Winter 2025
Snow crunches under my feet as I shovel the driveway. I pull the car out and traverse the icy roads to the airport. I kiss Annie goodbye and spend hours delayed, pacing the length of the concourse over and over. I miss the dogs already. I can talk to Annie; I can call her anytime; the dogs are just left unknowing.
I fly the highway in the sky into Austin, Texas. I meet up with the band and we run the sets. I ease back into the songs and then I try to shake them from my memory. Can each time be the first time? I want to experience them in the moment every time I sing them—I never want it to be routine.
The rain falls so gently it’s not perceptible but for the ripples in the creek. I take the long way through the neighborhood to earn my lunch.
I pass under the streetlights through the grackle filled parking lot to the market. I get some groceries and head back to the motel. Up the stairs—Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and into bed with a book.
I walk through the park on wet, crushed gravel. I go over the lyrics in my head one last time. Mallard’s waddle and quack as I pass by. Dinner at the local café is topped with a piece of coconut pie.
I sleep long in a blacked-out room. The first sounds of morning are tires on wet pavement. I open my eyes—coffee. The first show of the tour is tonight.
We load the van and head south on the 35 to San Antonio. After soundcheck I try to walk off the pre-show nerves along the river. As the last note rings out, I step off the front of the stage out into the audience to say hello.
We drive north up the 35 and park at our motel in Waco at 3:00 a.m. I put my bags down, brush my teeth, and charge my phone. I turn the lights off and listen to the highway drone.
The sky opens over the plains—turkey vultures soar overhead. We cross the Red River into Oklahoma.
The songs come at rapid-fire—there’s no time to even breathe. I grip the mic-stand so hard that my hands go numb.
The 35 south, back into Texas. The rain is relentless, the highway ponds. After the show in Ft. Worth, we drive east on the 20 into the night. The windshield wipers like a metronome to songs playing in my head.
We head south on the 49 through driving rain into Atchafalaya. The next morning we jog across state highways out of Baton Rouge over swollen creeks and streams to the 55—into Jackson, Mississippi. We merge back onto the 20 heading east through the mist into Birmingham, Alabama. We have the night off. I walk through rain-soaked parking lots talking to Annie on the phone.
I step out into the morning rain—thunder booming overhead. We push east into Atlanta. After the show we head south on the 75 in a relentless downpour—lightning illuminates the road.
I sleep until as near to call time as possible. I shower and get back behind the wheel. Crosswinds slam into the van as we enter Florida. I watch the sky for birds.
We drive through Alligator Alley at night—through Big Cypress National Preserve. I can’t see it, but I feel it all around me.
We continue south. The sun emerges for the first time in several days. Egrets follow behind mowers on the median picking at bugs stirred up by the fresh cut grass.
I walk along the shore on a windy, empty beach as waves break at my feet. Portuguese Man O’ War washes up with sargassum. It’s just me and the gulls.
I walk back to the motel under the waxing gibbous. I miss Annie, I miss the dogs, I miss my guitar, I miss my typewriter, I miss my bike.
The 95 north into Satellite Beach. I retrace footsteps from last year’s visit and add a few new ones. I stand on the beach at night—the clouds part and reveal the Moon and Jupiter.
Walking to get coffee, I stop and observe all the different birds in a small pond outside the motel, including a pair of sandhill cranes.
Out of Deland through Ocala National Forest—deer populate the shoulders of the highway. I ford across to the 75 north into Lake City.
We roll back and forth across the panhandle on the 10. Into the dusk—to the 95 north. We negotiate up the asphalt river through dense fog.
We take the 58 into Virginia Beach, Virginia. I walk familiar streets somewhere in the future. Fighter jets roar overhead.
Back out on the 58 to Emporia, Virginia, then down the 95 to Gastonia, North Carolina. I call Annie—only a few more days and I’ll be home.
I wake up in Greensboro, North Carolina. I walk for an hour to get coffee and a bagel. I sit in the coffee shop and write in my road book.
