Night sky memories

"When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars that thou hast ordained;
What is man, that thou art mindful of him?"
- Psalm 8:3-4

Here are some memories of night skies that I don't want to forget. One day, maybe, I'll add photos to the memories. But the words will suffice for now.

1. The Northern Lights from Pigeon Lake

My grandparents had a cottage on Pigeon Lake, southwest of Edmonton, Alberta. We spent many happy days and nights there when I was a boy.

One night, we were camping out on the front lawn. My cousins and I were lying there in our sleeping bags, gazing up at the night sky. Suddenly the sky filled with shimmering curtains of pale green light. Lying there, watching them billow and curl across the sky above us, reminded me of lying on the living room floor underneath Mom's sheer draperies, as the breeze from the open window blew them back and forth.

I know that the Northern Lights don't make a sound, but in my mind they made a faint metallic screeching noise as they drifted across the sky. I have since read that other people also sense sounds associated with the Northern Lights.

2. On the side of the road, in the dark, with Blair Muhlestein and the Boy Scouts

One Friday night, Blair Muhlestein and I were taking a bunch of Boy Scouts camping. It was deep winter, so in spite of our efforts, we didn't get on the road until after dark. While on the road, we needed to take a nature break, and so we pulled off on the shoulder.

This was at a high spot on a winding two-lane mountain road, high in the Colorado Rockies. As we stood on the embankment, making our offerings to the canyon hidden in shadow below us, I tipped my head back and looked up at a night sky full of stars. Even though the background was purest black, the entire sky was carpeted with pinpoints of light. The stars were more dense than sugar sprinkles on a gourmet Christmas cookie. This was what Linus Van Pelt meant when he told Lucy, "It's pitch-white outside."

3. Waking up at 3 in the morning, on a mountain top in the Rockies

Another time, I accompanied 30 or 40 Boy Scouts and their leaders on a short overnight trip. We backpacked a short distance from the lodge at Ben Delatour Scout Ranch, to the top of one of the surrounding mountains.

The summit was without trees, due to some pioneer foresting or land-clearing activities, but it wasn't totally barren. It was a mixture of bald granite floors and patches of soft grass. We found places to lay out our sleeping bags, and eventually everyone went to sleep under the Colorado sky.

In the middle of the night, I awoke. My watch said it was 3 a.m. The air was still and silent. The entire camp was silent. Nobody else was awake. Heck, nobody else was stirring, snoring, or even breathing loud. The campers and the earth were as silent and still as the air.

I slid out of my sleeping bag and, in my wool socks, climbed silently on top of a nearby boulder. 

The entire summit was illuminated by a faint, yet extremely sharp, light, which seemed to come from every direction at once. None of the boulders or sleeping campers had shadows, and yet they were all perfectly illuminated, in sharp contrast and great detail. There was no artificial glow from civilization on the horizon. I looked up at the sky, and there were no clouds, and no moon. For the first time in my life, I was seeing a world lit entirely by starlight.

And the stars! The Milky Way looked three-dimensional, like a giant bolt of fabric that had been pulled, twisted and braided, and frozen in motion across the sky. In the city, I've never been able to discern the colors of the stars, but out here, I could tell that Acturus was a bright red, and Sirius was a brilliant blue. And the double star in the handle of the Big Dipper stood out in sharp detail.

The air wasn't cold. I could have sat there all night, but I didn't want to be awake when the spell was broken. So after about 40 minutes, I slid back into my sleeping bag and went back to sleep.

4. Seeing Comet Hale-Bopp from the window of the HP corporate jet

I've always wanted to see a spectacular cometary display. Most of the comets that appeared in my lifetime were a disappointment. They didn't live up to the hype. Except for this one time.

In the spring of 1997, I was in San Jose, California, on business, and I flew back to Colorado on the Hewlett-Packard corporate jet. We took off at sunset, and because of flight restrictions in the Bay Area, the pilots had to fly the plane in a giant spiral above the south Bay until we finally reached cruising altitude. 

Once we reached cruising altitude, the pilots turned the plane due east. Then the cabin went dark, and the pilot leaned back into the cabin and said, "We turned off the lights for a few minutes, so that you can look out the port side windows and see Comet Hale-Bopp." So we all crowded to the left side of the cabin and looked out.

From our perch at 40,000 feet above the dust and haze and city lights, the comet was spectacular. This was one display that did not disappoint.