Why We Look Up: Simply Stargazing

During the peak of this year’s Perseid meteor shower, I hosted another hyperlocal star party in the neighborhood as an alternative to the long drive out to darker skies. It was not an obvious success.

The night was warm after another hot day in Oregon. Everyone I knew was cranky, or at least mildly exasperated. I was enervated but determined to enjoy the annual spectacle. My partner was at work, so Jax the Danelab accompanied me to the local park and soccer field a little before 9 p.m.

The sky was far from dark. We competed with light pollution from downtown Portland and bright street lamps at the park entrances. The just-past-full Moon wasn’t advantageous, either.

I had spread my blanket on the ground next to Jax’s dog bed when a woman and her young son crossed the field toward me. She laid out a blanket next to mine, while the boy cuddled with Jax. And we sat and waited for something to happen. We shared astronomical anecdotes. She told me about a trip to an observatory a few hours away, where she’d peered through a telescope at the Sun.

“Oh! I saw one!” she exclaimed, then asked her son, “Did you see that meteor?”

“I’m looking at the dog,” he replied.

I’d missed the streak of fire, too.

A few minutes later, I handed the boy my binoculars so he could have a look at the sky. “Wow!” he exhaled as he peered upward through the binoculars, still petting Jax.

Another neighbor strolled over, asking, “How’s the shower?” It was early yet, hours ahead of the midnight peak. He sat with us for a few minutes of dashed anticipation before returning home to help put his kids to bed.

After another 30 minutes, the mother and son packed it in as well. They had both seen a few bolts across the sky, always while I was looking away to check on Jax or answer a question. It was comically frustrating.

Alone again, I commanded the sky to show me some meteors. Astonishingly, this had no effect. Another year of thwarted Perseids.

Then I realized it had been exactly 20 years since my first Perseid watch — and my first dark-sky star party. I was still new to the Pacific Northwest in August 2005, when I rested on the ground about an hour east of Portland with new friends and little idea what to expect. The extravaganza of streaking light above my head was mesmerizing magic. Since then, I’d brought a few visiting family and friends to the same spot to share the wonder of the annual meteor shower. But I’d stayed home more often, and last year’s attempt west of the city ended with cloud cover rushing in like an avalanche just as the show was getting started.

This year was shaping up to be another disappointment. I’d hoped more neighbors would join me, and that the meteor shower would conveniently defy expectations so close to the city. It wasn’t a long trek on foot to the park, but I’d lugged a blanket, binoculars, water, a dog bowl, pickup bags, plus Jax’s dog bed. Not an ordeal, but an undertaking nevertheless.

But it was cool in the grass — a welcome relief after three consecutive days of 100-degree heat. The sky above wasn’t close to dark, but it was clear. I lay on the ground, my spine pressed against the earth as I gazed out into the universe. It was just me and the dog and the stars.

Giving my Perseid watch a rest, I lifted my 12×42 binoculars to survey the Summer Triangle. I looked for late-summer favorites such as Delphinus, Sagitta, and the Coathanger, which always makes me laugh. 

As I was trying to approximate the location of the Ring Nebula, my view through the binoculars went black. Jax the dog loomed over me, blocking my view. After an hour in the park, he was done with my foolishness. I started packing up and finally spotted a single meteor. Perfect timing.

No night under the stars is a waste, though I keep being reminded that any observing agenda should be considered a suggestion and not a reliable plan. Aimless stargazing is more than a recurring inclination for my hours looking up. These opportunities to wander are their own quiet delight, whether I’m alone or one of many in a crowded field — at least, until the dog wants to leave.

“Have you seen any Perseids?” a couple asked as they crossed the grass. We passed in the dark, and I wished them luck. Dragging a giant dog bed, I headed home with Jax, and they found a spot for their own meteor shower vigil — or, barring that, perhaps simply for stargazing.