Hello from Room 2 at the Everett Hotel, overlooking the corner of Everett and Main in downtown Bryson City. Exactly 12 hours ago, I was stepping off the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad Music Train (six acts in six cars with six bartenders over the course of three hours), only to be quickly swept into a nearby dive bar, CJ’s Grille, just across the tracks on Depot Street.
With a cold Coors Light in hand, I soon found myself on the front porch of CJ’s singing karaoke. Twice within an hour, actually. First was a raucous rendition of Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades,” my vocal chords pushed to the limit with a guttural howl into the heavens above: “If you like to gamble, I tell you, I’m your man, you win some, lose some, it’s all the same to me.”
Not long after, I found myself again handed the microphone by the DJ, only to immediately dive into a rowdy ode to Merle Haggard with “Okie from Muskogee”: “We still wave Old Glory down at the courthouse, and white lightning’s still the biggest thrill of all.”
Surrounding me were several familiar faces from Asheville, friends of mine in the music scene, who I didn’t realize would also be onboard the train until I walked into the Fontana rail car. Others were new friends made along the musically-charged, booze-filled journey from Bryson City over Fontana Lake and to the Nantahala Outdoor Center in the Nantahala Gorge. The undulating, soothing sounds of bluegrass, rock and country music echoing out.
Three hours later, upon returning to the station, the rest of the faces at CJ’s were strangers, at least in that moment, either locals or simply visiting from somewhere in North Georgia, Southwestern Virginia or Upstate South Carolina. We were all inebriated with nowhere to be but to partake in the present moment, which, in essence, is the essence of life itself — to be in the “here and now.” Shake hands and exchange hearty laughter. “Next round on me,” you both said. Make sure to swap numbers. Hug goodbye. Until next time.
I awoke early this morning in Room 2. Like most hotel experiences as a wayward, haphazard journalist, it took me a couple of seconds to realize where I was. No traffic noises waking me up, like at my one-bedroom apartment in downtown Waynesville. No loud noises from lawnmowers, leaf blowers or the occasional jackhammer due to the unrelenting construction a stone’s throw away on Walnut Street and Russ Avenue.
Luckily, I didn’t sleep in too much and was able to make the complimentary breakfast in time downstairs at the Everett. An scrumptious meal consisting of a hearty breakfast sandwich along with some yogurt and granola (and fruit). Glass of orange juice. Cup of coffee. Glass of water. Good to go, all things considered. Not a bad way to kick off an unknown Sunday.
Beyond my to-do list of this column and finding somewhere pleasant to go for a jog this afternoon, I’m not sure what the rest of the day holds, or wants to hold. Part of me wants to just go back to bed and find something on Netflix. But, that’s not who I am. I aim to seize that carpe diem everyone keeps telling me to get up and get after. I didn’t move here 14 years ago to sit inside my house.
You know, it was weird being back in Bryson City. Like most of us who extensively wander and ponder, one of the odd things about age and experience is being able to see and feel the ghosts of the past, of people and places and time spent together that now only exists in memory.
I have a long, bountiful history with Bryson City, and it had been a little while since I found myself strolling its streets and imbibing its cold domestic beverages. I miss this town. And I miss my friends that used to call this place home, too. They were some of the first friends I made when I arrived in Western North Carolina to work for this newspaper in August 2012.
They were small business owners, husband and wife with two young kids who operated the former Nantahala Brewing Company on Depot Street. In recent years, they relocated to the coast of South Carolina, now living on Daufuskie Island, walking the white sand beaches daily and fishing the deep waters of the mighty Atlantic Ocean whenever possible. Plans are currently in the works to finally visit them and reunite, trading old tall tales.
Back in the days when they resided in Bryson City, I’d often roll by and stop in, whether for a quick beverage or an hour-long chat, maybe even stay for dinner, maybe even stay the night in the guest room if the generously-poured bourbon from their private stash hit just right in the midnight hour. I was even in their wedding on the front lawn of what’s now Bryson City Brewing (formerly Nantahala’s taproom and restaurant). The sands of time continue to blow.
Leaving CJ’s following the culmination of karaoke, I found myself walking down Everett Street, admiring the vibrancy and evolution of this fine outpost mountain town, thinking about how much the community has changed since I first stepped foot in it those many years ago, when things were still pretty quiet in many aspects. But, we all could feel the tides of changes just over the ridge. Nothing’s the same, everything’s the same. And I think back fondly on those memories of days long gone.
I miss my friends. Hopefully, we’ll cross paths sooner than later. Oh, and if you were wondering, I finally got my rusty, musty truck back from the repair shop. Thousands of dollars later and she’s running like a top, the vehicle as eager as I am to return to the open road, chasing down unknown adventures. Onward.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.