A Noteworthy Corona-versary!

It was 20 years ago today―on November 3, 1994―that the Earth, moon and sun aligned themselves in such a way that the moon's conical shadow fell upon the surface of our planet.  Hundreds of "eclipse chasers" traveled thousands of miles to get a glimpse of one of nature's greatest celestial shows:  a total eclipse of the sun.  I was one of them;  on my first astronomical enrichment tour with MWT Associates, I helped lead a group of ten San Diego sky watchers, along with three dozen others from around the U.S., to the Gran Chaco of Paraguay to experience the drama of mid-day darkness.
     
After a week of enjoying the sights, sounds, aromas and flavors of Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay, and after discussing every detail of eclipse mechanics, weather and photography, we were ready for the main event.  It was November 2, and we had settled in for the evening at a small hotel in Filadelfia, a tiny town southwest of Asunción.  A wonderfully hearty early-evening dinner was followed by a few hours of Southern Hemisphere stargazing.  But it wasn't long before everyone had retired for the night, all in eager anticipation of what the morning would hold in store.
     
Our wakeup call on E-Day at 4:30 a.m. came in the form of a hotel employee banging on doors and yelling "Get up!" in Guarani, the primary native language of Paraguay.  "No need to shout," I thought.  Adrenaline had kept me awake most of the night anyway.  Racing to get dressed, I kept muttering to myself "I hope it's clear... I hope it's clear..."  After all, only one cloud strategically placed over the sun would end the show before it began.
     
As I opened the door and looked up into the blackness, my anxiety proved unfounded.  The sky was perfectly clear, and the Southern Cross shone exquisitely above the southeastern horizon.  "Yes!" I exclaimed, "It couldn't be better!"  Now the adrenaline was really pumping.
     
After a spirited breakfast, we piled into the bus for the trip south toward the eclipse centerline.  Despite getting very little sleep the night before, everyone was abuzz with discussion.  "Would exposures for the 'diamond ring' capture prominences as well?  How many stars would we see during totality?  How close to the centerline can we actually drive?"
     
By now, the sky to the east was beginning to show first light―right on time.  Despite having been through the chase before, I couldn't help rejoicing silently that the cosmos was behaving just as it should.  What a show we were going to have!

 
FIRST CONTACT!

Within the hour, we arrived at the pre-planned observation site―a remote location of scrubby brush and tropical trees.  After hauling our gear 50 yards across the dirt road and over a 3-foot-high fence, we began setting up camp.  My equipment consisted of a platform for an 80mm-diameter, f/6 University Optics refractor telescope and three 35mm cameras, a German equatorial-mounted tripod connected to a 12-volt battery, and a short-wave radio and antenna for picking up accurate time signals from WWV.
      
At 8:27, it's show time and for us that means its payoff time.  Shouts of "first contact!" could be heard as the moon's curved silhouette first darkened the western limb of the sun.  Camera shutters clicked and eyes turned toward the sky.  The drama was on!
     
As the moon drifted eastward in front of our star, excited chatter came from everywhere.  Some in our group simply lay on the ground enjoying the sights;  others were diligently operating complex batteries of optical tools, hoping to record every second of the action.  I, of course, was one of the latter.
     
By 9:30, the sunlight had dimmed significantly and only a delicate crescent star remained. Shadows on the ground had become noticeably sharper, and sunlight streaming through the leaves of trees projected myriad tiny eclipses onto the ground below.  The mid-morning dusk brought to the sizzling Gran Chaco some much-welcomed cool air.  Flowers began to close in the waning light;  birds returned to roost;  nocturnal animals became more active.

Now, with only seconds until totality, the moon's dark shadow descended ominously from the western sky, engulfing the Paraguayan landscape in a still and eerie darkness. Shutters clicked madly at the rapidly changing scene, and heartbeats began to race. Soon, the last burst of sunlight shone through the rugged valleys along the moon's edge: the "diamond ring." And then... totality!
 
The place where the mighty sun once shone was a void, around which the sun's gossamer corona streamed outward across the sapphire sky.  Some cheered its arrival;  some wept at its splendor.  And some gazed in silent awe at the most glorious spectacle nature has to offer.  What a magnificent and exhilarating moment―one that some had waited an entire lifetime to experience.
 

