Miles Wide

american singer-songwriter: music; nature; travel; symmetry; love.

[mileswide]

I wake up at 7am sharp, my head throbbing. My dad is gone, and I'm on my own - time to find a repair shop for the car. After just a minute of research, I find a reputable, affordable mechanic just one minute away from where my car died. Ignoring my dad's advice, I put the car into "1" and drive it 300 feet, into the parking lot. I explain my situation, and the technician on shift, Tommy, looks at me with a concerned gaze. "Let's get you back on the road, man," he tells me. "Hop in." He grabs the keys to an old Honda Accord from a shelf and hops into the green car. "We're going to see the boss." We drive for about twenty minutes, and arrive at another Maxoto location, where a gently-spoken, well-dressed man assures me, "I know this is a stressful time for you. Don't worry, we'll get you to Los Angeles today. I have plenty of loaner cars, and we're going to help you." The genuine care that I sense from these two overwhelms me, and when they exit the room, I break down briefly. Wiping tears of gratitude from my cheeks, I call my aunt, who always tells me to call if I need anything. She offers to give or loan me the money I need, and assures me that we can figure out the numbers later. Before I know it, I'm driving north to Los Angeles for the next slew of shows. Family friends host me in their son's bedroom for nearly a week, and I spend each day meditating, working out, writing new music, and eating (fairly) well, (note that in-n-out burger was merely minutes away) and concentrating on the moment. Waiting for the call from my mechanic, I know that everything is out of my hands. All I can do is wait. The shows go on without a hitch, and Tommy calls back. It looks like the car won't be ready til next week, and my show in Seattle is on Sunday. I decide to grab a megabus ticket to San Francisco, where I meet Ami, an old friend from Boulder, at my show. She brings her sister along, who has a similar manner and is equally compassionate. That night, I call my friends a cab, thank them for coming, and meet Jess, a sweet, beautiful woman who had agreed at the last minute (thank you, couchsurfing.com) to host me for a day during my travels. Our conversations inspire me - we connect immediately, and she helps to assure me that I'm on the right path. We spend the entire night drinking whiskey and eventually, pass out. I spend the next day walking around Oakland with my host, feeling as though everything has come together. I cancel my show in Seattle, and finally, the call comes. The car is ready.

[mileswide]

As we go to leave the coffeeshop, I put the car in drive and step on the gas, but nothing happens. The engine is running, my emergency brake is off. I look at my dad, whose face is visibly distressed. "Uh, Dad?" "...Yeah." "Should I try reverse?" "...Sure." I pop the car into reverse and presto! We're moving backward. I brake confidently and shift the car back into drive. "Whew, that was weird," I say nervously as I press down the gas, this time with more conviction. But the car doesn't move - the engine revs, but nothing else happens. By this point, Tim's head is in his hands, which are all buried between his knees. He cringes, looking up at me. "Ky, it's your transmission. I've seen this before. Try going into 1, instead of drive." Sure enough, I slip the transmission into 1, its lowest setting, and it slowly creeps forward. My face lights up, and I timidly announce that we're okay. But Tim knows better. "You shouldn't drive it at all. Put it back in park," he tells me. I obey, and we both get out of the car. Nervously looking at the time, I say, "okay. We've got four hours before your flight out of town, and three before my gig. I think we can leave the car here for the night, so let's call an über." We do, and he drives Tim to the airport. He tells me to bring the car to a reputable shop in the area and get an estimate, but not to drive - I've got triple A, so a tow would be totally free. I hug him goodbye, hop back in the cab, and make my way to my gig. My head at this moment is reeling with thoughts. What if the car's dead? How much will this cost? Can I still go on to Los Angeles tomorrow, and San Francisco and then Seattle afterward? What's going to happen? I get to the venue and my worries are quickly assuaged by a cocktail and some familiar faces. Joel, who I had met the day before, appears with Conor, another musician from my show last night. I commiserate with them about the car, drink my fill, and walk all the way back to my hostel, where I finally crash. The next day, I'm supposed to be in LA.

