Hard-earned sunrises from Everest to Appalachia—finding beauty where few ever look
Leaving a warm sleeping bag in the middle of the night is not my favorite part of mountaineering. I joke that we wake up before we go to sleep so as not to miss any of the extreme cold the mountain offers.
What drives me on difficult summit days is the promise of orange slivers piercing the horizon. This phenomenon is known as alpenglow, where the mountains are backlit in photographic perfection. I can testify from many of these climbs; it is always darkest before the dawn.
Many are the summit pushes that I thought I had nothing left in the tank only to be rejuvenated by the warmth and promise of a new day rising through the spires. And these moments have happened all over the world, from the top of our Great Smoky Mountains National Park to the frigid summits of the world’s highest elevations.
It took three attempts before I was able to top out on Pico de Orizaba in Mexico. An active volcano, Pico de Orizaba has proven time and again to treat its guests with a gruff sort of welcome. The first time I attempted to summit, I was totally alone on the mountain. After a restless night in the high Refugio (which is reported to be haunted), I boiled water for coffee and some grits before taking off on this unknown journey. I secretly hoped for some company up there, but apparently picked the most desolate time of year to climb. The locals take Christmas holiday seriously, as they should.
It was spitting snow and deep winds blew as I set off across the scree field towards the glacier at midnight. My biggest concern was route finding here on Mexico’s highest peak. The wind would occasionally move clouds enough to expose radiant stars which seemed enormous at 16,000 feet. They did little, though, to illuminate my situation. Picking through a section known as the Canaleta, I fumbled around the side of this rocky mountain near the base of the glacier. My expected sunrise bump morphed into a hazy omen.
Hand over hand, I ascended vertical walls, obviously off route. I knew there was but a tiny portal that allowed my entry onto what they call the Sarcophagus. As hours passed it became evident. Orizaba wasn’t going to get climbed by me on this day. Adding insult to this injury I got lost on the descent and went down a wrong finger. The degradation of having to ascend another 1,000 feet just to get back to my point so I can drop another 2,000 was almost unbearable. That perfect sunrise would have to wait.
On Everest from Camp 4 in the Death Zone, climbers time their ascents to coincide with sunrise on the summit. This usually means leaving around 9:00 p.m. the night before from the highest campsite on Earth. So you can imagine my surprise when my Sherpa came and rousted me from the tent at 7:00 p.m.
Ang Dawa was no dummy. He knew his client needed more time than his 28-year-old companions who passed us some four hours later at a place called the Balcony where we switched oxygen tanks. It seemed as if daylight would never come and warm my frozen toes here high in the Himalaya. It was negative 20-degree weather. I distinctly remember that ethereal phenomena, though, when light began to rise from over my shoulder from the crevices of other 8,000-meter peaks. An overwhelming sense of “everything is going to be alright,” emerged effortlessly, despite the daunting elevation remaining.
My favorite sunrise spot in the world, though, is right here in our own backyard. You don’t need a down suit or oxygen tank to breathe in the radiance of a morning atop the Hangover in the Nantahala National Forest. Few will ever experience this view because of the climb and drive. Nearly 2,400 feet in 2.8 miles is serious Appalachian hiking. I wouldn’t doubt more people have experienced a sunrise on Everest than here in the shadow of four states.
However, I’ve had the fortune of seeing it more times than I can count. And I’ve found my group of people who relish the moments where the light hits our faces and for a moment we seem to float about our campsite. Many are the mornings our group has rolled out with a camp stove and set water to boil to coincide with the dawning of a stellar day. As the settled vapor clouds get pushed from the Fontana and Cheoah watersheds, Robbinsville awakens before your eyes in the shadow of the entire Blue Ridge mountain chain, it seems. We always have it to ourselves and no one speaks above a reverent whisper until the glowing sun has crested these mountain spines.
I’ve had the privilege of seeing more than a few mountain sunrises. They are experiences I recommend to all who are willing to put in the effort to catch. But this one? Atop a place I call home? Well, this one I wouldn’t trade for all the rest.
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