Coming Down

I've been coaching basketball now for more than 30 years.  I still love the laser-like focus I get during a close game.  The rest of the world disappears, it's just me, the players, the refs, and maybe the other coach.  After all these years it still takes hours to let go after the game has played out and everyone's headed home.

Tonight was one of the few times I've had to coach both teams.  The first game we won by a basket, the second we lost by a basket.  The second game finished about four hours ago, and I'm just now beginning to ease off a little.

One of the things that definitely helps is music.  After so much time and so many different artists, my two favorite musicians are still the guys who were my favorites when I was a teenager - Jimi Hendrix and Keith Richards.

I flirted with playing the guitar for a while, but it didn't take too long to realize that these two hands were not made for playing the kind of music I had hoped to produce.  It's ironic that although I hold pencils, pens, and paper clips all day, my hands look like the were made to turn wrenches, something I definitely inherited from the old man.

I can't even type efficiently to this day.  My fingers are often dyslexic.  Reading has always been easy for me, but the fingers still insist on reversing letter orders.  So tonight I've been slowly coming down, listening to old Stones, Hendrix, and Maytals tunes, and now struggling my way through typing this roundabout stream of semi-consciousness.

Good night.  Soon, I hope.

Soul Fishing

This is a post I meant to do earlier.

I had recently guided a gentleman from Texas and two of his sons.  The place I took them to was one I wouldn't take local clients.  It could be spoiled too easily.

We had a good talk about favorite rivers.  Sometimes it's not an entire stream, but a certain run on a given river that has an almost indescribable quality that keeps you coming back for more.

There are just some places that reach a little deeper than most.   I call this soul fishing, a term I stole from "soul boarding" which is snow boarding in true, deep, light powder.

After fishing these soulful spots I have always come back happier than when I left, often with a feeling that transcends mere happiness.

Here are a few pictures from one such stream of soul.

Expedition Arctic

Maybe it's the approaching 50th birthday, maybe too much time alone, who knows.  This has been a strange period in life lately.  Still passionate about teaching.  Still passionate about fly fishing.  The hunting bug has waned the past couple of years.  Still passionate about coaching track, not so sure about basketball right now.  I have too much on my plate that I seem to be doing kind of half-assed, by my standards.  The job is still getting done, but not with the same degree of enthusiasm or attention to detail as before.

Friday we had a class field trip to a local creek.  It was the coldest day in years.  Twenty-one degrees with the wind whipping at times.  We managed to pull it all off, but I had to play the roll of cheer-leader all day, not just for the kids but also for the bus driver, transportation director, teachers back at school, and the interns from the local non-profit who were putting on the whole trip.  I almost thought of canceling the whole enchilada, but decided a little adventure and adversity would be good for the little darlins.   So it was up to me to fire up the troops.  I'm not the rah-rah type by nature, but you gotta do what you gotta do.  It makes me wonder about the kind of doubts and hurdles encountered by people who have had to lead others through challenges that were infinitely tougher.

Digging out of this rut has been much tougher than I had imagined.  Constantly looking for sources of inspiration and ways to bring back discipline.  Still working on finding something that will stick for more than a month.
                                                             

What it really looked like.       




                                                   What it felt like.

Beyond Comfort Food

It's fall.  Yes, I know I've written that before, but it's FALL!  Uncle Mike and I headed for the hills to celebrate the annual opening of grouse season.  The weather was warmer than usual, but we did manage to find a few birds on our favorite ridge.  There's nothing like taking in the views of the Cascades, with a cooling breeze rustling through the trees while sharing a snack with someone who genuinely appreciates what it's like to be there this time of year.

Saturday night I went back and forth from the fire ring to the pickup cab to listen to the Husky football.  No, I didn't attend the University of Washington and had no desire to go to a school that big, but I have been watching and/or listening to their games since I was a little kid.  The Dawgs played their butts off, handing Boise State a 38 to 6 beating, revenge for last winter's bowl game loss.  I was ecstatic to hear that UW finally has a defense again.

Headed out after school to hike the Pine and Cedar Lakes Trail today.  Huffed and puffed my way up to the overlook ridge.  I didn't stay at the top long because there was a guy at the overlook who appeared like he needed solitude more than I needed to view the Islands.  On the way down, my mind drifted around to several topics, but seemed to land mostly on memories of when I coached football.  Coaching those boys years ago was an absolute joy, well, at least most of the time.  I often miss coaching the sport, but these fall afternoons out hiking or fishing have become too valuable.

I drank a bad-tasting protein shake when I arrived home to the kitchen.  It quelled the hunger long enough to make my favorite September meal, grouse pesto pasta with a fresh ear of corn and a fresh peach.  To me, that's about as good as it gets.  I missed not washing it down with an Alaskan Summer Ale, but the beer has to wait until the beer gut disappears.  About half way through the meal I seriously had this feeling of euphoria.  Maybe it had something to do with the taste, maybe the fond memories associated with the meal, or just because I was so damned hungry, but it felt awfully nice to be blissed out on a Wednesday evening.  Simple minds simple pleasures?

Thirsty Horses

Bare-boned tired.  Sleep has been coming in only five-hour bouts lately.  Too much worrying.  The cardiologist checked out Mom's heart today and found that two arteries leading to her heart were at least 90% clogged.  Close to a heart attack.  I love my mom dearly, but she has been overweight for a long time and has smoked her entire adult life, two biggies in shortening one's time on this planet.  Mom has not had a smoke since I brought her in six days ago.  She's doing O.K. without them.

About ten years ago, my youngest brother, Mike, contracted one of those antibiotic-resistant infections.  His idiot doctors in Auburn screwed up and allowed the infection to get so bad it was attacking his vital organs.  Luckily, we were able to get Mike away from the hacks in Auburn, and move him to the University of Washington Medical Center.  He had reached a point where the heart surgeon addressed our family, letting us know Mike might not make it through surgery.  His heart was in that bad of shape.  Well, Mike did miraculously make it through his ordeal with a new pig valve sewn into his heart.

My brother weighed over 400 pounds when he was admitted.  He lost about 80 pounds while in the hospital.  The doctor was very matter-of-fact, letting Mike know if he didn't lose more weight, his chances of living past his forties were slim.  My little brother was given a second chance.  He did not take advantage of his reprieve.  Five years later, Mike was again admitted to the hospital, weighing over 380 pounds.  He didn't make it the second time, that heart finally gave out on him at age thirty-four..

Tonight, when my brother Tom and I began talking to our mom about how she needed to give up smoking, and how she now had some momentum built up, she started in with the excuses.  Here she is, being given her second chance, and Mom is already laying the groundwork for failure.  It is beyond tough to see someone not take advantage of an opportunity that could help them live longer.  So how much time will we get with her?  What will her remaining years be like?  Who the hell knows.