Building a Coach's Character

I think I’m going to throw up.  Actually vomit all over the bleachers in front of me.  Anyone looking at me wouldn’t guess in a million years how nervous I really am.  After all, I’ve been involved with basketball close to 30 years in some shape or form.  Mostly, I’ve been a player.  But today I am a coach.  And I’ve only been to two practices.

When I agreed to help out my daughter’s coach, filling in for him for a couple of tournament games, I was excited.  It is her final year and being part of her last basketball moments would be so cool.  

Now however, reality has struck.  Will I be able to help them at all?  Will I make the right decisions?  I’ve always shied away from big responsibility.  It’s why I never became an editor.  Or a head coach.  Frankly, it scares the crap out of me.  If I were to really think about where this anxiety comes from, I would guess that it stems from a huge lack of self-confidence along with that burning dread of disappointing and failing others.

It’s too late to delve into that now though.  Thankfully, I am in charge of a wonderful group of girls and they know what to do.  All I have to do is steer them in the right direction.

As I sit and watch the warm up I make a few notes.  Otherwise, I’m afraid nothing will come out of my mouth when they all stand around looking expectantly at me.

The warm up clock winds down and sweat trickles down my back.  Music blares and the thump of the drums fills my head.  I wish I was on the court instead of the sidelines.  It would be so much easier there. 

I shed the thought and concentrate on the game.  The girls come in and my notes prove to be an anchor for me as I relay our plan.  The buzzer goes and the game is on. 

I love how distraction can be a savior.  As the game progresses, I forget all about the rock in my stomach because I have no time to invest in myself.  It is all about the game.  I am completely wrapped up in helping these girls-who have invested so much of their time to be here-succeed.  Sadly, we lose in overtime by three points.  I watch as that all-to-familiar disappointment seems to cover them like a heavy blanket.

This feeling is not lost on me.  As a player, I endured countless gut-wrenching losses.  The same self-recriminations come back to me now like they did all those years ago.  I know there were decisions I should have made, things I should have said.  I look at the team and give them the same speech made by many coaches before me:  Good game, it could have gone either way, we played hard. 

Now though, I wish I could have been more insightful.  I wish I could have told them something deep and thought provoking like those speeches I’ve watched a hundred times in Hoosiers or Coach Carter. 

Later, I realize that I didn’t really need to say anything because all athletes gain something every time they step on the court whether it’s spoken by a coach or not.  That slow but amazing emergence of character, built with each loss and victory. 

The team turns it around for their last game and we win by ten points.  Looking at their smiling faces, it’s gratifying to know I played a small part in this success.  I don’t say much to them afterwards.  I don’t need to. 

I suppose every coach is different-some are better than others.  I’m just glad I took this risk.  After all, my character could still use some building.

The Attitude of Gratitude

My breath puffs out in large streams, turning the tips of my hair frosty white.  I push through the snow and lean into the blustery arctic wind.  My cheeks are frozen and my nose is running.  Everything about this moment is uncomfortable.  I love it.

My friends and family will be surprised at this admission.  Winter has never been my favorite season for so many reasons:  I have to wear to many layers of clothing, endure freezing cars, shovel heaps of snow and I loath the way the bitter cold makes my body hurt. I could go on, as could most Canadians.  But I will stop there. 

The reason for this change is all about attitude and gratitude.  My 366 Project, which I’ve been doing faithfully for 17 days now, has played a major role.  Instead of thinking about how awful winter can be my mind has been busy thinking about how grateful I am for everyone and everything in my life.  Even before heading out the door, I realize I’m thankful for my warm clothes, for a cozy house to come back to, for the beautiful, pristine snow that blankets the earth.  For my awesome dog.

I also keep in mind something the Norwegians like to say:  “There is no such thing as crappy weather, just crappy clothes.”  They are so right. 

I look up and push my toque back so I can see a little more around me.  I have found a quiet and peaceful place to walk, and I am thankful for this break from my busy life.  Even if it is -25. 

At first, I worried that this project would be difficult.  How am I going to find something to be thankful for everyday?  What’s going to happen when I have a bad day, when things go wrong?  Well so far, the bad moments haven’t affected me the way they usually would and I think I know the reason.  I have had stressful moments certainly.  But I am thinking more and more about the good things, the amazing things around me, and the joy that comes from that has infected my entire attitude.  I have had no problem finding something or somebody to be thankful for.  Everyday.

