“They run,” the second vet explained again.

“Running frisbee golf?”

“Yeah some people do it that way. Rolfing they call it, running golf. Not these guys though! They just run without no name for it. They don’t always use the regular targets either. There’s some baskets out here, they’re metal things with chains hanging from them. You got to hit the chains and the frisbees fall in a basket.”

“Except they don’t,” the first vet scoffed.

“Yeah it’s a finicky sport. Like fucking golf, you know.”

Down the path Frank could see the runners picking up their frisbees and stopping for only a moment before throwing again.

“How often do they come here?”

“A lot!”

“You can ask them, they’ll be back in a while. They run the course forward and back.”

They sat there, once or twice hearing the runners call out. Fifteen minutes later the men did indeed return, on the path they had left.

Frank said to the dreadlocked one, “Hey, can I follow you and learn the course?”

“Well sure, but we do run it, as you see.”

“Oh yeah that’s fine, I’ll keep up.”

“Sure then. You want a frisbee to throw?”

“I’d probably lose it.”

“Always possible out here, but try this one. I found it today, so it must be meant for you.”

“Okay.”

Like any other climber, Frank had spent a fair amount of camp time tossing a frisbee back and forth. He much preferred it to hackysack, which he was no good at. Now he took the disk they gave him and followed them to their next tee, and threw it last, conservatively, as his main desire was to keep it going straight up the narrow fairway. His shot only went half as far as theirs, but he could see where it had crashed into the overgrown grass, so he considered it a success, and ran after the others. They were pretty fast, not sprinting but moving right along, at what Frank guessed was about a seven-minute—mile pace if they kept it up; and they slowed only briefly to pick up their frisbees and throw them again.