Looking Up

Of all the natural wonders at GRP, the stars are perhaps the most underappreciated. We spend so much time hugging trees, turning up rocks, and admiring the local wildlife that we often forget to look up. The days are beautiful even if 11:00 a.m. rains are a winning bet. The nights are more entrancing still.

Most nights are spent under cabin roofs or blue fabric tarps, but on special occasions a group of campers and counselors may choose to stargaze before lights-out. Away from the city, the stars shine bright. That’s not to say that city skies aren’t beautiful in their own way – there are dozens of skylines in my sketch portfolios. Smog permeates light in ways the cleaner air of Cedar Mountain cannot. Even so, the converse is true.

Laying down on cool, dewy grass and staring into endless space conjures a sort of wonder-coma that is difficult to recreate. First, find a star. Some still. Some white, red, blue, orange, yellow. Others hard to tell. Some moving (pssst, satellites). Once you zone out, it won’t take long for the earth to swallow you. Like a rubber band, you are pulled farther and farther away from the sky swirling overhead. A dizziness or a wooziness maybe. Then there’s nothing underneath you at all. You lay in space, light years from the closest visible star, staring into the past.

These moments are for retrospect, not of the stars, sky, and their almost endless history but of your place right here. Your activities, hikes, afternoon programs, but mostly scattered fragments of your day, your week, your session, or your life. These moments are for growth, the kind that you don’t think about. I like to think that each star shining on the lake like wishboats is a memory made here, another added to a pool of trillions.

Story by Tyler Ove with photos by Brandon S. Marshall