Sitting on the couch in the hotel room, dime-sized raindrops lick the windows. Darkened clouds of a late summer western storm swirl above the resort. Preseason NFL football on the widescreen TV. My girlfriend, Sarah, taking a nap before we figure out dinner.

I’m out here in the Rocky Mountains on another Rolling Stone assignment. This time covering the Park City Sound Summit, a gathering with its main focus on mental/physical health awareness and wellness in every aspect and corner of the music industry.

Informational panels by day, with topics ranging from the rigors of unrelenting touring for musicians to discussing the unknowns of artificial intelligence (AI) when it comes to creating music. Marquee stage acts by night from My Morning Jacket to Mavis Staples, Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats to Larkin Poe.

In essence, the PCSS is connecting kind souls from all avenues of the music industry looking to shift the perception of a professional landscape that’s looking to leave the attitude of “sex, drugs and rock-n-roll” in the rearview mirror — in favor of more emphasis on taking proper care of those artists we cherish and adore so much.

Fly out from Charlotte to Salt Lake City on Thursday. Four-hour Delta flight filled with endless typing on my laptop atop the tray-table that moves each time the dude in the seat in front of me, who’s built like an NFL linebacker, decides to turn his body to get more comfortable. No matter, deadlines for this fine publication that is The Smoky Mountain News linger and must be completed.

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Beyond the organized chaos of cultivating quotes on-the-fly from musicians and just wandering around the PCSS to absorb the ethos and energy of the event, I also find myself being in pure awe of those beautiful Wasatch Mountains hovering over the resort itself. Numerous ski lifts and chairs high up in the air silent at the moment, soon to be in motion when the snow flies come fall.

Just like when I attended the PCSS last year, I found myself disappearing into the depths of Mother Nature, those winding dirt trails starting just beyond the main ski lift. Just beyond the loud music and the people milling about. Just beyond where the nearby golf course ends and the vastness of the intriguing west begins.

Saturday afternoon. Toss on the running clothes and lace up the trail shoes. Stroll over to the main ski lift. Start jogging along the dirt service road that pushes up the mountain ridge towards the depths of the canyons — the countless dormant ski slopes now filled with wildflowers, songbirds and critters alike.

The planned route was to leave the service road, hop onto Rosebud’s Heaven trail, meander along the contours of the ridge, cross back across the service road way up said ridge and onto Holly’s Trail, then circle back on the horseshoe trek to the main ski lift. In total, around three to four gloriously sweaty miles.

And although I’ve had blue skies the last few times I’d done this exact route, this go-round was little different. Passing by the main ski lift, I noticed darkened clouds on the ridge, quickly overtaking the sunshine felt when leaving the hotel in my running gear. Again, no matter. This is what trail running is all about — the experience itself, come hell or high water.

By the time I left the service road for Rosebud’s Heaven, I began to feel slight raindrops and a stiff, cool breeze rolling in. Chugging along the ridgeline, my body hit the ideal rhythm of a run conjured in your own time and pace. Completely alone and in the sacred realm of solitude and tranquility. Completely immersed as a single soul journeying over ancient rock and old tree roots and underneath the shade canopy of pine and quaking aspen trees.

As quickly as I felt that personal jubilation of self, I was shaken out of my trance by a thunderclap and lightning strike across the ridge. The raindrops were heavy. In seconds, I was soaked to the bone. Who cares? It’s just water. You’re covered in sweat, anyhow. Embrace the moment at hand. Gaze upward in gratitude. Raindrops happily hitting your face. Joyous laughter at where you currently stand in this all too mesmerizing universe of ours.

By the second and third lightning strike within vicinity of me, I took cover underneath a large pine tree. The dirt trail now a sea of mud splashing up on my legs with each stride. With a clear view of the canyon, I watched the rainclouds engulf the ski resort below. Clouds and raindrops so thick you could barely make out the next ridge, let alone anything standing between Point A and B.

I felt truly present in what I was witnessing. Just myself and the greater wonders of nature surrounding my position under the that lone pine tree. I thought of numerous other times I got caught in a rainstorm while running since I first laced up my shoes at age 13 (39 currently). Whether it was in my native North Country and the Adirondack Mountains, the coast of Maine, Florida or California and seemingly everywhere else I’ve been lucky enough to wander to.

Drenched and splattered with mud, I trotted the last mile back down to the ski resort. The sunshine had reappeared right as I left the trail. Faces once again returning outside from the resort, only to immediately observe this crazed guy returning back to civilization after being at the mercy of Mother Nature, gratitude in tow.

Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.