Hello from Room 214 at the Apres Hotel in Whitefish, Montana. I’m typing this while waiting for my laundry to finish down the hall, with reruns of “Friends” on the TV. In the next hour, I’ll be back on the road, heading north and over the border on a return trip to British Columbia, Canada.
It’s been a whirlwind five days here in Big Sky Country for the Under the Big Sky music festival. Over 20,000 strong in the crowd, wandering the large farmfields of a 400-acre working ranch on the outskirts of Whitefish. Some of the biggest names in Americana and country music: Ryan Bingham, Chris Stapleton, Zach Top, Greensky Bluegrass, and so on. The BNSF freight train chugging by, with the Rocky Mountains in the distance.
But, right now, as I’ve shifted writing locations to the hotel patio, my mind is drifting to all the serene things outside of the festival itself. I think of the dear friends I’ve made here over the last four years of attending UTBS, folks in the production and marketing side of things, who hail from Denver and Los Angeles, who I really only see this one time a year, even though we all keep in touch throughout the rest of the time. I’m grateful for their friendships, these kind faces who are the epitome of the joy of travel and of human connection.
I think of those numerous late morning jogs in downtown Whitefish, to shake out the cobwebs and sweat out the previous day’s shenanigans, all before cleaning up oneself and doing it all over again. There’s a greenway path behind the hotel that connects to a web of other paths within the community. Toss on the running shoes and trot along the edge of the Whitefish River. I usually end up taking the same route. The out-and-back point is the vast railyard, where I always stop and admire the majestic century-old train station.
I think of the late nights on Central Avenue. Dives bars like The Palace, The Remington and Great Northern. I’ve been in there for midnight festival showcases, witnessing marquee acts like The Red Clay Strays, 49 Winchester, Shane Smith & The Saints, Hogslop String Band, etc., tear apart the stage with such bravado and staggering talents. Packed out venues with sticky floors and low ceilings. Sweaty dripping down the face of the musicians, the room heating with gyration and euphoria. By Monday evening, everyone has already left town, except me, where the bars are once again quiet and filled with locals.
I think of every single one of those heart-to-heart conversations that have taken place around this town. That one about family traditions and holidays long gone with my LA friend as we walked slowly back to the hotel from a late-night showcase. That one about finding love and chasing long-held dreams with my Denver friend as we walked slowly around the festival grounds. That one abou t pondering what may just lie around the corner of our respective lives with my friend from England as we walked slowly down a trail deep in the woods overlooking Whitefish.
I think of what it means to live and breathe (physically, emotionally, intrinsically) in this existence I’ve created for myself. This summer marks my 20th year as a journalist. I’ve known this is what I’ve wanted to do with my life since I was in middle school (age 41 now). I’ve never taken a single day in this profession for granted. It has, truly, been a vehicle (literally and figuratively) to do what I’ve always aimed to do: to travel endlessly, to write to my heart’s content, to have curious adventures and to make genuine connections with strangers who become fast friends (now eternal friends).
And most of all, I think of everyone back home, thousands of miles away from my current position. My parents in their 1840 brick farmhouse up on the Canadian border in New York. My friends and coworkers in the mountains around Waynesville and greater Western North Carolina. My girlfriend in Jacksonville Beach, Florida, doing her daily walk along the shoreline of the Atlantic Ocean, not far from her apartment. These are the pillars of the landscape of my daily life. The gratitude remains for all mentioned.
I left Haywood County in mid-June to embark on this extended road trip. It’s been such a wondrous, surreal experience, as all road trips tend to be. The unknowns of the day. The happenstance interactions with vibrant souls. The simple pleasures of jumping into a western river or having the windows rolled down in the rental car, the sounds of Neil Young, Steely Dan or Link Wray spilling out of the speakers. Young’s seminal 1974 melody “Walk On” has been on repeat as of late, one of those timeless tunes that always seems to set the right mood no matter the situation: “Some get stoned, some get strange, sooner or later, it all gets real.”
And I think of last night and how silent the streets of Whitefish were post-UTBS. All those rowdy cowboys and rockstar musicians now scattered across the country. A slight breeze wafted through downtown as I walked from the hotel in search of dinner. I ended up at Abruzzo Italian Kitchen. Single seat at the bar counter. A delicious margherita pizza, cold Peroni beer and hearty conversations with those sitting next to me. Head over to the Great Northern and run into a friend who I met at the festival last year. Jovial banter about nothing and everything (and everything in between).
Back down Central Avenue towards the hotel, but not before swinging into The Palace, an old saloon built in 1915 with such exquisite woodcarvings on the back of the gracefully aged bar counter. The Rolling Stones “Beast of Burden” swirls around the room, as does the sound of billiard balls rolling around the pool tables in the rear. Sip a frosty can of Rainier and think about the road to the here and now. I catch myself with a slight grin on my face when I see my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Shake my head in absolute awe and in sincere appreciation for the moment at-hand (and every moment at-hand).
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.