Garret K. Woodward

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It was during the third sip of my fourth beer on Monday evening at The Scotsman in downtown Waynesville when my thoughts started drifting to this essay from The New Yorker I’d read several years ago — one which I often return to, usually when the late summer warmth transitions to the early chill of an impending fall and soon-to-be-here winter. 

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With a quick roll start to crank over the engine of the 1916 Traub motorcycle, Matt Walksler hops off the bike and knocks down the kickstand. The 106-year-old machine rumbles, the smell of oil and gasoline soon permeating the air. He turns to the crowd of a couple dozen folks making a semi-circle around him. 

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For someone who rarely comes down from his mountaintop cabin in the backwoods of Western North Carolina, writer David Joy will put aside his eternal quest for solitude and silence for one thing only — France. 

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Tucked in the corner booth at a dive bar in Maggie Valley on Monday afternoon, I slid across the vinyl seating across from the young couple. They’d already ordered a couple drinks, mozzarella sticks and some fried grouper bites. Some Lynyrd Skynyrd song was blasting from the front bar. 

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While studying English at the University of Mary Washington, Christina Bendo decided to, by chance, take an elective one semester — pottery. 

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Sitting down at the old wooden kitchen table in the kitchen of my parents’ farmhouse in rural Upstate New York, all is quiet save for the sounds of the burping coffee pot on the counter and a few birds in the trees outside the nearby screen door.

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Whizzing around a rink on wheels conjures feelings of nostalgia for many people. This favorite American pastime has been enjoyed since 1902 when the first public skating rink opened its doors in Chicago to a whopping crowd of 7,000 patrons. Even before that, rinks were popular in Europe. 

Amid the evening whirlwind of friendly faces and hearty banter at Boojum Brewing in downtown Waynesville, John Duncan sips a craft ale, pauses momentarily, and ponders just what it means to be a conduit for the sacred traditions of Southern Appalachian music in the 21st Century — it’s preservation and, ultimately, it’s perpetuation.

In an effort to preserve and perpetuate the heritage arts and lore of the Great Smoky Mountains and greater Southern Appalachia, the Smoky Mountain Heritage Center has now come to fruition at the Meadowlark Motel in Maggie Valley. 

Growing up on a family farm just outside of Greensboro, Jean Osborne was surrounded by hundreds of cows and thousands of acres — a place where she roamed freely and in her own time on her horse. 

It’s early Thursday afternoon, and the two-story taproom of Mountain Layers Brewing in downtown Bryson City is buzzing. 

September Burton and Taylor Miller opened The Chef & The Baker in Maggie Valley in January 2022. They are a talented couple boasting a multitude of culinary skills. We sat down with September for a Q&A where she shared a little about their lives and the story of their new business. 

Serendipity is a word Makyia Blair has been using a lot lately. “I’m a firm believer in that everything happens for a reason,” Blair said. “And, so far, everything that’s happened has been serendipitous — it’s just worked out that way.”

Although the 5 o’clock dinner rush is still a few hours away, Chef Kanlaya Supachana is zipping around the kitchen of Dalaya, preparing several signature northern Thai dishes with such meticulous and precise care — no small detail overlooked, whether for presentation or palate.

Within its upcoming sophomore album, “American Pastoral,” rising Haywood County-based Americana/rock act The Brothers Gillespie has cultivated a vast, vibrant landscape of sonic and lyrical textures.

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With the Mason-Dixon Line in the rearview mirror, I pushed the accelerator down and proceeded to make my way up Interstate 81 North towards the Pennsylvania/New York border. 

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It was just about four years ago when Jeremiah Chatham decided to put down the hammer and pick up a spatula.

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I first got word about Steph Wilkins while sitting in the kitchen at an old flame’s parents’ house in the small, desolate Adirondack Mountain town of Tupper Lake, New York. 

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Amid a brisk walk down Phillip Fulmer Way towards the Thompson-Boling Arena in Knoxville, Tennessee, last Tuesday evening, I found myself quite possibly the last soul with ticket in-hand to enter the venue for the Paul McCartney concert.

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The beauty of the blues is that it’s a style of music you grow up alongside, one where you may pick it up early on and, perhaps, easily, but it’ll take a lifetime to journey down the rabbit hole of its intricate nature, endless depths of sonic textures and unlimited melodic possibilities. 

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Last Thursday afternoon. Downtown Waynesville. Rifling through a fresh load of laundry, I was beginning to sift through my clothes to figure out just what I needed for the weekend’s impending road trip to Maryland to cover yet again another music festival. 

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It’s been just about three years since the Cold Mountain Music Festival took place in a large field within earshot of the picturesque Lake Logan. And, for Jeff Whitworth, although the long road back to the stage has been arduous, he’s starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

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Standing on the sidewalk, I leaned onto the open garage door window of Sauced in downtown Waynesville. Sunday evening right before the rainstorm rolled in. An array of the younger, service industry crowd finally sitting down to congregate and enjoy a beverage on their own time. 

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At age 51, acclaimed singer-songwriter Tim Bluhm feels like he’s just getting started. The creative well of inspiration remains deep and pure, where his band, The Mother Hips, are continually exploring further and farther down the rabbit hole as this melodic endeavor is now 32 years in the making.

