This is a column written years ago by David Beach for the Cleveland Edition weekly newspaper.

In the dying light of a day of record cold, we hiked to a rocky ledge in the Cuyahoga Valley National Recreation Area. A dozen of us stood at the edge of precipice—a gift of the glaciers that had scoured the area thousands of years ago—and looked out over the snow-covered river valley. The westerly wind, after racing across miles of open space, struck us head on and bit our noses and cheeks. Aching cold seeped into our boots from the rocks. Yet we stayed and kept looking to the southwest. We wanted to bid farewell to the sun.

It was December 21, the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. The sun had been up only nine hours and now was about to set behind the ridges on the other side of the valley. Amazingly, it had broken free of the clouds, and we were treated to a rare winter sunset. For a few minutes the reddish-orange, molten iron of the sun was alloyed with the icy, blue lead of the sky.

Park ranger Ron Meer had been describing how animals and insects survive the winter—how ants tunnel far underground, how bees create a buzzing sphere of warmth in the hive. But, as the sun touched the horizon, he stopped. We all grew silent and said our private goodbyes.

Solstice means "sun stands still." Each year, as the winter solstice approaches around December 21, the sun rises farther to the southeast and sets farther to the southwest. It traces a lower and lower arch in the southern sky, so its rays do not strike the earth directly. At the winter solstice the sun pauses, then turns around and heads north again. It is reborn. The days lengthen until the summer solstice around June 21.

We know that the process is the result of the earth being tipped on its axis, the northern hemisphere leaning away from the sun during a portion of the year. As I shivered on the ledge, however, I tried to forget such abstract astronomical knowledge. I tried to imagine the fears of ancient peoples who depended on the earth's natural cycles and endured long, dark winters without central heating and electric lights.

What if you didn't know for sure that the sun would return? What if the proper respect hadn't been paid to the gods this year? What if it kept getting colder and darker?

Ancient peoples worshipped the sun, and their priests and shamans carefully followed its progress in the sky. They determined the time of the solstice with elaborate structures, such as Stonehenge, or by watching the sun set over certain mountaintops. To counteract the growing darkness, ancient peoples lit fires to help the sun regain strength and battle the evil forces loose upon the land.

To celebrate the sun's rebirth and to relieve the tedium and dread of midwinter, they staged festivals of renewal. The Druids brought mistletoe into their homes as a symbol of life and healing. The Romans celebrated Saturnalia, a year-end festival of license and intoxication which was derived from earlier pagan traditions. Early Christian leaders set the date of Jesus' birth to coincide with the existing winter solstice festivals, and over the centuries many of the old traditions were incorporated into new Christmas practices. There are the Yule logs, candles, evergreens in the home—symbols of the birth of new light, the triumph of light over darkness, of warmth over cold, of goodness over evil, of life over death.

As I stood out on the exposed ledge and watched the setting sun, I felt close to the root of such traditions. I was far from a church and the city. I could forget about the tensions of the Christmas season, the frenzied shopping and the crowded malls. For a moment I could reconnect with the natural cycles of the earth, reorient myself in place and time as ancient peoples must have done for ages.

After the last drop of molten light had fallen below the horizon, our group walked back to a park shelter about a quarter of a mile away. We emerged from the deepening gloom of the woods and crossed an open field, our boots punching clean footprints in the virgin snow. Away from the ledge, there was little wind. It seemed perfectly peaceful, this cusp of winter.

The people around me were all strangers, yet I felt we had just shared something profound. We had witnessed the dying of the sun, the true end of the year. At the shelter, we would soon be sharing the warmth of a roaring fire. The burning logs would release to us the stored heat of the sun. And we would not be afraid of the longest night that was upon us. We would have faith in a new sun rising the next day.