Forever on Our Mind: Daybreak Over the Strawberry Mountains
I'm roused from sleep by a starry night sky over the Strawberry Mountains—and stay awake long enough to see something else entirely
104. Daybreak Over the Strawberry Mountains
July 1, 2016:
Soon after sunset, I lay down on the folded-out futon inside the Fall Mountain Lookout, which towers over the surrounding Strawberry Mountains in Eastern Oregon. At first, the stars glimmer almost apologetically—dim enough to where I must squint to see them through the tower’s windows. Before long, however, the sky darkens. It reveals more constellations than I could ever name, more stars than I could ever count, more celestial wonders than I could ever comprehend. Within a half-hour, I could probably write in my journal by starlight.
It’s like laying in a planetarium.
All those stars make it hard to sleep, so I’m wide awake by 4 a.m. I get out of bed, put on my glasses, and sit down at the lookout tower’s east-facing window—looking for the end of a forest that doesn’t appear to have one. A few satellite dishes occupy the hillside below, but that’s the only sign of civilization I see in the pre-dawn light. No car zips through the scene, because there are no roads to drive; no lights flicker on, because there are no homes. From this perch, I’m high enough up to see forested mountains roll, unobstructed and unbothered, toward the end of the Earth.
Before long, a purple pastel canvas wallpapers over the final remnants of the starry night sky. An electric band of yellow and orange crests the horizon. Pink and purple swaths collide overhead, quietly erupting in the softest fireworks show I’ve ever seen. The sun’s first rays pierce the forest’s sleepy veil. Its tendrils snake through the treetops and slither across hillsides. Light blues frame the sky above. The sun pokes its head out above the forest and surveys the mountain range—a gaze it’s cast since the Strawberries began forming when an ancient ocean floor buckled millions of years ago. Within minutes, the sun fully wakes from its nightly slumber.
It’s a new day.
This newsletter is free—but if you enjoyed this essay and would like to support my work and travels around Oregon, you can make a one-time or monthly donation at Buy Me a Coffee or via the button below:
And if you’re not already a subscriber, you can learn more about “Forever on Our Mind: 1,859 Love Letters to Oregon” and click the button below to subscribe to this weekly email: