Several days ago, I climbed up a steep mountainside, zig-zagging under basalt cliffs. Near the top, I passed through a notch in a vertical rock wall. It was as though I stepped through a portal into another world. As I passed through, the landscape leveled itself, and I entered the mountain's sprawling, beach-like caldera, the ground covered in sandy gray ash. A still lake reflected the setting moon in a darkening blue sky. The summit loomed a tantalizing 500 or so vertical feet higher. Looking back through the cleft in the rocks, the shadow of the mountain stretched east, as hilly woodland dwindled to copses which gave way to grassland extending to the horizon. The wind carried the smell of distance.
Nearby, I spotted a place in the sand that was clear of stones. This would be a good spot to camp. I ate a quick meal of my now hated powdered eggs and a Cliff bar (I saw no signs of fish in the lake so I didn't bother trying to catch any.), set up my bed roll, took off my boots, tucked myself in, and quickly fell into a deep sleep.
I jolted awake after returning from a lightning fast out-of-body ride over the mountain range. In what must have been only a few seconds, I had sped dozens of miles (after hiking several hundred miles this summer, I have become good at judging distance based on sight) along ridges, down stream beds that flowed into ravines which emptied into valleys, back up the mountains again through sublime passes and over craggy peaks, all under a fantastic starscape.
I opened my eyes and looked around. Diamond nails punched through an obsidian sky. The caldera lake mirrored billions of stars. Viewing a dark sky from a remote location far from city lights is great even at low elevations, but in the clear air above 10000 feet, it is spectacular. The stars were surprisingly bright. And for a few glimmering moments, a fine glowing net of silver filaments still connected many of the star groups, just as it had done on the Astral Plane. Many of the filaments pulsated longitudinally like a kind of standing wave pattern, and they seemed to relay sparkles of light nearly instantaneously from one star to another. I had the impression that I was viewing a Living and Intelligent Network. Gradually it faded.
I unzipped my sleeping bag half way, sat up, unfolded a star chart, and turned on a red LED flashlight. This chart, from a series I had printed before leaving Portland, details all of the major constellations and names all stars brighter than something like a 3 magnitude. (The lines outlining the constellations did not necessarily follow the threading of the fibers of the silver net. There were far too many threads to try to pick out patterns of any constellations.) The red light keeps the eyes in a dark-adapted state while I consult the chart. Orion (with Betelgeuse, Bellatrix, Alnitak, Alnilam, etc.), Gemini (Castor, Polux), Taurus (Aldeberan), the Pleiades, Procyon are among the most prominent eastern constellations and stars about this hour. It was around 4 am.
Since moving to the high desert, I have been taking advantage of the dark skies and looking at the stars nearly every night. Indeed, astronomy has become a hobby. It has been years since I've lived far enough from city lights to be able to see the Milky Way or even to make out more than one constellation and that one was usually the Big Dipper. It is jolting (awesome), in a good way, to be where I can see the stars and the Milky Way again. Living in a city with its night sky like a television screen tuned to a dead channel makes you forget what the stars look like. I had been missing out on something worthwhile when I lived in Portland and in San Francisco.
No doubt, electric lighting has increased the quality of life, but it has come with a hidden cost: illumination of the nightscape. This is bad for several reasons. First, city glow hampers the viewing of celestial objects. To properly see the stars, you have to escape to a remote location. For many who live in a Megalopolis on the East and West coasts, for example, this requires a journey of a few hours by car. And even when you think you are at one of the most remote spots in the continental US, domes of ugly yellow light are still visible on the horizon.
One night last year during a backpacking trip to Death Valley, just as I was getting ready to sleep for the night, I noticed a pillar of bluish light above a sulfurous yellow dome of light in the east. After returning, I checked my map and even Googled it... It turned out that this was a monstrous spotlight emanating from some tacky casino (Luxor hotel/casino) in Las Vegas over 100 miles away. I think it is the brightest spotlight in the world, and sadly this assault against nature is now a permanent fixture of the night more than 100 miles around. Not only is it an affront to ones sense of esthetics, but preliminary scientific studies suggest that light pollution has harmful effects on ecology, human health (e.g. disruption of circadian rhythm), and social well-being.
This entry is rather long, and I find that ones attention span for reading any single item on the internet is not so long. So I have split this in two and will post the 2nd half when I get a chance tomorrow.
Nearby, I spotted a place in the sand that was clear of stones. This would be a good spot to camp. I ate a quick meal of my now hated powdered eggs and a Cliff bar (I saw no signs of fish in the lake so I didn't bother trying to catch any.), set up my bed roll, took off my boots, tucked myself in, and quickly fell into a deep sleep.
I jolted awake after returning from a lightning fast out-of-body ride over the mountain range. In what must have been only a few seconds, I had sped dozens of miles (after hiking several hundred miles this summer, I have become good at judging distance based on sight) along ridges, down stream beds that flowed into ravines which emptied into valleys, back up the mountains again through sublime passes and over craggy peaks, all under a fantastic starscape.
I opened my eyes and looked around. Diamond nails punched through an obsidian sky. The caldera lake mirrored billions of stars. Viewing a dark sky from a remote location far from city lights is great even at low elevations, but in the clear air above 10000 feet, it is spectacular. The stars were surprisingly bright. And for a few glimmering moments, a fine glowing net of silver filaments still connected many of the star groups, just as it had done on the Astral Plane. Many of the filaments pulsated longitudinally like a kind of standing wave pattern, and they seemed to relay sparkles of light nearly instantaneously from one star to another. I had the impression that I was viewing a Living and Intelligent Network. Gradually it faded.
I unzipped my sleeping bag half way, sat up, unfolded a star chart, and turned on a red LED flashlight. This chart, from a series I had printed before leaving Portland, details all of the major constellations and names all stars brighter than something like a 3 magnitude. (The lines outlining the constellations did not necessarily follow the threading of the fibers of the silver net. There were far too many threads to try to pick out patterns of any constellations.) The red light keeps the eyes in a dark-adapted state while I consult the chart. Orion (with Betelgeuse, Bellatrix, Alnitak, Alnilam, etc.), Gemini (Castor, Polux), Taurus (Aldeberan), the Pleiades, Procyon are among the most prominent eastern constellations and stars about this hour. It was around 4 am.
Since moving to the high desert, I have been taking advantage of the dark skies and looking at the stars nearly every night. Indeed, astronomy has become a hobby. It has been years since I've lived far enough from city lights to be able to see the Milky Way or even to make out more than one constellation and that one was usually the Big Dipper. It is jolting (awesome), in a good way, to be where I can see the stars and the Milky Way again. Living in a city with its night sky like a television screen tuned to a dead channel makes you forget what the stars look like. I had been missing out on something worthwhile when I lived in Portland and in San Francisco.
No doubt, electric lighting has increased the quality of life, but it has come with a hidden cost: illumination of the nightscape. This is bad for several reasons. First, city glow hampers the viewing of celestial objects. To properly see the stars, you have to escape to a remote location. For many who live in a Megalopolis on the East and West coasts, for example, this requires a journey of a few hours by car. And even when you think you are at one of the most remote spots in the continental US, domes of ugly yellow light are still visible on the horizon.
One night last year during a backpacking trip to Death Valley, just as I was getting ready to sleep for the night, I noticed a pillar of bluish light above a sulfurous yellow dome of light in the east. After returning, I checked my map and even Googled it... It turned out that this was a monstrous spotlight emanating from some tacky casino (Luxor hotel/casino) in Las Vegas over 100 miles away. I think it is the brightest spotlight in the world, and sadly this assault against nature is now a permanent fixture of the night more than 100 miles around. Not only is it an affront to ones sense of esthetics, but preliminary scientific studies suggest that light pollution has harmful effects on ecology, human health (e.g. disruption of circadian rhythm), and social well-being.
This entry is rather long, and I find that ones attention span for reading any single item on the internet is not so long. So I have split this in two and will post the 2nd half when I get a chance tomorrow.
