Something to behold

The night sky is home to bewildering spectacles. I remember the first time I noticed. I was six years old living in Edmonton, Alberta, with my family. My brother and I were awakened one winter night by our parents.

"There's something you need to see," they said with glee.

They wrapped us in fleece blankets and cradled us out the front door of our Canadian home into a brilliantly cold evening. My parents were shoveling snow from the driveway when it began.

My eyes traced my dad's outstretched, pointed finger into the inky black night where a green and purple shape danced in the sky like Christmas garland among the stars. It felt like a dream. Vibrant teal and green laced with violet strands of light moved like rivers flowing in the night sky. They twirled and danced. But with a slow, sleepy blink of an eye it would all change shape.

"Those are the northern lights," my dad explained.

Forward to August 12, 2024. I'm now 32 years old and still a dilettante of the night sky. I'm lying under a stubby bush on a windswept slope one mile west of Tam McArthur Rim studying a thin strip of sunset orange through the branches. Behind me my brother-in-law, Jarod Gatley, is finding his own reprieve from the bone-chilling wind as we semi-patiently wait for nightfall.

Tam McArthur Rim is a childhood memory in itself, being the first trail I hiked when I moved to Central Oregon in 2004. It has long since held a special place in my heart for it's unparalleled beauty and access to No Name Lake via the exposed ridge I'm currently huddled on. Jarod and I have trekked this path numerous times, often lugging cameras along with us. And tonight is no different.

We are up here to shoot sunset and with a little luck, the annual Perseids meteor shower. At 8,000 feet elevation, the Cascade mountains and stars glisten from horizon to horizon without obstruction.

The sunset was spectacular. A round shapely cloud capped the northern sky, burning bright orange and yellow as the sun dipped behind the South Sister. We watched smoke from valley fires filter through Broken Top and the Cascades like a fierce river flowing into Sisters country. Much like the dance of the northern lights I saw as a kid, the smoke drifted and threaded its way into Central Oregon with fury and ever-changing shapes.

We worked the unfolding scene with our cameras. We framed foregrounds, considered light, focus, and composition. The light quickly faded, changing color and value as the evening faded. Our images, graced with intricate layers of lighting from wildfire smoke, clouds, and the dynamic light of a sunset cast in earthen oranges, yellows, and blues, paled in comparison to the in-person experience.

The temperature quickly dropped with the sun, and like smoke from Mt. Bachelor's peak, the Milky Way appeared in the sky. A subtle, purple pillar of light, a mere glimpse of a distant aurora borealis, rose out of the North Sister, reminding me of that childhood memory. Faint meteorites started streaking the sky to our north and east.

Jarod and I threaded the ridge line by the light of our headlamps, carefully considering composition and exposure to capture the night sky. When the chill reached our bones and we felt content with our images we trekked the five miles back to the trailhead. Periodically we would stop, switch off our headlamps and breath in the magnificence of an oppressively dark night punctuated by the light of distant, beautiful spectacles among the heavens.