This must be the place: ‘We were feeling very fine, the air was clear and slightly damp’
Outside of Deadwood, South Dakota. Garret K. Woodward photo
Hello from the passenger seat of my Toyota Tacoma. Seeing as my deadline for this week’s column was nearing midnight on Sunday, I decided to pull over at the nearest exit and let my girlfriend, Sarah, take over driving duties. Pop open the laptop and off we go, eh?
Exit 26. Emory, Virginia. Mile-marker 26.9. Interstate 81 South. Silhouettes of the Blue Ridge Mountains. A blanket of darkness across the silent landscape. That ole lost highway through Southern Appalachia. While many are either already in for the night or fast asleep in preparation for Monday morning, here we cruise along, headlong into the unknown night.
With FloydFest now in the rearview mirror, the sounds of David Crosby’s seminal 1971 album “If I Could Only Remember My Name” spill out the truck stereo. “Traction in The Rain” swirls around the inside of the vehicle, the millions of thoughts of one’s life conjured with the soothing nature and vibrato of Crosby’s voice.
Between my assignment covering FloydFest — the massive annual music gathering in the backwoods of Virginia — and still recovering from the planes, trains and automobiles saga of returning back to Western North Carolina from recent wanderings and ponderings in Montana and points elsewhere, my mind and body are aching for a hot shower at home and simply kicking back in the recliner.
And so goes the life of a journalist. Always on the run toward somewhere, anywhere. Only to be seen in a flash, perhaps in passing. Only to be read in the newspaper days after said whereabouts were discovered and jotted down for all of Haywood County and beyond to peel back and scope out the wide-open nature of a writer in pursuit of what lies just around the corner.
It all started in Minnesota, exactly a week ago. After a couple of weeks roaming around the Midwest and Rocky Mountains, Sarah and I circled back to Minneapolis for our supposed flight early Sunday afternoon.
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With the recent software fiasco wreaking havoc on the airline industry, we figured we might be able to skate by unscathed. But, we figured wrong after several delays and an inevitable cancellation of our flight back to Asheville. Now stuck in Minneapolis, we scrambled to find a scarce hotel room for the night.
Bite the bullet on room at the swanky Westin in downtown Minneapolis. Either that or find a corner in the airport to catch a snooze. Unpacking our bags in Room 340 instead of in our apartment in Waynesville, it was decided to make the most of it and see what was around. How about grab a bite and a drink at the hotel bar, then find some live music nearby? Sarah concurred.
Turns out every Sunday night since 1987, local funk-n-soul act Dr. Mambo’s Combo has been hitting the stage at Bunkers Music Bar & Grill. Get a taxi and head down Washington Avenue. Skyscrapers and financial districts. Quiet Sunday night streets. Empty, except for the headlights and taillights of other taxis carrying other stranded travelers. Hop out at Bunkers right as the music kicks off.
With the sounds of tributes to soul legends — including poignant takes on Curtis Mayfield’s “Pusherman” and The Staple Singers “I’ll Take You There” — radiating from the dimly-lit stage on the other side of the bar counter, we could only shake our heads and smile with gratitude and awe at where we ended up by happenstance.
Sipping our beverages under neon lights and surrounded by the kind and funky souls of late night in the Twin Cities, it was the first real time Sarah and I had a brief moment to rehash and start to unravel the beauty and splendor of what it meant to meander through Montana, Wyoming, North/South Dakota and Minnesota.
Glacier National Park. Waterfalls hundreds of feet high flowing down mountainsides thousands of feet tall. Mountain goats and majestic rams. Hot summer sunshine and crystal blues waters. Pull the car over and jump into the nearest ancient river. A rebirth of sorts within the heart and soul of those who continue to explore, within themselves and within the greater world around them.
Juicy cheeseburgers at the Missoula Club. Lingering signs of long-gone old-timers who once rambled through this legendary Montana watering hole, as seen by large chunks carved out of the antique wooden bar, each meant to hold their unfiltered cigarettes.
Deadwood, South Dakota. The 6 p.m. Old West shootout on Main Street. Sidewalks full of folks from here, there and everywhere watching the gun battle unfold. Step into the Wild Bill Bar (aka: Saloon No. 10) where Wild Bill Hickok was shot and killed on Aug. 2, 1876, while playing poker — his pair of black aces and pair of black eights now known as the “dead man’s hand.”
And that late afternoon jog around Mountain Lake in middle-of-nowhere Minnesota, not far off Route 60. Trotting around the serene body of water, I was immersed in utter tranquility being the only person on the trail, the silence periodically broken by crickets and a lone owl readying itself for the impending evening prowl.
Back to the reality at-hand in Minneapolis. Nearing midnight, we still hadn’t figure out how to get home. No flights available, with the only ones to Asheville being on Thursday. Of those available for Monday (the next day), the prices had skyrocketed due to demand from other cancellations. No Amtrak or Greyhound seats, either.
Eventually, we booked a flight. Early Tuesday morning to Cincinnati, Ohio. The only airport that allowed a one-way rental car drop-off in Asheville. Thus, a 6 a.m. shuttle to the airport, two-hour flight finally crossing into the southeast, then a six-hour drive straight back home through rural Kentucky and Tennessee.
No matter, for the road is life. As Jack Kerouac says, “Live, travel, bless, and don’t be sorry.” He also noted, “Happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream.” I tend to agree.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
