My phone beeped at 3:20 AM on August 24th,
warning me of a low battery, and woke me from a forgotten dream. In my early morning grogginess, I plugged my
phone into its charger and stumbled outside to check the sky. Innumerable stars winked at me from above in
the black velvet sky. I smiled. Yes, today was the day I would catch a
sunrise on top of a mountain.
I quickly gathered the necessities of hiking in the dark and
stuffed them in my backpack: three flashlights, a sweatshirt, a jacket, a
windbreaker, my Bible, my journal and a pen, and a water bottle. At 3:45 I took my phone, snatched my walking
staff, and headed into the darkness.
For the next forty-five minutes I drove through the foggy
town of Lyndonville, past the sleepy village of Burke, and over hills to reach
the trailhead for the mountain. I
checked my phone: 4:30, about an hour and a half before sunrise.
Somewhere in the darkness an owl hooted as if to greet me to
the haunted trail. I hesitated for a
moment and thought of a few unpleasant encounters I wished to avoid: a hungry
bear, an angry moose or a random cougar searching for an early morning
breakfast. Not to mention the roots and
rocks at my feet in the dark or the fire tower on top of the mountain…now, why
was I climbing to see a sunrise?
Ah…a sunrise captures a special place in my heart. It is a memorial of a new beginning, the
dawn of a new day, and restores hope that darkness is not final. Its sheer brilliance deepens beauty in my
own heart and (remains one of the few things that) squeezes tears from my
eyes. Brushes of pinks, oranges, and
reds proclaim God’s glory as the fireball rises over the eastern horizon. Along with all these, I am reminded that the
Earth orbits the sun at a tremendous speed—the heavens truly declared the glory
of God!
So ever since I arrived in northern Vermont, I kept my eyes
out for a good place to catch a sunrise.
However, this was no easy feat!
It is not called the ‘Green Mountain State’ for nothing. Mountains surround the town I live in. So I quickly surmised that I would have to
climb one in order to see a sunrise.
On the Sunday before, August 17th, I thought to
see a sunrise to celebrate my 32nd spiritual birthday with the Lord
(see Anniversary 2012 below). However,
a broken spring on the strut of my car and rain hindered me from catching one
that particular morning. Instead, I
stayed home and wrote a poem about how the Lord is the true Sunrise. So this
was not some crazy, last minute decision.
It was well thought out —it was probably just crazy hiking up a mountain
to a summit over 3000 feet in the dark.
Nevertheless, I pushed any hesitation out of my mind and
began my ascent in the dark. For the
first ten minutes or so, I hiked up a steep, gravel roadway, which led to a clearing. From there, I found the trailhead and
entered into the foliage of the forest.
For a moment I paused, turned off my flashlight, and listened. Except for a quiet wind hushing the branches
and a gentle creek gurgling a lullaby, silence reigned. No crickets chirped. No birds sang.
Darkness. Silence.
For the next hour I trekked up the side of mountain in darkness and
silence with only the shaft of light from my flashlight illuminating my
way. Somewhere on the path, I startled
a gaggle of three bats resting in a pine tree.
Thrice I slipped in the mud or on roots and rocks. Once I took a bypath, and fortunately for
me, came out on the main path. And once
I took a path I thought was a path and was not. I had to backtrack to find the way.
After about an hour’s hike, I reached the summit of Bald
Mountain, but not the height I knew I needed to see the sunrise. On top of this mountain sits a little cabin
next to a rickety looking fire tower. I
still had to climb about four to five flights of stairs to reach the absolute
top.
But heights are not my thing. Twice before I hiked up this mountain. I still remember the first time.
A work team had come to help out at the Fold and Mike decided to take
them to hike up Bald Mountain—a never ending climb when you are hiking it for
the first time. My heart sunk when I
reached the summit after a rather long, sweaty climb. The fire tower stood before me and fear whispered in my ear.
“Are you coming up here, Jeff?” Mike’s voice echoed from the top.
The others from the work team cheered me on so I climbed to
the top. I’m sure my knuckles were
white once I reached the top.
But on this particular occasion I was alone in the
dark. There were no voices of others to
beckon me upwards or to cheer me on. My
only hope was to see the sunrise. So I
climbed those rickety stairs to the top of the fire tower, constantly looking
upwards—never, never down—and finally reached the top. I crawled into the little box on top and
did not even dare to lean against the frail walls.
Then I waited, reading Psalms 45-47, and occasionally
glancing out the window. Fog drifted through the valleys and consumed a small
town. A bank of clouds or so I thought
stood in the eastern horizon. Was my
hike in the dark in vain?
 |
| Waiting for the sun to rise... |
But then, wonders of wonders, s sliver of fire erupted from
the eastern mountains. The sun began to
rise…
The beauty of the sunrise enraptured my heart. A tear rolled down my right cheek. The fire tower, the heights and fears associated with it, the trek through the darkness...all of it was consumed and forgotten by the brilliance and wonder of the sun rising in its strength over the eastern horizon.
 |
| The sun fully risen. |
