By the time you read this, I’ll already be on the road. Most likely somewhere in rural West Virginia en route to DelFest in Cumberland, Maryland, onward to Upstate New York, over to Maine, then across the country to Montana.
You see, my annual summer road trip is underway, at least in my mind right now while sitting and typing in Panacea Coffee Company in Waynesville.
Even though the weather is splendid, the sun shining and a plethora of folks milling about in the cafe, the coveted table next to the big window is open. Lucky me.
It’s Saturday, early afternoon. After I finish this column, the plan for the day is to disappear into the woods for a trail run and swim. Probably the forest service road up in Sunburst, then a wonderfully chilly dip in nearby Lake Logan. Lay out on the dock and soak in that warm mountain sunshine.
As far back as I can remember, even going back to family vacations as a kid, the open road has always felt like my true home, the endless miles of unknown highways and backcountry roads. The mere idea of hopping into my rusty pickup truck and aiming the nose of the vehicle towards somewhere, anywhere, is eternally appealing and appetizing to my heart and soul.
And I am my true self on the open road, where my internal antenna remains honed for all kind and jovial souls, all adventures by chance or happenstance, all interactions and actions at the glorious mercy of time and place. Thankfully, I found myself in a profession where I get a bi-weekly paycheck to wander and ponder and interact and jot everything down for you dear readers here.
In truth, even if I wasn’t a journalist, running around haphazardly and asking folks existential questions about their lives and snapping their portraits, I’d literally still be doing the same thing. I would, honestly. The absolute essence of the universe is heading down the open road and seeing where it takes you.
With any road trip, there’s always a few anchor points to hold down the straps of chaos and confusion one may find beyond the horizon of their own intent, either geographically or intrinsically. This trip has three anchor points: Plattsburgh, New York; New Harbor, Maine; and Whitefish, Montana.
Before all that, I’m heading to DelFest on the Maryland panhandle. Put on by The Del McCoury Band, the beloved gathering features some of the biggest names in bluegrass, folk and Americana music. This year’s headliners include Alison Krauss & Union Station, Sierra Ferrell, The Infamous Stringdusters, Marty Stuart & His Fabulous Superlatives, Peter Rowan, Sierra Hull, Punch Brothers, Blackberry Smoke, and more.
And I’ll be running around backstage interviewing numerous musicians, usually squirreling away several feature interviews for future stories that’ll appear in this fine publication. I also need to cultivate some of those conversations for this massive bluegrass book I’m working on, and will be for the rest of this year until I hand in the manuscript on the Jan. 1, 2027, deadline that’s been imposed on me by my publisher at St. Martin’s Press in Manhattan.
Plattsburgh, New York: So, not to be morbid, more so in a sense of transparency, I’m heading back to my hometown for the memorial service for my best friend. We met on the first day of seventh grade and have been brothers from another for the last 29 years. His tragic, unexpected passing at age 42 leaves a void for many in my native North Country. And yet, the countless memories remain intact on the walls of my mind, the teenage transgressions all the way up to the real-world responsibilities of adulthood. To that, I’ll be tracking down some hiking spots in the Adirondack Mountains to clear my head, maybe even go swimming at Split Rock, too.
New Harbor, Maine: Following the short visit to Plattsburgh, I’ll be heading to the coast of Maine. A lifelong friend has a summer home up there and only uses it for Memorial Day, Fourth of July and Labor Day. So, I asked if I could possibly stay there and work on my bluegrass book for the month of June. He said no problem. That house has been part of my life going all the way back to elementary school when my family would vacation there. The quaint seaside town of New Harbor and nearby beaches remain an incredibly important and inspirational place for me. As does the local swimming hole (pictured).
Whitefish, Montana: The annual odyssey to Big Sky Country. The West will always own a large piece of my heart. And I can only hold that piece when I return to the Rocky Mountains, only to give it back once I turn around and head back across the Mississippi River. For the fourth year in a row, I’ll be attending and covering the Under the Big Sky festival in Whitefish. Featuring some of the biggest names in country and rock music, it remains this yearly touchstone for taking inventory of the last year of my life, clearing more space from within to allow the next step, next chapter to unfold in real time. Oh, and more swimming, where this part of the trip offers up the secluded Murray Lake (sapphire-colored waters and endless pine trees).
What knows what this extensive road trip will conjure? Who cares? The core premise of a trek of this magnitude is the simple notion that who you are when you walk out the front door of your humble abode is not who’ll be when you finally come back and step inside your apartment after being gone for weeks, after traveling thousands of miles. This is a good thing. And isn’t that the point of it all, anyways? To keep learning and exploring, always remaining curious and open to the unlimited possibilities of the universe, of you and me.
I digress. Soon, it’ll be time to pack up the truck and crank the engine. Gather the camping gear. Suitcase filled with outfits and running clothes. The back of the truck filled with hiking gear and pairs of running shoes. Don’t forget the cooler or acoustic guitar (with extra picks and strings). See you out there, my friends, either known now or soon enough down the road. Safe travels.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.