JEWELS NEAR THE CORONA

In the darkened sky, the glistening planets Venus and Jupiter shone like jewels barely a dozen degrees from the pearly-white corona, and glowing near the horizon were the wonderfully warm colors of a 360-degree sunset.  If ever an alien landscape existed on Earth, this was it.  Its beauty held even the most veteran of eclipse chasers hostage, and we all became swept up by the haunting celestial theater.
     
Three and a quarter minutes passed, yet it seemed like only seconds, until the sun's familiar rays burst into view again. "No!  It can't be over yet!  It just began!" But Mother Nature had her own plans, and there was nothing we could do about them. All we could do was excitedly relive the past three minutes, and begin to plan where we would be for the next total solar eclipse nearly a full year, and an entire world, away.
     
Three years of calculating, planning and rehearsing were now complete.  The 1994 Gran Chaco total solar eclipse was history, etched forever in the minds of those who watched.  For a few magical moments, we had become one with the Cosmos―in perfect syzygy with the three most important bodies in our solar system. We had been touched by the power of our universe in a way impossible to describe, and felt emotions impossible to communicate.
     
For, you see, there are two types of people in this world:  those who have experienced totality, and those who have not.  And those of us who have will never, ever, be the same again.  

_____________________

Join me for future eclipses, northern lights and other exciting celestial phenomena... check out our upcoming astronomical tours, and have the time of your life!  http://www.melitatrips.com
 
 

Expect the Unexpected

It’s Father’s Day and, like so many others are doing today, my thoughts go back to my dad and all he did to make me who I am through his life examples and wisdom.  

But last night—and nearly 31 years after his death, my dad saved my life. 

On my way home from a presentation some 80 miles away, I decided to take a different route—a two-lane road through the desert that I was sure would cut my driving time by 15 or 20 minutes.  And it did… but it also taught me something special about my dad—and myself.

You see, when I was learning to drive some 46 years ago—in fact, even long before that—my  dad would say to me:  “Always expect the unexpected.”  He explained how, while driving, he was constantly watching all the other drivers to anticipate their actions, and how he was always thinking about how he would react if another car did this or that.  And, in all the years I rode with him, he always got me home safely.

Expect the unexpected.   

Apparently I learned the lesson well, because this is something I’ve done my entire life behind the wheel of a car… one of the reasons, I suspect, that I have such a tough time carrying on a conversation while driving.  But last night this lesson paid off big time.

As I headed home along this dark two-lane desert road, car headlights were occasionally coming toward me from the opposite direction and, as I always do, I keep watch on the distant center line as my way of making sure they’re in their proper lane.  At the same time I’m constantly keeping an eye on both lanes and the shoulders of the road as possible escape routes in case of emergency.

It was about midway through my drive last night that I saw headlights coming in my direction about half a mile ahead, but they weren’t where I thought they should be. Did they appear this way because the car was coming around a curve?  Quite possibly, but something just didn’t look right.

It wasn’t until these headlights were about 150 feet in front of me that I could see why.  This car was barreling straight toward me in my lane! 

Expect the unexpected.

Because I had been doing just that, I was able to react quickly. One option I knew I had was swerve to the left (into the empty oncoming lane) but, if I did that and he realized his mistake, he might cross back over.  The other was that I could drive off the road onto the flat, sandy shoulder on the right and hope he wasn’t so bent on suicide that he'd follow me there.  I instinctively chose the shoulder and within a split second—thankfully—he raced past me, completely oblivious to the fact that he was in the wrong lane and had nearly killed us both.

After a few choice words for the other driver (words, by the way, that were mild compared to what my dad might have expressed!), I continued on my journey.  But once I got home safely, I realized something very important.

Though our loved ones may be gone from this physical realm they are never truly gone; they do, indeed, live on within those of us who remain. And last night was a perfect example of this; it was the part of me that is my father that saved my life because if I had not learned his lesson to “expect the unexpected,” I might not be here today to write these words.

For that—and for so much more—thank you, Dad.  I owe you my life.

Thoughts from a One-Year Cancer Survivor

It was one year ago today, May 2, that I underwent surgery to remove the scourge of prostate cancer. I owe my life to my long-time primary care physician for catching it early, and the excellent surgical team at San Diego’s Sharp Memorial Hospital for removing the cancer in its entirety.