[mileswide]

i know i left the story at a bit of a cliffhanger, but I'll try and jump right back in - it's been a bit crazy the past few months, finishing the tour, traveling back and forth between Denver and Rochester. but i finally have some time to tell this story, and i've got to do it. I'll pick up where I left off: at the observatory in Flagstaff. Tim and I take our time leaving Arizona - the state had been so good to us. we've made new friends, been hosted by the most generous and adventurous Kiwi (a New Zealander) I've ever met, and seen more beauty in the landscapes of that state than I thought possible. we decide to camp out for a few days between gigs, at Tonto Natural Bridge state park. the experience is as amazing as it looks. the lowermost picture in this array shows sun beaming through the bridge, which we walked on, around, through, and about. valleys teeming with life and water invite us in to hiking trails and camping grounds, natural and artificial bridges across flowing water in one of the country's driest states. But when we arrive in Southern California, a whole new landscape presents itself. rolling hills, which look more like mountains, surround the highway into San Diego, full of seguaro cacti and little else. the ocean towns along the shoreline are varied - La Jolla is a touristy locale with expensive shops and lots of pedestrian traffic, not to mention an unimaginable amount of wildlife, including sea lions and a slew of birds I've never seen. gargantuan waves pelt the shore, repeating their ageless chant again and again, beating against the sands of time immemorial. Ocean Beach is a quaint neighborhood, the southernmost in San Diego's ocean community - where we meet Joel and company, some friendly folks who appreciate live music and are happy to direct us to Normal Heights, where I'll be playing for the next few days. When we arrive in the artsy, developed district in northeast San Diego, we find ourselves in coffeeshop, near a couple of hipster-esque men in their late 20s, discussing yoga. "It's just stretching without the spiritual component," the taller one notes. "Without the dharma and teachings surrounding the practice, there's really no point." "But the stretching is in an environment of compassion and community, isn't that still worth something?" the shorter, skinnier man inquires. "They're totally missing the point," the other man shakes his head, "by leaving out the teachings. It's just glorified stretching." Tim and I look at each other incredulously, realizing that we've truly reached the West Coast.

[mileswide]

[mileswide]

the Grand Canyon is one of those geographic landmarks that almost everyone knows. it's one of the 7 wonders of the world - its majesty speaks for itself upon viewing the giant chasms. but describing it with words seems to be a monumental task; capturing the awe and essential beauty of a natural landscape so tremendously large in a few words is a daunting task. nevertheless, I'll do my best. driving into the canyon, Tim and I are excited. it's raining, but we're like kids in a candy shop, faces pressed to the windows, giddily giggling. as we enter the park, the first major view is available from the passenger window. I snap a picture before saying anything, and we slow down to a roll, both wondering if this is "it." Cheryl, our host in Sedona and guide to the canyon's most important sites, has instructed us to take three pit stops during the drive - we've marked the points and dutifully drive to those recommendations, constantly searching for another glimpse into the canyon. soon, it becomes overwhelming- the canyon is in full view from the car, and the lookouts themselves are just a cherry on top of the sundae. we hit the stops, stare in awe, and barely say a word. I step too close to the ledge for Tim's comfort, and he awkwardly beckons me to come closer to solid ground. he's not just being paranoid though - hundreds of people fall into the canyon each year. we take photos and continue our journey, feeling much smaller than when we had entered the park. by the end, we're both talking about the scale of the canyon, the courage or insanity it would take to ride a mule down, and the fact that we simply have to come back.

[mileswide]

flagstaff and sedona are in a climate they call the "high desert." it's arid, but also at an extremely high elevation - over a mile high (especially "flag", as the locals call it). this makes for gorgeous cloud formations, sparse but beautiful vegetation, and some of the most amazing natural landscapes I've ever seen. when we drive into flagstaff, there are winding roads that bring us down a canyon- the speed limit is marked as 20 around the turns, but locals are passing us quickly, making us look like lame ducks.

[mileswide]

[mileswide]

I'm not sure what to expect at the four corners of New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona, and Utah. a mystical power source? a wise old sage who has been meditating at this crossroads for nearly a decade? a tourist attraction? we decide to stop and take the twenty minutes or so that it might take to at least see the point, stand on it, and say we've been in four states at the same time. neither of us are sure what's in store. driving up to the turnoff, we notice that it's quiet. no huge signs or billboards are telling us to go this way. for a few minutes, we drive down the old road thinking that we might stumble upon something extraordinary. when we see a big chain link fence with the words "Four Corners" scrawled in old black paint on a wooden placard, we know we've made it. a small traffic gate with an even smaller attendant asks us for five dollars per person. gladly, we oblige and drive through, revealing a dozen or more flags, flying high in what looks like a circle. the parking lot is surprisingly full - we didn't see many cars coming down this road, so we're a little confused. we walk a few hundred feet toward the flags and suddenly, it's revealed: the four corners is a tourist attraction. an old, dilapidated community of American Indian vendors, circled around the medallion (pictured above). the flags are of American Indian nations and US states, and I don't recognize most of them. Tim and I walk to the middle, take a couple of selfies, and get out. quickly. on the ride into arizona, we laugh and joke about what a strange zeitgeist the location held- how oblivious the tourists seemed to the struggle and the plight of the native people, who seemed to be only tangentially involved, by way of souvenir sales and tourist interest in the geographic point. the drive through arizona just became more and more beautiful as we drove on. not a single moment went by that we weren't enraptured with the rock formations, mountains in the distance, or the vastness of the desert space we were now hurtling through. in these moments, we were totally serene.

