As I breathe in the crisp morning air, the rest of the world remains asleep, at least for another hour or two. The sky is beginning to lighten, but through a canopy of twinkling lights from other worlds millions of light years away. The only sounds I hear are the ones I am awkwardly making as I set up my camera for a sunrise picture. The trees are still, cradled in the protective blankets of white and a soft mist is rising from the earth. Time seems to stand still but this place is breathing as heavily as I am. The soft tracks of an elk are right in front of me heading into Moraine Park, in the valley below. I follow the tracks with my eye and they lead me first to a deep orange Ponderosa, then back into a cluster of aspen before heading off towards the river. The wanderings of the elk distract me from the bitter cold, my breathe now taking its time to dissipate amongst the trees. A soft alpenglow arrives and I prepare my camera in anticipation of the sunrise. It is now much lighter and the twinkling canopy has vanished. Slowly the sun rises between the trees and a sudden gust of wind turns the forest undergrowth to a collidoscope of white. I try snapping a picture and my camera battery dies. Rather than take the 5 minute walk back to the car, I continue to watch the wind rain snow down all around me, as the sun rises and heats up the Earth. The sun slowly rises through the canopy of trees, bringing with it much needed warmth. I stayed with my mounted camera for 2 hours, until the first early hikers of the day could be heard driving to the Bear Lake parking lot. On my drive back to Cascade Cottages to make some breakfast, I came to the realization that that was one of the best photographs I have ever taken. In the silence of that early October morning, a thousand windows were opened. The landscape danced in its morning ritual of darkness to light and a new day was born. And I could just be. Look, listen, breathe and be. They’ll be time for pictures.
In the rural mountains of eastern Pennsylvania, lies Hawk Mountain, a ridge along the beautiful blue mountain chain. During the fall and spring, thousands of raptors fly overhead on their migration route between Canada and the southern United States. It is a crisp September morning and a layer of frost can be seen on the grass leading up to the trailhead. In many of my hikes, I always find I am one of the first ones at the trailhead, perhaps several hours before families and children explore this nature’s playground on an early Sunday morning. The trail begins on a ridgeline and follows it north to several promontory points with a full 360 degree view of the rolling hills of oak, maple and hickory. I walk down towards the woods to get out of the wind and sit down on a rock ledge overlooking the valley. A small fluttering comes from the top of an Oak and I see a red tailed hawk fly off into the sky. I hear as loud “screeecaw” as it soars at a 45 degree angle several hundred feet into the sky. It soon dive bombs into the trees and disappears, yet its echo continues to be heard in the early mountain air. Not long after, I hear a high pitched whistle a few trees to the west and look up. Peering over a 100 foot ledge are three baby hawks in a prominent nest in the crease of the uppermost limb of the oak. They continue to whistle for several minutes and eventually calm down and return to the comfort of their nest. I see the large hawk return and fly in powerful strides around the valley, at times soaring and at times gliding. Then, it would disappear into the clouds and vanish without a sound. At times the babies would whistle and at other times they would remain still and quiet. Occasionally, they would peer over their nest and see me, but mostly it seemed like I was invisible. About five minutes later, the large hawk returned out of the cloud and glided into the nest with a mouth full of food for the youngsters. They ate, still seemingly unaware of my presence. After what seemed like a short period of time, all four fly away, some gliding, some flapping intently, and one awkwardly bouncing in the sky. They fly up and down between the clouds and vanish into the sky. All four fly in different directions. The little ones appear so young, yet with a morning meal were flying in rhythm with their parent. Later that morning, I returned to the visitor center to check the raptor count for the day. There are people with binoculars looking at trees in the far distant horizon. Some have radio frequency systems to help locate raptors. Yet, a few hundred feet down the trail, up an old weathered Oak, four hawks return and stand silent, waiting to teach the lessons of the heavens. They have returned full circle and are patiently waiting for those who will listen.
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AuthorSean Jungo has traveled tens of thousands of miles of back roads, hiked hundreds of miles of trails per year, and visited dozens of national parks and monuments-all to bring some of the most powerful and awe-inspiring images of the American west. He has a passion for adventure, mountains and chili! Archives
March 2017
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