Shenandoah Sunrises

Article & Images by Bill Jordan

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Looking east from South River overlook on Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park this cold October morning, I realized I had witnessed but a fraction of the 21,290 sunrises since my first day on this earth. Actually, I almost missed my 21,291^st. Having misjudged the drive time for the twenty miles from Skyland where I was staying, I arrived just after the golden ball  broke the distant Virginia horizon bringing a new day for Culpepper, Fredericksburg, and beyond to Chesapeake Bay. If I stand right here for 23 1/2 hours, I won’t be late for tomorrow’s.

A calm, quiet peace enveloped this seemingly ordinary sunrise. This red/orange sphere signaled the birth of a new day as it slowly rose above the eastern horizon in silence save for the rustling of leaves as a gentle breeze appeared, as all wind does, mysteriously out of nowhere. Every 24 hours brings this morning miracle; yet, why are the dawns of our days so often ordinary? Ordinary…? Would anyone among those born this day be standing on this spot 58 years hence witnessing their 21,291^st sunrise? Who stood on this spot 700 months ago watching a similar spectacle? If we so fear death, why do we so often dismiss this daily birthing miracle?

Not thinking there would be any more to photograph, I climbed back into my truck to warm my hands before breaking down the equipment. Suddenly, without warning, a dark menacing cloudbank slid slowly in from the south. The sun, captured between the earth below and the clouds above, appeared as a gigantic eye peering out over the sleepy Piedmont Valley and on to the northwest face of Saddleback Mountain where I stood apparently the object of her attention. The diaphragm of my lens, at f/22, superimposed a starburst pattern upon the sun. Were the rays of light jetting off at all angles really there, or does this photographic looking glass invite me to see more than I would otherwise?

The wind intensified, the fallen leaves danced before me, and a raw chill saturated the hillside. Gradually the piercing eye closed as the advancing cloudbank blotted out its golden light drenching this morning spectacle in a gray somber mood. Never having photographed dark gray somber too well, I decided to give up and head for breakfast. Muttering something about getting somewhere on time for a change, I carefully packed up camera, lenses, and tripod.

As I finished, I turned back again toward the eastern horizon to discover a newly evolving cloud pattern showing great promise. Out came all the stuff again. With enough practice, I’ll be able to do this in the pitch dark. How many times do I need to learn how crucial patience is especially at sunrise and sundown?

The cloudbank moved ever so slowly north–northeast as the sun crept skyward. Would the huge fire–eye reappear in a final curtain call? I waited at the ready. Myriad possibilities filled my mind as I pictured my laptop’s screen filled with stunning images. However, within minutes the entire scene changed dramatically to patches of deep blue sky behind dark gray clouds hovering above a red/orange glow defining the black silhouette of Saddleback Mountain. Do our beginnings or our endings ever mirror our expectations?

Within another few minutes the cloudbank darkened, lowered, and covered the entire sky. A massive, fast–moving cold front arrived for a brief visit. By noon snow would arrive bringing whiteout conditions; however, by the following morning all had cleared. This time, choosing a nearby vista point, I was on time. From Thorofare Mountain Overlook, just north of Skyland, I witnessed the sun peering into another new day curious to see if I would still be there. How many more times will I be?

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