Sunrise At 10,000 Feet

Without the time or energy to spend multiple days camping in Yellowstone midway through a 4,500 mile solo road-trip, I instead spent a marathon day and a half driving around the entire park seeing as much as I could. I spent that night driving around Lake Yellowstone (the highest lake in North America) hunting for spots to attempt star-trail photography. One thing I failed to account for when packing for my trip was that, even in July, it is really cold overnight at high elevations. At around 10,000 ft. up, it was in the mid-30's when I attempted to take a short nap in my car by the lake. After about an hour of shivering under all the clothes and towels I had packed, I gave up and headed to the spot where I would catch the sunrise.



Leaving my car in a small turn off, I made my way through a patch of woods in the pitch-black moments just before dawn. Alternating between using my flashlight and walking blind in the dark, I savored that childhood impulse to run from invisible assailants lurking in the inky shadows around me. I emerged from the woods just as the pale pinks and oranges of early morning were spilling over the mountains at the opposite end of the water. I don't know why I refuse to dress warmly when I know I'm going to be in the cold only temporarily, but I sat down in the dirt there in shorts and a t-shirt, shivering while I waited for the sun. At 6:17 am on the morning of July 25 there was only the soft, warm glow radiating out from the horizon up across the sky and down over the clear, calm waters toward my feet, only the sounds of my trembling, foggy breaths and the lake's gentle waves that are so different from the ocean's roaring crashes. The world did not exist outside of that moment.

While talking with a friend the other day I mentioned, somewhat facetiously, that I wished I could just skip 2011. Not because I expect it to be particularly unenjoyable, but because this one year represents a task to be completed before I move on to the next stage in my life and career. It's always the anticipation of things that make them more than they are. I think that's why I like road-trips so much: it lets me continually surprise myself with anonymous, road-side moments of quiet serenity that let me tune out the rest of the world.