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“Super Cruiser 78454, cleared for takeoff, runway one-eight left, climb straight out. Have a good flight.”
“Roger, tower, 454,” I replied from my PA-12 “Super Cruiser” on the taxiway at Denver’s Centennial Airport. Little did I know I was in for an unforgettable Colorado Christmas experience courtesy of the majestic Front Range of the Rocky Mountains.
It was just before dawn of a Christmas Eve day some years ago. Weather was cool with unlimited visibility. Alone in my aircraft, I steered onto the centerline of Centennial’s primary southbound runway and pushed up the throttle. My instrument panel glowed in the darkness as I accelerated, scanning red-lit gauges for abnormal indications. At rotate speed I gently eased the stick back, pulling the nose up toward stars glittering high above.
The inevitable rush transitioning from wheels to wings swept through me as I climbed away from earthbound sightlines. The landscape rolled away in all directions, revealing a panoramic blanket of urban illuminations around the patterned lights of runways and taxiways below.
Flying due south, I leveled off and set cruise power. The lights of Denver slid behind me as I flew into rural darkness ahead. Colorado had little snow yet, except the summits of its highest mountains, especially those above 14,000 feet, dubbed “14ers.” Below, a serpentine ribbon of oncoming headlights slithered under my right wing, carrying highway travelers northbound for Christmas gatherings.
This OpenAI image recreates only a semblance of a scene impossible to photograph, one that exists only in a very special Christmas memory.
A few miles west beyond the highway, the gray, amorphous mass of Colorado’s Front Range was dimly taking shape to my right—the first, forbidding wrinkle of the mighty Rocky Mountains. To my left, a pale blue horizon was brightening above vast, brooding plains to the east. I have always marveled at the abrupt clash of horizontal and vertical landscapes where endless plains meet mighty mountains, slowing earlier generations of westbound pioneers before roads and railways were blasted through the high country.
Ah, but not so for fortunate wayfarers (like me!) who can today climb into an airplane and be amazed by perspectives only imagined by travelers throughout history. There I was, suspended between plains and mountains, between earth and sky, and between night and day. The next few minutes would create an extraordinary Christmas memory—thanks in large measure to my privilege to be a pilot. And maybe because Somebody wanted to show me something…
Below a faintly shimmering eastern sky, I was mesmerized by a sliver of reddish, orange light creeping north and south along the horizon. Suddenly, a golden sparkle broke through in the middle of it. The sparkle quickly became a miniscule arc emerging from the horizon, sending the Sun’s first shafts of dawn light hurtling westward above the dark plains.
Suddenly, my eyes were drawn to a beacon of light in my one o’clock position, just to the right of my heading. The snow-capped summit of Pikes Peak lit up like a candle! Sunlight reflecting off its white crown looked like a flame blazing above snowless slopes cloaked in darkness below. I swept my gaze clockwise to check my four and five o’clock views behind the right wing. Sure enough, a quartet of nearby 14ers—Mt. Bierstadt, Mt. Evans, Gray’s Peak and Torrey Peak—were flickering like a four-year-old’s birthday cake! Still further to the west, several Collegiate Peaks along the north-south Sawatch Range—Mounts Princeton, Yale, Columbia, Harvard, and Oxford—began to light up, turning the Continental Divide into a torchlight parade!
The magic of the moment took my breath away. Alas, it was only a moment. All too soon, my sneak peek was over as the rising Sun’s rays descended below the tree lines, lightening eastern slopes and chasing shadows into valleys.
I have since pondered the cosmic nature of my magical moment. My flight altitude had given me the perfect perspective. As the Earth was elliptically orbiting the Sun around 67,000 miles per hour, its 23-degree tilt brought winter and snowy summits to Colorado. At the same time, it was spinning eastward at Denver’s 40-degree North latitude around 795 mph, raising the Sun over the horizon, where it would cross the sky at about two-tenths of a degree per minute. And the Sun’s rays were streaking across the murky landscape to ignite high peaks in succession at 186,000 miles per second. A precious few of those seconds were never to be forgotten.
As I turned back north, the significance of the moment “dawned” on me. I had been witness to the coming of the light of the world that Christmas Eve morning in a unique way that seemed meant for me. Christmas is when we celebrate life-giving light in what may seem a dark world. In the distance, Denver glowed with the holiday’s promise of renewing love for family and friends, and for the everlasting grace of an Almighty God. All was well.
May the promise of Christmas bring you wonder and light in the year ahead.
- Colorado Christmas Candles - December 22, 2025
- The Cycle of Flying Life - August 25, 2025
Well done, sir! This is beautifully written. God bless!
I have to chuckle at the way you framed the “coincidence” of you being there to witness that. What an amazing gift from our Creator.
Those poor earthbound souls who wonder about this flying bug we have miss this beautiful gift of our Creator God, unique views of His handiwork!
Phil, Susan and Chris—thanks for the kind feedback. We indeed share a gift.
Nicely stated. Having flown in and out of Denver several times a week for most of my career I’ve also been privileged to witness the power of dawn to inspire awe that escapes words and never gets old.
I finished up my flight school in Colorado. Although I didn’t do any night flying. The views were incredible just east of the rockies. Then for 9 years, I flew back there to visit in the 182RG. Sadly my flight instructor passed away at the tender age of 91…He worked with me during the week I was there for 12 hour days. I’ll never forget him. God bless Rudy.)