Let me begin my story by introducing my friend, Steven Novacek. For those of you who don't know him, Steven is a superb concert guitarist and professor of guitar at the University of Washington, in Seattle. Steven and I have been friends since 1980 when he contacted me with a request to produce and promote a concert of his duo, "Novacek and Bissiri", in my home town of Ashland, Oregon. I booked them into a local coffeehouse/tavern where I had had previous success producing and performing in a classical music series to a quiet and attentive audience. They played a wonderful concert under less than ideal circumstances.

Over the next few years, I invited them back twice for more formal concerts and master classes at the music building recital hall on the campus of Ashland's Southern Oregon University, where I was teaching at the time. Steven and Gary stayed at my home when they performed in Ashland and over the ensuing years, I formed a bond of friendship with these two fellow guitarists. Eventually, their duo disbanded and Steven rebuilt his career as a solo guitarist. I have visited him a number of times in Seattle and he has done two solo concerts here in Ashland.

The last time Steven performed here, he brought his golf clubs. He knew that I had a passion for the game of golf and he had recently taken up the game at the behest of his friend David Russell who, besides being perhaps the world's greatest living classical guitarist, is also an avid golfer. Steven played a fine recital. We celebrated into the wee hours with friends and wine and stories, awaking the next morning red-eyed and ready for golf.

Late in 1994, Steven honored me with an invitation to be one of nine guitarists to perform at the 5th annual Northwest Guitar Festival. The three-day festival is held in a different northwestern city each year and spotlights players from around the region. In March of 1995, the University of Washington would be host to the festival and Steven would be presiding over activities. It was no accident then, that the major attraction for the festival would be the preeminent virtuoso classical guitarist, David Russell. In addition to playing a concert, my duties would include serving as one of six judges for the solo guitar competition. With my pay including lodging at a private home near the University, I calculated that my financial losses from accepting the work could be minimized. I told Steven I would do it on the condition that he would have to include a round of golf with himself and David Russell. Steven said, "It will be arranged."

I arrived in Seattle on a bright sunny spring morning the day before the festival was to begin, and drove straight to Steven's house. The front door was open, so I walked in. I was instantly transported by an almost unearthly wall of guitar sound before finally realizing that Steven and David were practicing in separate rooms with open doors. I stood, transfixed, not wanting to disrupt the magical moment. Steven paused at the end of a phrase and I took the opportunity to say hello. He sprang to his feet, offered a warm greeting and ushered me into David's room for an introduction. I was immediately struck by David's warmth and charm and by the lyrical music of his Scottish brogue. He insisted that we not depart for the golf course until he had shown me a gift which someone had given him earlier in this concert tour. He disappeared into a closet and after a moment, emerged wearing a green and red plaid bolero [a short jacket worn open in the front], looking every bit the Scottish toreador.

During a very pleasant round of golf, I discovered David to be a fine player and very knowledgeable of the game, but then when someone speaks of golf in a Scottish accent, you immediately recognize it as a genetic thing. You see, the Scotts have an old saying, "Golf was invented a billion years ago, don't you remember?" Though I do remember having a delightful time, during our round, I don't remember many details. Sometimes, the memory of a round fades as soon as you walk off the course, but then some rounds are magical and are etched in your memory forever.

This round I remember the course was partly under reconstruction and we played to a few temporary greens, which caused a moderate level of frustration. In spite of these distractions, David shot a fine one over par 37 on the front nine and at one point was a couple of shots under par. On the 9th hole, a par 4, David's tee shot strayed into the deep rough on the right. After playing my second shot to the green, I walked over to help David look for his ball. We eventually found it in the knee-deep dry grass. He had left himself an extremely difficult 175 yard carry over more of the same deep grass to reach the smallish green.

The safe, conservative play would be a relatively easy wedge shot back to the fairway. He glanced briefly at the nearby fairway and then reached for a lofted wood. I was surprised that a player of his caliber would compound the first mistake by attempting such a heroic shot. I took a few steps back to give him room as he lined up for the distant green. He powered the club through the deep grass and the ball came out on a low trajectory but with great velocity, on a line directly at the pin.

Now, to get a golf ball to stop quickly on the green, a player normally needs either a high flying shot or a shot with plenty of back spin. Back spin on a shot out of deep rough is pretty much, impossible. David's ball carried the fringe of the green by a few feet, took one hop and rolled to a stop a short distance away, leaving him a 20-foot putt for birdie. Extraordinary! You can learn a lot about a person in a round of golf by observing how they handle certain situations. On that one shot, I learned a lot about the qualities that make him such an exceptional guitarist; skill, courage, and a great sense of adventure. As for getting that ball to stop on the green, clearly, there was only one explanation- Magic!