But hey, I don’t want to paint a picture of myself walking around with a big smile on my face, all wide eyes and skipping while singing What A Wonderful World.  It’s not like that.  It’s more like I’ve finally surfaced after years of letting myself get dragged down by circumstances.  The last two weeks, laughter and smiles have come more easily.  It helps of course, that I have my camera in my hands everyday.  It is my passion.  Doing something I love is definitely an asset.

So I will carry on with my project and my new attitude.  I wonder where this will take me and what else I am going to learn.  I’m excited to find out.

Gratitude 366

I’m walking my dog on a quiet Sunday morning when inspiration strikes.  Like a kettle that slowly comes to a boil and then blows, I realize it’s an idea that has been swirling around for sometime, waiting for my overly occupied brain to retrieve.

I’m going to use my camera to remind me how amazing and fortunate I am to live the life I’ve been given.  Everyday, I’m going to take a picture of something I am grateful for.

Gratitude is the quality of being thankful and appreciative, something that lately, I have neglected.  Everyday before I leave for work, I make sure to be thankful for the good things in my life.  Lately however, a busy schedule and financial stress along with some parenting challenges have thrown it to the side, like a forgotten favorite toy.

I’m so bored of being exhausted from living under all the stress that everyday life can dish out.  I have a wonderful family, great friends and a stable job.  Unfortunately, I tend to forget about the great things in my life and how good I have it, compared to so many.  This project is going to remind me of all that.

I am excited for the first time in weeks.  I love photography and the opportunity to create.  So this project, which I’m calling Gratitude 366 (2016 is a leap year), is going to be gratifying and I hope, a lot of fun. 

A couple of years ago, I did a similar project, loosely titled  “family”.  It was great, but my family became a little irritated by my constant and enthusiastic (and sometimes bizarre) requests for models and poses.

This will be different.  It will force me to think about only the good, positive, amazing things in the world and in my life.  It will have intention.  At least, that is my goal.  And hopefully, my family will be happy with this decision as well.

Starting January 1^st, I’m going to photograph something, anything really, that I’m grateful for.  Those images will not sit idly on my hard drive though.  They will be posted everyday on my Flickr (www.flickr.com/photos/shesep/) and Instagram pages.  It will keep me accountable and excuses will be harder to come up with. 

Until then, I’m going to start a list.  After all, one picture a day for a year is a bit of a commitment—but I’m grateful for the challenge.

High River from a Hot Air Balloon

My heart is thundering in my ears and my hands fumble over my camera as we lift effortlessly off the ground and ascend.  The whoosh of the fire billows into the hot air balloon.  It is wonderfully, blissfully silent.

The absence of sound and the feeling of weightlessness is so sudden, I feel like we walked into a sound proof, anti-gravity room.  I thought this would be terrifying.  I love to travel, but airplanes scare the crap out of me.  I am the crazy lady screaming, “We’re all going to die!” from the back of the plane during the tinniest bit of turbulence.

This is different somehow, and that in itself is absurd.  There are no seatbelts in a hot air balloon basket.  There are not really any safety rules per se.  Stan Wereschuk, the pilot, goes over a few items to avoid touching, and what to do if the landing is shaky.  That’s pretty much it.

I wrap my arm around one of the uprights to have a more stable brace for taking photos.  That seems to help my mind accept that I’m safe.  But a bizarre thought occurs to me:  It would be so easy to just swing my legs over the edge and jump.  It’s not that I want to, but in my adrenaline fueled mind the thought keeps popping up.

That crazy, illogical speculation disappears as I begin to survey all that is below me.  It is spectacular.  There is so much to look at it’s hard to concentrate on one object or area for more than a few seconds.  High River in the fall is stunning from the air.  Half a dozen balloons prepare for take off, growing slowly like colorful warm buns rising in an oven.  Trees line almost every street, their golden leaves ablaze like the fire above me.  The town still sleeps peacefully, basking in the cool autumn morning sun.  Other than the balloon enthusiasts, there is no sign of the busy town I see everyday.

