ON THE RANGE
by Thomas Cosentino
Jake Stoutland didn’t set out to become a golf storyteller. What began as curiosity, first about business leaders, then about golf history, gradually evolved into one of the more thoughtful voices on social media. With a focus on architecture, club heritage, history, and the human stories behind great courses, Stoutland has carved out a niche in a crowded content space.
We spoke with him about his journey into golf, the responsibility of telling club stories, and why the Met Area remains such fertile ground for the game’s history. You can follow Stoutland on Instagram @stout.land.
Completely unintentionally. Before golf content, I worked in real estate. I started reading about people like Sam Zell, Steve Schwarzman, Barry Sternlicht, and Steve Wynn, learning how they built their businesses. I began writing about those lessons on Twitter. Then I experimented with Instagram videos telling those stories.
They were historical (videos) tracing how someone built something from nothing. One day, it clicked, golf clubs have those stories of the same origin: vision, land acquisition, obstacles, capital, risk.
That led me to make a video about The Bridge; initially focusing on surface-level elements like the clubhouse and art. But I quickly realized the deeper story was about Bob Rubin and how the club came to life. From there, I just kept digging.
History is the obvious answer, but it’s more than that. This area was a hotbed for golf development in the early 1900s. There was capital here. There was land. And the architects were working with incredible natural terrain before development reshaped everything.
The other thing is culture. Many clubs here truly lean into their history. That only works if the membership values it. And I think a lot of clubs in this region do that exceptionally well.
It starts with people. Early on, friends would suggest clubs or stories to explore. Now I get messages from all over the world. From there, it’s trying to get a club history book, speaking with members or historians, and verifying everything. I feel like part journalist. It’s easy to get facts wrong, especially online. I learned that lesson quickly.
Club books aren’t always fully accurate either. So, you’re cross-checking constantly. And because I’m working mostly in short form, I’m always thinking: Who’s the protagonist? What’s the conflict? What obstacles did they overcome? If it’s just, “They built a course, and now it’s great,” that’s not a compelling story.
I try to build everything around story rather than access. Access can disappear, trends change, algorithms change, but a well-told story about how something came to life, that’s timeless.
Golf has survived for centuries because of its traditions and its characters. If I can highlight the human side of a club, the risk someone took, the pushback they faced, the land they fought to preserve, that resonates far beyond a quick highlight reel.
I also think about whether a piece would still be interesting five or 10 years from now. If the answer is no, it probably isn’t worth making.
Yes, Rick Hartmann at Atlantic Golf Club. Early in this journey, he sent me an encouraging message and invited me to visit Atlantic. Later, my dad and I played there with a caddie who was a longtime competitor in the Berkeley Cup, and it was one of the best days I’ve ever had in golf.
Rick believed in what I was doing before many others did. He advocated for me. That experience and being allowed to bring a camera to a place like Atlantic changed everything. I don’t think my path would look the same without him.
It’s a tightrope. I’m not a reviewer, and I don’t care about rankings. I’m there to highlight what’s unique and notable aspects of the club and not critique conditioning or amenities.
There’s also what I call “inside baseball.” Some details aren’t meant for public consumption. I always ask what’s appropriate to share. Most people are open, but occasionally someone says, “That’s internal.” And that’s okay.
There’s a line between thoughtful storytelling and exploitation. If you’re not self-aware, you can cross it quickly. I try to be extremely conscious of that.
Walk if you can. You notice more of the routing, the transitions, the subtle details. When I’m at a special place, I try to keep my eyes wide open. I’m observing constantly, even if I don’t fully process it until later. Sometimes the most memorable details are small, like a thoughtfully placed water fountain or a design nuance you only notice when you’re paying attention.
You also have to accept that you might not play well. If you’re invited to ten great courses, you’ll probably play poorly at a few of them. You have to learn to enjoy the experience regardless of your score.
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