Mountains at sunrise have a particular kind of light. There is a hard line
between the faces, one lit with pink light of dawn, the other still in blue
shadow of night. Some mountain faces never see the true light of day, staying
in shadow from dawn until dusk, the hard line just swinging about the top of
the peaks. Others hold this hard jagged edge for only a moment until the
snow-capped peaks burst into blinding light of day. 

Standing on the peak of the mountains, you see the hard line at the tip of the
next peak, and the peak after that. You watch the clouds slide across the
landscape miles away, and watch thunderheads building on other points. 

A rare chance to see them from above is a spectacle. Fields of jagged lines
jutting every which way, shifting with perspective and changes in light. You
can see the continental divide, the highest peaks forming a zig-zag row with
the smaller peaks and saddles to either side.

The craggy peaks that rise above my town are the first to recede into the
distance. I left them before daybreak, traversing the mountain ranges that
separate the west side of the state from the east.