This must be the place: ‘There’s an eagle and he keeps on flying, over the mountains capped in white snow’
A horse-of-course in Whitefish, Montana. Garret K. Woodward photo
Hello from Cabin 156 at Tryon International, the massive equestrian center and event facility along U.S. 74, just down the mountain from Saluda. The mountains in the distance remind me of the beauty of my home that is Western North Carolina.
The intense heat and humidity of this past Labor Day Weekend reminds me that I’m no longer amid the cool air of the plateau.
By the time my girlfriend, Sarah, and I return to our humble abode apartment in downtown Waynesville this week, it’ll be the first taste of fall, a crisp bite in the morning air, reminiscent of my native Upstate New York during this time of year. Visions of fall foliage, warm apple cider, college football on the TV and sunset cruises along the Blue Ridge Parkway and points beyond.
And yet, even though the official end of summer isn’t until Sept. 22, I’ve always looked at Labor Day Weekend as the bittersweet date on the wall calendar — in my kitchen, in my mind. Summer now mostly in the rearview mirror. And with all of those whirlwind moments and memories, where I just am now finally feeling like I’ve earned my tan lines with enough hiking, running, swimming and lazy waterside hangs to justify the season itself.
Now, in full transparency, fall will forever be my favorite season. My “damn yankee” blood is too thick for the southern heat and humidity. I love traveling around this part of the country, but I purposely choose to put roots down in Western North Carolina. Give me those cool temperatures and fresh mountain air any day of the week or season of the year. In truth, I’m also one of those northern weirdos who also looks forward to winter.
It’s a point in the year when I can finally hike in the mountains without anyone around. Late afternoon sunset jogs along the Cataloochee Divide Trail or mountain biking the Tsali Recreation Area. Oh, and cheering on my beloved Montreal Canadiens hockey team at the neighborhood sports bar. That, and there’s not much of a wait to grab a table at one of my favorite restaurants, especially anything along Biltmore Avenue in downtown Asheville.
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But, alas, one cannot move forward into the next season without taking a raw and real inventory of the days, weeks and months that led to this point. Within my sentimental, curious mind of wanderlust and eternal urge to see just what lies around the next corner, I find myself recalling and reflecting upon the people, places and things that I’ve been lucky enough to encounter this summer, either by glorious happenstance or purposeful interaction.
The wandering and pondering of summer began, for me at least, in mid-May or so, with a trip back up to the North Country of my youth. Plattsburgh, New York, the Champlain Valley and the Adirondack Mountains. Swimming in Lake Champlain. Hiking Poke-O-Moonshine Mountain. Trail running Point Au Roche State Park not far from my parents’ farmhouse, the same dirt trails along the lake that I’ve happily traversed since I was in middle school.
Not to mention, time well-spent with my aging parents, who are never too old or too tired for a scrumptious Michigan hot dog (sauce dog) at Clare & Carl’s in South Plattsburgh, a joyous stroll along the Bloomingdale Bog Trail in the heart of the ADKS or a sunny afternoon margarita at the Pepper in downtown Plattsburgh, friendly and familiar faces from my respective journey in life passing by, stopping to say hello and catch up over a hug and a handshake.
By June, it was another trip north. This time the nose of the trusty Toyota Tacoma pickup aimed for New England. I found myself covering the Northlands Music Festival outside of Keene, New Hampshire, a wild-n-out gathering surrounding by the beautiful desolation and tranquility of the White Mountains.
Onward to the coast of Maine for lobster rolls and sunsets on white sand beaches. Just Sarah and I spending a week at a friend’s summer house. By day, it was wandering the small, bucolic coastal towns and finding places to go for a trail run, the smell of the salty air and nearby ocean intoxicating to this here writer. By night, it was putting on a dress shirt and tracking down a spot with delicious New England Clam Chowder and a local craft ale.
By July, it was Montana for the Under the Big Sky music festival. Fly into Minneapolis, Minnesota, and aim for Whitefish, Montana. Roll along the interstates, highways and backroads of America. Crossing into the city limits of Fargo, Dickinson, Medora, Miles City, Billings, Great Falls, Whitefish, Missoula, Bozeman, Butte, Billings (again), Buffalo, Rapid City, Sioux Falls, Mankato, and Minneapolis (including a two-day layover due to Delta issues).
By August, it was AVL fest overtaking Asheville, the Park City Song Summit in Utah and the recent Earl Scruggs Music Festival as stated previously. Hundreds of bands and thousands of songs. Discovering new tones and textures. Interviews with artists for quotes for articles backstage, sidestage, between large buses with loud motors running or along a tree line for some silence as we dive deep into the art, beauty, passion and purpose of being a musician.
And here we stand in the first week of September. Beyond the countless rock shows and the endless miles along that ole lost highway, what remains vivid and cherished in my memory are the people I’ve met. Whether it be that barber in Dickinson or the old rancher in Medora. The indigenous street performer in Billings or the bluegrass picker on that street corner in Whitefish.
Or the nice group of older couples who invited Sarah and I out to dinner on that wondrous night in Damariscotta, Maine. Or my former co-worker from my rookie year as a journalist out in Idaho in 2008, who invited us to stay with her and her family for a couple days at her home in Rapid City, South Dakota, with endless laughter and conversation never missing a beat for hours.
What remains is the gratitude. And the notion that there are, truly, more good people than bad in this world, regardless of what someone high above you and I may say otherwise on TV or online. I’m out there and I see it. I see you (and you). We’re all in this together. And I’ll be the first to say how grateful I am to be on this trek and in this time and place. Stay humble. Stay grateful. Always explore. Poke the chaos of the universe and see what just may come your way. You just never know, eh?
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
