Crater Lake

I was high up on the rim, far past the point where the typical tourist traffic faded into the twilight. Crater Lake is known for its impossible, pristine blue—a color so deep it feels like looking into the earth’s own soul. But tonight, the famous blue had been swallowed by a hostile takeover of pure, apocalyptic color.

The water below, still and massive in the caldera, was reflecting the sky’s fever. A lake that is usually a symbol of cold, clear purity had turned into a molten mirror of orange and red, the shades bleeding into each other like watercolor over an infinite canvas. I could feel the heat of the colors radiating off the surface, even from this distance.

I lowered my head against the cold wind whipping across the caldera lip. It made the snow-dusted slopes of Mount Scott in the background look strangely comforting, solid ground against the liquid fire of the sky. The sun, a perfect, blinding circle, was just touching the shoulder of the mountain ridge, sending a beam of pure light straight down, cutting a golden path right through the middle of the red lake.

It was more than just a sunset; it was a revelation. This lake, formed by a volcano’s rage, was showing its true colors—a deep, ancient passion hidden beneath the tranquil surface. For a few perfect minutes, the air itself seemed thick with the scent of pine and silence, and I felt utterly alone, completely exposed, and totally grateful for the raw, untamed beauty of this world. My thumb fumbled for the shutter button, trying desperately to steal a piece of this fiery, fleeting moment before the orange bled into purple and the lake reclaimed its deep, cold blue.