It never ceases to amaze me the incredible people, places and things I cross paths with here in Western North Carolina. From craft artisans to world-class musicians, stealthy moonshiners to stoic veterans, backwoods folks and cosmopolitan socialites — they’re all here in Southern Appalachia.

It’s not only a time capsule, but also a window into the future.

With guitars in-hand, The DuPont Brothers are two men, two voices that become a singular melodic force. The Vermont-based siblings are quite possibly the finest acoustic duo out there today, nationally or internationally. Their mesmerizing sound and pure intent perpetuates a long line of powerhouse harmonic acts, bringing names like Simon & Garfunkel and Seals & Crofts to mind. 

I’m alone, again.

As of last Tuesday, I am newly single. To be honest, I’m not happy about that fact. Not one bit. This was the relationship where I felt she was the “one,” a person I truly could see myself marrying and having a family with. That notion — a wife and kids — has been the furthest things from my mind for years.

His voice will stop you in your tracks.

Russ Wilson is a bridge to an era, a time when style and class were synonymous with musicianship and showmanship.

I didn’t know who Balsam Range was when I first met them.

On Aug. 10, 2012, I had just moved to Waynesville — literally. A week prior I had accepted the position at The Smoky Mountain News, packed up whatever could fit in my old pickup and drove 1,016 miles overnight from Upstate New York to Haywood County.

Claire Lynch likes to blur lines.

Born and raised in Upstate New York, she eventually moved away, crossing the Mason-Dixon Line for Alabama at age 12. She carried in her mind the sounds of the 1960s folk scene of Greenwich Village in Manhattan and show tunes echoing from the record player in her childhood home. Soon, she’d cross paths down South with country and bluegrass melodies radiating from Nashville and beyond. 

It’s a lot harder than it looks. Stepping up to the first tee of the disc golf course at Grand Targhee Resort in Alta, Wyo., I was handed what looked like a smaller, heavier, more defined type of Frisbee. It was my first time ever playing it, and first time actually hearing about the sport. 

I did it again. It’s 9 a.m. last Saturday at the starting line of the Cashiers Trail Mix five-mile backwoods race. I knew I should have gotten more sleep the night before, should have at least had something to eat that morning. Shouldn’t have overindulged in the libations of Friday night, nor said the things I now regretted to my girlfriend.

How do you do it? I get asked this question quite often. Folks, whether friends, family or strangers, approach me and wonder how I’m able to write, day in and day out, about anything and everything. 

They were stuck. Sitting around the bar at No Name Sports Pub in Sylva, the members of rockabilly band Rumble Seat Riot were wondering if they’d make their upcoming show in St. Louis, if their broken down van in Greenville was salvageable, or if they’d even be able to make it back home to Des Moines.