This must be the place: 'Red pepper notes and yellow cigarettes, she shared and never asked for more'

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This must be the place: 'Red pepper notes and yellow cigarettes, she shared and never asked for more'

Graham County, North Carolina. Garret K. Woodward photo

With the late afternoon sunshine piercing through the tree canopy above the road leading into the Tsali Recreation Area on the Graham/Swain County line, the sounds of “One Alone Together” by F.J. McMahon echoed out of the truck speakers, windows rolled down with a cool fall breeze swirling around me.

“Watching the rain become silhouette pictures as you go, the gray mist burned off by the dawn, now to think of what’s become of our time alone together,” McMahon howls into the ether, the melody first released in 1969 to little or no acclaim, only to become a cult classic decades later — the album just as culturally relevant and beautifully haunting as ever.

It’s Monday. All of my assignments for this week’s newspaper have been written and submitted. Edit and kick the paper out the door to the printer tomorrow. More assignments and deadlines will emerge come Wednesday morning. Do it all over again. And again. Some 18 years as a professional journalist (age 40 now). And yet, the work remains bountiful. The work remains deeply fulfilling. The work remains. As do I, eh?

For now? Onward to do my favorite disappearing act, which is a gloriously sweaty trail run in the depths of Mother Nature. Somewhere, anywhere, so long as there’s solitude and silence, dirt trails meandering up and down mountain ridges, and this honest sense of self and of place, which is only (truly) found under these exact situations and particular circumstances.

The worries of the day now in the rearview mirror, both physically and emotionally. The rusty, musty, trusty pickup truck motors along in a steadfast hum of well-earned miles on the odometer. Dashboard still covered with dust from that trip in July through the Badlands National Park in South Dakota. Glovebox filled with maps and booklets for here, there, everywhere.

Pull into the Tsali parking lot. Just a couple other vehicles present, a far cry from the zoo of humanity here on the weekends. Pop down the tailgate and get my running shoes on. Close it up, take a deep breath and start trotting towards the trailhead, the sunshine falling quickly behind the Blue Ridge Mountains cradling my current position.

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While in motion along the County Line Road trail, I started thinking (as per usual) about the upcoming week. Restless thoughts. What to do. Where to go. Who to talk to. The miles that will be traveled. The hands that will be shook. The interviews and interactions with friends and strangers alike, all to fill these endless pages each week for you, dear reader.

This coming Thursday, I’m supposed to head to the University of North Carolina at Asheville and be interviewed by a professor about music journalism, which will be in front of a slew of high school kids for this media summit at the school. Now, I’ve done several academic panels before, mostly with college kids looking to get into this industry. But, I remain curious to see what the younger kids will think of this.

And, just like a restless mind does so damn well, my ADHD thoughts jumped to when I was in high school and college. It then immediately dawned on me that the amount of years since I graduated college (18) is the same amount of years I was when I entered freshman year at Quinnipiac University in Connecticut.

Just as I had this notion, my right knee attached to my 40-year-old body buckled on a rock covered in leaves on the trail. Slight ping of pain up and down my leg, only to soon dissipate. I regained my balance, sweat dripping down my forehead. As a lifelong athlete, I’m grateful for mobility and agility, even if my body and legs ain’t as fast as my college self. No matter, enjoy the pace. I stopped for a moment to simply take inventory of the solitude.

Catch myself. Catch my breath. Pause for a moment. Hear the sounds of the wind pushing through the last of the foliage leaves, knocking them back down to the earth. Hear the black crows hovering overhead on the branches, my beloved spirit animal of all time and space. Look up and nod in appreciation. Hear the sounds of absolutely nothing, too, which comes at a premium these days in a modern world of white noise, of daily chaos and confusion.

Circling back to my truck, my running clothes were happily soaked in another jaunt of the body’s abilities versus the landscape by which I traverse. The parking lot is now empty. Tuesday morning comes quickly, so do the endless responsibilities of the work week. Thankfully, as a vagabond journalist, my schedule remains haphazard, where I’m able to make my full-time hours fit into the ways and means by which I conduct my daily existence. Write when I’m inspired. Wander when I need to refuel my creative juices. Repeat.

Hop back into the truck and put it into drive. Back down along the Great Smoky Mountains Expressway. The ancient ridges of the national park in the distance. The last of the day’s sunshine crashing into the peaks and slow ly sliding down the contours of the mountains and into the valleys below. My foot remains steady atop the accelerator. No need to press down. No need to be in a hurry. Put on some tunes and let your mind drift, freely and openly.

While in transit returning to Waynesville, I received a text message from an old buddy who has recently relocated back to Sylva. He wanted to know if I was around, and if I was available for a friendly beverage at Innovation Brewing in downtown Sylva. A pint of fresh pilsner and a colossal “Blast-Off Burger” from the Cosmic Carryout food truck onsite at the brewery sounds about right, especially after a hearty jog into the wilderness. Sold.

Pull into Innovation. It’s trivia night. The place is packed and extremely jovial in nature. Small town vibrancy and intimacy found in the presence of some of the finest craft ales anywhere in Southern Appalachia. Two seats open at the counter. A big bear hug to my longtime chum. Catch up about nothing and everything and whatever lies in-between. Tall tales and hard truths. Both of us have had a rough last few years. And yet, our heads remain held high.

Arriving back at my humble abode later on, I kicked my boots up onto the ottoman. Lean back into the cozy mid-century modern couch. Gaze out the front window onto nearby Walnut Street. Downtown Waynesville is quiet, at least for now, at least until early tomorrow morning. A cool fall breeze can be heard pushing through the branches of the old maple trees in the yard. Shake my head in awe of everything in the rearview mirror, the beauty of what lies ahead tomorrow and everyday thereafter. The gratitude remains.

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

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