As we go higher, the recreation complex, businesses, schools and residential streets begin to shrink, creating a miniature version of the town. 

Hot air balloons are slaves to the wind, and so we drift, with Stan’s 40-plus years of piloting expertise, southeast.  High River isn’t large, but there is still so much to see in so little time.  Emerson and Sunshine Lakes appear like sparkling pools.  The little red barn and the locally named Superman house stand apart in a field of their own to the north.

When I finally take a moment to look at the horizon to the west, the Highwood River, which has been so ferocious and yet given my family and I more happy memories than sad, snakes and sparkles it’s way west.  The Cottonwood trees mark its path over the patchwork quilt prairies and undulating foothills.  In the distance, the Rocky Mountains stretch like a bookend, as far as I can see.  It’s breathtaking. 

My little town sits perfectly nestled on the very edge of the prairies, close to the foothills and mountains, along a beautiful river.  I am lucky to have called this place home for almost 20 years.

The town begins to recede as we move out over the eastern prairies and I tear my eyes away from the western horizon and listen as Stan talks more to himself than to me, about being too close to a line of intimidating steel power polls.  I let him worry about it though, as I am immersed once again in the view.  An ancient coulee gashes its way southeast, looking like an earthquake fault lies just beneath.  I point my camera out and over the basket to the earth immediately below us.  There are designs of every kind, a photographer’s dream.  Farmers have been busy during the fall harvest, their tracks creating lines and diagonals and shapes and patterns of every kind.  I am lost in composition and creation, until Stan says it’s time to land.  We descend slowly.  The bumpy landing I envisioned never happens.  In fact, we come down so gently; we are within one meter of the ground almost hovering.  But Stan isn’t happy with the lay of the land, and we glide like an astronaut on the moon, feet above the earth.  We land once, but lift off when Stan finds a better place.  It is the closest I’ve ever come to feeling weightless, suspended in the air for a few brief moments. 

Finally and regretfully, we land so gently I hardly notice when we stop moving.  We wait in the basket until Stan’s crew arrives.  I’m sad it’s over.  I hold my cameras tightly, like precious treasure.  I will never forget the memory of this once-in-a-lifetime flight.

Finding Peace among the Crowds

I’m shouldering my way through the crowd, stopping often behind a long line of bodies, waiting for people to squeeze by.  This is the end of summer, but I am not back-to-school shopping at the mall.  I’m in the mountains.  Johnston Canyon in Banff National Park to be more precise.

It’s beautiful, but as an avid seeker of solitude and peace it feels so utterly unnatural.  I feel like I’ve broken some sort of subconscious personal rule.  Normally, I escape to the mountains to get away from humanity.  This is exactly the opposite.  Thousands of people are here, all to get a glimpse of the upper and lower waterfalls that tumble through the narrow canyon. I was expecting this so I make a conscious decision to let the mass of people wash over me like the creek waters flowing below. 

I am here as a pseudo-guide for my good friend Lucy, who is visiting from England.  Smoke from distant forest fires have swallowed up any views of the mountains, so a stroll along a cool creek is a refreshing alternative.

We stride along the side of the canyon on a catwalk with railings that cling to the canyon walls and protect googly-eyed tourists from falling into the creek.  I enjoy the sights, but I am distracted by the many different faces I see going by me.  People from all over the world flock to Banff to enjoy the famous beauty of the Rocky Mountains—something I take for granted and enjoy every day of my life.  I hear at least half a dozen different languages and wish I understood at least one of them.  And then I realize that they are all probably talking about how gorgeous the scene before them is.  I feel like a proud mom.  Canadian pride, unearthed, comes bubbling to the surface.  Suddenly, I know my decision to not let the hoards bother me is a good one.  I live in one of the most stunning areas of the world, and why not show off what we have here?

We arrive at the upper falls and I admire the force with which the water crashes into the pool below.  Here, the volume of people has diminished and as much as I want to believe that the numbers don’t bother me, I appreciate having a little more breathing room.  I take a deep breath and withdraw from my introspection to share the moment with Lucy and enjoy watching the water as it disappears over the precipice.

