Season seven. State thirty.
I came to Chattanooga at the end of December specifically to think. Not to document a place, not to chase a shot list, but to sit with the year before it became last year. I wanted a couple of days to reflect on what I’d actually done, figure out what I’m going to do next, and come up with a word. I do this every year — a single word that becomes the frame for the twelve months ahead. I had it narrowed down to about twenty options, which is either progress or the opposite of progress, depending on how you look at it.
We’ll get there.
The Year That Was
A year ago I was planning this thing. Building the website, researching itineraries, creating something called Mainly Soup that I’m still not sure I’ve fully explained. Getting productive before I’d traveled a single mile. And then in May, when my birthday came, I went.
Ninety episodes later, I’m standing on a mountain above Chattanooga on New Year’s Eve.
One of the things I want to say clearly, because I’ve mentioned it in passing and it deserves more than that: giving up drinking this year was a significant part of what made all of this possible. Not the only thing, but significant. The math is simple in hindsight — three glasses of wine and the next day was essentially gone. Lethargic, foggy, slow. That version of me was not going to produce ninety episodes of anything. The alcohol-free version had energy, clarity, and the kind of sustained focus that a project like this requires. My sister made the same decision. Denise did too. I’m not prescribing it for anyone, but I’m keeping it.
No champagne at midnight. That’s fine. I’ll raise a sparkling water and call it a year.
Lookout Mountain
I drove up Lookout Mountain for the view and stayed for the Civil War museum, which I genuinely did not see coming.
Chattanooga sits at a strategic convergence of river and rail that made it one of the most contested points in the entire war. The Battle of Lookout Mountain in November 1863 — sometimes called the Battle Above the Clouds because of the fog that day — was part of the Union campaign to break the Confederate siege of the city. The museum on the mountain covers it with the kind of detail that makes you realize you knew almost nothing about this particular chapter.
Drone was out of the question — National Park system, no exceptions. The national parks pass covered admission, which is the correct use of that card.
Downtown Chattanooga
The Hotel Indigo on Pine and Sixth. Art everywhere downtown — elephants, murals, outdoor sculpture in a quantity that requires either a strong arts commission or a very enthusiastic philanthropist. Possibly both. I didn’t investigate. I just kept almost walking into things.
The Bluff View area along the river had cyclists, joggers, and a near-miss with an aggressive runner who had the trail right of way and knew it. Good views. Good light approaching golden hour. I got a drone flight in from a parking lot near the interstate, caught the bridge in the background and a church from above, and called it a productive afternoon.
Tapas at the Westin rooftop for dinner. Roasted cauliflower with chickpea, octopus with fingerling potatoes. The view from up there is the kind that makes you understand why someone would choose to build a city at the confluence of rivers. Extra scrumptious, as I apparently said on camera.
Never Burn Bridges
An old friend called while I was in town, someone I’ve known a long time who runs a large lighting company now. We’d worked together years ago and kept the relationship going. He’s providing equipment for an event I’m designing in February and went well out of his way to send me video demos of a snow effect I was trying to spec. Ten clips, a programmer working on it in his shop.
That doesn’t happen if we hadn’t kept the connection. It’s something I keep telling people — my daughter, friends, anyone who’ll listen — never burn bridges if you can avoid it. The connections you keep turning out to matter in ways you can’t predict.
Long drive to Gatlinburg tomorrow. More thoughts. Still narrowing down the word.
