The miracle of water

Water is everything.
Without it, we don’t survive. Without pumping an entire river’s worth of it from hundreds of miles away, Southern Californians wouldn’t be hydrated enough to get to the store to buy gluten free and free range stuff.
Without water fish wouldn’t survive and then I’d figuratively perish before I literally did.
The water situation has been weird the last few summers thanks to a poor snowpack. Don’t worry, I’m not going on a global warming, El Niño or Fukushima rant, I’m going to be a lot less like a bioregionalism activist and more like the dude with a fishing rod who shows up to the river, sees the flow and says, “Huh, look at that.”
So a few years back I was fly fishing on a river I don’t want to ruin by naming, because it’s already pressured enough, and saw cutthroat trout taking flies on the surface. I tied on a No. 18 elk hair caddis and hooked a few cutthroats, then a 20-inch rainbow pushed its way through the crowd and took my fly. The water was so clear, I could clearly see the red stripe down its flank. I had one of those moments that was part, “Yes!” but mostly, “Oh man, please don’t lose it.”
I’ve fished that river since, but that little slot where all those cutthroats and that huge rainbow fed only gives up a fish or two at the most. Most of the time it doesn’t seem like there’s enough water to hold that many fish. I’ve analyzed the picture on my laptop a few times and decided I’ve fished it at comparable levels, but there’s a lot more that goes into catching, or not catching fish where you once did. Water drops and rises quickly. High water makes the river change course and can fill feeding slots with riverbed. Fish move. Fish die. People kill 14-inch trout for dinner or lunch. People kill trout and salmon smolt while trying to untangle barbed treble hooks on big lures meant for big salmon. People kill big, old salmon about to spawn, thwarting the miracle of the return days before completion…

See column at:
http://www.capitalcityweekly.com/stories/072016/out_1269356509.shtml

Flight problems

(SitNews) Ketchikan, Alaska –
I could say, “I had a bad feeling…” but the truth is, it was only after I revisited the memory that I edited my emotions at the time.
An objective observation would be that I objected to what I observed, but didn’t have a premonition.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter what system an airline adopts, it’s wrong. Board by row, section it doesn’t matter, it’s still slow. People don’t step into the rows, people mess up the numbers, whatever. Go by group and people like the dude in front of me ignore it. Seriously guy, I can plainly see the “Group 3” on your ticket. If you’re going to wiggle your way through the chaos of Group 2 passengers bottlenecking like salmon waiting their turn on a fish ladder, you’d at least hide your ticket, right? Guy worked his way to the front, then called up the three other people in his party to steal all the overhead bin space and he was a Group 3er! There should be consequences to detour others, because if I have to stuff my pack under my seat because a cheater stole my overhead bin space, I will…do nothing about it.

See column at:
http://www.sitnews.us/JLund/062716_jlund.html

Inspired

It’s nice to be reminded of what’s really important.
Sometimes you get to the point where you’re only thinking about changing the frayed leader after a lingcod has at your herring, or getting an oil change after…has it been 9,000 miles?
The importance of existence and what you’re doing with the time you have is always there, but sometimes something big comes along and motivates us to engage on a deeper level.
I love Al Pacino’s speech in “Any Given Sunday,” but I hate that I watch it from my couch, you know?
“The inches we need are everywhere around us…”
Let me reach for another nacho.
The sad thing about inspiration is that we eventually put the book down, or turn off Netflix and head to bed and whatever was stirred becomes stagnant. Days stack up on each other and everything is back to normal.
I remember a time I could pick up a basketball and play without stretching. Today, at basketball camp, one of my players asked why I was walking so slow. I told her it was because I was sore, which is true, because Kevin made me to do both front squats and heavy cleans at the gym yesterday, but the other part was I was digesting what the camp director said.
Every day is a miracle. We are a miracle. He talked about Ketchikan like it was some sort of obscene example of incalculable beauty, which it is, but we get so used to it, all we see are tourists not using the cross walks. But to a guy who has lived with cancer, every day is a blessing.
Perspective.

See full column at:
http://www.capitalcityweekly.com/stories/061516/out_1268898460.shtml

Luck vs. Hard Work

I recently read an article in The Atlantic about the perception of luck and why it matters more than most of us think. In fact, it was called, “Why luck matters much more than you think.”
It said that while some are thankful for what they have earned and attribute their good fortune to luck, others believe that it was hard work that allowed them to achieve what they had.
It’s a funny thing, luck.
I left my job in California to substitute teach in Klawock and help my mom after her health issues, if she needed it. At the end of the school year, there was no full-time teaching job in Klawock. Then I applied for an opening in Ketchikan and didn’t get it. Maybe Alaska wasn’t meant to be. Mom was fine, so maybe I took a leap, but the universe was telling me Alaska was just for my summers.
My old job in California opened up.
Luck. Fate.
I applied, but didn’t get an interview thanks to a paperwork issue, but a second English position opened in the same department. At a school with little English department turnover, there had been two people leave within months. Since Mom was fine, I could go back and continue my life.
Destiny. No question.
The California job would be there, but July was almost over and it hadn’t posted, so I obviously couldn’t apply. I was banking on promises. I bought a ticket south and started packing my truck. I’d get to California just in time for in-service. The job would post, I would apply and be back in the California groove with a fresh new perspective after a year in Alaska.

