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Early risers treated to incredible scenery
(by Hertha Binder - December 30, 2009)
Early risers treated to incredible scenery
I have to admit that I'm usually still asleep when the sun comes up. If it's a drizzly, foggy day in winter or humid and hazy in summer, I didn't miss much. Nevertheless, if I did get up early, I could often observe nature's unique beauty.
Once, just before sunrise, the entire eastern sky was a glowing red, and our willow, the largest tree in the back yard, looked black against it, like a Japanese ink painting or a delicate paper cutout. All the little branches were fine black lines against the burning sky. I must have stared at that picture for a long time, because, even when I closed my eyes, I could still see the tree against the brilliant background.
Another sunrise comes to my mind. This was not a spectacular view, but quite a surprise. We were in a motel on the western shore of Lake Mead, the one that's created by the Hoover Dam. Our friends from Austria, Gerda and Ingrid, were sitting with us on the porch.
Across the bay, maybe two or three miles away, was a mountain, large but with a gentle slope. Its foot was in the north, the summit in the south. Just over its lowest part the sky became bright, and we expected the sun to come up there any minute. It did. Maybe a fifth of the bright disc showed. Then one of my kids wanted something, and I went back into the room, forgetting about the sun.
When I came back to the porch several minutes later, Ingrid was still looking at the sun, shaking her head. "It's still not all the way up. What a weird sun do you guys have here in America?"
I stared. "But it has moved. See, it's now a third up on that mountain."
Then we finally understood. The outline of the mountain lay on this day exactly on the sun's path. So, for about half an hour, only a small part of the sun showed, keeping the lake and us in the pale twilight of the dawn. Only when it reached the summit, did its entire disc become visible to us.
"That sure was strange." Gerda shook her head.
"And just think, Mom," Ingrid chirped in. "The sun didn't do anything, but the Earth turned in such a way that the sun seemed to climb up that mountain. And just on the day we are here."
"America sure has surprises." Gerda put her hand on my shoulder.
Sometimes you are just plain lucky with a morning. Take our recent weekend trip to Peek 'n Peak, a ski area in Western New York. There was my son, Jeff; his wife, Lynn, and 4-year-old daughter, Kaitlyn; and Chuck, going on 16. On the first morning, the two ladies had planned to take a lesson which started at 9:30. They had to sign up, rent Kaitlyn's skis, a hurry-up-and-wait affair.
"We'll have breakfast here in the hotel, right?" Jeff looked at me.
"Tell you what. You guys eat in peace, and then you take Lynn and Kaitlyn over to the ski school."
"And you?"
"Chuck and I want to start skiing right at 8:30, when the lifts open. We can eat later at the lodge, and we'll meet you at 10 at the bottom of the middle lift."
The main ticket office is a long walk from the hotel, but I was told that one could also get tickets beside a rather close lift. That's where Chuck and I went, but the lift guy shook his head. "No tickets here."
"Oh, boy."
"But I can take you up." He had a friendly smile. From the top of his lift, one could easily ski to the ticket office, far easier than walking with the stiff boots. What a nice guy!
So we rode up, we two the only ones there. The snow was gleaming in the sun under a blue sky. The entire area had been carefully groomed, the snow looking like corduroy after the machines had packed it down and smoothed it out. Then we stood there on top. Four or five trails were spreading before us. We were all alone, no other soul around.
"Grandma, that looks cool."
"I've never seen the hill like this."
We had skied Peek 'n Peak off and on for over 30 years, but never did it look so beautiful -- the manmade trails cut harmoniously from the woods, seeming to caress the softly rolling hills. We skied down to the office, cutting the first tracks in the snow.
"Want to go in and eat?" I asked after we had bought the tickets.
"Naw. We can do that later. Let's ski now while nobody else is here." Chuck's eyes sparkled. On the next ride up, he pulled cookies from his pocket and gave me some.
We skied all over the place, happily enjoying this unspoiled, pristine scene. Half an hour later, people were crowding lifts and slopes as usual.
All these little scenes -- the willow like a silhouette against the orange sky, the sun seemingly sliding up a mountain in Arizona and the chance for Chuck and me to ski as if the whole area were ours alone -- all that would not have been possible had we slept late.
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