We drive in the dark to the trailhead. It's early morning, and we are not fully awake. There isn't much to say at this time of day, so we ride mostly in silence, sipping coffee from a travel mug.

At the trailhead, we park the car and strap on our backpacks - his filled with photography gear and mine with jackets, snacks, and orange juice. Thankfully, before we left the garage I had thought to check the flashlight we keep stowed in the glove compartment. It was dead, and without the replacement light I'm now clutching, we would not be able to see a single bit of the trail.

Even with the flashlight, obstacles on the trail ahead are just dim shapes. We stumble on rocks and roots here and there, although for the most part we navigate our way through the woods easily enough.

I've always found hiking in the woods at night to be a bit creepy and unsettling. But somehow, hiking in the hour before the sun is about to rise feels very different. There's a sanctity in the forest at this time. Perhaps its the promise of the impending light that changes the nature of the darkness. For me, morning has always brought with it a sense of calm and reassurance. Whether fevered with the flu as a child or tossing and turning with anxiety as an adult, many times the sun has brought me a sense of relief by signaling the night's end.

Now I switch off the flashlight. Just enough light is escaping the horizon, at the place where the sun will emerge, that we can begin to see the outline of things. Our strides become more sure, but then there's a sudden sound nearby and we stop. It was a rustle in a nearby tree, loud but not threatening. "A bird?" I ask.

"Most likely."

We continue on, feeling blind despite the increasing light. Soon, the predawn glow is enough that our black and white surroundings turn to color. It is happening so steadily that I begin to wonder if we'll make it to the fire tower in time to watch the sun as it rises.

We do, easily. We crest the hill and climb the stairs to the top of the tower, where we sit to wait. A cluster of dotted lights marks the spot of a small town far below in the valley. We can make out a cloud near the horizon, and we wonder how far or close it is. Will the sun rise in front or be obscured behind?

We wait a few more minutes, sipping orange juice and staring ahead at the horizon. I'm reminded that the sun knows how to make an entrance. It understands the value of suspense. Rob looks down to fiddle with the camera, and in that moment I see the first, slightest edge of brightness peer over the mountains. "There it is!" I exclaim.

It is no wonder past civilizations worshiped the sun as a god. It brings light and warmth and life, and to witness its majestic rise feels humbling and spiritual. I'm struck by the silence with which this happens. No trumpet fanfare or joyful chorus? And yet the silence makes it all the more sacred. I gaze into the valley and wonder how many people are staring up at the sky, witnessing the day's birth. Is there anything else so ordinary that is also so extraordinary?

I am always surprised by how quickly the sun slides into the sky. If the earth is turning that fast, shouldn't I feel it? We watch the sunshine fall on the mountains, a line of light that moves across the land. Where the mountains ripple, shadows form. From here, the scurrying and worrying that will fill the day below seem insignificant. From here, the only truths are the solidness of the mountains and the steadiness of the sun.