A few thoughts -- some on Tom's point, some not:
(1) To me, the word "frightening" is not quite right.
Possibly, a hard hole "frightens" some people. But not me -- and, I truly hope, not many players.
There's no machismo in what I'm saying. It's just that I've failed so many times, in so many ways, on so many golf courses -- and lived to tell about it (if you're willing to listen!) -- that "fearsome" and "frightening" just do not apply.
When the doctor finds a lump in your wife's breast? Frightening.
When the captain announces that he can't get the landing gear down? Frightening.
When tornadoes are dancing toward my house? Frightening.
When our daughter goes out on her first date with some 16-year-old boy who just got his driver's license? That will be frightening.
I propose the word "intimidating." Golf holes can certainly be that -- and some of them most definitely should be.
(2) To backtrack from what I just said:
There is one type of occasion when a shot really does frighten me -- and it's not on the 18th when I'm in contention, or on the 18th when I need a par for a milestone score.
Nervous, yes. Frightened, no.
Here's where I get frightened: on the 1st tee -- any first tee, anywhere -- when I'm playing with a new group of guys. Whether I know 'em or not, whether I care about their opinion of my game or not, whether in competition or not, that first tee ball scares the life out of me. I'm completely capable of envisioning the most godawful results, and completely prepared to say: "Geeze, guys, sorry. I haven't hit a ball like that since I was 12 years old." (Luckily, despite my insane visualizations, I've almost never hit a truly, truly terrible first tee shot -- which is my only consolation, and my only refuge, as my mind races out of control while I tee up the ball.)
And that is what made the 1st hole at The Old Course, in my first and thus-far only round there, the most intimidating hole I've yet played:
On a cold, windy, intermittently rainy Saturday morning in November of 1998, my wife and I walked up to the starter's hut and asked if I might get a game. After ascertaining that I met his qualifications, the starter said that I might approach the two old pensioners next up on the tee and ask if they'd be willing to take me on.
Of course they were willing -- even eager, it seemed. (I love the Scots.) The third and fourth of their group had been put off by the weather; they'd be delighted to have me along.
Andy was a retiree, and a part-time caddie at The Old Course. He led me around the links all day -- pointing me in all the right directions, and greeting my shots (I was in pretty good form, for November) with a steady stream of "Aye, that's fine"s and an occasional "Aye, that's a crackin' shot!"
Andy likely gave me some guidance even there on the 1st tee -- but my mind was in such an uproar that I'm sure I didn't hear him. This was The Old Course! Almost every great player in the history of golf had stood right where I was standing. Look at this place! Who could ever get enough of this?
I was truly afraid I'd whiff it. Or hack out a huge divot and pop one up to shortstop.
Take a deep breath, Dan. Rhythm . . . Smooth it, baby. Just hit the ball. It's the widest fairway in the world! You can't miss it!
Just about then, a vision of Ian Baker-Finch launching a huge hook into the cash drawer of some golf shop down the road came waltzing into my hapless little mind.
I swung. "Aye, that's fine," said Andy. Nothing outstanding, but somewhere down the left side, to short-iron (8? 9? PW? I can't remember) range.
Andy probably mentioned something about the Swilken Burn as I approached my approach. (He'd already hit his smartly onto the green.) I probably said something about how I did know about the Burn (what do you take me for, sir -- just one more American boob?); I hope I said that as politely as I imagine I did.
I swung. Hit it fat. Oh, no, right into the Burn! But no. It bounced -- SHORT of the Burn, over the Burn, onto the green.
Andy said nothing. I just gave him a sheepish smile and shrugged my shoulders.
And I was frightened of nothing else, the rest of the day. A little intimidated, yes, by the Road Hole -- as the wind picked up and the rain came down much harder than ever that day.
Unfortunately, I had time to think about it. The group of American boobs in front of us had ground to a virtual halt, and we had a five-minute wait on the tee.
Robert and Andy were in a bit of a hurry. Their wives were to meet them in town at some approinted hour fast approaching, and they had business to attend to before the gals arrived.
"Aye," said Andy, taking a deep breath, "I can smell the whisky from here!"
I had the honor. Andy gave me my line -- over one of the O's in "Old Course Hotel," as I recall ... but which O, I have no idea now --and then he wandered over to the left, 50 yards or so, to see past the sheds. He said he'd holler when the way was clear. We waited, and waited, and waited. Man, were they ever slow up ahead! My wife, along for the walk (and now wearing Andy's raingear), took cover in the shrubbery to the right of the tee. We waited, and waited, and waited. My glove was moist; my grip was wet.
Andy hollered: "Now!"
I dried my grip as well as I could, one last time, addressed the ball, swung -- and blistered it right over the O he'd pointed me to.
"Aye," he called out, from over on the left. "That's fine."
"Fine?" I thought. "That was a crackin' shot!"
Andy and Robert teed off. I don't remember where they hit it. Nobody hit the hotel, or the sign.
Andy hit his second, then walked with me toward my ball. When he saw it, just into the rough on the left side, he said: "Aye, that was a CRACKIN' shot!"
I laughed and thought: "Now that's more like it, buddy!"
After a bit of tutelage on the nuances of the Road Hole green, and a warning about the Road Hole bunker, Andy stepped aside. I was desperate for par; my longest-time playing partner had played The Old Course many years earlier, and had parred it, and had told me so innumerable times, and had instructed me that "Parred the Road Hole" was to be his epitaph. I swung -- some middle-iron. Hit it fat. Very fat. Fifty yards short.
"Aye," said Andy, "that was yer worst shot o' the day." Indeed, it was. Indeed, it was.
(I'm sure the suspense -- if not the length of this -- is killing you, so I'll finish the story: The pin was on the right side. I pitched up farther right, to about 20 feet. The wind was whipping the cold rain, colder by the minute -- but all I could think was: Rick PARRED this hole. MAKE THIS SUCKER! I didn't. Rammed it 5 or 6 feet past. Missed the comebacker. No matter. Most memorable hole of my life -- unless the most memorable hole was 18, where I pitched one down through the Valley of Sin up to about 4 feet ... and heard cheers from the players waiting on the 1st tee. Did I make that putt? Can't remember. Don't need to.)
(3) Some intimidating holes I've played:
-- 1 through 18 at Blackwolf Run (River). That's how it seemed that day, anyway.
-- 17 at Sand Hills, in the big wind. Just like 17 at Sawgrass -- except that you have to keep hitting the same ball.
-- 7, 8, 9, 10 at Pebble.
-- 16 at Hazeltine (especially into the wind; the pros couldn't come close to handling it into the wind on Saturday of the '91 Open).