My husband, Marc, loves to tell the story of our first camping trip together. It was mid-May, high in the Colorado Rocky Mountains. Overnight lows had dipped below freezing, and frost had gathered on our sleeping bags. The nylon walls of our tent waved in a chill breeze. Just as the sun was cresting the peaks surrounding our campsite, I tapped Marc’s shoulder to wake him.
Bleary-eyed, disbelieving, he shook his head—perhaps he thought he was still lost in a dream.
“What time is it?” he spluttered. “Jeez, it’s cold! Why did you wake me up?”
“Let’s go greet the day!” I said.
This response made Marc laugh—and then guffaw—despite his fatigue, so he indulged me. Eighteen years later, he still teases me whenever I propose an early start. “Greet the day!” He mimics. “Let’s go greet the day!”
It’s become a long-standing joke between us. For all his teasing, though, Marc knows I have my reasons to wake early, and he, too, has warmed to the early bird lifestyle. Since that first trip, we’ve enjoyed other visits to the mountains, including hikes to treeless, rocky peaks, where lightning is a frequent danger in the afternoon. “Up and off the summit by noon” is a good safety rule for the mountains—but impossible without an early start.
Far more than practical matters like this, though, morning is quite simply magical. It’s a time of light and life, an hour I love just as much at home as when we’re traveling. The sun’s low-angled rays set flower petals aglow. Tiny butterflies cast shadows as long as my hand. Veils of mist hang thick over valleys, their edges just kissed by the dawn. Colors are deep, and every turn in the path holds promise.
There are no motors, no shouting voices—everything is hushed, except the birds. Their songs trill, cascade, and ripple through the trees. Sometimes the rustling of underbrush announces a squirrel, a deer, or even a weasel. Animals are bolder when the light is low. Even the shiest creatures linger a moment longer, held as if by a spell that evaporates as the day moves on, as more people enter the world.
I love the morning. Marc now loves it, too.
We traveled back to the Colorado Rockies this summer, to the same place we had visited eighteen years ago. And while Marc teased me good-naturedly about “greeting the day,” we both knew that we would rise early. We both felt the pull of daybreak.
No two mornings were the same, that week. Each had a unique beauty, a particular joy, a vivid light that lasted only a moment. Some days the lake was a mirror, doubling a landscape of rock, evergreens, and pearly sky. Other days, wind whipped the water’s surface and ruffled willow branches along the bank.
Above all, I remember the morning wildlife. Each day brought something new. Once, we watched a pair of mountain chickadees flying back and forth to their nest, bringing mouthfuls of insects to their babies. Another time, an osprey swooped low into the trees, again and again, trying to chase a bald eagle out of its territory. A hermit thrush serenaded from just off the trail, its voice like silver filigree in the pine-scented air; I was even fortunate to catch a glimpse of this shy forest bird. A red fox scampered down the trail but stopped not far from us to fix us with its amber gaze. I nearly stumbled into a moose one morning, as I backed up to catch perfect light on a wildflower (thankfully, Marc stopped me in time, and the moose just blinked at us, never pausing in his hunt for a leafy breakfast).
By the end of our hike each day, the sun was high. The rich, morning indigo of columbine flowers had faded to periwinkle. Mists had burned off, and shadows had shrunk back to normal size. Most birds were quiet, and other animals were hiding. Resting in the heat of the day. We were still surrounded by beauty, but the spell of morning had broken hours earlier.
We knew, though, that it would weave itself fresh the next day. The magic would be different, as each morning is different, but it would be there with the next rising sun. And we would be there to greet it.