For the long rural back road drive home, we stopped at a corner market for refreshments to tide us over. Steven grabbed the drinks, David grabbed two large blocks of solid chocolate, and I just stood marveling at my great good fortune. The drinks loosened our tongues, the chocolate kicked our brains into overdrive, and we wheeled down the country road sharing guitar stories and golfing adventures and reflecting on the mysteries of Shivas Irons.

We arrived home in one happy piece. I entered to warm greetings from Steven's wife, Gayle and was then introduced to David's beautiful Spanish wife, Maria. After sharing the stories of our golfing day, the five of us settled into a long, delicious dinner with wine and expansive conversation on music, Spain, guitars, and golf. We were later joined by Rena who, along with her husband Tom, was to be my home-stay host for the next few days. I pushed back from my empty dessert plate, as Steven suddenly announced, "David and I have to practice our duets for the concert." David lit up and immediately began stretching and massaging his hands and fingers in a kind of mindless way, giving one the impression he had done this a thousand times before. Steven and David then sprang to their feet, breaking the spell at the dinner table. As they left the room, with me in their prodigious wake, the women cried in unison, "Why does Joe have to go?" I turned, without breaking stride and said simply, "I would rather die than miss this!"

Steven had established a considerable legacy of virtuoso guitar duo repertoire which he had arranged for "Novacek and Bissiri". Among this collection of works were a number of selections from Brahms' "Hungarian Dances". David and Steven had decided to prepare these pieces for the conclusion of Steven's concert, which was to be performed on the second evening of the festival. This is what they were now preparing to rehearse. I allowed myself to be swallowed up by a large overstuffed chair near where they were settling in to tune their guitars. My body felt alive from the day of golf, the wine and dinner, and from the warmth and vibrancy of the people and conversation. I then realized that this was the first moment I had had to pause and ponder the incredible flood of activity with which I had been engulfed from the moment I had walked into that very room that morning. And now, I was about to sit-in on a rehearsal by my old friend Steven and my new friend, David Russell.

Their playing was filled both with the fire of the gypsies, and with wine induced mirth. It was nothing short of miraculous that they could play at all, let alone play with that kind of speed and accuracy, given the day we had just had. In my reverie, I remembered how Steven once talked about the day he and David played a round of golf and then went straight to the concert hall for David's recital. Steven had been concerned that David would need time to recover, but David insisted that they finish the round. Steven reported that David's concert performance was flawless. I hadn't fully believed the story. Now I believed.

I relaxed deeply into my chair and relaxed even more deeply into the heroic music of their guitars. The two moved methodically from piece to piece, working out the details of the upcoming performance with loving care. They finished their rehearsal with the most famous of the Brahms Dances, "Hungarian Dance No.5". Steven's arrangement has the rapid sixteenth note passages being passed back and forth between the two guitars. The composer's indications for an accelerando were all the encouragement these two great players needed to turn their rehearsal into a "Who's the fastest guitarist competition".

I had always been struck by the clarity of Steven's playing when he played fast. David's speed seemed to come effortlessly and without any sacrifice in the wonderful warmth of his tone. As the contest progressed and the speed increased further, Steven's playing began to falter until he finally collapsed half out of his chair in rolling peals of laughter. As midnight approached and then passed, I realized a need to get some sleep, as my presence at the festival was required at 8:00 a.m. the next day.

I found the preliminary judging for the competition to be a long and arduous process; it involved listening to more than thirty guitarists. This is the most difficult and discomforting kind of listening I can imagine, for you are forced not only to listen critically, but to listen negatively. Normally, I will listen for the music in a player's performance while trying to overlook any technical problems. Here, I found myself having to look for problems and shortcomings, so as to eliminate the player from the competition. It was not a pleasant experience.

A quick dinner, followed by the festival's first evening concert left me exhausted and ready for a full night's sleep. My concert was at 4 o'clock the next afternoon. This allowed me the morning to recover my sensibilities and get my hour-long program prepared. I played Bach, Giuliani, Albéniz, Lauro, and my arrangement of a John Coltrane piece called "Naima". After the concert, as I stood backstage putting my guitar away, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see David and Maria. To my delight, they said they had enjoyed the program and all I could think was how relieved I was that I didn't know they were out there during my performance.