[mileswide]

there's something unspeakable about the mountains. the way the shift and morph as you approach them is overwhelming- their scale is almost incomprehensible, up until the very moment before you reach them. as Tim and I drove out of colorado, into northeastern Arizona, we probably looked like wide-eyed children watching our first thunderstorm. the scenery was much different than we had expected - more green, more mountainous, and far more beautiful.

[mileswide]

[mileswide]

after amarillo, Tim and I decide we'll hit Santa Fe. I have a few days off between now and my next show, in flagstaff. it's dark by the time we arrive, and the city is quiet. we decide to eat right away, and I pull up a sushi spot downtown on my phone. the meal is amazing - one of the best we've ever had. after lots of cheersing with an amazing bottle of sake and stuffing our faces with gourmet rolls, we move on to check out the city. there's a bar with live music down the street - the screech of violin invades our ears before we can even see the place. by the time we arrive, we have a sour feeling about the quality of players. instead of going in, we turn on our heels and head east, to the cathedral. there are just a few people around town as we walk through the streets, and they're mostly alone. when we make it to the church, all is silent. we take a few minutes to absorb the architecture, the lights, and the history of the building. the next morning, we get some amazing Mexican food for breakfast and head back downtown. art studios are open, lining the street like seeds in a watermelon. the first studio we walk into has radiant sculptures resembling the sun on display. our next few stops feature Navajo artists, mostly painting and sculpture. there is a consistency in the quality of this art, I think to myself, that is no coincidence. this place is home to many artists who draw inspiration from the desert - the adobe huts, the blazing sun, the flat mesa. common themes tie the city together, and make it more than a small, sleepy town. satisfied with our art exploration, we get in the car and decide to drive north to the southwestern slope of colorado - a place I've never been, called "Durango."

[mileswide]

rolling up to the 806, I’m relaxed. the radio show went far better than I had expected, and I’m ready to meet some new people and play more music. right away, Mike introduces himself (pictured above, left) and tells me he heard me on the radio - can he introduce me tonight? I agree hastily and shake his hand, as I do with most of the other patrons. my dad and I order a beer, and I set up for the show. before I know it, it’s time to pack up and leave. at least a dozen people are still attentive, demanding another tune. I play summertime and the room erupts in cheers - when I finally leave the tiny space on the floor that we agreed would be the stage, three high-school age kids approach me.

“hey man, you were great. have you been here before?” “nope, this is my first time through the panhandle. you guys go to school around here?” “yeah, and we want to initiate you.” there’s a short pause, and I’m not sure what to say. “It’s just outside man, come out and we’ll show you.” “Okay…” I stumble over a single word, “give me a few minutes to say some more thank yous, and I’ll be there.”

fifteen more minutes go by - Mike wants to take a picture with me and some of my new friends. people buy merchandise, say thanks, and eventually shuffle out. finally, it’s time for initiation. somehow, I know this isn’t going to be good.

we walk outside the cafe just twenty paces, and the tallest of the group says, “alright. this is it.” he touches a lamp post and reaches to a metal sign next to it. “just touch these at the same time, and you’re in.” he demonstrates, seemingly unaffected.

something about the situation reminded me of being in grade school. the peer pressure, the “initiation,” even the juvenile smirks on these boys’ faces. in grade school, I would have been too scared to do it. something in my gut told me this was a practical joke, and that I wouldn’t like the outcome. but I realized that, as a stranger and a traveling musician, these guys had nothing to gain by humiliating me. to get over this childhood fear, I tried to think of it as doing them a favor, like… they were getting an out of town indie musician to join their little club.

i touch both of the poles and a surge of electricity shoots through my body. it hurts, just a little. literally shocked, i stagger backward a few steps and laugh. I look around and realize I'm not alone - we're laughing together.

[mileswide]

the across Texas is a long one, filled with tumbleweeds and changing scenery. slowly, the greens shift to brown and the trees turn to shrubs-the shrubs shrink to grass and eventually, disappear. a thousand wind turbines occupy nearly every corner of my vision as I drive, shielding my overly-tanned left arm from the blazing Texas sun. hours later, when we arrive in Amarillo, we head straight to the radio station. I whip my guitar out of the back seat and David, the radio host of fm90 who has agreed to have me play live in-studio, is waiting for us to arrive. with a warm smile and a hearty hello he greets us, shows us around the studio, and introduces us to other producers who work at Amarillo college (pronounced "Emeril" if you're from the panhandle). I play a couple of original tunes, hand david a signed copy of moon howls, and head for the door. he gives my dad and I am even warmer farewell, and throws me a Tshirt. I tell him we have to take a picture, for my blog.

