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Hidden Influence: Dye channeled the work of William Langford, thinking it was Raynor

Langford design
The dramatic par-3 7th at Lawsonia Links, perhaps William Langford’s best known course design. I finally played there in September 2025. But that didn’t keep me from writing this feature for LINKS Magazine, published (on actual glossy stock!), 20 years before.

By HAL PHILLIPS
PINEHURST, N.C. (June 1, 2005) — There’s a famous black & white photo taken at the inaugural meeting of the American Society of Golf Course Architects. Design nerds have surely seen it: Ten founding members, all lined up in front of the clubhouse at Pinehurst, standing rather stiffly in their tweedy, post-war vestments. Not exactly the stuff of Annie Leibowitz, but the image still resonates — for it was here, back 1946, that the modern idea of ‘golf course architect’ was born. Third from left stands a handsome fellow named William Langford.

Midwest-born but Ivy-educated, Langford served as president of ASGCA in 1951 and again in 1963. Yet it was much earlier, over the first half of the 20th Century, that he earned his rightful place beside Ross, Jones, Thompson and Bell. During this heyday, William Boice Langford was perhaps the most prolific course designer in the Midwest, laying out 250 courses and, at one point, employing 80 men to do so.

Several Langford layouts rank right there with the Golden Age greats. Lawsonia Links in Green Hill, Wis., is perhaps the best known, but there are myriad others: Riverside, Butterfield and Ridgemoor country clubs in Greater Chicago; Minnehaha in South Dakota; the original 18 at Greenville CC in South Carolina; and the much-praised old nine at Harrison Hills in Attica, Ind. His renovations of Skokie in Chicago and Wakonda in Des Moines are credited with transforming these courses into the classics we revere today.

At all these venues, Langford displayed a masterful understanding of approach angles. He also deployed a dramatic, steep-sloped bunker philosophy highly reminiscent of Seth Raynor’s work, but it’s not clear that Langford ever played or studied the work of C.B. Macdonald’s famous protégé. Regardless, his style rubbed off on dozens of young midwestern designers, an unwitting Pete Dye among them, and resulted in some of golf’s most striking, strategic green settings.

“Langford’s designs were excellent. I’ve tried to copy him as much as I could,” says 91-year-old Larry Packard, the Chicago-based architect who got his start under Robert Bruce Harris — another Pinehurst attendee — but moonlighted for Langford in the 1950s. “I’ve always felt that Langford did a first-class job, better than the guy I worked for. At that time, [Langford] was beginning to slow down a bit and needed someone to assist him with all the drawing. I used to come over, at night, and I’d help him. When we got tired, we’d go out in the yard and play croquet.

“The thing about Langford was, you could tell he was an excellent player. He knew more closely about where someone would hit a ball than Harris did. After Harris got a layout, he’d just put sand traps in like raisins in a plum pudding. Langford knew exactly how far and where a guy would hit a ball, and which angles would make good players think.”

William Langford: Thrice an NCAA Champion

Yale golf team 1906

Golfing acumen isn’t necessarily a precondition for course architects, but it clearly benefited Langford who suffered from polio as a child and took up the game as part of his rehabilitation. It worked wonders. In New Haven, where his undergraduate studies predated the Macdonald/Raynor design at Yale GC, he played on three consecutive NCAA championship teams (1906-08) and remained a superb amateur player all his life. For the record, the Bulldogs played matches at New Haven GC, then Race Brook CC before moving over to YGC, in 1926.

After earning a master’s degree in mining engineering from Columbia — a discipline that would eventually serve him, and the field of golf course design, extremely well — Langford stayed in New York City and, according to Packard, prepared to take over his father’s sheepskin business. But the tug of golf never dimmed and eventually he went to work laying out courses for Chicago-based American Park Builders.

In 1918 he had formed his own firm, a partnership with fellow engineer Theodore J. Moreau. By the onset of World War II, the two partners had authored hundreds of golf course projects from the Dakotas to Florida and most places in between.

It’s difficult to ascribe a “style” to any course designer who works so long, on so many different projects, in so many different physical environments. But Langford — who did most of the design work, while Moreau mainly supervised construction — did have a distinct predilection for raised greens with very sharp edges that fell off precipitously into flat-bottomed, remarkably deep bunkers.