That evening, Steven Novacek played a wonderful program which closed with the Brahms duets. Steve and David's performance retained a good deal of the wit and mirth of their rehearsal two nights earlier, and the audience was transported. I had attended the concert with Mark, a 25-year-old ex-guitar student of mine who had moved from Ashland to Seattle within the last year. After the concert, he and I joined up with his wife Olivia for dinner at a pleasant Seattle restaurant and an evening of reminiscing.

The third day of the festival included the last round of the solo competition, and a return to my judging duties. I found this to be less arduous because the four finalists were excellent players. Each was allowed 20 minutes to play whatever they wanted. It was quite obvious as to which players deserved first, second, and third place prizes. I felt my first place selection stood out quite clearly above the others. Included in his program was a very difficult original composition entitled Sonata No. 1. The work was atonal and reminded me a bit of early Stravinsky. I gave this player credit not only for playing well but for having the courage to program a modern piece of his own.

When the votes were tallied, the count matched my selections exactly. I felt quite satisfied and thought that that would be the end of it. A few of the other judges felt differently. An extended dissection of the results and the judging process ensued. Initially, I found it interesting that some among us could have such radically different impressions of what we had all heard. As the discussion dragged on, I could only think of potential avenues of escape. The conclusion of this tedious meeting marked the end of my participation in the festival in an official capacity. I returned to the home of my gracious hosts, where a relaxing dinner was waiting. The three of us then left for the concert hall for the grand finale of the 1995 Northwest Guitar Festival, the long-awaited performance by the great David Russell.

The hall was abuzz with excitement as we entered and found our seats. Looking around the hall, I spotted many of the festival participants, most of who were also looking around the hall to see who they could see. There were numerous nods of recognition and knowing smiles as concert time approached.

David's concert was simply brilliant. He opened with three works by Narvaez and then followed with an original transcription of Bach's 3rd Suite for unaccompanied cello. He closed out the first half with Ponce's, "Sonata Mexicana". After the break, he played a wild and marvelously wacky modern work by H. Jasbar entitled "4Miles2Davis", clearly a mixed reference to that lonely stretch of highway through the Sacramento Valley and the great jazz trumpeter. Written at David's behest, the six movement work was a blend of modern classical and jazz idioms. It included the following titles: Funebre, Robot Counterpoint, 3 Miles, Gimme a Break!, Tutututu, and 2 Miles 4 Davis (Dance Mix). It was certainly unlike anything I had ever heard on guitar. Some parts sounded solidly composed while others left an impression of improvisation. It's a piece I would like to have heard two or three more times before forming any conclusions. Next were four sumptuous works by Agustín Barrios Mangoré. How grateful we all should be as guitarists that this great music has survived. I purchased David's Barrios CD and recommend it with unbridled enthusiasm. He closed the program with five of Torroba's "Castles of Spain". The warmth and clarity of his tone was equaled only by the lyrical sweetness of his interpretations. His encore was "Una limosna por el amor de Dios" by Barrios. His playing of this wonderful piece had everyone in the house on their feet. I stood in line backstage to get his autograph on my program, and he wrote, "To Joe, Thanks for the golf. David Russell".

David's performance was followed by a reception at Steven and Gayle's home. All of the official attendees of the festival were there. It was great fun to make contact with these new friends in a less formal setting and to compare notes on our experiences. The crowd began to thin as the evening turned to morning. Finally, there remained only Steven and Gayle, David and Maria, my hosts Tom and Rena, a friend of David's from many years back (who had also studied guitar in Spain and whose name escapes me), and myself.

Steven drafted me into his services to assist him in the wine cellar where we retrieved the good wine which had been saved for this moment. As we toasted to music and friendship, the conversation turned to stories told by David and his friend of the old, poor guitar days in Spain. I relaxed deeply into the same chair as days earlier, and allowed my head to spin in the Spanish yarns.

At one point, Steven, David and I slipped off into a corner to discuss the possibility of staying up until dawn so that we could slip out for one more round of golf. Even through our wine swoon, we realized it was not a good idea, if only because David and Maria might miss their flight. They were to be at the Seattle airport at 11:00am that morning for a flight to El Salvador where David was scheduled to perform the following evening.

At 4:00 a.m. I reluctantly bid the remaining celebrants a fond farewell, wished David and Maria a safe journey, and made my way back to the nearby home of my newfound family. Steven and Gayle would be taking them to the airport, so I made plans to sleep in late, have a leisurely breakfast, and take the rest of the day as it came. I didn't have to be back to Ashland for a few days, so I would incorporate some Seattle sightseeing into my itinerary as I saw fit.

