The darkest, coldest moment of the day is an hour before dawn, when the moonlight has set, starlight has faded, and the sun has yet to lift its sleepy head. This time embodies the rawest tone of black that I know. Neither twilight or dawn, it floats in a nebulous world of its own. So sacred is this moment, that even friends of the night hush in respect and shadows cease to exist. Any disturbance of such solemn darkness would be a transgression of nature. And, there I was, in the midst of it all. As if it couldn’t get any darker, I was cloaked in a dark canopy of a forest, suspended at an elevation of 10,000 feet, miles away from any civilization that attempts to combat the tenacity of this darkness with street lamps and glowing fluorescent signs. And, somehow, I found myself breathing and moving through this blackness. The reason that summoned me out of my net of comfort and safety into this remote inky twilight zone was the lofty missio...