I’ll never get that smell out of my memory. The stench of mud and rotting debris. Most of you reading this will immediately know what I’m referring to — the aftermath of Hurricane Helene in the fall of 2024. And yet, that stench was already in my stored subconscious, seeing as I first encountered it with the aftermath of Tropical Storm Fred in 2021. 

The absurdity of life, eh?   

I’m just sitting here right now at the local laundromat in West Waynesville. Simply observing and reflecting on gratitude, for nothing and everything, and everything in-between. Families sit quietly around me awaiting the wash cycle to end. It’s Sunday morning. Back to work by this time tomorrow. Spend your free time cleaning your clothes.   

Hello from Cabin 152 at the Tryon International equestrian center on the North Carolina/South Carolina border. It’s Monday. Labor Day. And I’ve just spent the last few days attending and covering the annual Earl Scruggs Music Festival. I’m exhausted, but the gratitude remains.  

It was nearing lunchtime. In the midst of putting out the newspaper last Tuesday, I was getting hungry when I realized it was almost noon. I hadn’t eaten breakfast and was still craving eggs, sausage, toast, hashbrowns (with onions) and strong coffee (at least two cups worth).  

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).  

Hello from 30,054 feet somewhere above rural Missouri. The Delta flight is currently holding steady at 517 miles per hour. And here I sit once again. In motion, in real time. Onward to the next adventure.  

It just dawned on me, at this exact moment, that my Western journey is over (at least until next time). Currently, I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Nashville, Tennessee, doing some writing and pondering, as per usual. And I’ll be finally headed back to my humble abode in Western North Carolina tomorrow. To note, I’ve been on the road since July 8.  

Goosebumps. A slight tear in my eyes.  

Pictured in this week’s column is my most favorite place in the entire universe. The Grand Teton Mountains straddling the Wyoming/Idaho border. I’ve been coming to these ancient peaks since 1992, when I was seven years old and made my first trip West with my family from our native Upstate New York.  

Hello from Room 310 at the Apres Hotel in Whitefish, Montana. It’s currently 10:36 a.m. (Mountain Standard Time). Tuesday. The skies are overcast with a slight drizzle this morning. The streets in this small outpost town are somewhat quiet, too, especially after the whirlwind of the Under the Big Sky music festival this past weekend. 

Hello from Room 12 of The Sapphire Motel on North Seventh Avenue in Bozeman, Montana. I’m currently on my way to Whitefish, in the far northwest corner of the state, for the Under the Big Sky festival. I’m here on assignment, once again, where the gratitude to do so remains.