I happily agree when Lucy suggests we carry on another three kilometers to the inkpots, seven blue and green-colored cold mineral springs with quicksand bottoms.  We leave the bulk of people behind and enter a thick-forested trail.  I stop suddenly and ask Lucy if she hears anything.  We don’t—just a few yards away from the roar of the waterfall and chatter of voices I find what I always look for in the mountains—silence.  I’m so glad we decided to carry on.  Although I would have been okay with going back through the throngs (ironically, I was at peace with not being at peace), I am delighted to explore a part of the mountains I haven’t seen before.  We arrive at the pools and enjoy a few moments at the nearby creek’s edge and soak our feet in the icy water. 

I look at my friend and we share a smile.  After today, I won’t see her again for a long time.  It was a small price to pay.

Five Amazing Mountain Hikes to do near High River

I’m heading east through the foothills toward my home in High River after a wonderful day hiking in southern Kananaskis Country.  The drive gives me time to think about how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful town and so close to the mountains I love.  In fact, there are dozens of hikes that can be easily accomplished in a day with time to spare.    

Here are five hikes within about a one-hour drive from High River.   

Mt Burke

This beautiful peak stands on the eastern slopes in the Livingstone Range and can be seen from High River.  It’s a tough hike but the reward is well worth the effort with views of the prairies and mountaintops in every other direction.  At the summit sits abandoned Cameron fire lookout, built in 1929.

Directions: 

From Longview, drive west on Highway 541 to Highwood Junction.  Drive south on Highway 940 (a gravel road) for 14km and turn left toward Cataract Creek campground.  The trailhead is on the right before entering the campground.

Length:  16 km round trip. 

Elevation gain:  935 m

Hiking time:  5-7 hours.

For more detailed information:

 http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Mt-Burke-near-Longview-AB-5406

Note:  After the 2013 flood, sections of the trail along the creek bed were washed out.  Keep your eyes peeled for red ribbon marking the trail.

Raspberry Ridge

Another stunning hike to an active fire look out.  After a grueling final ascent, trekkers are awarded with 360-degree mountain views. 

Directions:

From Highwood Junction drive 11.4 km on Highway 940.  Look for an unmarked, gated dirt turn out on the west side of the highway. 

Length:  9 km return.

Elevation gain:  653 m.

Hiking time:  3-4 hours.

More info:

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Raspberry-Ridge-Lookout-near-Kananaskis-AB-3243

Grass Pass

This easy day hike is a fairly straight and steady climb into the pass between Bull Creek Hills and Holy Cross Mountain.  Limber pines adorn this trail.

Directions:

Follow Highway 541 from Longview to the Sentinel day-use area. 

Length:  7km return.

Elevation gain:  427 m.

Hiking time:  2-4 hours.

More info:

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Grass-Pass-near-Longview-AB-2430

Foran Grade Loop

A peaceful walk among lush vegetation, with views of the Sheep River, and then an ascent onto a ridge for views of the Sheep River to the west and the foothills to the east.  Downtown Calgary can be seen as well.

Directions:

From Turner Valley, drive west on Highway 546 (Sheep River Trail).  1.6 km west of the winter gate at Sandy McNabb campground, and just after crossing a cattle guard, there is a pullout on the right side of the road.

Length:  7.4 km loop

Elevation gain:  280 m

Hiking time:  2-3 hrs

More info: 

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Foran-Grade-Ridge-near-High-River-AB-2999

Junction Creek

If waterfalls and river crossings appeal to you, this excursion should be on your to-do list. This is an easy hike (after crossing the Sheep River) through a valley filled with spruce and fir trees, remnants of an old sawmill and best of all, a three-tiered waterfall.  Pick a hot day and bring your swimsuit.  It’s a little piece of heaven in the middle of nowhere.

Directions:

From Turner Valley, drive west on Highway 546 to the very end of the road at the Junction Creek Day Use area-approximately a 30-minute drive.  The hike begins with crossing the Sheep River so bring a good pair of river shoes or sturdy sandals. 

