It’s 9:54 a.m. Tuesday. I’m sitting at the old wooden kitchen table at my parents’ farmhouse in rural Upstate New York, within close range of the Canadian border, just a few farm fields away from the mighty, ancient Lake Champlain. 

Something we have done quite a bit of this year is gone fishing.

It’s 11 a.m. Monday. Currently sitting in the rec room of my aunt’s high-end apartment complex on the outskirts of Charlotte.

Covered in sweat, I was about three miles into a Friday afternoon run around Lake Johnson on the outskirts of Raleigh.

Mailbox 278 (pictured) along Route 581 in the unincorporated community of Nahunta, North Carolina. In the rural depths of Wayne County on the outskirts of the small city of Goldsboro. 

Parking the truck at the intersection of the Appalachian Trail and the Nolichucky River on the outskirts of the small town of Erwin, Tennessee, early Monday afternoon, a hot sun kissed my forehead emerging from the vehicle all while lacing up the ole trail running shoes.

Hello from Room 209 at the Super 8 on the outskirts of Rawlins, Wyoming. Late morning and taking my time to get my bags packed and tossed into the back of the rental car.

Edisto Beach, SC – Not more than 15 minutes after we finished lugging all of our stuff up two flights of stairs to our vacation rental overlooking a lagoon in the Wyndham Resort, Tammy spotted two turtles, an alligator, and a rat snake as big as my arm winding around the house, and then weaving its way up the lattice-work to the deck where we were all standing, watching in disbelief. 

Hello from Room 312 at the Apres hotel in Whitefish, Montana. Late Sunday morning. High of 91 degrees with low humidity and hot sun high above the desolate Rocky Mountains in this remote part of the lower 48 states. 

For most people, the word “snorkeling” conjures images of blue Caribbean waters, pink coral reefs and a rainbow of tropical fish. But witnessing a world of aquatic beauty doesn’t require a flight to the Florida Keys.