We navigate the 40 east and its tributaries into Jacksonville, North Carolina. This is the last night of this leg of the tour. After the show, me, Matt, and Charles are in a rental car speeding west through the night towards the Raleigh-Durham airport.
I sleep for a few hours at the airport. Then from the moment I board the plane and take my seat, I sleep again. I only wake up when we are parked at the arrival gate in Chicago. I have a long layover and go to the airport lounge. There is a “no cellphone use” room and I am the only person in it for over four hours.
Home for Christmas. I climb into bed with Annie and the dogs. We drink tea and read our books.
Lucy and Hayden visit for dinner and a gift exchange. With my touring as an excuse, the house isn’t decorated for the season. I make a resolution to never let that be the case again
I fly into Phoenix, Arizona. After the show in Tempe, we drive the 10 east into Wilcox, Arizona. In the morning, it’s east again through Las Cruces, New Mexico, to US 70, through White Sands and the Lincoln National Forest, into Roswell.
We retrace the previous day’s trail on the Billy the Kid Scenic Byway, through the Mescalero Apache Indian reservation, and back into Arizona.
In the morning I hike six miles through the cactus forest of Saguaro National Park. Then I get in a rental car and speed west on the 10 to the Casa Grande Ruins National Monument. I walk around the 14th century “Big House” and grounds.
I make my way to Interstate 17 and arrive in Sedona, Arizona as the sun is setting. I hike an empty Little Horse Trail and watch the last light of the day paint the cliffs. I arrive at Chicken Point as stars begin to appear in the night sky. I walk back to the car losing the trail twice in the darkness.
My headlights search every twist and turn of State Road 89A through Oak Creek Canyon. I merge onto the 40 west to AZ State Route 64 to the south rim of the Grand Canyon.
I’m up before the sun and walking east along the rim. I see the first light of day touch down on the canyon walls as the morning ravens soar overhead. At 9:30 a.m. I start down the Bright Angel Trail; a big horn sheep guards the way. I stop to jot down some New Year’s resolutions in my notebook:
Play more guitar
Improve my penmanship
Self-improvement—always self-improvement
At Havasupai Gardens I turn around and head back to the rim in one non-stop push—always finish strong. By 1:15 p.m. I have already hiked fourteen miles.
At sundown I walk west on the rim trail. I find a quiet spot that I have all to myself and watch the last light of 2024 caress the canyon walls.
I’m up early and racing west on the 40. I swerve around a roadrunner and push into California. Eight hours later I’m in Long Beach. I grab lunch and a short nap. Then it’s onto Hermosa Beach and the first show of 2025.
The 405 to the 5 south along the John Basilone Memorial Highway into San Diego. I walk along the bay under Venus and a waxing crescent moon. I watch a great blue heron stalk the shallows—stabbing its prey and swallowing it down.
A great night in Orange County with friends and family ends with a severe case of food poisoning. I spend the night next to the toilet—my body cramped and listless. In the morning I can barely open my eyes or murmur a word.
I show up at the Whisky a Go Go just before showtime. I’m still very sick— I fight through it. It’s one of the hardest shows I’ve ever played.
Back in the van, we merge onto the 5 north—I’m nauseous and weak. We stop in Castaic—I need rest.
We trudge up the 5 through The Grapevine and the Central Valley. I look for hawks. We take the 580 to the 80 west across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco. We play the same club on the same day we did exactly one year ago.
Just north of Redding on the 5 begins one of my favorite stretches of interstate: across Shasta Lake, along the slopes of Mount Shasta, and over the Klamath River into Oregon. Through the Rogue Valley, past Ashland and Medford into the Willamette Valley. Eight hours later I’m walking the water-logged streets of Eugene, Oregon.
We continue up the 5 through Portland, over the Columbia River into Washington—Mount Rainier shining in the distance. I walk all over Seattle and try to keep the homesickness at bay.
We go up and down the 5. We cross into Canada for a show in Vancouver, then back into Tulalip, Washington for the night. Motel rooms all look the same—it gets hard to distinguish one from the previous, from the next.
