In the 3 a.m. darkness, we tumbled out of the car into the black parking lot—half a dozen sleepy students, shivering in the black morning. Overhead, the constellations danced in their pristine clarity, silver drops fading as they neared the half-circle moon, light for the first leg of our journey.
Not quite sure which way to wander, we made our way toward the woods, staying on a wider path. The white gravel crunched underfoot, loudly, while the forest around us slept, still.
Walking on into the darkness, I kept my eyes focused ahead, trying to ignore the foreboding thoughts vying for my attention. The 10 p.m. phone call the night before had seemed like a good idea: an invitation for adventure, a once-in-a-lifetime chance not to be missed. Only, the engulfing trees and obscure hour added adrenaline to the situation, an edge of fear that made me stick to the center of the group, counting the steps till daybreak.
A little over an hour later, the birds welcomed the lightening sky in a chorus of chirping song. We stopped to shed our extra layers and consult the GPS, wondering how the kilometers seemed to stretch on far past their usual boundaries. Not wanting to wait too long, we resumed our drowsy march along the mild grade.
Further on, we finally found a sign, visible in the predawn glowing. However, its etched numbers brought dismay: 3.5 kilometers to the top, a distance that would press us hard against the 5:09 a.m. sunrise. To the left, twin concrete lines streaked sharply up the mountain, remains of the tanker paths, reminder of not-so-distant past.
As the skies grew lighter, the group dissipated along the trail, three striking a brisk tempo toward the summit and two lagging behind. I found myself isolated for the last half hour trek, focusing on keeping sight of the ones ahead but still carefully measuring my pace, wary of a false step’s effects on a weak ankle.
Meeting the Harz Narrow Gage railroad tracks, our path meandered left, and I wondered if we’d make it at all, worried the early morning would be a waste. Suddenly, though, I rounded a corner, encountering the silhouette I knew so well: the signature towers crowning the Brocken’s summit.
Already the sky was turning golden, and early morning airplanes streaked salmon fire, long glowing strokes slashing through endless expanse.
Finally, I hit the pavement: 100 meters to the summit. The last time I walked this stretch of asphalt, fog shrouded our figures while sweeping rain hindered our advances. This morning, the wind appeared to accompany my ascent, but the sky remained blessedly clear—a blank canvas ready to be filled with the most beautiful of paintings. Straining my eyes ahead, still sleep weary, I searched for the sun.
Slowly, I climbed, eyes skimming the row of trees to my left, which were fencing off the sloping hillside. Then, all at once, a hole in the branch-to-branch wall.
I caught my breath as I stared at the blazing sun, red orb hovering under luminous layers of golden, pulling up the deep purples.
From that point on, my eyes feasted on the show, nature’s masterpiece a reward for our early journey. When I reached the summit, I stopped and stared, mesmerized, snapping photo after photo of the sunrise, momentarily immune to the wind’s icy fingers sneaking through my fleece jacket.
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Sunrise on the Brocken, northern Germany's highest point. May 24, 2011 |
Almost as an afterthought, I wondered at the buildings on the Brocken—their colors and shapes this time dominating the hilltop, which had been white-washed in fog on my previous visit.
Eventually, the cold prevailed, and I joined my fellow trio of travelers, who were already huddling inside a small stone shelter, safe from the wind, watching the last traces of fiery red dissolve into yellow dawn.
When the other two joined us, we opened our packs and shared our meager fare, breakfasting on apples, chocolate cake and cookies, complimented by a variety of beverages. Sitting on a wooden bench, I craved coffee, fighting sleep’s heavy pull, feeling daunted at the thought of hiking back down.
A quarter after 6 a.m., when shimmering goldenness had enveloped the mountaintop, erasing the vibrant strata in swathes of light, we gathered our belongings and started our descent.
Taking the trail I knew from fall, we picked our way down the bouldered hillside, the enormous rocks presenting more of a challenge for me this time around.
The familiar pain picked up in my knee, the muscle overcompensating for my still-recovering ankle, and I adopted a Dory-like mantra: Just keep walking, walking, walking.
Despite the adamant weariness weighing me down, I still marveled at the spring green, highlighting the grass, the trees, the bushes. Washed in dawn’s brightness, the forest welcomed our return, all of the earlier morning’s menacing gone.
We arrived back at the car at 8 a.m., quieter than at our departure five hours earlier and perhaps more tired as well. As the car wove its way back towards Wernigerode, I sighed into my seat, squinty-eyed exhaustion meeting smiling contentment.
Despite the adamant weariness weighing me down, I still marveled at the spring green, highlighting the grass, the trees, the bushes. Washed in dawn’s brightness, the forest welcomed our return, all of the earlier morning’s menacing gone.
We arrived back at the car at 8 a.m., quieter than at our departure five hours earlier and perhaps more tired as well. As the car wove its way back towards Wernigerode, I sighed into my seat, squinty-eyed exhaustion meeting smiling contentment.
Welcoming the morning, watching the sunrise—it was worth the work.
