Five o’clock. A whisper woke me. Pale light shone through the translucent blue Dyneema fabric of my tent, revealing a single hole in the clouds on the horizon. To the west, only darkness – a black veil that dawn’s first light couldn’t penetrate. A 20-minute hike brought me to the ridge crest with cold morning rain on my heels.

The oppressive weight of the sky bore down on the texture of the earth. With enough time, it would press the young, rugged peaks of Eagles Nest Wilderness into rounded humps. And me, caught in the middle of Titans, a witness to their timeless struggle. With bated breath, I hoped for light. I almost didn’t have the chance.

It started with a problem more often found in big cities: I couldn’t find a place to park in Vail. That’s life in today’s resort towns, where tourism, remote work and second-home owners have brought more people to the mountains than ever. An online search told me there was no overnight parking at the Gore Creek Trailhead, so I left my car in town and took a bus. Two hours later, $156 lighter and mildly sunburned from waiting at the bus stop, I finally stepped off at the dusty trailhead, more than ready to swap asphalt for alpine wilderness air.

But there is still much to celebrate, because the glowing blue jewel we call Earth exists. We were blessed beyond measure to have been created here. Let me tell you what I saw once I stepped into God’s country.

There was a time when people were free to roam this land, settle where they wished and survive however they could. How different their lives must have been, connected to the rugged wilderness so profoundly. I found a remnant of that old life that first afternoon, a weathered log cabin clinging to the edge of tree line. Who built it, and why? What was it like to live here, where storms roll in without warning and winter lingers into July? How long did they stay? And, more importantly, did I have the courage to spend the night there?

I might have, if not for the wildlife. When a mouse scurried across the toe of my sleeping bag, I gave up on the idea and pitched my tent outside. Near midnight, I went back in with my camera. Rusty hinges groaned as I eased the door open. My headlamp swung from a wire in the rafters, throwing long, uneasy shadows through the doorway and windows, the kind you half expect to see move. When I returned to my tent, the sound of foraging rabbits was thunderous in the stillness, and I slept lightly the rest of the night.

By 3:45 a.m., I was on the move again. The moon had dropped below the horizon, leaving me in darkness. My headlamp guided me around the lake and up a steep slope toward a high, serrated ridge I had scouted the day before. Astronomical dawn gave way to nautical twilight as I scrambled over alternating bands of tundra and talus, rocks skittering down behind me. “Don’t give up now,” I told myself as the long night faded. Near the crest, I found tiny alpine flowers sheltering against stones, and I understood their beautiful perseverance.

After returning to my tent from my high-altitude adventure, I grabbed my water filter and bag to get some much-needed hydration. On my way across the tundra to the lake, I saw a white dot turn into a sprinting mountain goat. A billy was running straight toward me at full speed. Twenty yards away, he veered slightly, then beelined it to my tent.

I knew what he was after.

My urine.

There are mineral licks where mountain goats can get the salts they need to survive, but why bother when there are people around? After a quick investigation, he found the rock where I had relieved myself and set to work licking it. The upside for me was that he made a stationary subject to photograph.

The mountain goats in this area are as thick as people in the resort towns. My last night was spent away from solitude and smack in the middle of a community of creatures. Laughing, bleating, splashing, running, chasing, munching, exploring and simply living life in the great outdoors.

Oh, and the mountain goats were doing all that, too.

How different are we from them, really? It was magical observing the nannies watch over their kids playing King of the Hill. They were unconcerned about me. I would feel a presence behind me as I sat watching, and there would be a goat peering over my shoulder. At the same time, I could hear the teenage boys across the lake whooping. As the lingering evening settled, the joy of living infused the crystal air, an abundant energy that cannot be found indoors.

Maybe it is not a bad thing to have timed entry permits and shuttles to control and monitor human use of the wilderness. $156 was a steal for what I experienced. Edward Abbey, in his 1968 opus Desert Solitaire, went so far as to recommend that no personal cars should ever be permitted in national parks. He suggested that we use shuttles, bikes, horses or our feet to explore the natural treasures that have been left in our care.

As it turned out, Vail is doing its best to juggle all of these factors. The new trailhead wasn’t far away, and I found it easily. It was hard to miss with the brand new 100-car parking lot attached. Had I called a human instead of using Google, I would have known that there was now a free overnight parking option.

And the light?

Well, I covered my camera the best I could during the rain. Meanwhile, some sort of divine synchronicity stepped in and lined everything up for a single person, me, to see. Serrated peaks led upward from flower-encrusted tundra. A rocky chute dropped precipitously to the gorge below. And a hole in the clouds, at least fifty miles distant, had a small splash of color. My wait didn’t last long.

The rain passed by, infusing the ridges and peaks with moisture-laden atmosphere. The hole widened slightly. Guided by divine providence, the sun found the sky’s only weakness. And His glory radiated through.

A miracle.

It happens every day, on this glowing blue jewel we call home.

It’s worth keeping.