Meandering down the desolate Route 8 in the southern Adirondack Mountains of Upstate New York last weekend, my truck came over a slight rise. It was in that moment when I realized the road was covered with at least a foot or more of water. 

It’s like getting hit in the face with a frying pan.

Stepping out of my parents’ farmhouse in Upstate New York this past week, the outside temperature was 5 below zero with a wind chill hovering around minus 20 or so. I had three layers of shirts on with running tights and other winter attire. 

She’s known as “Wild Kathy.”

At least, that’s what she was nicknamed while joyously roaming Bourbon Street in New Orleans in November 2004. “Wild Kathy,” also known as Kathy, or “mom” to me. And on Jan. 21, she’ll turn 70 years young back in my North Country hometown of Plattsburgh, New York. 

This year has been quite the whirlwind. It felt like 2018 was a rollercoaster I either didn’t buy a ticket to ride or was simply unaware of just how steep the ups and downs were. And I swear, I ain’t the only one in that boat of sentiments and emotions.

Coming into 2018, I found myself kissing my (now ex-) girlfriend in a room full of old and new friends in the frozen depths of our native Upstate New York. We all watched the glowing ball drop in Times Square on television. The room erupted in cheers and hugs. Cups of champagne and shots of bourbon passed around. Snowflakes and a frigid wind whipping against the windows, those inside warm and cozy. 

So, amid the whirlwind this past week of being published by Rolling Stone — my biggest dream and top bucket list item as a writer — I’ve found myself looking over my shoulder and reflecting on the road to the here and now. 

I couldn’t believe she gave me a ticket.

Thanksgiving 2001. I was 16 years old. Having just ate a quick meal with my family up on the Canadian Border of Upstate New York, I jumped into my rusty 1989 Toyota Camry and bolted down the road towards Vermontville, a tiny hamlet in the heart of the desolate Adirondack Mountains. 

I was handed a telephone number and told good luck.

In the fall of 2007, I was 22 years old. Once graduate school didn’t pan out, I found myself scrambling to find a gig in the journalism world. Based out of Upstate New York at the time, I applied for a position at The Williston Observer, a small newspaper just across Lake Champlain in Vermont. 

I was born in the wrong decade. 

Or so I often hear from others. Some are musicians or artists, dreamers or history buffs, movers and shakers. Heck, I’ve even felt that sentiment above on many occasions, especially when I was a kid. 

The laughter ensued deep into the night. 

There was a slight ringing in my ears leaving the show last Sunday evening at Ambrose West on Haywood Road in Asheville. The small, intimate venue had just busted at the seams with the heavy vibrations of San Diego-based Elektric Voodoo.