Hello, I'm Bruce Jahn, and I would really like to share a part of my life with you—the story of our band, Cowboy Cadence.

The name itself may seem quite simple, but it holds a whole lot of meaning. Music wasn't merely something we performed—it formed an integral part of how we actually lived. As time passed, our group developed into more than a project. It became a family—created over the course of many long days, hard work whenever possible, and a very deep connection that developed further with each practice session and performance.

Between 1985 and 1995, these years molded me in ways I never envisioned. It wasn't all about the songs themselves. It was about the people and the actual feeling of creating something real right there together. I am truly thankful for the time I spent with three truly remarkable individuals—Bill Fortescue, his wife Sally (who got married at 18), and Kelly Trevelyan.

We met out on open land where life progressed at a rather consistent speed. Ranching dominated our days—very early mornings, long rides, the sound of hooves on earth, and the wind stretching itself across wide open spaces. There existed a very natural rhythm to that life itself. It was quiet, constant, and truly grounding. Almost involuntarily, that rhythm made its way into our music.

When we were all in our early twenties looking to escape the din of city life in favor of something much simpler, we went to very different areas within rural New Mexico—where the landscape itself inspired us. The complete silence really did create room for our melodies to arise naturally. All that we ever created originated from this setting—genuinely and completely unfiltered.

We recorded wherever we possibly could: tiny rooms, makeshift studios, and occasionally even outside. We managed everything all by ourselves. No big production, no outside input or direction. It was simply us, our instruments, and the stories we were eager to tell.

Each one of us brought something so different to the band itself. Bill had grown up in Elkins, West Virginia, surrounded by bluegrass and mountain music. His sense of melody and storytelling really ran extremely deep. Sally came from Asheville, North Carolina, where gospel, country, and folk had developed her voice and songwriting style. Kelly was raised in Laredo, Texas, and carried a real warmth in her voice that really did feel

A memory that has stayed with me is our performance at the Albuquerque Folk Festival right after finishing our song "Desert Heart." It was a warm evening, and as we played, everything just meshed together perfectly. I remember looking out and seeing people really attentive—some were visibly moved while others swayed to the rhythm itself. The applause wasn't very loud, but it felt incredibly real. That moment meant more than anything to me.

Another time at the Santa Fe Plaza Bandstand we played "Skyline Serenade." When we hit the chorus, the crowd immediately reacted by clapping, cheering, and genuinely connecting with the music itself. Later on an older woman told us that the song brought back memories from her childhood days on her parents' ranch. That's when I realized just how profoundly music could reach right down into one's life experience itself.

At the Old Town Arts Festival, Kelly performed "Long Road Home." Initially she seemed quite nervous, but once she started playing, the crowd fell silent. Afterwards, lots of people approached to share their own stories. Those moments—that sense of connection—were why we even played.

Not every memory is easy to carry.

In 1995 Kelly and I were getting ready to get married. We arranged a very intimate, personal ceremony surrounded by our family and friends—nothing really over-the-top—just something truly authentic to who we were. Every single detail mattered greatly to us—not because they needed to be perfect—but because they belonged to us. We discussed the music we'd play, the guests we'd invite, and those simple moments we longed to share.

She dreamt of continuing our life together, making music, travelling from one small town to the next, and playing wherever anyone would listen. She said she'd have long drives with the windows wide open, guitars in the back seat, and songs developing themselves somewhere between one horizon and the next. She pictured creating something enduring—not just a life—but a story that we'd be able to hold onto wherever we went.

There was a beautiful feeling of confidence in how she saw the future. Not rushed, not overly complicated, just steady—very similar to the beat we had found in our music and in each other. We didn't need an awful lot really. Just time, some really great songs and then the freedom to follow wherever the road took us. Looking back, those times actually did seem full of promise. Like all our efforts, it was finally starting to take shape and form itself

Then everything changed.

On a stormy night, Bill, Sally, and Kelly were returning from a performance when their vehicle collided with a tractor-trailer. The rain had been falling very heavily—the sort that distorts the road and devours all sense of distance ahead. Somewhere on that section of highway, everything changed in an instant.

They didn't survive.

There isn't an easy way of putting into words what that kind of loss feels like. In one moment, they were out there doing what they loved—playing music—sharing something very real with people, and the next, they were gone. No goodbyes. No final words. Just complete silence where there'd always been sound.

I recall the stillness that came after even more than anything else. The sort that really settles in and won't go away. It wasn't just the absence of their voices or their instruments that I felt; it was the absence of who they were themselves. Bill's constant presence, Sally's warmth, Kelly's sparkle... all of it, quite suddenly out of reach.

For a very long time, it didn't feel like reality itself. It still doesn't feel quite real some days.

There were several years when I found it too difficult to even think about listening to the recordings that we'd made. The tapes remained untouched and undisturbed as if they were something delicate—if I didn't touch them, then perhaps I'd manage to cling onto what we'd had a little bit longer. Every song held their voices, their laughter, their presence. And when I heard that... it was both a comfort and a form of pain I wasn't sure how to cope with.

So I waited. Not because the music didn't matter, but because it mattered all too well.

Time will change how you carry your burdens. The actual weight never actually leaves you, but it does shift. What initially seemed almost impossible to bear gradually became something one got used to living right beside. And somewhere along the line, I discovered that keeping our music locked away wasn't paying due respect to what we'd had; it was stopping it from carrying out its purpose as it was always intended to do.

We didn't create these songs so that they would remain silent.

We created them so that they could be heard. So that they could be shared. So that they could reach people just as effectively as they used to on those smaller stages under open skies in rooms where complete strangers were linked together for a short time at a time.

Letting go of the music wasn't about truly moving forward. It was about clinging on in the only way that still genuinely felt genuine.

It was letting their voices carry over and beyond that particular night—beyond 1995—into something that could continue living itself.

So after all these years, I decided to finally share what we created. Not for recognition itself. Not for anything like that. But because those songs continue to offer something. Because they still carry parts of Bill, Sally, and Kelly—parts of who we were all together, a family.

And perhaps they'll find their way into another person's life just as they did ours once before.

That road, that night, are things I carry with me. Not just the loss itself but the heaviness of every single thing we'd built up until then and all that could never get the chance to exist.

That night effectively brought an end to Cowboy Cadence.

The hush that followed is really quite difficult to put into words. But what lingers is what we produced together. Those songs contain our lives, our friendships, and the essence of the people I loved. Looking back now, I see it was never simply about music or the land itself. It was really about the stories of love, loss, hope, and connection. The type that really sticks with you long after the final note has faded out.

I still imagine us occasionally—Bill tuning his guitar, Sally's fiddle blending in, Kelly's voice strong and soothing, and me keeping rhythm in the background or singing myself. We didn't require very much indeed. Just each other and the music itself. Even today, I sense them in very quiet moments, in the land itself, in the sky, and in the songs themselves that still remain. What we produced didn't disappear. It simply progressed further and found many more places to live.

Maybe even with you.

If our music was ever able to make you feel something—even for a moment—then it really did mean something. That's all we ever really wanted. And if you've ever had that urge to create, to write, sing, or tell your story, I really hope you do. Whether you follow our path or make your own way, just let it out. Every voice contributes to something much greater.

Thanks so much for listening and sharing part of this journey with us.

Please keep the music going and the stories alive.

That's really all I could ever ask for.