I waited till dark, then crawled under a chainlink fence and into the the vast, empty golf course. The full moon was like a spotlight on me; I trod softly. Beyond the silvery fairways, the evergreens loomed as black, still, and hulking as skyscrapers. My shadow, lying so dark upon the bright turf, seemed to possess a halo. My phone’s camera could, of course, capture nothing. I followed the paved cart tracks from hole to hole. I pissed beside the pond, where a cacophonous crowd of frogs croaked. I padded past a lighted, windowless outbuilding—bathrooms. I followed almost blindly a trail through the trees, and emerged onto another stadium-sized fairway—a gently undulating carpet longer than shouting distance and wider than throwing distance. The only visible light was the sky’s, but the drone of distant, speeding traffic never waned. Returning in the direction of my point of entry, I willed myself to skirt the clubhouse, reasoning that even if there was someone on the grounds at this hour, they would be cozily indoors and self-involved, with light-adapted eyes. But when I passed in full moonlit view of what appeared to be a living room’s picture window, I ducked back into the shadows. As I approached the exit, I saw, through a wide gap in the perimeter foliage, just beyond the perimeter fence, a person walking a dog. Holding my breath, I put a tree between them and myself. The person, seeming to pause, said, “Hey! Listen!”—to a companion? or to the dog? Eventually they continued down the sidewalk, around a corner, and out of sight. I scurried under the fence, dusted myself off, and reassumed an air of innocuous normalcy.

View of Port Mann Bridge from Fraserview Golf Course at night

Two days later, cycling past the golf course, I saw that it is, in fact, at one of its entrances, wide open to the public at any time of day.