This must be the place: 'Maybe the clouds will, at least, have silvery lines'

A&E Columns

This must be the place: 'Maybe the clouds will, at least, have silvery lines'

Park City, Utah. Garret K. Woodward photo

Hello from the Cantina Laredo in Terminal T of the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. It’s Sunday, 8:29 p.m. I’ve just consumed two overpriced Michelob Ultra drafts and one giant chicken quesadilla (hadn’t eaten all day). In this moment, I decided to use my layover time to write this here column for you readers (yes, you).

In the last five minutes, my gate for the final leg of this trip back to Asheville and greater Western North Carolina has changed. Terminal T to Concourse B to A to B again. Screw it. I’m just going to simmer here at the bar counter of the Laredo and casually enjoy my light ale, in my own time. That plane ain’t boarding for at least another hour.

This morning, I awoke in a king-size bed at the Hotel Park City, an extremely posh and lavish lodging accommodation surrounding by the Wasatch Mountains here in the high-desert beauty and high-altitude of Utah. I didn’t pay for the accommodations, thankfully. Sheesh. I’m a journalist, not a millionaire. God bless assignments that cover the cost.

Maybe one more dip in the private hot tub attached to my room before the Uber comes to bring me to the airport in Salt Lake City later this morning? Maybe one more cup of coffee to jolt me into the impending long day of travel, of genuinely joyous interactions with strangers like two ships passing in the night? It’s nothing and everything, and I’m here for all of it. As one should be in the grand scheme of things, eh?

Now? I sit here and watch the Major League Baseball “Little League Classic” between the Seattle Mariners and New York Mets. It just dawned on me that this is my last trip out west this summer. The Rocky Mountains and everything leading up to it. My absolute favorite place to wander and ponder. I think most of you picking up this newspaper can attest to that. Like I tell folks, “I could travel the West for eternity, but I’ll always live in Western North Carolina.” You dig? It’s truth.

Ever since I first stepped foot in the West at age seven, visions of it happily and mightily haunt my dreams, at least until I physically find myself in the vastness of “it all, out there” once again, which, thankfully, has been numerous times over the years. Three trips in three months this go-round (June, July, August) to the frontier of our forefathers. Three trips to clear my mind of stress, cleanse my heart of pain, and further the depths of my soul, the miles and moments slowing ticking away with each sunrise and sunset.

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June was Telluride, Colorado (by plane). July, the whirlwind odyssey of a solo journey in my rusty, musty pickup truck from my doorstep in Waynesville to Whitefish, Montana, and back. August? Park City, Utah (again by plane). Each trip planned out with a basic framework of familiar people, places, and things along the way. Each trip ending in sincere gratitude for all of those beautifully unexpected people, places, and things that eventually revealed themselves in due time.

Park City. What a town. Good lord. So much money rolling through there. It causes someone like myself (a vagabond, scruffy writer) to feel a slight sense of imposter syndrome. But, just when that may strike me, it quickly disappears, for this is exactly where vagabond, scruffy writers need to be, and should be — infiltrating the rich and wealthy, all in hopes of genuine interac tion over endless complimentary shrimp and goblets of white wine.

For myself? I lean in. Count me in for whatever shenanigans, wherever and with whomever. All I ask? That they be good people of moral consciousness and sound judgment. Even if they’re not? I can still learn something from them and, hopefully, they can walk away with something from me. Who knows? Who cares? Time is fleeting like grains of sands in a wind storm. Give me another adventure to chase down.

Beyond the organized chaos of covering another music festival (the band sets, key interviews, etc,), there other moments now held closely. That great heart-to-heart conversation at the hotel bar during last call with a friend (also working the festival, who lives in the Midwest). That $18 breakfast I was apprehensive to order (due to the price), but was rewarded with a huge steaming plate of morning deliciousness, eaten with gusto, each table given its own pot of coffee. And all those afternoon trail runs to burn off the eggs and sausage.

Then, there was the dining area in Terminal A at the Salt Lake City International Airport. Just this pretty nondescript spot where thousands of people find themselves each day. But, for me, as I sat at the bar in the Market Street Grill waiting for my flight, taking in that specific vantage point, I realized that I had dinner and drinks at that same restaurant exactly a year ago, and with the woman I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with. I remember our conversation and the hopes we had for the future, together.

Just about a month later, Hurricane Helene tore apart our home of Western North Carolina, countless lives flipped upside down, including ours. By Christmas, she had ended things between us and disappeared down her respective path in life. From that point, I started to journey along this new landscape, walking solo at my own pace and in my own time. Wandering and pondering, trying to make sense of the road to the “here and now.”

Lots of bountiful thoughts have been conjured within my heart and soul since then, with this current juncture being one of deep reflection and gratitude to be able to circle back to these familiar spots that become measuring sticks of your growth, atop simply becoming part of your long-term memory.

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

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