This must be the place: 'Maybe the clouds will, at least, have silvery lines'
Hello from the Cantina Laredo in Terminal T of the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. It’s Sunday, 8:29 p.m. I’ve just consumed two overpriced Michelob Ultra drafts and one giant chicken quesadilla (hadn’t eaten all day). In this moment, I decided to use my layover time to write this here column for you readers (yes, you).
This must be the place: 'And I got lost where the river bends, maybe that's where I got found'
Hello from 30,054 feet somewhere above rural Missouri. The Delta flight is currently holding steady at 517 miles per hour. And here I sit once again. In motion, in real time. Onward to the next adventure.
This must be the place: ‘After all, it was a great big world, with lots of places to run to’
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.
This must be the place: 'You belong among the wildflowers, you belong somewhere close to me'
Goosebumps. A slight tear in my eyes.
Pictured in this week’s column is my most favorite place in the entire universe. The Grand Teton Mountains straddling the Wyoming/Idaho border. I’ve been coming to these ancient peaks since 1992, when I was seven years old and made my first trip West with my family from our native Upstate New York.
This must be the place: ‘Well, I don’t worry, I’m sitting on top of the world’
Hello from Room 12 of The Sapphire Motel on North Seventh Avenue in Bozeman, Montana. I’m currently on my way to Whitefish, in the far northwest corner of the state, for the Under the Big Sky festival. I’m here on assignment, once again, where the gratitude to do so remains.
This must be the place: ‘Boots, bullets, britches, bologna’
Hello from the outdoor patio area at the Brady Hotel in New Florence, Missouri (population: 641). It’s 11:26 p.m. (Central Standard Time). I’m within earshot of Interstate 70, which is all hustle and bustle, even at this hour. Tractor-trailers zoom by to destinations unknown. The headlights and taillights of America in motion nearing midnight.
This must be the place: ‘When they get here, I’ll be swimming in the ancient light’
I woke up with sunshine streaming into my bedroom, the mountains surrounding my town illuminated in bright green vegetation. And yet, I felt in no mood to celebrate Independence Day.
This must be the place: ‘Let’s welcome the change, no song unsung’
It’s been a few days since the Telluride Bluegrass Festival in Colorado ended. And I’m still riding the high on that experience, all while I sit here and do my laundry in West Waynesville, the air-conditioning of the establishment a reprieve from the intense heat and humidity this week.
This must be the place: ‘Sounds you might hear when you’re opening up your window’
Hello from 34,000 feet. I’m currently on a United Express flight from Asheville to Denver, Colorado. Probably somewhere over Kansas at the moment. Who knows? What awaits me is another adventure, this time to the Telluride Bluegrass Festival. My first time there. Lifelong dream.
This must be the place: ‘Roll on, to the North Star, I got the key to carry on’
The Universe. It never ceases to amaze me.
This evening (last Monday be the time you read this), I felt kind of lonely. A lot of that feeling has to do with the last eight months or so of my life. Work burnout. The flood. The aftermath. The breakup. The aftermath. Turning 40. Starting therapy. Life, in general. And so on.
