I’m standing in a rocky clearing by an observatory 9600 feet above sea level. My chest feels tight as my heart pumps against the elevation, though some of this sensation may simply be awe. I’m surrounded by rippling mountains, and I’ve slipped away from my group so it’s just me and the wind out here watching specks of starlight peek through the twilit sky.Article continues after advertisement
Between deafening wind gusts, the silence is so thick the crunches of my footsteps feel like they’re echoing. I live in the suburbs of Seattle, where there is always a passing car, a whirring leaf blower, a lawnmower, a barking dog or a plane passing overhead. I also have a four-year-old son at home. It feels as though I haven’t experienced a silence this complete in years.
Laramie, Wyoming is a speckling of lights in one direction, but if I turn my back to the small city, I can pretend man-made lights don’t exist, cars don’t exist, that I’m exploring a world on which mankind has yet to make a mark.
With my next crunching step, I startle a shadow. There is just enough light for me to see a tiny puff of white move in a zigzag pattern. A rabbit’s tail. I was wrong to think I was alone out here. Of course I’m not alone; on Earth life is everywhere. Microbes thrive in the volcanic vents of the ocean floor. I shouldn’t be surprised to see a rabbit at elevation.
