A Morning in Maine

We are out of camp at 5:30, walking in the dark. We have eight miles to go by noon to meet a hostel shuttle and are taking no chance that we'll be late. The trail climbs straight up for a mile. Lots of rocks, lots of roots but we move steadily and reach the West Peak of Baldpate Mountain as the sun rises. I am stunned and awed by its immensity. Orange-yellow shafts of light punch through dark blue clouds on the horizon. Above, the night sky retreats before the coming day. Ridges, peaks and valleys stretch in all directions around us. Fog–thick and white in some valleys, a mere wisp in others–lies in many of the valleys, soft cotton in dark green bowls under an increasingly blue sky. The ridges are still dark. The day’s light has not begun to pour across them yet. The only signs of human activity are we three and the few cairns and blazes guiding us across this rocky dome. For a few short moments that remain forever suspended in time, we are alone on the earth. I am transcendent in joy and rapture. This moment at this place justifies all that I have experienced in getting here. The Way Life Should Be.