Sunsets

It’s easy to forget how fleeting a beautiful Idaho country sunset is.

Fortunately, I’ve recently had the perfect storm of events/lack of skill in my life that presents the opportunity to remember perfectly the speed with which a winter sunset disappears.

My first problem is probably that I don’t plan ahead very well in the “sunset” area of my life. Aaron and I have the privilege of seeing gorgeous sunsets out our window almost every evening. I’ve wanted to share at least one of these sunsets with all of you, perhaps from a secret desire to make you jealous, but mostly just because they’re pretty, we like them and we think you might like them, too.

Each time one of our window sunsets is particularly fantastic, I seem to be in the middle of cooking things that will soon burn or up to my ears in greasy pots, dish soap and water of questionable cleanliness.

I quickly bring the cooking to a close and abandon my dish-cleaning efforts to run out the door in Aaron’s cowboy boots, pajama bottoms and a t-shirt to discover ten seconds later that it is minus 20. I stand in shock for a few moments while my instinct for survival tries to override my desire to take a picture. Eventually, the survival system shorts out, justified by the excuse, “I’ll only be out here for two minutes,” and I dash away.

I scramble over the barbwire fence, curling my toes so Aaron’s boots don’t fall off my feet. I want to take the picture from a certain angle, so I need to cross partway into the field outside our window.

The snow has a crusty layer just thick enough to make me feel comfortable that it will hold me. This is right before it breaks and my foot drives down 18 inches into the softer snow beneath the surface. The snow and I play this little game with every step. It takes me the full two minutes I was planning on spending outside just to make it 10 yards out into the field.

By this time, the sunset is fading fast. I lift the camera with the intent of perfectly capturing the essence of all that is good about where we live to discover that my fingers are too numb to push the buttons. My instinct for survival says, “I told you so.”

Once the button finally presses down, the camera doesn’t take a picture. After shaking it gently and turning it in different directions, I see a yellow light flashing on the front, indicating that it’s set on “timer.” By the time I realize what’s going on, I hear the click of the shutter and end up with a blurred picture of my own confused face.

After the timer realization comes the realization that I don’t know how to change the setting. So I point and shoot, holding the camera still for 10 seconds, waiting for a picture. By the time two pictures are taken, the sunset has vanished, along with all heat from the sun and all feeling in my arms, legs and their attached digits.

I drag my feet back through the snow, crawl over the barb wire fence and make my way back into the house. Aaron looks up from whatever he’s doing and smiles just a little. His raised eyebrows ask, “How did it go?” I answer by handing him the camera, which holds one picture of my own face, upside down, and two black pictures with orangey-purple smears in the middle.

Better luck tomorrow night.