This must be the place: ‘Deep fry your feelings so they can’t escape, disappear into nothing’
The 2002 NCCS cross-country team. File photo
Hello from Room 222 at the Comfort Inn, located just off Interstate 81 in Scranton, Pennsylvania. After a couple weeks immersed in a sort of vision quest back up to my native North Country that is Upstate New York, I’ll soon be below the Mason-Dixon Line.
Onward to Western North Carolina. Onward to the hopeful end of winter, where visions of sunshine and warm air swirl around my current thoughts, especially when I’m looking out my hotel window at the snowy ridges of the Pocono Mountains surrounding the city.
The temperature was a crisp nine degrees when I packed up my truck at my parents’ farmhouse on the outskirts of Plattsburgh, New York. The day before, we’d received over a foot of fresh snow, not to mention the howling winds causing whiteout conditions on the highways and backroads of the Champlain Valley.
To that, I’m well-versed in the simple notion that you’re never, ever the same after any road trip or excursion, which is why I am constantly chasing those departures from my humble abode apartment in Waynesville — jettison to somewhere, anywhere, at least for a moment to collect yourself and process just what your life has become.
And this latest wandering and pondering session back to my native Adirondack Mountains, back to the Canadian Border towns, trials and tribulations of my youth has proven bountiful. If anything, it’s become very cathartic, especially in hindsight at this roadside hotel, as I peel back and examine my time not only with family and friends, but also with myself and my purposely vulnerable thoughts.
Thus, my unrelenting thoughts and restless soul hovers wildly around certain things that have either never left my subconscious (implanted years ago) or merely the facts of life that have recently come to light, for good or ill. Such is life, eh? Just when you think you’ve got a slight grip on it, it just slips through your fingers.
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For example, as I was gearing up to get ready to return to Western North Carolina, I received the news of the tragic passing of an old buddy of mine, Tyler. He was 39. I hadn’t seen him in years. A dear friend from elementary school all the way through college, who was also a long-time cross-country teammate as teenagers.
One of those kind, cosmic beings that, no matter how much time has passed, whenever you’d cross paths, it felt like you’d just seen him yesterday. So many adventures and such throughout high school, where I fondly remember one rained out camping excursion with Tyler at Fish Creek following a great hike up Silver Lake Mountain in the heart of the Adirondacks. Not to mention all those wild-n-out times in Mooers Forks, New York, in farm fields and backyard gatherings.
I even remember one time when we ran the “Old Home Day” 5K fun run in Chazy, New York. We blew away the competition and just ran side-by-side, ultimately deciding to run across the finish line together as a first-place tie. Winning was never really Tyler’s thing. He could care less about the blue ribbon, where it was more about the experience itself and the lessons learned, especially if that journey was done alongside friends and family.
With his trademark smile and signature laugh, a sincere tone that couldn’t be more genuine and heartfelt if he tried, Tyler was one of the few beautiful souls in my travels that never, ever lost that childlike wonder of creativity, solitude, and discovery. He was a gifted musician and a talented artist. And his friendship was cherished by so many people, myself included.
He also was deeply sensitive and could hold such in-depth conversations about nothing and everything, usually the topics hovering around whatever the intrinsic, existential pondering of the day was. Truth be told, if you were lucky enough to cross paths with and befriend Tyler, well, you were lucky enough.
Anyone who was on those Northeastern Clinton Central School (NCCS) cross-country teams back in the day knows how special, unique, and tightly-knit we were. So much so, many of us remain friends, lifelong in fact, no matter how much time has passed. We truly all loved and championed each other.
And to that point, a lot of those kind hearts have reached out and reconnected with each other because of this latest news, perhaps the one silver lining in all of this. Plans are already in motion to meet up at some point this summer back in the North Country, to go for a hike in the Adirondacks and have some cold beers somewhere afterwards, all in memory of our friend, Tyler.
So, here I sit at this writing desk in a Comfort Inn in Scranton. There’s still over 10 hours of driving and some 700 miles left to go until I’ll be able to put the key in the door of my quaint apartment and turn the lock to cross the threshold of whatever things I’ve decided to carry along with me from my life — photos, books, vinyl records and pieces of art displayed around my cozy bed.
What does it all mean, right? Does anything mean anything anymore? Did it ever? Who knows? Who cares? For what matters most in life are those fleeting moments of genuine interactions of kindness and compassion with one another. Nothing else really counts for anything beyond that, so hold onto that notion as you traverse this big ole world. Remember, kindness breeds kindness, so does compassion.
I think of Tyler. I think of everyone else I’ve lost along the way. And I hold onto those moments shared together close to my heart. Those moments fill the spaces in the beating muscle in my chest that were once pieces I held, that I’ve given away to others, happily, over the decades of my existence on this earth. Other spaces are filled with pieces given to me by others, happily, in their travels, too.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
