Sunsets at Altitude

Raja and I were the only ones stupid enough to sleep at 16,000 feet on Orizaba. The wiser climbers were tucked in at 14,000 feet at a hut below. We spent that night tossing in our sleeping bags, trying to forget about our throbbing headaches and our dry throats and the wind slapping the tent in a raging symphony of thwacks. But our novice mistake had a silver lining: our foolishness meant we watched the sun fade over Orizaba’s crown all by ourselves. For one evening, we sat alone with the mountain. I memorized the stretch marks that the glacier carved in her sides and I traced the outline of her slopes again and again with my eyes. We stared at her in silence until the stars exploded onto their black canvas and the mountain melted into the night. That night, we traded sleep and rest for solitude and awe.