They say life is made of special moments.

I don’t know who “they” are, but I’ve lived enough to know their thinking is correct.

One of my favorite moments occurred on Cadillac Mountain near Bar Harbor, Maine.

For about twenty years of my professional life, I lectured at Harvard University each August. The University flew me to Boston, covered hotel/food, and paid me for my expertise. It was a great gig.

Joe went along a few times. So did my son, Matthew.

When Matt was twelve-ish, I–as usual–rented a car afterward. We headed to Maine. Besides savoring scenery and good food, our goal was to spot a moose in the wild.

We took the scenic routes, driving the backroads and hugging the ocean on our right.

There were hamlets. Inlets. Coves. Jagged cliffs and hills that flowed into the sea.

We saw lighthouses. Old white wooden steepled churches. Quaint libraries housed in converted clapboard homes.

Also, boats and ships and buoys and lobster traps and every flotational device in between.

The beauty was endless. Scene by scene. Mile by mile.

We ate our way to our destination, surviving on Maine’s two culinary sacraments: lobster and blueberries. I gained a hundred pounds each trip.

When you grow up a landlubber on a farm over six hours from the ocean it does something to a kid. It rewires the human brain. Thereafter, when you’re at the ocean (for the rest of your life apparently), you think it’s a 5-star experience that could never be surpassed.

To be precise, I was having a great time.

More importantly, and despite seeing no moose yet, Matt was too.

Cadillac Mountain is located on Mount Desert Island, within Acadia National Park.

Its summit is the highest point within 25 miles of the Atlantic shoreline of North America between Nova Scotia and the peaks in Mexico.

For about six months of the year, it is the first place in the continental U.S. to see the sunrise.

Hiking trails and a paved road lead to the summit. It was dark and cold, so Matt and I drove up in the early morning to view the sunrise.

It was incredible. Reds, yellows, oranges and purples from the sun shot fascinating rays across the water and up the mountainside.

Matt, at Sunrise, Cadillac Mountain

We repeated the experience the next morning, too.

At lunch on our third day in Bar Harbor, we overheard two people talking. (That’s when you learn the best information.) They mentioned going to the top of the mountain to watch the sunset on the other side.

Duh-ohhh. We’d never thought of that.

So, we did—that evening we journeyed to the top again.

If you face away from the ocean while at the top, you can see a spread of more mountains that results in a beautiful sunset.

We arrived about twenty minutes early and plunked down on a comfy patch of ground. Around us, people gathered. Groups. Families. Couples. All waiting for the same thing.

Some lounged on the backs of rusty pickups, others on the ground. A few brought lawn chairs.

To our right, about a dozen people huddled on the ground, formed into a C shape. A man sat in the center, talking to them in hushed tones.

We figured he was teaching a class. Probably a nature course. After all, we were in a state park. Maybe they were rangers in training.

As sunsets are prone to do, this one inched slowly toward the horizon.

The colors proved breathtaking, turning the crevices and canyons of the mountains into a rainbow of colors.

Strangers around sighed. Gasped. Some called out, “Look at that!” Or “Look over there!” Their voices revealed delight.

Then, when you thought it couldn’t get any better, that group we thought was a band of wannbe rangers? They began to belt out, “How Great Thou Art.”

Voices harmonized like a band of angels, the collective sound echoing around us. It was incredible. Magical. Almost heavenly.

Clearly the group had prepared for this moment.

Goosebumps shivered down my back and arms. Matthew sat open-mouthed.

We experienced our own little flash mob, before that became a thing.

When they finished and the sun turned the world from the golden hour to blue, everyone applauded.

But no one said a word.

It was still barely light enough that I could see a few people (like me) wiping their eyes.

Everyone appeared momentarily speechless, moved by the experience.

No one seemed to want to leave.

We finally had the wherewithal to stand and thank the group, although our words came out a little blubbery.

We journeyed back to Boston the next day talking about the moment that would remain with us forever.

It was weeks before it hit us that we never did spot a moose.

But that’s okay. A God moment on a mountain trumps spotting a moose any day.