The Big Five-O

Forty was just a number.  For some reason fifty seems more serious.  A half-century.  Maybe it's partly because I can still remember when my grandparents were at the age I am now.  It is a cliche to say I don't feel fifty, but it doesn't make it any less true.  I definitely thought I would be more mature at this age.  Fart sounds and well-timed "That's-what-she-said!" jokes still crack me up.  I can still happily watch South Park or Beevis and Butthead when I'm in the right mood for it.  I still have problems with authority or perceived authority. 

I was lucky enough to spend yesterday with my best friend, Mick and his family.  I spent the better part of today with part of my family.  It's nice to be around people I've known for over thirty years.  It's relaxing to be with folks who have seen me at my best and worst and still put up with it all.

When I was younger, I didn't think I would make it to thirty.  Now it's twenty years past that point, knowing I should be getting reading glasses, receiving mail from AARP, and talking about surgeries and aching body parts.  Being single at fifty just plain isn't much fun.  The idea of being with someone else who would be trying to tell me what's wrong with me while trying to change me into who they think they want has no appeal, either.

The best I can come up with right now is that turning fifty is still more appealing than not turning fifty.  It sort of feels like being in a car or on a train and realizing the brakes don't work.

  

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?