Boreal B[l]og

On a pleasantly cool and quiet night, we parked under a mesquite tree in the high grasslands of southeast Arizona.  We were well off the highway, the only sound being the occasional chirp of a nighthawk high overhead.  Only a glow on the horizon showed us the lights of Tucson, Sierra Vista and Nogales.  It was astronomical twilight, the Sun having set well north of Mt. Wrightson in the Santa Rita Mountains an hour earlier. 

We were going to sleep under the stars. 

I’m an amateur astronomer and own two telescopes, but there are times it is better to view through my 1X eyes.  With no difficulty, I saw all the dim constellations of spring — Corona Borealis, Hercules, Libra, Serpens Caput, Corvus, Hydra, Crater, and even Lupus, far to the south.  The constellations looked the way they were supposed to, not washed out by artificial lighting.  The sky was full of stars, and when I lay down, I felt as if I were in a large bowl.  I really was, and I felt part of the universe.  Not many Americans have ever been under a truly dark sky. 

Around 10, a large cloud appeared in the east.  At least, it looked like a cloud.  But it had been clear with no chance of rain.  I’ve camped in plenty of places where I went to bed under a clear sky and awoke with rain on my face.  But out here, if it is clear in the evening, it will be clear in the morning.  We looked at the cloud a little more carefully.  Yes, it was a cloud, but it wasn’t a few miles up in the atmosphere.  It was a few hundred trillion miles away. 

We were seeing the Milky Way rise. 

How many of us today ever see the Milky Way, our island home in the universe?  How many have ever seen the stars the way they are supposed to be seen — in darkness?  The stars are as much our heritage as is the Grand Canyon, the black bear, the old growth forests, the Sky Islands surrounding us and water that can be drunk, unfiltered, from a lake.  As long as we have that heritage, we connect to our forebears.  And if we lose that heritage, what do we have left as a people? 

I pondered all that as I watched the galaxy rise, saw Vega and Altair appear, and remembered Tanabata, that delightful Japanese holiday in July where people learn about the star crossed lovers that were separated by the river that astronomers call The Great Rift.  Stars have meant something to people for thousands of years.  The stories are different, the meaning changes, but mankind has always found significance among the stars. 

We dozed for a while, awakening later in the night when the waning gibbous Moon rose over the Whetstones, a day from last quarter.  We don’t often see this phenomenon because we don’t spend whole nights out among the stars.  It’s worth doing.  The Moon appeared flat on top and was orange, a consequence of the horizon haze allowing more red to be seen than usual. 

But I didn’t think about atmospheric refraction and dust particles scattering light.  I just looked.  We saw the summer constellations – Scorpius, Ophiuchus, Serpens Cauda, Sagittarius, Corona Australis – dimmed by moonlight as the grasslands around us lit up with the glow.  Neither of us said much, and when we spoke, we whispered.  Physically, it seems impossible for sound to affect vision, yet loud talk or loud music does damage views, because we don’t just see, we experience, and the two are interlinked.  We could have viewed the same stars from the highway, but it wouldn’t have been the same.  The quiet seemed to make the stars and the Moon appear closer. 

We awoke several times that night, each time noting the change in the Moon and watching new stars rise and old ones set as our Earth slowly turned.  Morning twilight awoke us for good, and we watched the eastern sky gradually brighten and the Earth’s shadow slowly disappear into the western horizon.  I can see the Earth’s shadow every evening and every morning from Tucson, but out there the shadow was far more impressive. 

In my “must things to do” during my lifetime, sleeping under the stars was one of the earliest ones to get checked off.  Occasionally, I still do it.  Many times in Sky Island country, I’ve experienced the “outdoor triad,” wilderness, dark skies and total silence.  On first glance it doesn’t appear to make much sense, but I think that by getting away from people in the outdoors and being alone with the stars I feel more connected to humanity.

Two a.m., north Tonto platform, Grand Canyon, between Phantom Ranch and Clear Creek.

We awaken to silence, total silence, no wind, no sound from the river, no mouse rustling through our gear, no music, no cell phone ringing and no engine noise from aircraft.  It is so quiet our ears ring.  My wife and I speak in whispers, for to speak aloud would be a travesty.  Carefully, we crawl out of the tent and stand on the rocky trail, for we are camped at large, and a wide spot on the trail was as good a place as any.  Above us, we see the night sky clearly, the dim circlet of Pisces easily visible without optical aid.

Periodically, I go into the woods to get away from people and society.  If I am lucky, not only will I be in the wilderness, but perhaps I will have clear, dark skies and spectacular star viewing the way our forebears did.  Much as I might wish, I don’t expect the third and rarest of the “outdoor triad” — total, complete silence.  Think about it.  Most of us find the wilderness quiet but seldom soundless.  But occasionally, you get lucky.  Perhaps the silence may even awaken you.  If fortunate enough to have this experience, you find yourself speaking in whispers.  When it is really quiet, you don’t want to disturb it.

I’ll take total silence over dark skies if I have a choice.  Last year, I finally decided it was time to camp out overnight in the Santa Catalina Mountains, which I’ve day hiked for years.  I hauled my aging frame and overnight gear eight miles and four thousand vertical feet to the top of Mt. Kimball.  I’m fortunate that I can actually walk out my back door in Tucson and under my own power hike to the top of a mountain.  To my surprise and pleasure, I again awoke in the middle of the night to total silence, with the town of Oro Valley spread out nearly a vertical mile below me.  Yes, it was cold, and yes, my legs almost gave out the next day after descending four miles of twenty per cent grades with a heavy pack.  But because of the experience of total silence, I might do it again.  Well, maybe with less gear and a good light, so I could make it a day — and evening — hike.

One advantage to growing old is that my hearing is gradually deteriorating.  As a result, I find myself in an advantageous state:  I hear well enough to keep myself safe, identify birds, and not get my wife too upset that I missed what she said.  At the same time, I am finding a few more opportunities to experience total silence.

Don’t get me wrong — given my druthers, I’d rather not be losing any hearing.  It took me many, many years before I realized how “auditory” I am.  More than once, I’ve recognized somebody only by their voice and not their face.  But these days, I find myself less tolerant of society’s noise.  It’s polluting, it’s harmful, it’s annoying, and much of it unnecessary.  While earphones or soundproofing can produce total silence, that isn’t the same any more than walking in the city is the same as walking, miles from the trailhead.  And as Sig Olson wrote, being in the wilderness is only part of the experience.  The work entailed to get there matters just as much.

In the Information Age, there is a lot to be said for under stimulating ourselves, not only because it’s healthier, but allows us to appreciate the stimuli that later occur.  Part of what makes total silence so memorable is hearing the enhanced suddenness of the sound ending it.  That night in the Canyon, it was a slight breeze carrying the distant sound of water rushing down Clear Creek Rapids.  Once in the Boundary Waters, it was a loon wailing from far down the lake.  Another time in the Canyon, it was the kraaak of a Raven, followed by hearing the flap of his wings echoing off the Redwall.

It’s worth experiencing the triad while you still can.  The best way is to work hard getting to a place then choosing the campsite carefully, being patient and most of all staying quiet.  It won’t be what you see, and it certainly won’t be what you hear.  It will be what you don’t hear.