Whenever I meet someone who has been lucky enough to see the Great American West, they usually respond with a comment about the sunsets followed by a deep breath and an audible sigh of ‘Aaahh’.
I understand it completely. The sunsets last and last and last.
Unlike here in the East, where the sunset is a bright orange ball one minute, fading to bursts as it dips beneath a mountain top or cloud bank, and then spreads a thin blanket across the sky before disappearing altogether; those of the West don’t ‘go down’ as much as they ‘go away’.
The best description I can give to someone my own age or older is a comparison to the old tube television sets when turned off. The image on the screen faded away to a single dot in the center of the viewing square before disappearing. To describe it to a young person takes skill and preferably – hand motions.
I tried to capture a photograph every evening while touring the West. Sometimes it was simply the reflection of the sunset against rocks or behind a cloud.
Always stunning – always breath taking!
Now I find myself wondering what Old Faithful would look like reflected through the muted colors of the evenings’ last blush, or what a sunrise does to the Badlands. I suppose it is a great excuse to go back and find out!
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