Best Sunrise Ever

by Razz Trumble
Music Guy

While the Pulitzer committee considers the award-winning effort of my Best Concerts Ever (Best Show Ever: Concerts from the Past, 3.22.2006) piece, I got to thinking. It hurt, so I didn’t do it for very long. But before I shut the ole noggin down, I started thinking about other best evers I’ve seen. This of course led me to think about the best burrito ever (Papa Burrito; Champaign, IL; 3 a.m.), the best car ever (my friend Max’s ’65 Ford Mustang that his dad rehabbed), the best road trip ever (next installment).

Then I thought about the best sunrise ever. I’ve seen a lot of sunrises. The sun always happens to be doing its thing when I’m coming home, so I’ve become somewhat of a sunrise expert over the years.

The best sunrise ever had to be the sun rising over Lake Michigan at 5:30 am on a summer morning in Chicago. Me and Max were driving east on Garfield one morning and the sun started peeping out over the horizon and sure enough, in about two seconds, there’s this big orange ball turning the lake green and white and then water blue, nailing the trees along the shore with light so that the leaves looked almost blue like the water and then calming down to their usual green. There is a rustle and general cat-stretching feeling when the sun rises in Chicago, like the city is slowly waking up for the day. Why the rest of the world is not living in Chicago is beyond me. Except if you don’t live in Chicago, don’t move here. I hate tourists.

The next best sunrise ever was in Wisconsin of all places. At a campground. The light came tinkling through the leaves of the trees around our campsite just as the fire went out. It made diamond shapes in the dirt. Once the sun was totally up in the sky we knew we should go to sleep. Kinda like a backwards alarm clock from Mother Nature. Also, the beer was gone.

The next best sunrise ever was at the mighty Grand Canyon. If you don’t believe in god, you should go to the Grand Canyon and watch the sun rise. You’ll be a believer quicker than you would if you listened to the Bible thumpers that preach at you when you open your door to them. In the Grand Canyon, the sun eeks up in the sky and as it does, it throws colors across the canyon wall. It’s like someone’s taking a paint can full of all the colors in the world and splashing it right down the canyon walls. It’s so striking you can hear it—like cards shuffling—and the colors sprint down the walls, whipping by you, and your head spins it is so much sensory overload. And then the sun is up, sitting in the sky like it’s been there forever, filing its nails and ready to get on with the day. The sun in the Grand Canyon doesn’t really care that you are sitting at an overlook, out of breath, unable to walk because you just got knocked around with the biggest, prettiest event that you’ve ever seen. The Grand Canyon doesn’t care about it much either—it already knows it’s gorgeous.