Since then, my PSA (prostate-specific antigen) levels have dropped to zero, and my health is great. And, while I am checking PSA levels on a regular basis—one can never be certain that the scourge won’t metastasize elsewhere in the body—I feel confident that the whole episode is behind me. And I now share the honor of being a prostate cancer survivor with such luminaries as actor Robert De Niro, “America’s Mayor” Rudy Giuliani, former Yankee manager Joe Torre, U.S. Secretary of State John Kerry, and many others whose names we don’t know.

Over the past year, many of my family, friends and fans have asked how I’m doing since the scare and, while I’m truly grateful for their concern, I never considered it a “scare.” In fact, I was never once frightened or worried by it, nor did I ever lament “why me?”

Now maybe I’m just too dopey to know any better, but I approached the whole thing with my best Alfred E. Neuman impersonation: “What, me worry?” You see, I watched as my mom and dad worried over everything, resulting only in anger, stress, nail biting and hair pulling. I can’t imagine how many years this must have taken off their lives.

Of course I, too, went through this agony when I was younger—after all, it had been programmed into me—but where did it get me? Right back with the same problem, only now angry, stressed, with bloodied nails and a balding head.

No, I’ve learned long ago that worry and fear are counterproductive. If one has no control over the situation, then worry and fear will do no good. And if one does have control, then take control damn it!

It’s not a coincidence that one of my favorite quotations comes from the dramatic true-story motion picture “Apollo 13.” No, it’s not the quotation most think of… but this, too, comes from NASA Flight Director Gene Kranz who, in a remarkably tense scene, scolds his engineering team for all the cockamamie ideas and WAGs (wild-ass guesses) they were desperately throwing out in an attempt to rescue three astronauts stranded on their way to the moon.

It is simply this: “Don’t make things worse by guessing! Work the problem people!”

And that’s just the way I’ve learned to approach life, and issues like this one. Work the problem. And by keeping one’s focus on a solution, one has no time for guessing or worry or fear, and life continues to be hopeful, happy and productive.

After my surgery I barely skipped a beat. I continued presenting astronomical programs, writing and photography from under the beautiful heavens of California’s only International Dark Sky Community and around the world. I did, however, give myself the luxury of six months to recover physically, and then returned to the gym with a vengeance. And I’m still regularly enjoying cardio and pumping iron as much as ever… and feeling great. No slowing down for this Paisano. I figure if the Grim Reaper wants me he’ll have to catch me from behind!

My point here is simply this: we all face problems in our lives; some greater than others. Mine are no more or less special than any one else’s. What matters, however, is one’s attitude and approach to them. Life is just a temporary condition, after all, so don’t sweat it.

And most importantly… work the problem!

Goodbye Alaska... for now!

Well, my friends, my 2014 Alaska aurora adventure is nearing an end.  I'm sitting in the hotel and will be heading to San Diego tomorrow afternoon, and on to my desert home on Monday. Seems like ages ago that I stood under the dome of Juneau’s Marie Drake Planetarium speaking to several groups of wide-eyed stargazers and night sky photographers… but all good things must end, and so must my journey. But I’ll be back, as I have every year for the past 15, because there’s something about Alaska that draws me.

How big is Alaska?  Very big!

If you asked me to describe Alaska in just one word, that word would be "majestic." No question about it.  Majestic.  Whether it’s the towering, rugged snow-covered mountains or the delicate wisps of the northern lights, whether it’s the thunderous crash of glaciers calving before our eyes or the silent glide of bald eagles in search of prey… this is one majestic state. More volcanoes and earthquakes here than the rest of the U.S. combined; it’s so huge that one could cut it in half and Texas would go from the second largest to the third largest state!

Northern lights over Fairbanks

But perhaps the most wonderful part of Alaska is its people. Regular folks. No pretension here.  I doubt there’s a tuxedo or evening gown in the state. Regular, good-hearted folks who are friendly, generous, strong, resilient and, yes—when they enjoy outdoor activities at -40F—perhaps a little nuts. But they’re my kind of people, and I’m proud to call them my friends. And, while I was born and raised in Pennsylvania and now live in California, I am, in my heart of hearts, an Alaskan!

Thank you all for your kind hospitality and friendship; as always, I’m counting the days until I return next February. And to all my Facebook friends and fans around the world… thank you, too, for joining me along the way. I hope that, through my photos and words, I’ve been able to share with you my amazing adventure, and that you one day will discover the same excitement and wonder—the same majesty—that is Alaska.

Eight stars of gold on a field of blue...

Enchanting Desert Nights

Nothing is more enchanting than the desert.

