Old Course proved to be a stern test, featuring towering palms and cleverly positioned lakes. The famous finishing hole stretches 600 yards, over and along water. With only a few foursomes scattered about, we sped around in 3 1/2 hours. And by the time we reached that monster 18th hole, we were not discouraged anymore. Ron had gotten a tip on how to cure his shank and was launching drives into the stratosphere again. Blake, on his home turf, was threatening to break 80. Steve, suddenly firing irons at the pin, seemed ready to give up his tennis career for one on the links. And me? This time, Mr. Yipper curled in a 25-foot putt on the final hole.

We had played 72 holes--four full rounds--in 48 hours. We had survived. “It seemed a little cooler out there,” Ron commented as we gathered at the clubhouse.

Then someone else asked, dead serious, “Anyone for another nine holes?”

On Monday night, home in L.A., most of us were at the tennis club, our bodies back to our main sport but our minds still in the desert. Steve reported that he’d checked weather records and discovered it had reached 118 degrees on Friday, 116 Saturday and 113 Sunday.

“I knew it was getting cooler,” Ron beamed. “Anyone free this weekend?”

Lieberman is a reporter on the Times’ Metro staff.