See full column at:
http://www.capitalcityweekly.com/stories/051816/out_1268483336.shtml

Lessons learned

Some of the most valuable Alaska steelhead lessons I learned while flyfishing for rainbow trout in California.
They weren’t some magical insight or secret from a guide but observations I made while fishing the same water over and over.
My buddy Kurt and I were fishing a river that had dropped from 7000 to 5000 cubic feet per second. The drop revealed a network of skinny but deep channels that were invisible when the water was up. They were deep canyons of blue water where trout would hold. Get the cast just right, and you could drop a heavily weighted nymph rig in one and likely get a fish. A bad cast would get you hung up on a wall or gummed up with the brown slime that lined them. Six inches made all the difference.
Even if you’re not dealing with channels, there is nothing in a fish that says it has to recognize you’re using the right fly and obey your desire for it to bite. It doesn’t have to move six inches to take the fly just because you want it to.
I kept casting to where my buddy had hooked one — well, at least where I thought it was. Then I considered the chute. The shore on my side of the river dipped sharply then rose almost instantly. If it was like that on the other side, then the best holding water was right next to the opposite bank.
I sent a roll cast to the far side of the river, two feet beyond where I was casting, and almost on top of a monolithic shelf that was in six inches of water. The fly fell off the shelf. One thousand one. One thousand two.
Boom. Steelhead.
Next cast, same spot, off the shelf. One thousand one. One thousand two.

See full column at:
http://www.capitalcityweekly.com/stories/042716/out_1268200164.shtml

March Madness Alaska style

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http://tucson.com/sports/arizonawildcats/ua-grad-feels-the-madness-from-ketchikan-alaska/article_7b3bbe40-f950-11e5-b96f-bf67267dbe8b.html

EDITOR’S NOTE: Jeff Lund is the varsity girls assistant basketball coach at Ketchikan High School in Ketchikan, Alaska. Ketchikan High School has a student population of 500 and Ketchikan has roughly 12,000 year-round residents. The Region V basketball tournament was hosted by Mt. Edgecumbe High School in Sitka, March 8-12 where 20 teams from three divisions played 29 games over five days to crown six champions.

Lund is a 2003 graduate of the University of Arizona.

KETCHIKAN, ALASKA — 

It’s Monday afternoon and we’re on the red-eye to regions tonight.

Red-eyes aren’t so bad because once you get to your seat, you can fall asleep. Unless you’ve caught the Alaska Marine Highway red-eye and you’ll be traveling by boat through the night, the entire next day and arrive at 1:45 a.m. on the day of your first round basketball game.

It’s making me second-guess my decision to be both pep club advisor and assistant girls basketball coach. All season I’ve traveled with the team but this is the regional tournament, and the pep club has been fundraising all year to attend. So while my team takes Alaska Airlines and stays in a hotel, I’ll be on the ferry for 22 hours with the pep club, pep band, dance team and cheerleaders from our school as well as Craig, Wrangell, Petersburg and Metlakatla. Taking a boat with hundreds of other kids to play basketball might sound like an epic, roadless road trip, but when you live in a region comprised of 1700 islands, replacing busses with boats really isn’t a big deal.

THE TEAM

Two ACLs ago, we were primed for a run at the state championship. We’ve still got a shot, but one of those ACL’s belonged to AJ, our best 3-point shooter. She hit seven in a game against Mt. Edgecumbe and scored 14 points in a quarter against Thunder Mountain. Kreylynn’s left ACL held together half of the fastest set of legs we had. We lost her in the first game of the season.

Our 21-2 record is the best regular season in school history, and that’s great, but teams like this don’t come around very often so we want to see how far we can take it.

We went 3-0 at a tournament in Fairbanks where the daytime high was -13 degrees one day. The roads were white sheets of ice and our all-wheel drive rental vans twice glided past car accidents on our way to games.

One of the wins came against last year’s state runner-up that has a 6-foot-3 senior who will be playing for the Oregon Ducks next season. She passed the 2000 career point mark a few games ago just before she paired 32 points with 28 rebounds against one of the top teams in the state.

Our two losses came in a tournament in Anchorage against the top and No. 4 ranked teams in the state. We know where we stand.

