It looks like the sky is on fire

A friend and I spent more than an hour parked along a dark country road Tuesday night watching the aurora borealis.

 

When I say the show was “breathtaking” I am not speaking only figuratively. More than once I looked at the colors in the sky and gasped, it was so impressively wondrous.

 

I did not happen to have heard any of the announcements letting people know the planet expected a light show. Frankly, I’m glad, because the process of discovery brought me so much pleasure.

 

I had been in town for an evening interview, and then had stopped at the store for a few groceries, so it was about 7:30 p.m. as I drove south out of Waseca. I noticed two “clouds” overhead, and my first casual impression was that they were two lonely visitors in an otherwise cloudless sky, and that they were being lit from above by the moon.

 

You may have already noticed the “careless” element: there was no moon Tuesday night. One of the “clouds” seemed to be right above me, the other slightly to the west. They kept imposing themselves on my routine thoughts of how I would have to wash the grapes and get them into the refrigerator, and my self-depracations at having forgotten to purchase some seasoned salt.

 

The clouds seemed to be sending the message “notice me,” so that by the time I pulled up on my yard and got out of my car, I stood still and looked at one of them, asking myself internally whether it was a cloud or something else.

 

As I watched, it faded from sight. Poof, gone, as if sending the message “It’s about time you paid attention.”

 

That was the first time I gasped in wonder. Then I grabbed my bag of groceries, hurried inside, and called out to my husband, “You have to come outside and see the northern lights.” Somewhere in there, I also called everyone I could think of who would have a chance to go out and look.

 

The two of us walked to the end of the driveway, where there is a more open view of the sky, and spun in slow motion taking in the colors, each pointing out features we found remarkable. Such was our wonder, it may have been 10 minutes or more before we realized how bitingly cold the wind was.

 

We both went back inside, but I craved further amazement, so I called Cindy, who informed me, to my tremendous surprise, she couldn’t see any aurora. That settled it, I texted her I was on my way. We found a quiet road with a wide open view in pretty much all directions, selected a field road, and parked. I turned the car off so the dash lights would not be a distraction. The car held the heat well enough that wonder continued to win out against the cold wind.

 

For the next hour or so, we were leaning forward and back, opening the windows when we thought their shading was interfering with the colors, even occasionally getting out and braving the wind when some feature extended above the roof of the car. 

 

I’m pretty sure no one was aware of us–we were a fair distance from any houses, and only one vehicle passed us the whole time we were parked. But if someone had been watching, they would probably have gotten a good laugh. 

 

The spontaneous call-outs of “ooh” and “aah” and “look at this one over here!” were only the beginning.

 

“Is that orange?” and “It looks like the sky is on fire” were accompanied by a few more sharp intakes of breath, when words were simply not enough. We even got two bonus shooting stars.

 

To quote Cindy, “That made my winter!”

 

Some agency had suggested the show would peak at about 9 p.m. That seems to have worked out exactly. By 9:30, the night sky was only as wondrous as usual, motivating me to start the car and turn the heat on high.

 

It had been a rewarding and enriching evening, high on my lifetime list of pleasant surprises. I have the pictures to prove it.