Just south of Salem, Oregon, the van suddenly loses traction and careens across two lanes of interstate towards the median and into oncoming traffic. I can’t believe it—this is how I die?
I feather the wheel against the pull knowing the van will over-correct itself. Sure enough, we go hurtling in the opposite direction—tilting up on two wheels. I see the pavement rising towards me in my side window and expect the van to flip. I feather against the pull again; we rock up on the opposite side and go sliding through the shoulder. Somehow, I get the van back on all four wheels, and we begin to spin 360°. We come to a stop in the mud and grass as semi-trucks thunder by. I start crying.
I open my eyes in Antioch, California and walk to a laundromat. I call Annie, tears welling up in my eyes. Back in the room I call Emily and then Lucy. I need to hear their voices; I need to ground myself in who I am and what really matters to me.
I walk to an Indian restaurant. After eating, I look at the foothills in the distance and start walking towards them. The next thing I know I’m walking a ridgeline in the Black Diamond Mines Regional Preserve. A large coyote watches me wearily, running ahead of me on the trail. I walk out of the park towards the rising wolf moon as the sun sets behind me.
I wake up in Oeste Home, an Airbnb in Morongo Valley that my daughter Emily assisted in the interior decoration of. I see her fingerprint in every room and feel her embrace all around me. I hear her whisper in my ear, “I love you, Dad—it’s time to go home.”
Coyotes yip as I stand and look up into the star dense sky. Here, in the desert, I resolve to withdraw from the road and retire into the bosom of my home, family, and affections. I feel a great weight slip off my shoulders. For the first time in a month and a half I sleep soundly.
I get in the rental car with Andrew and Bruce, and we drive into Joshua Tree National Park. I regale them with stories of my early touring days. It’s strange, now that I feel a chapter of my life coming to an end, the very first words of the story seem more present than ever.
We hike up Ryan Mountain at sunset. I sit on a pile of rocks on the summit and close my eyes as the sun burns through my sunglasses and eyelids into my consciousness. I open my eyes and begin the hike down. Nine more days.
In another motel, I toss and turn. I say out loud, “I need to get home. I need to get home.” I count the days down again, over and over in my mind, just to be sure I have it right. I visualize walking in the door, the dogs tackling me.
I pick Charles up just off the 10 and we make our way over to the 15 north into Las Vegas, Nevada.
I wake up early and beat a fast retreat out of Sin City. I drive the 95 into California, to State Highway 190 into Death Valley National Park.
I walk across Badwater Basin. Then I hike Golden Canyon to Red Cathedral and Zabriskie Point. I get back in the car and start driving west. I suddenly see the date on the car’s dashboard and scream out loud, startling myself, “ANOTHER FUCKING WEEK—ANOTHER FUCKING WEEK?!”
I ramble around Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes as the light fades on another day out here. In my room at the lodge, I run a bath and eat an ice cream cookie sandwich while submerged in hot water and bubbles.
I drive out to Dante’s View and lie on the hood of the car in the blowing wind and look up into the dark night sky—a sea of stars comes into view.
I watch the sun rise over the badlands of Death Valley and then later set over Morro Bay. I walk around the volcanic plug called “The Rock” and watch sea otters float in rafts.
I wake up to a text from Annie, “4 more days.”
Back up the 5 to the 99 and past double rainbows into Fresno. I walk the streets alone and contemplate my reflection in a pothole puddle.
The 58 east out of Bakersfield to the 40—through the Mojave Desert. We cross the Colorado River where the evening light falls favorably on Arizona. Through wind, rain, and snow we drive into Flagstaff.
Interstate 40 east into The Land of Enchantment—across the Continental Divide. Crosswinds blow the van sideways— the last hundred miles are a white-knuckle experience for everyone as we motor into Albuquerque. I park the van for the last time.
I get up early and go over to the airport—I’m three hours early for my flight. I drink coffee and wait. I fly to Denver and connect to Des Moines. Annie picks me up at the curb—a sight for sore eyes. I step into the house; the dogs rush me. I lay down on the floor as Dozer and Bentley pounce me and lick my face. I’m home.
