March in the Blue Ridge. The air is undecided—carrying the sharp, lingering sting of winter in the morning, only to soften by dusk into something that smells of the hope of spring just just around the corner.

Inside the lodge, as the light from one of the last fires of the season dances across timbers the music begins. The guitarist is a man whose hands look like they’ve spent the last 20 years chasing ghost melodies through the hollers. He plays with a "lonesome sound". It’s the kind of music that doesn't just fill the room; it anchors it. It tells you that despite the frost still clinging to the north side of the peaks, the world is turning. you’re part of the story of these hills