This must be the place: ‘Believe that the world is an ethereal flower, and ye live’
Garret’s beloved truck.
Garret K. Woodward photo
While I’m sitting and looking out the window of the local laundromat here in West Waynesville, I notice how dirty my rusty, musty, trusty pickup truck has become since I last washed it, which, I think, may have been last winter or so. One year’s worth of dirt along endless miles of unforgiving roads, both geographically and spiritually.
To that, I just spent $609 on it yesterday getting new cooling lines for my leaky transmission (which also needed four quarts of fresh fluid). That was one hell of a bill to swallow for this minimalist journalist who calls a tiny apartment home. But, it had to be done. My truck is my livelihood, the ways and means by which I get around to and from assignments, the method by which I wander and ponder. Hand over the credit card and sigh deeply.
And as I momentarily stare at my truck, it also dawns on me I’m overdue for oil change, need to put on those new brakes, and finally get an alignment that I’ve been saying I would since May, right before I hit the road for the West and points elsewhere until sometime around Labor Day Weekend.
But, no matter. It is what it is. Got to have the truck up to snuff to take on the road, to destinations known and unknown, either nearby or somewhere beyond the horizon, beyond what I’ve seen, heard, smelled and felt before. If the truck doesn’t function, I don’t, either. It’s that simple. And she’s become a companion of sorts along this continued whirlwind journey of self-discovery.
She, as in “Black Betty,” which is what I call the ol’ 2013 Toyota Tacoma. She just crossed over 202,000 miles the other day. That’s a lot of oil changes, new tires and tire rotations and whatever else I’ve had to fix on her since I obtained her those many years ago. Quite the road. Onward into the night, eh?
With that said, I really don’t feel like washing her, not yet at least. I like the dust and mud speckles all over the vehicle. That grime was well-earned. The dust coating my dashboard is from the backroads of South Dakota and Montana, where I meandered down happily this past summer, windows rolled down and eager to witness just what natural beauty may linger around the bend, over the next hill and beyond the scope of my current comprehension.
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Then, there’s the dust all over the back of the tailgate, a result of constant cruising down lonely forest service roads throughout Western North Carolina and greater southern Appalachia. To note, one of my favorite things to do in life is find remote forest service roads that intersect the Appalachian Trail, the idea being that I can hop on and off the trail and explore random sections.
Opening the tailgate and placing my laundry basket in the back, I noticed small piles of sand in the bed of the truck, a result of taking my pickup onto the beach in St. Augustine, Florida, last March. And I don’t want to vacuum out the sand, for it reminds me of when I was visiting my parents down there, the three of us hopping into my truck and hitting the nearby beach, later on packing up to leave, tossing the sandy chairs and cooler into the truck bed.
Then, there’s the faded and wrinkled stickers on the inside of my windshield. They’re parking passes from the last few installments of FloydFest, one of my all-time favorite musical gatherings, happening each July in the depths of the Blue Ridge Mountains in southwestern Virginia. Those old stickers conjure such incredible moments, either onstage or late-night the camping area.
Just above the FloydFest decals is one from the Under the Big Sky festival this summer up in Whitefish, Montana. Tens of thousands of music freaks descending upon a 400-acre working ranch in the heart of Big Sky Country. This was third year heading up there and capturing the melodic madness for Rolling Stone. Mountains. Mischief. Music. Memories. And this go-round, I decided to drive the entire way out and back from Haywood County.
That UTBS decal also represents faces and places around Whitefish that have become near and dear to my heart and soul. Faces from Laramie, Wyoming and Los Angeles, California. Faces that jumped into my truck every day of the gathering (they flew in, no rental car) and wandered around the backcountry of Montana, wandered around the backstage of this massive event.
Places like evenings at the Remington Bar or Abruzzo Italian Kitchen, wild times and delicious meals. Or early mornings at Murray Lake. Head west out of Whitefish on U.S. 93 towards Beaver Lake Road, turn off to the left down the narrow dirt path towards Murray. Sapphire waters amid genuine silence and glorious solitude that comes at a premium in this modern world of white noise and distraction.
The mind starts to drift to all the former trucks that meant so much to the timeline of my existence: 1998 Isuzu Hombre, 2001 GMC Sonoma, 2005 Dodge Dakota, 2008 Toyota Tacoma. I wonder if any of them are still currently on the road and hopefully not in some junkyard. I recall each fondly, the hundreds of thousands of miles traveled, hands steady on the wheel of not only the vehicle, but also of my intent.
Snap back into reality at the laundromat. Enough daydreaming for the time being. The washer finished at least 10 minutes ago. Time to switch the load of clothes over into the dryer, only to sit back at the window and start typing away at whatever it was that overtook my mind just now in the haze of Thursday afternoon, the hustle and bustle of household chores and deadlines.
It’s a splendid day outside. Oddly warm for mid-November. Thoughts of what to do and where to go for Thanksgiving dinner exactly one week away. Thoughts of what to do and where to go later today for a sweaty jog around somewhere, anywhere, most likely the River Arts District in Asheville. Clock in some miles, then perhaps meet up with friends at a local brewery, sunshine and gratitude radiating in abundance.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
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Love this story. Great to hear and read something positive about Life for a change.
Tuesday, 12/02/2025