I was awakened just before noon by a phone call from Steven. David and Steven, it turned out, had stayed up until past 6:30 that morning. The four of them arose at 9:00 a.m. and got to the airport just in time to check David and Maria's luggage and guitar. But there was a difficulty. There was no room for David and Maria due to overbooking and so the flight had left without them. They had arranged for the next flight out at 11:00 p.m. that evening. Steven and David immediately realized that the only rational thing to do at a time like that was to play golf. Steven asked me to make a tee time and they would swing by and pick me up as soon as they returned home, changed clothes and picked up their clubs. I felt bad that they had missed their flight but was thrilled at the prospect of playing another round of golf with Steven and David. I immediately set to work on my putting stroke by rolling balls down the smooth fast carpets of Tom and Rena's upstairs hallway.

I was fine tuning my full swing out in the front yard as Steven's car rounded the corner and rolled up the hill in front of Tom and Rena's home. I noticed only Steven in the front seat and looked more closely for David. As the car pulled to a stop, I saw him in the back seat furiously practicing his guitar. Maria, I later learned, had reminded David that the program for the next night's concert in San Salvador would be an all-Barrios program and the following evening was to consist entirely of the music of Francisco Tárrega.

Being an accomplished classical guitarist herself, she understood the importance of reviewing a concert program and had suggested that perhaps he should use the time to practice instead of play golf. David had come up with an admirable solution. He would practice his concert program in the back seat of the car during the hour-long drive to the golf course! I loaded my golfing gear into the back of Steven's station wagon to the strains of one of the waltzes of Barrios, climbed into the front passenger seat next to Steven, and we were off.

While Steven drove through Seattle's infamous traffic, I sat in the front passenger seat and was treated to a memorable performance of the music of the great Paraguayan composer, Agustín Barrios, played by one of the world's greatest guitarists seated less than two feet away. As Steven delicately rounded corners, David would smoothly tilt left and right, without missing a note, rocking back and forth with the ever changing speed of the traffic. In spite of the care with which Steven was driving, on particularly sharp corners, David would tip over completely, causing a momentary disruption to the flow of the music. I couldn't help but think that if we had been in Manuel Barueco's Lexus (of TV commercial fame), David would have had an easier go of it.

The final harmonics of Barrios' famous Barcarole rang out softly, blending with the whirr of rubber tires on freeway concrete as we finally cleared the big city traffic and the drive smoothed out. Steven and I looked at each other and in unison intoned, "HOOLEEA FLOREEDA! [Julia Florida]. Then Steven said to me, "It's a good thing I didn't have to slam on the brakes, 'cause you would have had a permanent imprint of the guitar strings on your face." I replied, "It is a good thing you didn't rear end anyone, 'cause I would have had to have David's guitar surgically removed from my head."

We played a course called "Carnation". It is located in Washington farm country in the area, I suppose, that all of those famous "contented cows" call home. We pulled into the parking lot to find the golf course quite crowded. I expressed my concern that a lengthy delay might not allow us time to finish our round. Steven quickly found a vacant parking space. He turned off the ignition, bolted from the car, and broke into a sprint toward the pro shop, hollering over his shoulder, "Wait here! I'll be right back."

As David and I put on our spikes, we talked about Agustín Barrios and how it almost seemed miraculous that he could have produced so much extraordinary guitar music in relative isolation. I expressed my regret that Andrés Segovia hadn't extended a helping hand when he had been in a position to do so, and how things might have been different [for Barrios] if he had. In Segovia's defense, David said that we tend to think of these important historical figures in heroic terms, forgetting that they were just people. At that moment, Steven came rushing back to the car and announced, "We are on the tee! Right now!" David and I quickly cast puzzled glances at each other and I responded, "Shouldn't we pay?" Steven said, "It's taken care of! Let's go!" I've never thought to ask, but I can only imagine what might have been said in that pro shop.

We warmed up as best we could and began our golfing adventure. The front nine of this course was a rather unremarkable stretch of holes, still boggy from recent heavy rains and flooding. Slow play made it even more of a trial. I managed a strong front nine shooting a 4 over par 40, which included a triple bogie on the 2nd hole, a chip-in birdie on the 6th hole, and a holed-out wedge shot over trees out of the rough from 75 yards for par on the 7th hole. As the ball disappeared at the bottom of the flag, David exclaimed, "What a rubbish par!" As I rejoined my compatriots in the fairway, Steven asked me, "Do you pray before each shot?" Knowing the vagaries of the golfing gods, I replied in mock surprise, "You don't?"

