The first time I went to Delicate Arch, back in April of 2008, I stayed well past nightfall. It hadn't been my plan, it's just that it was beautiful and powerful and that as darkness fell more and more people left--as the sun sets into golden hour you'll be among about a zillion camera-wielding tourists--until I thought maybe I was alone. I lay down beneath the arch and let it block out part of the sky. At some point I did hear a person shift somewhere behind me. In the dry desert air sound carries a long distance and the night is mostly quiet and there is no mistaking human sounds. But nearly alone in a magical place is still magical. I stayed to watch the moon rise.
This time around I planned on staying late. I brought a full Camelbak, a little food, layers in case it got cold. It was the first night of my trip and I sought something like a benediction. I had been scrambling over the past few days to get everything ready, but all that was done now, and I could just sit. I wanted to meet the energy of the moment.
June is a lot warmer than April, and I was never even close to alone. A big guided group of photographers came up after nightfall to try to get shots of the Milky Way behind the arch. I could clearly hear them discussing technical aspects of nighttime shooting, despite being a good 100 yards away.
The moon was two days shy of last quarter and so wasn't going to rise until very late. The photographers' guide said that big thunderstorms the night before had washed all the dust out of the air--it was a stunningly clear night. The Milky Way was glorious and bright, and there were a billion stars, and I sat on a rock in the bowl below the arch and watched the heavens and thought about what the light feels as it travels between the stars.
Venus and Jupiter danced together in the west and I sat there in the dark desert night and and let myself feel what I was carrying with me and opened myself to what lay ahead.
