THE BEEHIVE TO THE GEM STATE

September 24, 2016

ALMO, IDAHO

There may not be another soul in the modern world who could say, "I can't wait to get to Idaho" with as much as excitement as I do. As I near the end of "collecting all the states" as it were, my excitement grows more intensely. Semi-unbeknownst to my travel companion, Kaitlyn, I insisted on renting a car and driving up the land of potatoes. I regale her with useless facts that (bless her) she pretended to care about (Idaho is one of the very few places in the world where every known gem has been discovered!!!), but my enthusiasm must've rubbed off on her because she eagerly snap-chatted our entrance into the state.

What we discovered was a, in a sense, a new planet. Distant mountains with the most marvelous rock formations. It was a landscape that I had never seen before, but was completely enthralled by. We walked through fields of sage, surrounded by the most pleasant smell amongst an endless spectacle of mountains, with rock arrangements seemingly plopped from the sky. I'm sure there's a simple geology lesson for me out there, but for now I'm still reveling in the surprising but arresting landscape of Idaho.

GROUSE CREEK, UTAH

"This is the road to nowhere."

I'm not sure how we ended up on the road to nowhere, or even how it came up on our GPS, but we followed the endless, winding dirt road for 30+ miles through the Utah desert. Twists and turns through the mountains, past small, neglected towns on an boundless dirt road. Despite the potholes and minor panic attacks on the dings of our rental car, it was magical. A perfect exploration of the undiscovered wild west.

THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS // A PHOTOSTORY

August 20, 2016

FORNEY RIDGE

ANDREW'S BALD

THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL - CLINGMAN'S DOME

INTO THE CREVASSE // MAMMOTH CAVE, KY

July 09, 2016

It has been known to be a grand, gloomy, and peculiar place. When we arrive, there's a distinct haze the sits above the entrance; the humid air of the South meets the cold air of down below. The light was hazy; the rain had given everything a small shimmer. We gather into a defined blob of people and travel down to the world underneath.

It started as a tour. The holiday weekend had brought tourists from all over; wearing brightly colored rain jackets and camera strapped around their necks. There's a pitter-patter of feet as we slowly dive deeper as it grows darker and darker. We stop. Our guide shows us how dark the 450 mile cave can be, and we are left in total darkness. But it's not darkness that I'm used to; I close and open my eyes, thinking once they're open the light will come back again. It is a suffocating darkness that sinks into my skin. There's a realization of being in the the 450 mile darkness and there's a flash of insignificance; our tour suddenly turns into a obscure and darkened expedition. Our guide flips on the few lights that sit in the cave and we continue on.

The names of Stephen and Charlotte haunt the halls of the cave. Stephen explored this obscurity, crossing the Bottomless Pit, a massive hole of darkness, while mapping out of what had been discovered. He was enthralled with the cave and its crevasses and pockets, saying he felt more free in the cave than he did in the outside world. He brought his new wife Charlotte into his shadowy world; they used their only light sources, a lard fueled lantern, to write their names in soot, forever imprinting their names in the cavern.

We learn of the Native Americans and mining for crystals, we discover about the church services held in the hollows, and the Confederate and Union soldiers exploring the cave together during the war. We inhabit in the cave. I became used to the cold and the darkness. I found myself existing the same space as the ghosts of the past, almost imagining myself as a creature that dwells down below. Just as I began to feel comfortable, we come back up; coming back up again to the most beautiful rays of sun, once again into the light of the world.

TEDDY

July 04, 2016

This photo of a Rough Riders TR is hung up in my bedroom.

I'm not a fan of fireworks. As my years grow in number, I began to dislike 1. loud noises and 2. people having fun while making loud noises. My inner curmudgeon dialog thinks that everyone can still have a great time, sitting quietly and not bothering their neighbors. So, I choose to celebrate America on the day we Brexit'd ourselves in 1776 in a different fashion: by fan-girling over my favorite president, Theodore Roosevelt.

