One night last summer we were camped at ten thousand feet up where the air is clear, high in the Mountains of Northern Arizona just outside of a town called Heber. And as the fire burned low and only a few glowing coals remained, we laid on our backs all warm in our sleeping bags and looked up at the stars.

And as I felt myself falling into the vastness of the Universe, I thought about things, and places, and times.

I thought about the time my Grandma told me what to say when I saw the evening star. You know, Star Light, Star Bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.

The air is crystal-clear up here; that's why you can see a million stars.

I remember a time my Grandpa told me that he and his friends were in a canyon of the Green River in Wyoming; it was a night like this. And they had their rafts pulled up on the bank and turned over so they could sleep on them, and one of the guys from New York said, "Hey! Look at the smog in the sky! Smog clear out here in the sticks!" And somebody said, "Hey, Joe, that's not smog; that's the Milky Way."

Joe had never seen the Milky Way.

My Grandpa told me they saw the Northern Lights once, in the Bitterroot Mountains of Montana. He said that they were like flames from some prehistoric campfire, leaping and dancing in the sky and changing colors. Red to Gold, and Blue to Violet