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It’s early Thursday afternoon, and though the Memorial Day Weekend summer kickoff is still a couple weeks away, the two-story taproom of Mountain Layers Brewing in downtown Bryson City is buzzing with locals and visitors alike. 

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Although I had a press pass waiting for me at the box office of the Thomas Wolfe Auditorium in Asheville for rock legends Chicago on Sunday evening, I found myself stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Interstate 24 East just outside of Chattanooga, Tennessee. 

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Feeling a bit deflated lately. It’s funny how one thing just triggers everything else, this domino effect that tumbles and echoes throughout the infinite physical and emotional chambers of your body, mind and soul. And usually (seemingly) out of nowhere. 

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Although the 5 o’clock dinner rush is still a few hours away, Chef Kanlaya Supachana is zipping around the kitchen of Dalaya, preparing several signature northern Thai dishes with such meticulous and precise care — no small detail overlooked, whether for presentation or palate.

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Standing on the massive main stage at the SweetWater 420 music festival in downtown Atlanta last Saturday afternoon, I hoisted the cold pale ale tallboy high into the air and saluted the moment at hand.

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At age 33, singer-songwriter Lukas Nelson is already building a sturdy, bountiful existence as a beloved troubadour, one whose onstage presence radiates genuine calmness, talent and inclusivity — a similar ethos and aura of solidarity established decades ago by his father, the universal musical institution that is Willie Nelson (who turns 89 this Friday). 

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It was somewhere towards the end of Set One of Night Two of The String Cheese Incident’s gig at the sold-out Salvage Station in Asheville on Saturday evening when the jam-band icons went into its new song, “Into the Blue.” 

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With its latest album, the EP “Into the Blue,” Colorado-based jam-band icons The String Cheese Incident have offered up a glimpse at where the group currently resides on the musical spectrum — everywhere and anywhere inspiration strikes. 

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It was a couple miles beyond the Georgia/South Carolina border heading north on Interstate 95 when the highway sign blinked brightly: “Incident, Mile Marker 14.” Expected delays and brake lights just ahead. 

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Musician extraordinaire. Freelance sniper. Dancer.

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Hopping out of the 15-foot U-Haul truck last week, I reached for the gas pump and began fueling up the thirsty vehicle. It was Hieb’s Cenex gas station on Route 248 between the small town of Reliance, South Dakota (population: 128), and the bustling Interstate 90.

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Sitting at the bar counter of Boojum Brewing in downtown Waynesville one recent evening, John Duncan sips a craft ale, pauses momentarily, and ponders just what it means to be a conduit for the sacred traditions of Southern Appalachian music in the 21st Century — it’s preservation and, ultimately, it’s perpetuation.

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I’m currently on a cross-country road trip. Pictured sitting on the U-Haul is Christine Kavanaugh, aka: “Aunt Chrissy.” I snapped this photo the other day on the side of the road in rural Wyoming off Interstate 90. 

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In the realm of foreign journalism, few correspondents are as fearless and compassionate as Jane Ferguson.

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It was a matter of $50 when my father finally relented to his birthday celebration. In the depths of The Classic Wineseller in downtown Waynesville on Saturday evening, several friends and family came together to celebrate the old man — aka: “the curly wolf,” better known as Frank. 

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It was an odd feeling to wake up in a natural state, rather than be disturbed by the noises of another impending day breaking through. The back bedroom in a small ranch house in the middle of vast swaths of farmland in Southwest Georgia. Silence in the large old brass bed. Sunlight trickled through antique glass windows. 

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Within his iconic melodies that have serenaded our hearts and minds for over a half-century, singer-songwriter Graham Nash is able to capture these vivid snapshots of a time and place, of people and things, these images we've hung up on the walls of our collective memory — the embedded signature of songs immortal.

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It was the sound of a fire truck roaring through downtown Knoxville Monday morning that woke me up. The window curtains were somewhat open. It was cloudy outside, signaling that the sunshine enjoyed yesterday had now moved on.

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I forgot to pull down the window shade and awoke to the early morning light on Saturday. There was a slight drizzle overtaking downtown Asheville. I emerged from the king size bed and reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand. 

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Serendipity is a word Makyia Blair has been using a lot lately. 

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In terms of musical ambassadors within the melodic melting pot of a scene that is Western North Carolina, you’d be hard-pressed to find an artist as dedicated and inclusive as that of Andrew Thelston. 

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It’s Sunday, Feb. 13. The Super Bowl will be underway in about six hours. I’m sitting at a table in the depths of Orchard Coffee in downtown Waynesville. Large cup of coffee (with a shot of espresso) nearby. A breakfast sandwich and yogurt soon to be arriving. 

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Like many recent businesses opening in downtown Canton, it’s usually a story of someone deciding to take a chance on a quiet town — a community full of potential that many have either disregarded or overlooked. 

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It was right around the third drink of the evening when I had the sneaking suspicion an existential crisis was going to rear its head before the night was through. 

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It is said that a cat has nine lives. If so, then singer-songwriter Brock Butler may just be half-feline.

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