With a putt-through Alamo, WWII battlefields, and a towering Peter Pan, Texas offers what may be the craziest mini golf road trip in America.
I place my aqua-colored golf ball on the green and line up my shot. Ahead of me towers a 13-foot orange-haired boy with a feather in his cap, his leg straddling the fairway. Looking past him, I spy a roaring tyrannosaur, a toothy shark, and a giant armadillo.
If every journey begins with a single putt, it’s time to start. I pull back my club, tap the ball, and the game is on.
My adult son, Harrison, and I had flown to Texas for a three-day miniature golf road trip from Austin to San Antonio. On our journey, we planned to visit two classic courses that qualify as historic landmarks, and a few new additions, including an astonishing 18-holer designed as a trip across the battlefields of World War II. Our 130-mile Hill Country route also offered ample opportunity for feasting between games.
In some ways, it was familiar territory. Harrison was born in Dallas, and we had been playing miniature golf since he was a toddler, with me leaning over to help him hold a putter nearly his height. Over the years, we had played on vacations and birthdays, and even celebrated a college break with a mini-golf beach trip.
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But Texas offered new challenges, starting with Austin’s Peter Pan course, a beauty dating to 1948. The property, perched on a hill south of downtown, is a special place, said owner Margaret Dismukes Massad. Her father designed many of the hazards, including the namesake Peter Pan, a giant shoe, and, of course, a menacing T. rex.
“You feel like you’ve just stepped into another world,” she said.
But like other Neverlands, Peter Pan’s future is precarious, she told us. The Massad family owns the course, but not the property it sits on, and in booming Austin, there’s a fear it could be razed for condos. “We have a lot of uncertainty,” she said.
To my son and me, the message was clear: Play it while we still can.
There’s no denying Austin’s love for the spot, which has welcomed generations of families and first dates, leading to many marriage proposals. With a BYOB policy, it even welcomes players to bring a cooler along for the game.
As Harrison and I putted, we soaked in the kitschy scenery.
Our progress was slowed by a father and his six-year-old son putting ahead of us. But there was no rush on this warm, breezy night. Looking at the pair ahead of us, I hoped that they—like us—would be playing together for decades to come.
Our own round came to an end with me winning, thanks to three unexpected holes-in-one, which may have been a personal best. To celebrate, we strolled a few blocks to Terry Black’s BBQ to review our game over astonishingly tender beef brisket that has won Michelin recognition. Topped with barbecue sauce and pickles, it was sweet, salty, and smoky, and one of the best things I had tasted in ages.
It has everything you’d expect, including a putt-through Alamo, an oil jack, and a rattlesnake the size of a Saint Bernard.
The next day took us to Wimberley National, a new Texas-themed course in the Hill Country town. It has everything you’d expect, including a putt-through Alamo, an oil jack, and a rattlesnake the size of a Saint Bernard. Shaded by live oak trees, we played a leisurely game, and I wasn’t even upset when Harrison won.
But nothing could prepare us for our next stop, Memorial Mini Golf. Peter Pan’s owner had recommended it the night before, casually describing it as a tribute to World War II. We were skeptical, with Harrison summing up our concerns concisely. “It’s either going to be scarily realistic,” he mused, “or cartoonishly offensive.”
But somehow it threaded the needle and avoided both.
The course opened in 2021, founded by former history teacher Brian McKinney, whose grandfather had served in the conflict. He asked his friend John Weber, a metal artist, to create course hazards. And the rest is mini-golf history. The greens offer a chance to putt through the most important moments of the war, from the Battle of Britain to the North Africa Campaign. There’s even a small museum.
Weber puts golfers in the spirit of the game when he distributes balls at the check-in desk. “I say, ‘Here’s your ammunition.’ Then I give them clubs and say, ‘Here’s your weapons.’”
He volunteered to join us for a game, and we saw that with 700 yards of greens, the course offered the most colorful and rugged artificial turf this side of an NFL stadium. Each hole starts with a sign providing a historic account of the event it honors, defining vocabulary words, like “beachhead,” “convoy,” and “strategic bombing.” It’s all keyed to Texas education guidelines for social studies and geography.
The Normandy hole has a fittingly treacherous layout, giving players the choice of working around sandbags or putting up a long ramp through an Allied glider. Harrison never made it across, giving up after a dozen tries.
“We lost him on the beaches,” Weber said, then pointed to the Eiffel Tower dominating the next hole. “Let’s go liberate Paris!”
Mini golf has taken us many places, but this was new territory.
Another hole led us across a miniature Rhine River bridge, complete with a landmine warning sign in German. The final hole had us putting across Japan and ending on a runway.
My son and I returned to the car speechless, knowing we’d be talking about the course for decades to come. Mini golf has taken us many places, but this was new territory.
After all the excitement, we ended our day in Gruene, a picture-postcard historic district famous as home to the state’s oldest continually operating dance hall.
Here we found one of Texas’s newest offerings, a nine-hole course that’s a loving tribute to the town.
The two of us putted through cowboy boots and across the bridge of a giant guitar. One hole led through the front door of a miniature Gruene Hall, letting us symbolically follow in the footsteps of Willie Nelson, Lyle Lovett, and hundreds of other musical legends who have played there.
Harrison was charmed by both Gruene and its postage-stamp-sized course, which he declared a love letter to the Lone Star State. It took us both back to the endless Texas road trips I had dragged him on so many years ago.
We wrapped up the day at the town’s sprawling Gristmill River Restaurant, overlooking the Guadalupe River. It’s famous for hand-squeezed margaritas, towering plates of onion rings, and fork-tender chicken-fried steak. We needed the fuel. Tomorrow, we would conclude our pilgrimage on San Antonio’s historic Cool Crest putting greens.
I had designed our trip around the site, one of the oldest operating miniature golf courses in the world.
It opened in 1929 at the height of the nation’s first mini golf craze, before the era of windmills and fiberglass hazards. Instead, the challenge was designed into the landscape. The holes rely on geometric angles and terraces, with underground pipes taking golf balls to secondary greens.
We were putting over greens nearly a century old, an Art Deco masterpiece that had been welcoming families since the Hoover administration
Cool Crest had recently been sold, but the new owner, one of the city’s oldest family restaurant groups, says it’s dedicated to preserving the landmark. We found it sparkling with fresh paint and turfed with new greens. In the evenings, it comes alive with a beer garden and live music. Shaded by palm and mesquite trees, it was a breezy hilltop escape.
We started on the newer 1959 course, and when I nailed a hole-in-one right out of the gate, I knew I was going to like it. It played like a billiards game, requiring bounce boards and strategy to work around hazards.
My putting was spot-on, and I was ready to claim another victory. But then disaster struck on the 18th, a volcano-shaped hill with the hole on top. Just like Harrison at Normandy, I fell apart, with the ball rolling back to me again and again. Eventually, I gave up.
Throughout our play, we had kept a rough score, and now we were tied. Our final game on Cool Crest’s original 1929 course would settle our Lone Star putt-off.
I should have been tense, but each hole felt joyous. We were putting over greens nearly a century old, an Art Deco masterpiece that had been welcoming families since the Hoover administration.
As I lined up the last shot, Harrison watched, leaning on his putter with the same focus I’d seen in that six-year-old back at Peter Pan. I sunk the putt and we finished even. In that moment, the winner didn’t seem to matter. We were putting through history, and making our own.