Length:  14 km return

Elevation gain: 

Hiking time:  4-6 hrs

More info:

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Junction-Creek-near-Kananaskis-AB-2605

As with any hike, be prepared.  Bring bear spray, layers, food and lots of water.  There are a lot of resources available on the web, but here is one: http://sectionhiker.com/day-hikers-ten-essentials-guide/

These hikes are all in Kananaskis Country.  For more information including trail reports, go to www.kananaskis-country.ca

Finding Treasure in the Kitchen

My dog Lily whines and looks up at me with her large amber eyes.  She thinks we are taking her to the river, and that makes sense because we are trudging through the bushes on the route to where we usually go to cool off on a hot summer day.

But not on this quiet evening because my husband Phil and I have a different more delicious objective:  To pick as many saskatoon berries as we possibly can.

I hadn’t noticed them until recently, when I took the time to look up while carefully making my way through the trees to the water.  The discovery was like finding buried treasure.  Instantly, I laid claim to our find and worried that someone else would find out before we were able to return.  My fears were unfounded though, as the berries were still intact when we arrived.

It doesn’t take much effort to pull the juicy purple berries from the branches.  They are ripe and fall effortlessly into the palm of my hand.  As we search for more of the succulent fruit, I think of my mom and how much she would enjoy this.  I remember the story she likes to tell of my aunt and her finding something similar beside a dusty road in North-Eastern Alberta.  With no buckets to hold a bountiful chokecherry crop, they improvised and used an old pair panty hose and a plastic lunch bag.  By her account, they hauled in 80 pounds that day.

I can see why they would go to those lengths.  I’m not the kind of person who spends hours canning, baking and preparing food for the cold room.  But something—maybe it’s my Mennonite heritage—compels me to pick and keep picking.  What if I miss a big juicy clump?  The thought of even one berry being missed fills me with a mild sense of panic and I find my self obsessively compulsively making sure every berry is in my bucket. 

The wind blowing gently through the trees and the sound of the river lulls me into a trance-like state.  Until Phil clears his throat and suggests that maybe we have enough.  I glance at my hands and they look like I’ve been finger painting with blue and purple.  Phil also has multiple bug bites up and down his arms and legs, and Lily continues to whine.  So regretfully, I close the operation down and make a mental note to come back later, in search of more tasty treasure.

Back at home proudly looking at my haul, I realize I actually have to do something with it.  So I turn to the only person I know who has decades of pie-baking experience:  My panty–hose filling mom.  She will be proud that I took the initiative.  But this time, instead of just dropping off my loot and waiting like a spoiled child for that scrumptious baking, I want to learn how to make a pie.  I think of how much I take her for granted, and I have to admit my dependence on her impressive baking and clothes-mending abilities has resulted in an embarrassing lack of homemaking skills.   It’s time to step up and practice what I preach and try something new.

I arrive at my mom’s with a bucket of berries, two pie plates and a pound of lard.  She starts the lesson by trying to do everything herself and I have to gently remind her that it’s time for me to learn.  So, I obediently put in five cups of flour, a sprinkle of salt and most of the lard.  Later, I mix in an egg and a tablespoon of vinegar.  I ask her what the vinegar is for and it’s like asking a politician a question.  She is evasive and can only say she has always done it that way and tries to change the subject.  I make a mental note to find out later, and then change my mind.  Sometimes, even in baking, there should be some mystery.

She tells me how to roll the dough out and place it in the pie plate.  Next, I clean the berries and put them in a bowl where my mom tells me to put in some sugar.  In her world, measuring is done with a nonchalance taken from decades of practice, meaning, there are no exacts.  Measuring cups are simply for taking ingredients from one place and putting them into another.  In fact, she often uses a coffee cup and a regular spoon to “measure”.  So from what I can tell, I’m putting in over a cup of white, granulated sugar into my pie.  In her 80 years on this earth, I don’t think there has been any real thought given to calories, fat or gluten.  And I have to admit it is refreshing and very liberating.  It’s pie after all.  If you can’t enjoy a fully leaded treat, who wants to eat it then?  It’s just not fun.  Then I realize what is happening:  I’m having fun.  This is not the chore I thought it might be, and I’m enjoying spending time with my mom.  We put the top on the pies and then I help her cut some apples to use in her pie. 

We put them in the oven and clean up our mess.  While we wait, I show her how to use her smart phone.  It takes a while but I think she gets it and I hope she remembers how to use voice mail.  Then I think of the pies, and all the other baking and mending she has done for me over the years. 

Maybe I should show her how to send a group-text.