From its jagged canyons carved by ancient waters and crustal upheavals, to the delicate springtime wildflowers carpeting the valley floor with color;  from the magnificent borrego—the big-horn sheep—that populate our rugged and beautiful mountains, to the pungent enthralling scent of creosote leaves after a welcome desert rain.

Ours is, indeed, one of the most glorious and intriguing lands on Earth.  Each year, hundreds of thousands of visitors explore and enjoy its wonders, yet most miss the desert at its most enchanting… the desert at night.

How many have ever hiked in the cool night air as silvery moonlight glistens from canyon walls and distant mountains, or listened as coyotes yelp playfully in the stillness while, overhead, the shimmering Milky Way arches majestically across our sky?

And how many have risen before the sun to greet a new day on our part of planet Earth—to watch as the glittering stars fade one by one into a palette of light and color that no artist, writer or photographer could ever capture?

From few places on Earth do the starry heavens shine as superbly as over Southern California's Anza-Borrego Desert.   But only those who venture out after dark will ever experience its wonder.

Most stunning, perhaps, is the sheer number of stars we see on a clear, dark night—stars of many different brightnesses and shades of color—woven by ancient desert dwellers into such celestial patterns as a scorpion, an eagle and a lizard.  We can see them too with only a basic star map, some imagination, and a little effort.

Among the fixed stars wander other lights—the planets—which shine more brilliantly in the clear desert air than almost any other place on Earth.  Five were known to our ancestors—Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn—and all grace our skies from time to time.

After even a short time under a dark desert sky you’ll most likely glimpse one of those thrilling sights upon which we often make a wish—a falling star—sometimes so brilliant that even the land around you glows to celebrate its appearance.

Perhaps the most wonderful of all companions on a nighttime desert hike is the moon.  During the month its shape evolves from a delicate crescent to a quarter phase, to full, last quarter, and back to a thin crescent before beginning its cycle anew.

The full moon of the desert is one of the most dramatic sights you’ll ever see, and paints the desert landscapes with an other-worldly radiance from dusk until dawn.  And if you ever watch the full moon rise over the eastern horizon shortly after sunset, you’ll swear it’s as large as you’ve ever seen it—though we know this to be one of the desert’s most amazing optical illusions.

Spend any time in our desert enjoying its sights and smells and sounds, and you will surely agree it is one of the most captivating places on Earth.  But you will never truly know the desert until you experience it at its most enchanting… under a magical and breathtaking starry night sky.

Mars Curiosity: Why Bother?

One of the first test images taken by Curiosity, showing one of its massive wheels!

As we celebrate the magnificent August 5/6, 2012 achievement of NASA and its international team to land Mars Curiosity on the Red Planet, I'd like to ponder some of the reasons for doing such work--far beyond all the pretty pictures we will soon begin to enjoy.

One of Curiosity's major tasks will be to search Gale Crater for evidence of water and the building blocks of life.  It will provide geological testing of rocks and soil samples, as well as photographs for other studies.

So why should we care?  Because we humans are curious.  We are explorers.  Adventurers.  We need to know what lies beyond the hills, beyond the seas, beyond our own world.  We always have and we always will.  It's this very curiosity that separates us from the other creatures of Earth, and produces remarkable developments upon which our civilization, our lives and our world-views are built.

Studying Mars helps us understand ourselves and our planet; in other words, when we explore a different world we begin to see our own with an entirely new perspective. For example, confirmation that liquid water existed in Mars' distant (or perhaps, recent) past begs such questions as:  What happened to it all?  How and why did that planet change from wet to dry?  And was Mars ever once habitable and could it be habitable again?  But this is just the beginning.

The technology and unbelievably complex international teamwork to get all to work together as a single unit, and to land a large craft on Mars, will aid in future robotic missions to Mars and other worlds.  And where robots go, Man is sure to follow.

Then there are the technological spinoffs from the research leading to this mission, something people tend to forget as they use that very technology in their everyday lives--everything from material sciences to communications to camera technology to navigation to aerospace engineering to mapping to robotics to life sciences to chemistry to atmospheric sciences and hydrology... the list can continue for pages.

And let's not forget the inspiration for our children...  to dream beyond their everyday world, to a future of excitement and promise. How many of them will change the way they look at themselves and their world because of missions like this?  And how many will become inspired to enter the sciences and develop new technology and medicines, or make revolutionary discoveries?  We may never know. 