The second nine was a very special layout. If I should go back to Carnation, I might just play this nine twice. One moderate length par three had us playing downhill to a smallish green with a river nearby to our left. Through the trees behind the green was a stunning view of an old barn in a green pasture with cows grazing and Mt. Rainier in the distance. Beautiful! The trees, I think, were the most remarkable aspect of the back nine: each one a unique individual looking as if it had been sculpted and carefully placed along the edge of the fairway. Many of these strange and wonderful trees had cathedral like archways that went all the way through their trunks. Some of the arches were large enough for a good sized gnome to walk through without having to stoop. The setting was indeed so fantastical that our threesome would not have been surprised if a gnome had come right up to us and tipped his hat.

On the 13th hole, David pulled his tee shot into the branches of one of those arched trees and in the distance, we saw his ball drop straight down. When it came time for him to play his second shot, he called Steven and me over to see his lie. He was perhaps 190 yards out on the par 4 hole. His ball was sitting on bare ground, hard up against the large tree which his tee shot had found and which stood directly between his ball and the green. What made this particular lie unusual was that as you stood behind the ball, the 4-foot high archway through the tree framed the green perfectly. The only way to play the shot was through the trunk of the tree!

The lie allowed for no follow through, so a kind of jabbing punch shot was the only option open to him. Since he would be unable to follow the shot after impact, Steven stood to the side and I stood directly behind. David took a short back swing with a longish iron and dug the club into the ground directly at the ball. He struck the shot very cleanly. The ball came out with a surprisingly high trajectory, just clearing the top of the archway. It was perfectly played, save for one skinny little tree 20 yards out. The ball caught the little tree flush and was sent careening backwards to the fairway, leaving him a third shot of over 210 yards.

By the 17th hole, daylight was failing. We would have just enough time to finish our round before it became too dark to play. David and Steven were going on three hours of sleep and had only had an airport hot dog to eat since 11:00 that morning. The concern and stress were beginning to tell on David's face, as his concert in El Salvador was now little more than 24 hours away. Our rush through the final two holes is a blur in my memory. I do remember the difficulty of following the shots into the green of the par 4, 18th as dusk was fading into night. I remember that none of us were able to follow Steven's second shot as it disappeared into the gathering darkness.

On our arrival at the green, we found Steven's ball three feet from the pin. We hurriedly putted out, taking care to allow Steven to tap in his birdie putt, and then piled into the car for the drive home. David immediately picked up the guitar and began to practice his program- this time with more intensity, concern etched on his face, looking for potential problem passages in the music as if they were stray golf shots lost in deep rough. Steven shouted out a warning cry to David as he pulled sharply into a corner market, giving me instructions as he hit the brakes. I sprinted into the store, one hand reaching for the drinks, the other digging for my wallet. As I stood at the check out counter, I noticed two large solid blocks of chocolate lying next to the register. I slid them over next to the drinks and said, "Add these on."

Back in the car, there was still an air of intense tension as David mumbled his way through his Tárrega repertoire, which would comprise his second San Salvador concert. David politely thanked me as I popped open his drink and passed it back. Steven wheeled the car back onto the road home as I quietly slid the chocolate out of the paper bag. I waited for David to roll out the last chord of "Capriccio Arabe", and then I handed the chocolate back to him. His face lit up with a glow as he put aside the guitar and reached for the sustaining chocolate. He smiled as I assured him that I didn't care for any. "What about you, Steven?" he asked through a chocolate grin. As Steven took a single bite of the proffered candy, the mood in the car lightened considerably. It was a great relief to see the strain on his face melt away and I realized that, with no food, no sleep and all of this physical activity, he had simply run out of steam. We arrived back at Steven's home where Gayle, ever resourceful, had ordered up an incredible feast of spicy Chinese takeout. The food, accompanied by fine wine, further melted the tension and helped take the edge off our anxious concern for David and Maria.

I have found golf and music to be similar in the way that they can bring strangers together and leave them feeling as though they had been lifelong friends. I was saddened by the thought of the breakup of this newfound family of friends. I stood in the center of Steven and Gayle's living room, hands in pockets as David and Maria did a last-minute scramble in preparation for their departure.

Earlier, the Spanish Consulate had been instructed to shepherd their luggage and guitar to a safe haven in San Salvador. David and Maria were now off to reunite with them in time for the next evening's concert. I rode with them the few blocks to Tom and Rena's and with quick hugs, bid them a safe journey, conveying my improbable hope that we could all spend time together again, somehow, somewhere. I stood in the empty street as they drove away, the events of the past four days swirling in my head.