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Edgewood GC: Recalling a Course Blotted Out by Progress
The 16th at the TPC River Highlands in Cromwell, Conn. This par-3 is approached today over this pond. Back in the early 1980s, one approached it from the right, high on a hill. (Photo by Jim Rogash/Getty Images)

Edgewood GC: Recalling a Course Blotted Out by Progress

The 16th at the TPC River Highlands in Cromwell, Conn. This par-3 is approached today over this pond. In the early 1980s, one approached this same green from the right, high on a hill.

A few years back I managed to hook up with a former college golf teammate of mine, Stuart Remensnyder, for a friendly reunion/grudge match at TPC River Highlands in Cromwell, Conn., site of this week’s PGA Tour stop, The Traveler’s Championship. Stuart and I spent a lot of time that day musing about the delightful scam that was Division III college golf (we had played for Wesleyan University, in neighboring Middletown). Golf wasn’t like other varsity sports, after all. “Practice” amounted to playing free, fully sanctioned golf three or four days a week.

In any case, Stuart and I were standing in the 1st fairway at River Highlands, musing over past conquests/humblings and waiting on the group in front of us, when I abruptly cut off our conversation and pointed with some urgency at a row of homes sitting high on a hill, deep in the right rough.

“You see those houses?” I ventured. “That’s the old 13th hole.”

“You mean the 13th at the old TPC?” Stuart asked.

“No, the old, OLD 13th — at Edgewood!”

Stalwart New England golf fans might recall that the Greater Hartford Open — today known as the Traveler’s Championship — moved in the mid-1980s, after years at Weathersfield CC, to an ill-fated facility called the TPC at Cromwell (it was, at times, also called the TPC of Connecticut). This Pete Dye design didn’t meet with the slavish approval associated with Dye’s work today. Indeed, the players didn’t like the TPC at Cromwell; the PGA Tour didn’t like it; for all I know, Dye’s late wife Alice wasn’t crazy about it either.

Long story short, architect Bobby Weed — himself a Dyesciple and the PGA Tour’s in-house architect back then — was brought in to renovate the place just a few years later. The joint was renamed the TPC at River Highlands, and everyone loved it.

What New England golf fans might NOT remember is this: The short-lived TPC at Cromwell was not a “new” golf course in the strict sense. It didn’t just materialize from scratch, springing fully formed from the brow of Deane Beman, there by the Connecticut River. No, the TPC at Cromwell resulted from a complete and utter renovation of an existing layout called Edgewood Golf Club, home course to the mighty Wesleyan Cardinals for years. Indeed, the University had owned the club for decades in the middle part of the century.

There were strong holes and weak holes at Edgewood, but during my first two years at Wesleyan, it was my “home” course. I enjoyed many a practice round there with teammates and took many a licking there at the hands of New England’s finest collegiate players. Stuart did, too. We all did.

Now it’s gone. Replaced not once but twice by completely new incarnations in the space of just a few years.

Golf courses do change, after all, for good and for ill — sometimes by design, at the hands of man; other times via naturally occurring phenomena like tree growth and erosion. Some alterations, like those undertaken annually at Augusta National, garner breathless headlines, while others are conceived and authored without a hint of public awareness or concern.

Changes are welcomed by some, reviled by others. Only one thing is universal: All of these evolutions take less time than one might ever imagine.

At Edgewood, the situation was unique because so far as the Wesleyan golf team was concerned, the transformation happened completely without warning. Toward the end of my freshman year, spring 1983, new golf holes started popping up like mushrooms betwixt and between the existing holes! Unbeknownst to us, Dye had already been retained and had begun radically reconfiguring the layout right before our eyes. We didn’t have a clue what was happening. When we asked inside the clubhouse, no one else seemed to have a clue either.

When we returned in the fall of 1983, more new holes had emerged. This was only a few years post-Sawgrass, and Dye’s now familiar mounding — quite mysterious and exotic back then — appeared to be bubbling to the surface. He didn’t just build new holes in former rough areas either. He completely reversed existing holes. He combined a few. Eliminated others. He fashioned new holes that played to existing greens from completely different directions. The entire routing was turned on its ear.

By this time we’d learned of the Tour’s grand plans for old Edgewood. And for one fleeting moment — I can’t honestly remember how long it lasted: 10 minutes, a day, a couple weeks — we, the Wesleyan Golf Team, entertained fantastical thoughts of practicing and playing our matches at this completely retooled golf course, a resplendent-sounding place: The TPC at Cromwell. Home to a future PGA Tour stop for chrissakes!

That’s about when they booted us.

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