Hello from Room 107 at the Skyline Lodge in Highlands. I’m here on assignment for the Bear Shadow Music Festival. But, my mind keeps drifting elsewhere. It wanders to the fact I’m not back home for the memorial service for the recent passing of my best friend. That, and the last time I stayed here was with the woman I thought that I’d spend the rest of my life with.
Both aspects of that last paragraph have dissolved into the ether of the unknown, endless universe. Ghosts in method, in memory. Both aspects of my existence that have challenged me, broke me, and also elevated my heart and soul into realms never thought possible. Such is life, eh? To preface, no anger or sadness, no regret or pessimism, either. All which remains are memories and moments cherished. All that remains (the common denominator) is me.
You know, I’ve stayed at the Skyline three times. Lovely place, highly recommended. The first time was a story about the lodge several years ago, myself wondering when I could share such a great experience of hospitality with a significant other. Second time was Bear Shadow with my ex-girlfriend in 2023, who’s been long gone as a result of the raw emotions endured not only post-Hurricane Helene, but also life itself. She exited by Christmas 2024.
That’s all in the past. But, the figurative fingerprints of those days remain on the rooms inhabited, the wine glasses held high at the Oak Steakhouse onsite or simply the sound of the nearby creek roaring all through this full moon evening (May 30). I’m not bitter, just reminiscing by myself in Room 107, the creek as loud and pleasant as ever with the recent rainstorms. I digress.
That aside, onto my best buddy, Ben. He unexpectedly passed away last month in my North Country hometown of Plattsburgh, New York. He hadn’t been doing well for many years, myself pleading with him to “slow down and take care” of himself. Those words fell on deaf ears and, thus, here we are. I had planned on attending his memorial service, surrounded by familiar faces of my youth. I was probably going to give the eulogy, too. But, that wasn’t in the cards due to my truck racking up a massive repair bill. It’s been in the shop for over a week, the mechanic (a good dude) saying “no long trips until it’s fixed.”
So, here I am, running around this music festival in the Blue Ridge Mountains, doing the work that I absolutely love, but with a heavy heart. I wasn’t supposed to be at this event, I was supposed to be home, and grieving amongst others. And yet, the gratitude remains to partake and immerse myself in the ancient, intrinsic, cosmic beauty that is live music before your eyes and ears.
To that, by not being able to attend the memorial service, I’ve decided to honor my late brother from another, my closest chum since the first day of seventh grade (I’m 41 now, 29 years of friendship), by doing the essence of what he and I loved: nature, culinary delights, and live music. Shit, that’s how I aim most days of my wayward existence, to disappear into the woods whenever possible, find a delicious meal somewhere, and chase down a badass concert.
Today? I awoke in the depths of silence in Room 107, a far cry from my tiny apartment in downtown Waynesville, a humble abode surrounded by incessant construction on Walnut Street and Russ Avenue, all atop the sounds of loud motorcycles and supercharged vehicles roaring by, always waking me up in the early morning before the alarm goes off on my smart phone.
I’ve never taken solitude for granted. But, it’s weird to wake up in it after months and years of noise and disruption, to actually arise into the day on your own terms and at your own pace. I got up in a darkened room and, for a brief moment, didn’t know where I was. That happens a lot when you travel as often as I do, the countless hotel rooms remaining anonymous until clarity is regained by flicking on the bedstand light and realizing your place in life.
And knowing the sadness of this past weekend, I wanted to honor Ben. Lace up the running shoes and head to that forest service road a few miles from downtown Highlands. I’ve jogged it a couple times in recent years. It remains a place of serenity and peace, like all forest service roads do, for me at least. Park the locally-restrained truck at the base of the road and start running.
Trotting along, an endless array of thoughts and visions swirl around every step I move, every breath I take. Thoughts of Ben and I meeting in middle school, our impending teenage shenanigans, young adulthood organized chaos, his wedding (I was the best man), those ski trips to Jay Peak and Whiteface, those live music experiences with a bevy of jam bands and whatever we could find that would shake our bones and conjure pure euphoria. And those last days, where I saw him while home last January, telling him I loved him with a big bear hug before I headed back below the Mason-Dixon Line.
Covered in glorious, well-earned sweat after 3.2 miles roundtrip, I returned to the truck. Onward into Highlands once again. Lunch at the Four65 Woodfire Bistro + Bar on Main Street. Margherita pizza with extra cheese and sausage. The finals of the UEFA Champions League on the large TV behind the bar. A cold Peroni draft in-hand. Ben would’ve loved this place. Cheers, my dude.
Ah, yes, Bear Shadow. Afternoon into evening sets of Mavis Staples and Trombone Shorty. Sunshine finally pierced through the heavy cloud cover after sporadic rainclouds and mud puddles adoring the picturesque property. Smiles in every direction. The sounds of electric guitars, saxophones, trombones and the uplifting, goosebump tone of harmonious vocals echoing out into the ether of the surrounding peaks and valleys. Heaven on earth.
Nature, culinary delights, and live music. Here’s to you, Benny Boy. Miss you and love you, always and forever. Wherever you are on the astral plane, I know you’re up there somewhere, living it up, making fast friends with strangers, that signature cackle emerging over hearty conversation and genuine friendship made in real time.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.