Standing on the fifth tee at the Saranac Lake Golf Club in 2005, course Superintendent Tony Barnes looked over at a cluster of varied pine trees on the right side of the fairway. A few trees had been there for 30 years or more, but most were more recent additions. The small plantation helped define the fairway, forming a border between the first and fifth holes as well as providing a barrier of needles and branches to partially protect the fourth and fifth tees from errant golf balls.

“I remember planting those trees 20 years ago,” Tony said, shaking his head. “Man, I’ve been here a long time!”

As well as being the understatement of all understatements, it was another example of all the work Tony had done to the old course. He didn’t take his work home with him — during golf season — the course was his home. He was a gentle bear of a man who roamed the course in the summer and hibernated in the winter. There were three things you’d find out shortly after meeting Tony:

1. He was one of the kindest, funniest people you’d ever meet.

2. He loved his son above all else.

3. It was his course. He didn’t own it, but he knew it and nurtured it like a loving parent.

Tony retired from the golf course a few years ago and left this world behind when he passed away recently, dearly missed by family, friends and the land he spent so much time crafting into the sweet little course it’s become.

Being there at all hours of the day led to some unforgettable encounters. While putting out sprinklers in the middle of a summer night, Tony saw a disturbing scene unfolding in a parking lot across the highway from the first fairway. A car pulled in suddenly and shortly afterwards a state trooper vehicle roared in, red and blue lights flashing. Loud voices disturbed the quiet night. Then a shot rang out and the trooper car stayed in the parking lot while the other car took off.

Expecting the worst, Tony rode his golf cart over to investigate and surprised the officer who had just shot a deer that had been hit and incapacitated by a car. Tony was relieved and he and the officer laughed and went their separate ways.

Months later, Tony had been invited to Thanksgiving dinner by a co-worker. He couldn’t find her house, so he went home and took a nap. He claimed he had lost his friend’s phone number, so she didn’t know why he hadn’t shown up. She was concerned and called the state police to do a wellness check. The same officer who had shot the injured deer happened to be on duty and when he knocked on Tony’s door there was no response. Tony was a sound sleeper who often slept at odd hours and frequently wore earplugs so he wouldn’t be disturbed by ringing phones. Or people knocking on his door.

Tony also slept on the floor because it was better for his tired, creaky back. The trooper looked in a window, saw Tony sprawled out on the floor and broke the door down. Thinking he’d discovered a dead body, the officer was scared nearly witless when Tony woke up, looked at and recognized the startled officer and said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Tony knew every inch of the course and his fastidiousness was known to all. He could be demanding and fussy, but to be fair, that only occurred seven days per week.

Tony was a good golfer and played his shots straight down the fairway, nearly always within a chip and a putt for par. If someone complained about the pin placements on his greens, say a tricky one on the downhill slope on the front of the third green, he’d smile and say the pin placement was the same for everyone. His implication was it was mostly the fault of the person holding the putter for three putting — or worse — a green. He knew every break and turn on each green and accurately gauged the speed of turfgrass he had shaved so low it was like trying to putt in a canoe. Tony nourished and cared for the greens at the Ray Brook course, and they flourished because of his dedication and knowledge. The healthy roots, crucial to the survival of the well trafficked greens, were as long and tangled as Tony’s beard. In addition to chemical fertilizers, Tony used an organic product called SUSTANE, a poultry manure fertilizer that fed the grass what it loved and, when watered, smelled like what it was. Tony said after applying SUSTANE to his greens and watering it in, he went to pick up his son at the Tender Tots daycare. When he walked into the room the daycare providers immediately began checking the kids’ diapers in search of the source of the “fowl” odor.

When other golf course superintendents in the area needed advice or a helping hand, Tony didn’t hesitate to be there when needed. He poured himself into his work, returning after a heart attack and rarely missing a day when healthy. While not everything was done with a laugh and a smile, he treated each person with the respect they deserved.

There are plaques and memorials on the golf course honoring influential individuals. The Larry and Rick Stringer memorial footbridge recently built by Curt Hayes and Allie Pelletieri over the brook on the seventh is beautiful. Tony’s contributions to the course are immeasurable and it would be fitting to rename the course for someone who devoted so much to the place, through dry times when the fairways burnt up or summers so wet the seventh fairway was a soggy swamp.

It would be an appropriate way to honor one of the most unlikely yet genuine gentlemen of the game that popular nine-hole course has ever seen.

After all, over the years and informally, there have already been many happy members of the Tony Barnes Golf Club.

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(Michael DeDivitis lives in Rainbow Lake.)