[mileswide]

on my last day in austin, my dad (Tim) flies in from rochester. i grab him at the airport and we venture out into the city to see what we can find. after a delicious crêpe lunch, we decide to walk the main strip, where all the little music clubs live - I think it's called 6th? we spend an hour or so walking in either direction and decide that the temperature warrants a visit to Barton Springs. twenty minutes later, we're basking in the most glorious natural hot spring I've ever visited, dunking our heads and wiping out brows. after an appropriate amount of celebration, we slink off to find the adjacent frisbee golf course... later that night, Tim and I are back on 6th, looking for a cool place to hang for an hour. we stumble across a band playing Beatles covers and step inside - lo and behold, this is the same place I walked into the last time I was in Austin, bat bar! quietly, we watch the musicians and order beer. the bartender attended CU, so we talk about Boulder and music, and he offers to "totally hook me up" the next time I'm in town. I think this means that he'll bring people to one of my shows and smile, grateful to have made a new friend so quickly.

[mileswide]

austin texas is a magical municipality - it really doesn't belong in Texas at all. the locals will fly the texan flag with pride, and affirm loudly that you're in Texas. but don't be fooled; the oasis of art, culture, and greenery that is austin pledges no allegiance to anyone but the gods of expression, music, and debauchery. arriving at my host, Andrea's house is a surreal experience. I've been to Austin just once before, but I've never driven. being able to drive down congress and watch the capitol building fade away out of my rear view mirror as I approach "SoCo" (south congress), I feel a distinct and giddy sense of happiness fill my whole body. pulling into Andrea's driveway, I see her figure bent over, delicately plucking weeds out of a giant garden of ferns, ancient looking statues, and various trinkets & artifacts. she stands upright and directs me to the "car port"- a relatively new concept that I've come to understand is a necessity in places with sweltering hot environments for the majority of the year. we hug and exchange hellos - she introduces me to her two birds, one of which is named Cloud. i fall in love immediately - this is the first bird I've ever met who will open its wings and encourage me to pet it, both under its breast and by pushing its brow under my hand. this is love, I think - a bird raised and fed by hand, by humans, from birth. Andrea shows me the guest HOUSE that my dad and I will occupy for the next day or two, and I run off to my gig, impressed and flush with emotion. at "world of beer," i find a gaggle of individuals talking loudly and drinking craft beer. the manager sets me up with a huge table for merchandise and asks if I'd like to be sponsored by Sam Adams, brandishing a huge nylon banner with hops and a beer logo on it. never having been asked this sort of question on the spot, I put my business cap on and retort, "what can you offer me?" he and the Sam Adams rep look at one another, back at me, and with a shrug, reply "free beer?" seeing as free drinks are already part of my agreement with the venue, I turn them down. I almost feel bad doing it - they look like school children being told "no" for the first time, as they search for a less intrusive place to hang their banner than the stage I'm about to perform on for three hours. after the first hour and a half, I take a break and thank some of the individuals around the bar for listening - I really appreciate when patrons are paying attention and having a good time, so I like to introduce myself and make friends. one particularly attentive gentleman tells me he'll be looking for me after the show. after another hour of music and a short debacle with another employee (never turn the performer down in the middle of a song. just, please, trust me on this) I end my set and reintroduce myself to "Fern" short for Fernando, who tells me more about himself and his art. He gives me a receipt with a face drawn in ballpoint pen scrawled on the back. I give him an album. We take a quick selfie and part ways, but I know I'll see him again. I just know.

[mileswide]

[mileswide]

people always told me that Oklahoma was a vast, deserted wasteland, full of brown dust and maybe a few cows. they talked about it like it was the plague- not just with a sense of apathy, but with a mild, forlorn disdain. in reality, it's a beautiful (and yes, somewhat flat toward the center and west) piece of land with a few pockets of truly kind, genuine, and interested people. my experience in Norman was profound - the individuals I met were all happy to talk about their stories, my journey, and eager to buy me a beer. when the night finally came to a close, I had two more pints to my name, paid for by new friends, than I knew what to do with. I ended up asking to exchange the beers for beef jerky. the kind bartender obliged, and I went on thanking new fans and friends for their support, asking them to sign up for my mailing list do that they'd know the next time I make it to Norman. more than one person offered me a couch that night. I thanked them all and made my way back to Christy's.