He's synonymous with the Wild West, and it's easy to picture him hiking the rugged land of his then-foreign ranch (now present day South Dakota), but he's the only president that was born and raised in New York City. He spent his sickly childhood inside, reading books and collecting specimens for his own "museum". His father would later build one of the largest museums (and one of my absolute favorite places) in the world, the American Museum of Natural History. A statue of his son stands outside as a tribute to his efforts of conservation.

During William McKinley's first term, Spain had threatened Cuba's independence, and in typical American fashion, we intervened. I'm not a proponent of war (and I think we've already established that I like people to mind their own damn business) but I'm a fan of TR gathering a group of ivy league athletes, cowboys, ranchers, Native Americans, and essentially anyone else who could pick up a gun, and established the volunteer calvary known as the Rough Riders. They sailed to Cuba, defeated the Spanish army at the Battle of San Juan Hill, and TR came home a war hero.

The short version is, he became McKinley's Vice President during his second term. McKinley only lasted a few months before he was assassinated. The then VP went hiking in the Adirondacks while McKinley was living out his last few hours in Buffalo, NY. A telegram arrived for Roosevelt on the top of Marcy Mountain saying the president was gravely ill. TR read the note, finished his picnic and hiked down the mountain as the new President of the United States.

Badassery aside, my favorite thing about him was his dedication to conserving our (dare I say) majestic land. He developed the American Antiquities Act during his term, which states that the President has full authority to create national monuments, historic sites, and national parks without hesitation. He established 150 national forests, 51 federal bird reserves, 4 national game preserves, 5 national parks, and 18 national monuments, which equates to about 230 million acres of public land, all protected under the US government.

It's no secret I'm a nerd for the Department of the Interior, and I'm so happy to know that our greatest gifts still live on to be experienced by generations to come. His greatest legacy is that he pushed us as Americans to continue to explore, and to see the beauty in our country. He pushed us to always be up for the adventure.

"We have fallen heirs to the most glorious heritage a people ever received, and each one must do his part if we wish to show that the nation is worthy of its good fortune."

My college friend Rusty on a trip to NC in 2009.

WHERE HAVE ALL THE AMERICAN EXPLORERS GONE?

June 25, 2016

Let's start out by saying this: I love America. I don't love America in the same way that gun-toting Trump supporters love America, but I love my America. This is a statement that I probably wouldn't have uttered three years ago, but it's one that I say now.

I have an old co-worker who lived in Germany for 9 months, and started out 99% of his sentences with, "When I lived in Germany..." and I've tried my hardest to not be that person, but seeing as this is an integral part to this story: I lived in the United Kingdom. For 15 months. I spent 370 consecutive days away from America before I returned (for two weeks, and then I returned to London for another 3 months). But for those 15 months I proudly answered questions about the States, mostly from intrigued Europeans who for the life of them, could not handle the concept of living in a country so large (I on the other hand, still have a hard time grasping the concept of driving for days and going through seven countries, but whatever).

It didn't dawn on me until recently of how much I love this little (or large) country of mine. My co-worker, bless her 18-year-old heart, spent two weeks in the UK last Christmas and is now an expert on all things Britannia, claiming it to be her true home. She asked me one day if I ever thought I was born in the wrong country and my instant reaction, much to her dismay, was a resounding "no". I was born right where I needed to be.

Now that I've dived into the world of, and excuse my millennial-ness, travel blogging, I've realized how little of this internet community revolves around US travel. Go onto to Pinterest and you'll find every which way to pack a suitcase for 10 days in Italy. Or how to fly to the Polynesian Islands for cheap. And most importantly, how to book the best resort in Morocco. Yes, okay. You can find a lot about an American road trip and information on National Parks, but I think as a whole, it's hard to come by.

I've also recently (millennial!) started an Instagram account for this blog, and most "travel bloggers" (ugh, again, so sorry) are jaunting their way around Europe or hiking the trails of South America. And that's cool. Pretty fucking cool. But have you ever seen a picture of Zion National Park? Google images alone of that place give me goosebumps. And I have a difficult time thinking I'd rather go to Italy than tote around Utah (sorry Italy).