Now, there are those who argue that the $2.5 billion cost for such work--about $8 per U.S. citizen--could better be spent right here on Earth, but this serves only to demonstrate their ignorance and short-sightedness. We haven't packed up 2.5 billion dollar bills in a box and shipped them to Mars; they're all being spent right here on Earth to employ many tens of thousands of researchers, engineers, contractors and sub-contractors, and other support staff around the U.S. and the world to accomplish this grand achievement and, perhaps more importantly, lead to remarkable future developments.

Solving scientific mysteries, creating technological innovation, inspiring future generations, employing thousands... all for 8 bucks per person.  Now THAT, my friends, is a stimulus package! 

As exciting as the landing events were, we must remember that this mission did not begin and end with the landing; it's been going for nearly a decade and will continue to benefit us in countless--even unimaginable--ways for decades to come. 

Yes, there's more to such missions than just pretty pictures!

Curiosity and its parachute were spotted by the Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter

Listen for the Voice of the Moon...

Oh, how I wish I could have penned these wonderful words of Dr. Richard Shelton... a poem that speaks to me as magically as does the moon itself.  Stand silently in the glorious moonlight some night and see if you, too, can hear it...

THE VOICE OF THE MOON
          by Richard Shelton

When I wake in the night,
troubled and thinking
I heard the cry of a bird,
I go to the window
and look out.

Then I realize
it was the cry of the moon.

          ______

 

Years ago I thought
I heard the voice of mountains
which spoke only at night.

Since then I have listened many
times, and I was mistaken. 
It was the echo
of the voice of the moon.

          ______

          

When I am unhappy
the moon reminds me
that all things change.

When I am happy
it does the same thing.

          ______

I can believe that men
have walked on the moon. 
Men would do a thing like that. 
But when I am told the moon
is a huge round stone
which does not change its shape
and has no light of its own,
I cannot believe it.

I have heard the voice of the moon.

          ______

When I become confused
and do not know who I am,
I listen to the voice of the moon.

The moon knows who everyone is
and forgives all of us.

          ______

When the moon is new
it begins at the beginning
and tells the same story
straight through to the end.

It is a long story
but we listen and believe.
Who can doubt
the voice of the moon.

          ______

It is important
to learn the habits of the moon.

Otherwise, one might wait
all night and it would not appear.
And when the sun rose triumphant,
one might despair,
believing the moon had been
destroyed and would never return.

          ______

The sun is like fire.
It takes what it wants
and pays no attention to anyone.

But the moon knows each of us. 
It looks into our eyes
and remembers all our names.

          ______

When we watch the sun go down
we are impressed with its glory.

When we watch the moon go down
we want to go with it.

          ______

The sea, the wind, and the owl
try to imitate
the voice of the moon.
But none succeed. 

Beethoven and Debussy tried
to write its song, but compared
to the voice of the moon
one of them created the sound
of screendoors slamming,
and the other, the sound
of a pork chop being fried.

          ______

When the moon rises
in the afternoon and sets
too early to be of any use,
I remember how old I am
and that I no longer
have the option of dying young.

When I sleep and moonlight
comes through the window
and touches me,
I become a dream.

          ______

No man turns into a wolf
when the moon is full.

But wolves howl
when the moon is full
because they hear its voice.

          ______

Some think the moon is silent. 
They are blind.

From Chosen Place  (Best Cellar Press, 1975)  ASIN: B001TYOCA0

©Richard Shelton

"Reality" is NOT a four-letter word!

Last year I was visiting family in Pennsylvania over the Christmas/New Year holidays; the snow was pretty heavy and it was a welcome change for this desert rat as it always is (since I know I'll be leaving it relatively soon!).  Driving on a main street near my Aunt's home, I frequently passed by a house with the door open and a big glowing "Psychic" sign in the window, but never actually saw anyone going in or coming out.  That, of course, got me thinking: wouldn't a psychic know when someone was going to come, and open the door only a few minutes beforehand?

Well, I chuckled to myself and shook my head every time I passed the place, but one evening I actually saw movement there.  Snow was falling, and I saw a lady leaving as the psychic (I presume) was saying goodbye and closing the door from the inside.  Since this was the first time I'd ever seen anyone there, I naturally paid attention.  As the woman began to descend the icy steps, her feet shot out from under her and she bounced like a Slinky all the way down to the sidewalk. 

