I wanted to see a red moon. I wanted to witness the effect of the sun, earth, and the moon’s alignment altering what we accept as everyday: a white moon.
When the three bodies lined up as they did on March 14th, last Friday, the sun’s light passed through our atmosphere in such a way that the blue and green spectrums were swallowed up. Only red, yellow, and orange made their way to reflect off the moon, thus the bloody moon.
I was in La Quinta, CA—land of craggy, boulder-filled mountains—so I thought I’d hike high so I could catch the moon just as it broke the horizon. But being up high after dark is a tricky thing. I had my headlamp, true, I even changed the batteries just to be sure. But the vertical feet were tricky, they were steep, often covered with crumbling granite, the trickiest of the slipperies.
And my right knee was chirping. It didn’t want to bend a certain way so I had to adjust. I had to always lead down big steps with that leg to avoid the bend. I felt like an old man, hiking with poles, tentatively approaching large drops, leading with a bum leg, in the dark—it was humbling. Thank God none of you saw me.
I got to my destination and settled in. I clicked on the moonrise on my SkyView app and it was still a few minutes away. I called up my most melancholy Pandora station, Gregrory Alan Isakov. It’s the perfect moonrise-watching music—a blend of Bon Iver, Novo Amor, Jon Bryant, Nathaniel Rateliff, Lord Huron, and Trampled by Turtles. Ahhh, just writing those artist’s names puts me in a good mood.
But then I had a moment. I felt fear. I looked around for animals. Maybe I’ll struggle getting down. Maybe I’ll hurt myself and I’m the only person on this mountain. Maybe this was a bad idea. And who cares about a full moon anyway. I’ve seen a hundred of them. No, a thousand. And the blood, I didn’t see any red in it last night when it was almost full.
So I started back down. I’ll admire it on my hike back down.
After a half mile I stopped. I had second thoughts. I was descending into a canyon and knew I’d miss the moonrise. I turned my music off and stood there for while, staring into the slope. Come on, man, how many blood moons are you going to see? How many blood moons, high up on a mountain? I thought for a moment. Get your butt back up there. Come on, let’s go see a moonrise.
I reversed directions and headed back up the mountain, feeling like the most conflicted, double-minded, indecisive person I know. But at least I was heading back up.
I hiked even higher than before, confident a headlamp would do me just fine. I kept going. Then some more. Until I reached a landing I liked. Still, the moon hadn’t broken the horizon. So I waited. Checked my app. Waited some more.
Then I noticed the glow behind the rocky mountain in front of me. It had an orangeness to it. Could it be that I’ll actually see the blood?
I waited. Then in a small V in the mountain, the first speck of the orb shone through. It was pink. Very pink. Very worthy of the name Blood Moon.
More of it rose in the sky, equally red. Then the man in the moon appeared, looking down and to my left, surveying our world, looking almost shocked, almost bored, and red in the face. The earth had stolen all his non-red colors and kept them to herself.
I felt a thrill in my heart, a reaction I didn’t expect. But once it came, I knew why I’d hiked back up. Thrill. Awe. Smallness. Nothing but a speck in this great universe. I whispered, “Thank you, God. That is amazing.”
It reminded me why people stargaze. To feel their place. To see God.
It reminded me that I don’t want to experience my world through pictures on Instagram or through the internet or through TV in the comfort of my living room. Yes, I like my chair. But rarely have I thrilled, awed, or felt like nothing in my chair. I don’t want to pasteurize my experience of the world, to safety my way out of everything, or to comfort my way out of being in the mix. Whether it’s a mountain in La Quinta or a concert at the Greek or a trail on the granite with a thousand-foot drop to my left—I want to experience the thing.
When I got back to my campervan miles later and looked up at that shiny orb, it meant more to me. It will always mean a bit more. There will be a time when I remember the red tint and wink at that man in the moon and whisper, “Thank you, God. I am but a speck.”