I may be alone in this. Maybe I'm the only one fascinated by the geographical anomaly that is the US (muggy swamps, crazy mountain chains, cities that rule the world, and then some cover this space, isn't that awesome?! No?) Maybe I'm just not looking in the right places (and I should probably know better than to trust Instagram on these matters) but where are all my American travelers at?! And wherever you are, please come find me. Let's go see our America together.

JOEY

June 14, 2016

"What's your favorite thing in this bar?"

A gnarly looking dude with wild curly hair flashed his smile (with missing teeth) and grabbed a flashlight. "Well, we have a human skull", as he walked over to the corner and shined upon a little human skull tacked up to the wall. "I'm not sure if we're supposed to have it, but here it is."

It was a Sunday afternoon. We had spent the day hiking and ended up at Yukon. After we went to the Pit. And after Tony's. This was our third (fourth?) beer of the day, and seventh (eighth?) notorious bar.

I was made aware of the Guide to the Most Notorious Bars of Alaska the very first night I got in. It was around 1am and I was slipping in and out of sleeping upright in the chair in the kitchen. Joe told me of his ultimate goal of getting to all of them listed in the book. He was excited about taking me to as many as he could; there he would ask bartenders about the history, favorite drinks, find out who has drank at that bar, and other myriad of questions that always led to incredibly interesting information. Joe thought I wouldn't want to take part, but there's nothing more in this world I would rather do than visit some crazy divey bars in the most remote parts of Alaska. And there's certainly no one else I would rather do that with than him.

Joe and I have known each other for almost 10 years, and I'm amazed we've stayed in touch this long. Some of my best friends and I have parted ways, ruined by miles of seperation and bad communication. Yet, for someone with no social media contact, we've always stayed in contact via postcards. He would occasionally send them to me in college, but now he sends them from Alaska, or Mongolia, or Tanzania, or wherever he may be roaming. (Fun fact: he's also responsible for my obsession with Mumford and Sons. One night, just as I moved to Chicago, he came rolling into town driving the Weinermobile and asked if I wanted to go for a ride. We cruised around in Rosemont at 1am in a giant hot dog when he asked if I wanted to hear a good song. He played Roll Away Your Stone, and it's been downhill since then)

There's always been something special about him and a lot of people can attest to that. I could learn to be the best writer in the entire universe and never be able to describe it. But in the words that I am able to use, he was the best tour guide of Alaska that there could ever be. Not a lot of people can ride around the state in a bright yellow retired taxi cab, getting under-the-radar facts about the history of Anchorage cross-referenced with bars and alcohol. As I grow older, my birthdays seem to be more sullen affairs, but not with him. Under the midnight sun I gained a year and we ended up at Crossroads (NB #10) where he gives me one last birthday present. He runs over to the jukebox and deposits a dollar; seconds later we hear the rueful tones of Father John Misty's I Love You Honeybear.

Until next time, AK and Joey B.

KEEP IT WILD // VIGNETTES FROM ANCHORAGE

June 12, 2016

TONY KNOWLES

My legs are entirely too long for this bike. I'm on neighbor Angela's bike, sailing along the Coastal Trail atop of a yellow bike, mountains shimmering in the distance. "You know, if you go out on these mud fields, you can get stuck and then the tide comes in and you'll drown" Joe yells from the front of our bike brigade. Great. I haven't ridden a bike in God-knows-how-long and I'm struggling to stay upright. I feel like a child on a tricycle. I am a walker. I walk. I will walk for 10 hours before I ride a bike for 10 minutes on hazardous roads and paths where everyone else is going far too fast for their own good.*

The only thing Joe loves more than riding his bike is group bike rides. He leads the way as I wobble behind; his roommate Rosey and friend Andy are behind. I really wish that I was last, because I can sense that I probably also look like a child on a tricycle. But then if I'm last, no one will know if I lose control and fall onto the mud fields, sufficiently ending my life, ruining Angela's bike, and worse, spoiling Joe's favorite activity.

*May be an exaggeration.