Perhaps I shouldn't admit this, but I couldn't contain my laughter. How much of her hard-earned money had this lady just spent there? Shouldn't the psychic have warned her that this would happen and help her down the steps?  Or maybe the lady paid just for the discount prediction package that didn't include a notice of impending accidents.

Now I know what you "true believers" are thinking... that I just don't understand the psychic world, and I readily admit that.  Apparently, I don't understand the astrological realm either, as it was angrily pointed out to me many years ago.

I had been invited as a guest on the KUSI Morning News in San Diego, as I often was, to discuss some exciting celestial discovery or phenomenon. When I arrived in the "green room" before the program, imagine my surprise to find that they had also invited an astrologer who was waiting as well.

Now there's one thing I've learned over the years about astrologers--and others who believe in similar nonsense: they always behave the same when they learn they're talking to an astronomer.  First they speak quite reasonably about the universe and its behavior, perhaps even asking some well-thought out questions--this is to lure the unsuspecting listener into what they believe will be a rational discourse. Then they begin to toss out some scientific and mathematical jargon to demonstrate that they're scientifically literate. Finally, they try to show that theirs is a "legitimate science" and gradually, in what becomes more and more kooky by the minute, try to reel the "skeptic" into their lair of crazy thinking. 

Now ask yourself honestly.  Why would anyone do this if they weren't aware of how nonsensical and irrational their ideas are?  I mean, does a pediatrician do this when meeting a teacher?  Or a plumber when talking with a dentist?  Of course not.  But I fully expected her to take this tack and, of course, she did, so I wasn't disappointed.

I listened patiently in hopes that, at some point, she might express ideas that represented something relatively close to reality.  She had just published a book on the subject--I suspect this was the reason for her appearance on TV that day--and handed me a copy to take home and read, explaining that this would help me "understand."  And then she made me an offer I couldn't refuse. 

Well, sort of. 

She suggested that if I told her the date, time and place of my birth, she would make a "chart" for me that would explain so much about my personality and life, and stun me with its accuracy. Never had anyone offered such a thing to me before, and I was surprised.  But not nearly as surprised as she when I came back with a counter offer. I suggested, instead, the following:

"Better yet, how about this?," I countered.  "I'll take you to lunch--at the time and place of your choosing--and tell you absolutely everything about myself that you want to know.  Then you tell ME the date, time and place of my birth."

I sure wish the encounter had been videotaped because medical science could learn a lot about how quickly a person's face can become red and start shaking from anger.  She ripped the book from my hands and screamed "It doesn't work that way!" 

"Now wait a minute," I replied calmly.  "It certainly should.  It's called 'reverse-engineering,' and it's done all the time.  If one can map out all the important features of my personality and life from the date, time and place of my birth as you claim, then you should also be able to work in the opposite direction... to use this same information to determine the date, time and place of my birth."

Well, that concept was apparently a bit more rational than she could handle, and she began to shake even more angrily as she retreated to the opposite side of the room muttering to herself words I can't repeat on this public forum... but they certainly included multiple uses of the word "skeptic."

You bet I'm a skeptic, Sweetheart!

Unfortunately, such illiterate boobs use the word "skeptic" as a derisive term; they think it refers to one who pooh-poohs everything, a closed-minded individual unwilling to accept anything but their own narrow way of thinking.  In fact, it's just the opposite.  A true skeptic is, perhaps, the most open-minded person you'll ever meet.  While a skeptic may not believe what you're selling, he or she will always give you an chance to prove it honestly, in which case they have to no choice but to believe it themselves.

It should surprise no one, however, that rarely do the world's psychics, astrologers and other charlatans take up the challenge, and those who do--much like criminals who believe they can outsmart a lie-detector or breathalyzer test--fail miserably.

Now I don't expect to convince any of the "true believers" who happen to have made it all the way to the end of this blog.  In fact, it would be a first to have even a rational discussion with such a person--at least beyond the first few minutes when they're in "scientific jargon mode." 

Because, let's face it. It's impossible to reason with someone whose basic paradigm is that reason doesn't count.

Career by Fire

It was exactly 40 years ago tonight that my career was defined.

I had just begun my sophomore year at Otterbein College, a small liberal arts school in the quiet town of Westerville, Ohio, where I was studying physics and astronomy, but one of my favorite activities was to get into the Weitkamp Observatory any chance I could.  Its dome occupied the rooftop of the McFadden Science Building and housed what seemed to me at the time a massive telescope: a 16-inch diameter Newtonian reflector that was so immense one had to climb a ladder just to reach its eyepiece.