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THE TRIP

By 9 p.m. there are almost 100 students at the ferry terminal. Tickets are distributed and we board. My team and the rest of the coaches are already in Sitka at the hotel. Their flight took 40 minutes. It takes us 40 minutes to get kids on the boat and settled.

The ferry system requires adult supervision during night hours, so we chaperones break up the night with two-hour shifts. I have 1-3 a.m., so I take a nap before and after in the chaperone stateroom that is a bathroom-less cell with a sink, but at least I don’t have to sleep on the floor.

The kids are in the two aft lounges and have overflowed into the forward lounge. Bodies are in sleeping bags all over the floor with inflatable air mattresses, mattress pads or seat cushions as buffers.

The teenagers emerge at some point mid-morning to watch movies on laptops, play cards or talk to pass the time without cell phone reception. They yelp when we sail into an unexpected patch of 4G offshore. Stored Snapchat stories are updated at the expense of a lot of battery power and communication with the world is briefly restored.

Before we left, the culinary class prepared dozens of individual pizzas and bagel sandwiches which the kids eat, but plenty still prefer a bacon cheeseburger for $9 or chicken strips for $7 from the cafeteria.

So it goes for all of Tuesday. The boat slowly rocks port to starboard, port to starboard, port, starboard.

The sun doesn’t really set, the grey just gets darker and eventually becomes black. The rollers increase as we meander around the northern edge of an island and get into waves funneled up a strait directly from the Gulf of Alaska.

By the time we arrive at 1:15 a.m., we’re exhausted from inactivity and overeating. We’re bussed from the ferry terminal to the auditorium at Mt. Edgecumbe High School where we sleep on the floor for four hours, then get shuttled to the First Baptist Church, our headquarters for the next three nights. Pep band, dance and the cheerleaders are all housed in small groups by local families who are reciprocating the favor of their own kids being housed on previous trips. With eight schools and dozens of teams in town, there are only so many homes, so we get group housed in a basement. Better than a school classroom.

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THE TOURNAMENT

Mt. Edgecumbe is a boarding school in Sitka with a predominately Alaska Native enrollment from all areas of the state. The gym is an old World War II hanger, so there are two full-length basketball floors and space for a third. One of the courts is surrounded on three sides by stands. All 29 games will be played on this surface, while the secondary floor is used for warming up, getting extra shots, or for bored students to shoot when indifferent about the outcome of the game.

There is nothing to deaden the sound inside so it swirls and takes awhile to die. The environment is electric for 14 daily hours of basketball. It’s not McKale Center, but I can’t imagine a high school gym anywhere matching it. It’s a training ground for blue-chip student section recruits. While few will go Division 1, there is little doubt many of these kids are already NCAA conference tournament ready.

There are painted faces and painted chests; a dude performing a violent head-banging waltz with the tuba he’s somehow playing; a vocalist from the Mt. Edgecumbe Pep Band screaming out her rendition of Rage Against the Machine’s, “Killing in the Name of.” On the last day, all the pep bands combine to form a mega band jam before a game. There’s enough rock to necessitate earplugs and enough cowbell to satisfy Christopher Walken.

There’s trash talk. Posters: “Sitka is the Region V champion – Steve Harvey” “We called your mom, she said you forgot your game at home.” “We searched Google but couldn’t find your game”

There are choreographed cheers, group dabs and students sticking around to loan their services to other pep clubs. Intelligent students strategically move to specific students sections because, for instance, a Juneau win over Thunder Mountain in the boys championship will help Ketchikan get an at-large bid to state. Ketchikan and Juneau are bitter rivals, but we’re talking state here.

Being the top seed we get a bye to the semi-finals. We’re taking on a team we’ve beaten every time this year, but they’ve got a shooter and a freshman post who could give us trouble. But the real problem is our transition defense. We’re down 7-2 early and missing shots. We start trading buckets, then comes the spurt we hope for and opponents dread.

We reel off six then give four back but the offensive engine is primed. We score the last eight of the half for a seven-point lead. We start the third by scoring 13 straight and the rout is on. The 21-0 run puts us in control and we cruise to the win.

We stay for the boys game. They trail by 20, tie it, but lose. They’ll get another shot in the loser’s bracket.

Our win gives us Thursday off while teams work through the loser’s bracket in a desperate attempt to get another chance at state.

The boys are upset and eliminated, but at 20-6 with wins over East Anchorage, Juneau and West Anchorage, they have a chance at an at-large bid.

After the boys game, the pep club and I walk the mile and a half over the bridge to the church. The basement floor is hard linoleum and 26 kids along with myself and the other chaperone return to our sleeping spots with a gender divider down the middle.

At 5:45 the next morning, a group of kids is up and walking down the frozen streets to the rec center to pay a buck to shower. Later they are painting their faces and bodies with black, green and brown since we’re playing the Juneau-Douglas Crimson Bears. We’re going hunting.