SOUTH ADDITION

I gently rock back and forth on the hammock. I look up at the blue sky; the beautiful weather had everyone outside. I watch as tiny planes circle above me. I like to picture them flying over the ocean and through the glaciers, off on some crazy adventure for the day. I look over to the fire pit which we utilized the previous night. There, I bombarded Joe's friend Andy with a 1,000 questions. He should know better than to escape those kinds of things when you choose to live in Barrow, the northernmost community in the United States. He's a seal biologist, but he gladly shows me a picture on his phone with him and a sedated polar bear. "We're just now at the point where the sun never sets" he told me. I am utterly fascinated and blown away at the same time that this is still the same country, the same nation and government as Tennessee.. just far more interesting.

ANC, 3.30AM

"But seriously, I need to talk about this."

"Should we talk now or talk in the morning? It's 3:30."

"But the sun's coming up, it must be morning."

"That's a good point. But we are pretty drunk."

"Also good point."

NATIVE CUISINE

I'm only feeling a little guilty, and my guess is because I've got Christmas carols stuck in my head. It has only spanned a few days from our venture to the reindeer farm, and now I'm eating one. Granted I don't think it's the same one that I fed, but I am feeling the full circle of a life of a reindeer.

It smells like a brat. I am asked three times if I wanted spicy (I say no, but I think I still end up with a spicy one) and I douse it in mustard. I'm not sure what I'm expecting; I surmise it will taste exactly like the cook-out brats that I always eat during family BBQs, but I have a feeling this isn't going to be like Johnsonville.

I take a bite. It's definitely done. As in, it's definitely cooked, but it doesn't quite taste like that. It's rough and chewy, and so damn spicy. But I paid $6 for the thing, I might as well continue to see if I like it. It's like I have to chew for 30 seconds before I can swallow. Is that how long it usually takes? I don't think so, but now I'm unsure and annoyed by the fact that I probably eat too fast. But I can't even finish this thing, it'll take me an hour! And Jesus, 6 bucks. I gotta keep going. I feel like I'm on Fear Factor. I get at least 75% of the way done and I can hear Joe Rogan calling time in my ear.

I believe this will be my last reindeer I eat, and suddenly I'm feeling a lot less guilty.

SUNSET ON ANC AT 22:01

"I've never actually been out this far on this bea-SHIIITTTTTT". We both bounce out of quick sinking mud. Joe escapes unscathed, my left boot however, was not as lucky. We walk the beach at Turnagain where we can see a tiny Anchorage skyline from across the bay. Joe is feeling guilty about my shoe. I can feel my sock slowly filling with mud, sand, and rocks from the Gulf of Alaska, (on my way to the airport after I had carefully packed up all my things, I might add). Yet the air was fresh and the temperature was perfect. The sun, my celestial companion during my time in AK, shined to give the whole state a golden light that lasted for hours. How was this a time to be annoyed?

LAKE HOOD

"Can we drive through, just one more time?" It's my last few hours in AK, and I'm trying to make it last as long as possible. Besides all the myriad of things that happened just before I left Nashville, I hate going to that place and calling it home. Joe obliges and drives me back around the road that encircles the lake.

Lake Hood: it's a semi-eerie place located out towards the airport. It's not too big of a lake, or maybe it just seems that way when it's littered with seaplanes. Despite the fact that's it's almost 11, the sun is still bright, and I can't seem to tear my eyes away from the mountains. "We don't have mountains in Nashville".

There are quite a few planes scattered about with big FOR SALE signs draped upon them. It's taking me a lot not to break down in tears; the only thing that seems to help is my daydream of buying that plane and becoming an explorer of mountains, glaciers, and sea. I could fly to Barrow and stay at the Top of World Hotel and spot polar bears out on the Arctic Ocean. I could fly to Gates of the Arctic National Park, a land area that spans larger than the country of Belgium of pure, untouched wilderness. I could fly to the Aleutian Islands and dip my toes in the Bering Sea. I could fly to Nome and celebrate the Iditarod. I could fly to Juneau and sit by the bay and look for whales. It's quite the dream, but it never hurts to think about whatever takes me away from the life that I know and start anew in the Last Frontier.