This must be the place: ‘After all, it was a great big world, with lots of places to run to’
Somewhere in Eastern Colorado.
Garret K. Woodward photo
It just dawned on me, at this exact moment, that my Western journey is over (at least until next time). Currently, I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Nashville, Tennessee, doing some writing and pondering, as per usual. And I’ll be finally headed back to my humble abode in Western North Carolina tomorrow. To note, I’ve been on the road since July 8.
As I sipped my coffee and looked out the window, there was this moment of silence, in the room and in my mind. Deep reflection and gratitude for what the last three weeks or so wandering the West has brought to my heart and soul. A solo road trip. Thousands of miles in total. Just as many memories made this go-round. South Dakota. Wyoming. Montana. Idaho. Colorado. And then some.
Quite the loop, I must say. Old friends and big bear hugs. New friends and plans already made for our next rendezvous. Swimming in rivers, creeks and lakes. Jogging along dirt roads, mountain ridges, and through the high-desert prairie. Sunsets while heading West on the highways and backroads of America, my pickup truck happily dusty, the windows rolled down, with some tune by Bob Wills & The Texas Playboys echoing out of the stereo.
Whenever I’m not in the West, I’m constantly thinking about it, pouring over details in my mind as to where to go next. And when I finally return to Mountain Standard Time, I’m in perpetual awe of the natural beauty, character, and charm of the West. The universal energies that ricochet around the high peaks and low valley of these surreal landscapes keep me humble, as well as curious and compassionate.
For this trip, I aimed to put a lot of the last year (one of the hardest of my life thus far) behind me, to process it all, and not glance at it in the rearview mirror anymore with sadness. And I feel like I achieved that on this trek. The work within is always in continual motion. But, my attitude and how I react and process everything remains steadfast. To that, it’ll take some time for me to now process this recent trip, and I look forward to that in the coming days, weeks, and months.
Packing up the pickup truck on Tuesday, July 8, I left my one-bedroom apartment in downtown Waynesville immediately after we kicked the newspaper out the door to the printer. In the truck, an assortment of things needed while in transit. Toiletries. Dog-eared books. Two pairs of boots, one for mud, the other for a night on the town. One luggage bag filled with enough underwear, socks, t-shirts and jeans to last exactly one week, long enough until I could locate a washer and dryer.
Related Items
This must be the place: ‘I’m gonna keep catching that butterfly in that dream of mine’
This must be the place: 'Red pepper notes and yellow cigarettes, she shared and never asked for more'
REACH of Haywood County
This must be the place: ‘You know that if we are to stay alive, then see the peace in every eye’
The rest of the vehicle, specifically in the camper shell atop the bed of the truck, was an array of shoes and gear for trail running, hiking and jogging on pavement. One pair with good traction for those harder hikes. One pair that’s comfortable for easier treks. The other three pairs for various terrain in urban settings or the occasional greenway.
I mention the shoes because I used every single pair throughout this recent cross-country jaunt. For me, the “real souvenir” of any place I find myself in is to go for a run and/or hike through that area of people, places and things. Personally, I don’t think you can really get to know or immerse yourself in a new location if you don’t get out of the car and jog around, your eyes and ears picking up on all the nuances of a certain place, your body in motion wandering the contours of the landscape.
And I think back fondly on some of those jogs. Early on in the trip, it was Tunnel Hill State Trail (a rail-to-trail) in Vienna, Illinois, where I was smacked in the face with intense Midwestern heat and humidity. No matter, for I was on the road and in a perpetual state of bliss. The next day, another hot and sunny rail-to-trail in Council Bluffs, Iowa, just as an intense thunderstorm appeared on the horizon.
The heat and humidity started to dissipate when I hit central South Dakota. Nearing the Badlands National Park, I pulled in just as it started to downpour. The temperature quickly dropped from the 90s to the 50s amid big raindrops and thunderclaps. No matter, toss on the waterproof rain jacket and old running shoes (used solely for these muddy scenarios) and start trotting down the dirt road (aka: Old National Park Road). The hauntingly beautiful terrain of the Badlands opened up with each stride, as if I was trotting across some other planet in some far-away galaxy.
Then, it was Wyoming, Montana, Idaho and Colorado. Triple-digit dry heat and blinding sunshine on a single-track trail outside of Lyons, Colorado. A cold rain and stiff breeze along the Whitefish Valley Outlook in Montana. Or the paved greenway in Victor, Idaho, a small mountain town I used to call home some 18 years ago, fresh out of college and trying to become a writer. And another greenway trot in the shadow of the Grand Teton Mountains outside Jackson, Wyoming, the view of which remains my favorite spot to be anywhere in the world.
But, the most memorable and enjoyable of this trip was the Swift Creek Loop, just outside of Whitefish. So much so, I did it twice while in Montana covering a nearby music festival. Leaving the city limits of tiny Whitefish, you’re quickly flung into the depths of the backwoods of the Rocky Mountains. Towering pine trees and ancient earth as the anchor. Cool air swirling into the truck, a welcomed, refreshing feeling.
Exiting the truck at the trailhead parking lot, the silence of the woods was eerie and surreal, but all the better for this purposeful disappearing act into Mother Nature. Grab the running backpack and pack up the bear spray. Don’t forget the air-horn and knife, too. It’s extremely rare something would ever happen out there, but the percentage of chance is never zero. Strap everything in. Do a couple quick stretches. Onward down the trail.
Deciding on a four-mile out and back trail run, the halfway point was this mountain ridge. A tranquil, serene vista with a 360-degree view of the desolate woods surrounding seemingly every inch of my scan of the peaks and valleys. Thoughts of the trip this far. Thoughts of the hardships of the last year. Thoughts of those missed and those long gone. Thoughts of the moment at-hand, of being present and alive.
The gratitude remains. As do old running shoes, thankfully.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