It’s hard being an assistant coach sometimes. You can’t recycle everything the head coach says before the game just because you want to put it in your own words. I just hope that Kelly says everything I would want to say or doesn’t give me a chance.

He asks if Dave or me want to add anything.

“Leave no doubt” is all I say.

We’re up 8-1 early and it looks like we’re about to get rolling, but the shooter we schemed for gets loose on the baseline and hits a corner three. Game on. They don’t have the firepower to stick with us, but they’re playing stingy D and when we get easy shots, we miss. They are at arm’s length until they pull to within 4 with a 10-2 run just before the end of the third.

We tighten up on defense and with no shot clocks in Alaska, we force them to burn 48 seconds on an offensive possession halfway through the fourth. It ends in a tough shot and miss that we rebound and turn into points. We shut them out down the stretch and win by 10. We could have, should have, won by more, but cutting nets is cutting nets and for the first time in school history, the Ketchikan High School girls team has won three-straight 4A regional championships.

The team goes back to the hotel and gets pizza, the coaches have a crab dip appetizer and prime rib. Our team celebration dinner will wait until we are back in Ketchikan.

Saturday is the free throw, three-point and dance contests, along with a pair of 2A games that will determine who will get the second spot at the state tournament. We have a cross-over game against the 2A champion. We’ve only got 10 players in uniform, so with two players out for the season and Kyra battling nagging shoulder soreness, we let our role players play the entire game – that is essentially meaningless since it doesn’t impact seeding at state – to get them more experience for state. Of course the shoulder is injured anyway, but not seriously. We lose, and Petersburg is probably disappointed they didn’t get a chance to upset the best possible version of a school five times its size, but our eyes, and theirs, are focused more on the state tournament.

In addition to the regional championship, we put four girls and three boys on the All-Conference teams, two on the All-Conference cheer and dance teams, the cheerleading team wins the regional championship for their role in engaging fans as well as their halftime routine, and the dance team received superior ratings at the adjudication.

After the awards ceremony is the dance. Coaches play the annual coaches game on the game court while the dance rages on the other.

We’ll miss it, because we’ll be on the boat for another day. By the time everyone else arrives home Sunday afternoon, I’ll still be on the boat with a couple hundred kids, eating, sleeping and rocking gently from port to starboard.

The Madness of March indeed.

Casting into the past

(SitNews) Ketchikan, Alaska – I was reading about the casting pools at the Golden Gate Casting Club and I got an eerie feeling of loss. I’ve never been there, but it’s mentioned in many of the fly fishing books I’ve read.

The San Francisco Fly Casting Club was founded in 1894 and the pools opened in 1938, back when dudes were flexing bamboo rods that took weeks to craft and didn’t arrive by FedEx in a shipping tube.

I don’t know why, but there is something haunting about the casting pools there, as though if I made a pilgrimage, I would get the overwhelming feeling that I was too late. That I missed out. That the glory days of anglers and writers spending time there have been replaced with people with hip new fly fishing gear practicing for casting tournaments.

The pools are like this bazaar relic of urbanized angling, the infusion of solitude in the middle of a robust city.

I’ll never understand it within its proper context. I’ll never get it since I’ll never live it. That’s not such a bad thing because I get to benefit from the advances in fly fishing since then; high modulus carbon fiber, Gore-Tex waders and fly line that leaps off the reel and loop to loop connections that save me tying knots, so does tapered leader.

But I still wonder what it was like when fish were where they were and stories of finding them were told in person at places like the casting pools, not posted on social media or YouTube. When king salmon swam all the way up to the northern reaches of California to spawn in rivers now blocked by dams.

Steelhead is synonymous with misery. It’s going to take a thousand casts while you’re wet and cold to maybe get a fish. I can’t imagine what it was like to be able to steelhead fish in the L.A. River. Catching chrome closer to Mexico than San Francisco as late as the 1940s? Unreal.

Maybe I’m cheated, or my experience is cheap because I live in a time in which I can buy myself gear that will help correct what I’ve got wrong. If nothing else, I can look the part, which many do, to mask deficiencies or gain acceptance.

The past that will never be understood, only judged by contemporary standards. When I hear about that club in the middle of San Francisco, I think of proper jackets and hats, bamboo gear and stick creels, anglers worried more about sophistication than hipness. Nothing at all like the folks with forearm tattoos of brown trout, long beards drinking craft beer and craving hip, not proper.

I don’t long for the sport to return to a state of elitism, but just to see the sport in a context without logos and see if my perception is at all accurate.

If anything, maybe it’s a reminder to get while the getting is good, rather than let it pass and wish we had more good memories in that gap between then and now.

See column at:
http://www.sitnews.us/JLund/040516_jlund.html