The one-floor retro motel is picturesque and pristine. Right next to my old truck is an antique Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight, placed neatly and nicely to intrigue the passerby tourists to possible pull in and book a room. It’s worth it. Trust me. I’d stay here again in a heartbeat. There’s just something so nostalgic and glorious about these roadside motels.

Regardless, my mind is wandering and pondering, as always. This town (Bozeman) is home to a lot of memories and ghosts of my past. I have a long history in this city tucked away in the depths of the high desert of the Rocky Mountains. Heck, the memories go all the way back to the early 1990s when my parents took my little sister and I (at seven years old) were first brought to “The West” to see and feel everything here.

The “Friends” reruns on the motel TV reminds me of my late cousin (the older brother I never had) and my aunt, the old days on the Canadian Border when I was a young kid visiting them from my childhood home across town. The show was always on their TV. The gas station around the corner from this motel reminds me of when the two of them called Bozeman home and I’d routinely visit them. This was years ago.

And yet, when I pulled up to that gas station, a flood of memories came across my field of vision of times rolling in for cold cases of beer (for my cousin and I) and cigarettes (for just my cousin). It’s funny how certain generic places hold such a spot in the back of your mind. This random gas station to most (if not, all folks). But, for me, it conjures vivid images of a time and place that doesn’t exist anymore — only in my heart of hearts, only in the depths of what means the most to me.

It’s wild to know a town (Bozeman) so well, even if I feel kind of like a stranger here nowadays. I used to have family here. A guest room to crash in. A free place to stay and park my truck. Friendly, familiar faces to welcome me and offer me a hearty dinner and even heartier conversation and interaction. Now? I have to a book a motel room. My aunt is in Charlotte. My cousin buried in a cemetery in my hometown.

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Earlier today, I awoke at a Fairfield Inn in Sheridan, Wyoming. The night prior, I was rocketing up Interstate 90 from Rapid City, South Dakota. I had just spent the last two days with dear friends who reside there. Of which, the wife of the couple was someone I worked with during my rookie reporting gig at the Teton Valley News in Driggs, Idaho, in 2008. We’ve remained friends, thankfully. She’s a soulmate of sorts, a rock to stand on amid the uncertain chaos of a modern world.

So, as I rolled along the highway towards Montana via Wyoming, the sun started to fall behind the mighty Big Horn Mountains to the west. And, like clockwork, I put on some of the finest tunes to play in such a setting, which, for me, is Bob Wills & His Texas Playboys. The first of which was “Sittin’ On Top Of The World.” The melody and words seamlessly echoing from the stereo and out into the ether of my journey, “All of summer, and all of fall, just trying to find my little all in all.”

And, truth be told, there is something so damn splendid and mesmerizing when you play Bob Wills, the truck on cruise control at a steady 80 miles per hour. Nothing but endless highway in front of you, nothing but meaningless concerns and priorities in the rearview mirror. When Bob Wills hits your heart and soul in the midst of a cross-country trek across the country, nothing else seems to matter but “the moment” itself. You dig? If not, you’ll find out in due time, my friend. Trust me.

As I watched and observed that sunset fade in real time atop the Wyoming high desert prairie, I thought of so many people, places, and things. Most prominent was my late grandfather. He always seems to pop into my head when I traverse the Rockies. He was obsessed with “The West,” even though he never ever traveled around these parts. I fondly remember visiting him at our family house on the Canadian Border, my hometown of Rouses Point, New York. He always had old reruns of cowboy shows or Western flicks blaring on the TV. He would talk about how much he loved those images. I find solidarity in that.

So, here I am. This motel room in Bozeman. My family long gone from this place. But, their fingerprints appear on the restaurants and breweries and such as I drive around town, nonchalantly trying to locate a parking spot. I think of them, and I salute them. I think of my former girlfriend, who I also brought through here in recent years. It was her first time in Montana. I salute her, too. She was a good’un.

If there’s any point to this week’s column, it’s to express deep sorrow and profound gratitude for simply being present in those moments, all of which only now existing in my thoughts. Would you rather have those memories created and vanish or not have them at all? I prefer that former. Give me the truth of a human being trying to make sense of “it all,” even if “it all” remains as elusive as ever. I remain. They do, too.

Room 12. Bob Wills on the stereo. It’s almost an hour past midnight (Mountain Standard Time). The aim tomorrow is Missoula. Thereafter? Whitefish for the festival, then back down through my old stompin’ grounds in the Grand Teton Mountains of Eastern Idaho and Western Wyoming. And I’m here. And I’ll make sure to send you a postcard.

Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.