Hopping out of the 15-foot U-Haul truck last week, I reached for the gas pump and began fueling up the thirsty vehicle. It was Hieb’s Cenex gas station on Route 248 between the small town of Reliance, South Dakota (population: 128), and the bustling Interstate 90.

It was a matter of $50 when my father finally relented to his birthday celebration. In the depths of The Classic Wineseller in downtown Waynesville on Saturday evening, several friends and family came together to celebrate the old man — aka: “the curly wolf,” better known as Frank. 

It was an odd feeling to wake up in a natural state, rather than be disturbed by the noises of another impending day breaking through. The back bedroom in a small ranch house in the middle of vast swaths of farmland in Southwest Georgia. Silence in the large old brass bed. Sunlight trickled through antique glass windows. 

Within his iconic melodies that have serenaded our hearts and minds for over a half-century, singer-songwriter Graham Nash is able to capture these vivid snapshots of a time and place, of people and things, these images we've hung up on the walls of our collective memory — the embedded signature of songs immortal.

It was the sound of a fire truck roaring through downtown Knoxville Monday morning that woke me up. The window curtains were somewhat open. It was cloudy outside, signaling that the sunshine enjoyed yesterday had now moved on.

I forgot to pull down the window shade and awoke to the early morning light on Saturday. There was a slight drizzle overtaking downtown Asheville. I emerged from the king size bed and reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand. 

It was that familiar smell that conjured a slew of memories.

It’s Sunday, Feb. 13. The Super Bowl will be underway in about six hours. I’m sitting at a table in the depths of Orchard Coffee in downtown Waynesville. Large cup of coffee (with a shot of espresso) nearby. A breakfast sandwich and yogurt soon to be arriving. 

It was right around the third drink of the evening when I had the sneaking suspicion an existential crisis was going to rear its head before the night was through. 

Just east of Hot Springs, I pulled off U.S. 70 and turned into the small, muddy parking lot. Emerging from the truck, I threw on the rest of my trail running gear. Heading northbound on the Appalachian Trail, the destination was the Rich Mountain Tower.