Day 6: When the Unimaginable Takes Flight
Friday, April 3, 2026 — Good Friday
Sunrise: after 8
It snowed overnight. It was 23°F (-5°C) when I left the house at 6:50 a.m., but the world already felt lighter. Not brighter. Just… softer.
Mount Timpanogos caused me to pull over mid-drive. Fresh snow, yes. But it wasn’t the snow. A full moon was still lingering, pouring its borrowed light across the valley. Lesser light, but it filled everything anyway for a few seconds before slipping behind the mountain.
How many mornings had I missed it while waiting for sunrises or had it been hidden behind the clouds?
I swapped my rainboots for winter Sorels. I had accidentally grabbed my still-wet gloves from the previous day’s misadventures but kept going anyway.
At the wetlands, yesterday’s slosh had turned to crunch. The same ground, different sound. A thin layer of snow and frost had settled over everything like a quiet reset. I crossed my makeshift bridge and followed the same path. Familiar now. Almost easy.
The sky had flipped again. Heavy clouds sat over the mountains to the east, but just above them, heavenly blue. I doubted I’d catch the exact moment of sunrise over the horizon, but if I waited longer, I’d see something.
I watched a pelican drift across the water, closer than it had been all week. I’ve spent days tracking it, as if I paid enough attention, it might mean something. Maybe it did. Maybe I just needed something steady to follow.
7:30 a.m. came and went. Sunrise, technically. But no sun.
And for the first time this week, I knew I needed to keep waiting. So, I crossed back over the wetlands to the perimeter trail of the Rail Trail and started climbing to a vantage point above the reservoir. The rail trail felt familiar under my feet, but different this time. Not chasing a view. Not chasing a workout. Just… moving. Trusting the light would meet me somewhere.
A few bends in, it did.
No pyrotechnics. No color. Just a pure, steady white breaking above the clouds. Not fighting them. Just existing beyond them. And it undid me a little. Because the sun hadn’t been gone. Not once this week. Not even for a second. Not ever. I just couldn’t see it from where I was standing.
I stood there longer than I planned. Long enough to feel something settle.
On the way down, I had the most ordinary thought. I forgot sunscreen. And it made me laugh. The same sun that once felt dangerous now felt like a gift I didn’t want to miss. The risk didn’t disappear. But neither did the need for light.
As I walked back down the trail, I paused to fondly take pictures of my wetlands and was excited to see my pelican again. This time, not alone. Three of them, cutting quiet paths across the water.
And then, without warning, the trees in the foreground shifted.
The elusive eagle.
Not soaring at first, it simply appeared—low and deliberate, then rising, as if it had been there all along, waiting for me to finally look up.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to break whatever was happening.
It circled once. Then again, higher each time, effortless. I stood transfixed for fifteen minutes, just watching, crying. All week, I thought I was the one watching—waiting for sunrises, searching for meaning in the wetlands, following pelicans because they were steady and there. Never imagining I could see the eagle.
I had to wait longer this day to see the sunrise above the mountains, above the clouds. I climbed, paused, waited. And then the light found me—in the climb, in the pause, in the moment I stopped fixating on the familiar and finally looked up.
I walked back to the car in the same cold. 28°F (-2°C). Still freezing, but the frost was gone.
I had to wait longer this day to see the sunrise above the mountains and clouds. I climbed, paused, and lingered…and then, in that quiet stretch, the eagle appeared.
Good Friday has never felt especially bright to me—a day of tension, sorrow, and unfinished stories. Yet even on a day that remembers loss and betrayal, patience can bring a view far beyond what you imagined. The reward, when it comes, is fuller than you ever dreamed.