| May. 24th, 2009 @ 04:29 pm The Southern lights |
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I’ve been trying to make it a habit to head outside on the weekend to hunt for auroras. So far I have been marginally successful. I have seen a few, white streaks that float like ghosts across one of the darkest skies my eyes have ever glimpsed. The apparitions fade and engorge in a pattern that simulates a very slow motion. Truth be told it has always been hard to tell if they are actually moving because usually my eyelashes are covered in ice which makes my vision blurry. I always need to ask myself “was that motion, or am I just tearing up?” While I have been thankful for these glimmers, these splotches that I will never see back home, I have been a bit disappointed by their lack of grandiosity. My idea of an aurora is informed by images that I have collected over the years from magazines, from blogs, from text books. My idea of a proper aurora is someone else’s idea.
The conditions last night were perfect: the wind was at a minimum, the sky was free of clouds and the temps were cold (obviously) but no colder than normal. Before I went through the task of getting dressed to spend a few hours outside (it takes me around 10 minutes to assemble, prepare and don my gear) I double checked the NOAA aurora activity page to get a better idea of my chances this evening. NOAA brought good news. Everything was in place.
The biggest problem with spotting auroras in town is the light pollution. Though the station has been making a concerted effort this season to cut down on light production we can only go so far. There are a lot of buildings down here, a lot of roads and a lot of spaces which need light to maintain a safe environment for community members. If you want to see the sky you need to head out of town.
When I first left my room I walked towards the “gap”, a section of road that separates McMurdo from Scott Base, where I have seen auroras before. The road isn’t lit and because it sits towards the backside of Ob Hill most of the light from town is blocked. By the time I reached my vantage point the only light visible originated from my forehead. I always love the moment when I turn my head lamp off because by doing that it’s like I turn the sky on, like it’s a grand unveiling worthy of a marching band and a crowd of onlookers to gasp and cheer. Suddenly stars by the millions appear, satellites orbit, stars shoot and flare out and all the while the Milky Way cuts the sky in two, a division enforced by its celestial clouds.
Emerged in darkness I soon spotted a large aurora. It was hovering over the sea ice, on the backside of Ob Hill. It was formed as straight streaks, as if someone had dragged a squeegee across the sky but for all of its size it was rather faint. The color was a normal white, like the others I had seen before. Its motion, if any, was obscured by my own vision and while I appreciated having a chance to experience it a part of me was disappointed. This was not the image in my head. I stuck around a bit, impressed more by the stars than the aurora, before moving on.
I walked on, back into town, into the light, watching the stars disappear as I walked and the milky way be absorbed and finally taken over by the ambient light that competed for my attention. Passing through town I made my way towards hut point. HP is outside of town and free of lights but since there is nothing but ice between town and the point light creeps in. It’s never as dark as the gap and so has always been my second choice for spotting auroras. When I finally made it to the end I sat down besides the commerative cross and gazed out towards the sea ice, my eyes aiming ever upwards, searching and searching.
Immediately I spotted a large section of auroras that appeared to extend from the edge of town, across the ice, beyond the mountains and into the horizon. It was the largest aurora I had ever seen, larger than my eyes could absorb at once without scanning, moving, trying to take it all in. By now, having been out for more than an hour, my brown eyelashes were white with ice but I was still able to make out distinct movements. As my eyes would complete their scans I would find changes in the sky, thickness would suddenly exist where just moments before there were only thin wisps. But for all of it’s grandiosity it was still only white.
I turned my head lamp on and started the walk back into town.
About 5 minutes into my return trip I decided to stop, turn my head lamp off, and take another look at the sky. It was my best decision of the night. I soon noticed that the aurora that I had been admiring out at the point, the aurora that appeared to end where the town started, was much larger than I initially realized. It extended through town, behind the “golf ball” (a dome that covers one of our satellites) and into the opposite horizon. This aurora, though massive in size and spanning the horizons, was still only white, still a discard in my mind. But still I stared at the section near the golf ball, the newest section and rubbed my eyes as a subtle change began to take place.
Muttering out loud, asking the sky “Is it turning green?” my answer soon came as white changed to green and my eyes lit up. If there were any tears in my eyes they were from joy, sheer bliss, seeing something that I have longed for for years, seeing something that far surpassed the images in my head. With each darker shade of green my idea of a “proper” aurora turned more and more into focus until the image in my head gave up, a failure to it’s own static limitations. Finally it was all a new experience, a glorious experience that left me uttering obscenities and stilled my wandering feet. For this was it, it was finally what I had been looking for.
Getting over the green I was amazed by the structure of the aurora. It looked so solid, like it belonged there. Midway through its long streak across the sky it amassed thickness and curled around itself, the bends clearly visible, a cephalopod trapped in the sky. I had never seen anything like this. By the time I finally left it had already began to change and thin out. Each step brought me closer to the lights of town and the green became white, as if it was never there at all.
Even now, writing this more than 12 hours later, I am still mesmerized by what I saw. Even now when I gaze into the image in my head I am filled with awe because now the image is mine. It is informed solely by my own experience, rather than the static image from someone else. My new image of an aurora brings, along with the green and the mass, all the emotions I felt at the time. It brings into relief the tingling in my toes as the cold air finally invaded and began to leech away my body’s warmth. It brings to mind how I tried to walk but stumbled and tripped, missing an obvious impediment in the snow, because my eyes were still heaven bound. Most of all it recalls that first moment when I went from satisfied to amazed, when I was reminded once again that the world still has newness to it, when I knew I was finally experiencing something that I would never be able to adequately explain.
For that was my night, that is my memory. |
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