I spent many nights in the Observatory, checking out the wonders of the cosmos.  My goal at the time was to become a research astronomer and having access to such a large telescope during my early college years was one of the greatest pleasures I could have had. 

One of the nights that I remember vividly was that of February 9/10, 1971.  There was to be a total lunar eclipse late that night and, despite temperatures dropping to -1 degrees F with an average wind speed of 15 mph, I had set up a 16mm motion picture camera to ride piggy-back on the telescope and shoot a time-lapse film of the entire event.

By midnight, however, the floor had frozen solid, and manually pushing it around so that the telescope could peer out became quite an effective exercise in Newton's Third Law of Motion.

Before the eclipse began I walked a few blocks to the Campus Center where I filled my thermos with hot coffee, and returned to the blistering cold of the observatory. By the time the eclipse had begun and I was ready to drink the hot liquid it, too, had frozen nearly solid!  And the eclipse... well, what a great show!  But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't glad to get warm again the next morning!

But the experience that will live forever in my memory was that exactly 40 years ago, November 16, 1971.  I was running a public evening at the Observatory for a small group of visitors; I had just aimed the telescope toward h and chi Persei (a.k.a., the Double Cluster in Perseus) and described to my guests what they were viewing, when someone smelled smoke.  Now smoke from fireplaces from around the community was not an uncommon thing to smell, but this was different.  It smelled like electronics and plastic that was burning.

Since the telescope mounting and electronics were pretty old I thought it might be overheating so I shut it down, but the smell continued even stronger. After checking around I realized that the smoke was coming not from the observatory but from the building's fourth floor just beneath us.  I closed the dome slit, unplugged all the electronics I could find in the dome, grabbed a few eyepieces and whatever loose odds and ends I could find, and ushered everyone past the fire and down the five flights of stairs to the outside.

I then ran back up the stairs to check the situation; students in the biology/chem labs were fighting the fire in their ceiling (that was also the floor of the observatory) but the smoke was becoming incredibly thick and it was clear they were losing the battle.  Within minutes we all bailed down the stairs and out onto the street, where the fire department had set up and a crowd had amassed.

I recall crossing the street, turning around to look back at the rooftop when, seconds later, a giant flash of multicolored flames lit up the sky where the Observatory once stood.  Apparently the fire had hit the chemicals that must have been stored in the laboratories, and I'm sure all of us who were up there that night had the same grateful feelings that we got out when we did.

It was horrible watching the events unfold that night, and not knowing what, if anything, would be left of the Observatory.  And I kind of wondered if h and chi might not be up there looking down and hoping that we were all OK.

A couple of days later, my physics professor Dr. Barnhart and I returned to the roof to check out the damage.  I've never experienced anything like it before and certainly never wish to again.  Blackened water still trickled down the stairs like a waterfall and, at the top, the Observatory was gone.  All that remained was an open sky, wet ashes and fragments of the equipment I once joyfully operated.  When I saw how the aluminum dome had melted and dripped across the 16-inch mirror, I knew immediately how lucky we all were to survive that night;  for aluminum to melt, its temperature must reach 1,220 degrees F!

Anyone who has ever lost a home or workplace to fire knows the feeling of seeing its remains, and anyone who hasn't... well, I don't ever wish that for you.  It's an incredibly empty and helpless feeling that cannot be described in words.  But, for the next half hour or so we looked around and were shocked that the Weitkamp Planetarium--a small educational planetarium dome and a Spitz A-1 projector that shared the rooftop with the Observatory--suffered only smoke and water damage.

Now while I no longer had an observatory in which to prepare for my career as a research astronomer, there remained a planetarium and, with much of my own money and time, I spent the next few months cleaning it up and, in the autumn of that year began writing, producing and presenting my own public planetarium shows.  And it was this experience that led to my selection out of a field of 50 as the 1974-75 intern at the world-famous Strasenburgh Planetarium, and to a fantastic 30+ year career at some of the most highly-respected planetaria in the U.S... at the Smithsonian's National Air & Space Museum, the University of Arizona, and  San Diego's Reuben H. Fleet Space Theater.

Many years later, I met up with Dr. Barnhart and his wife and, as we enjoyed a nice dinner in San Diego's Little Italy, I expressed surprise that he would remember me after all these years. In his own inimitable style he grumbled  "Not remember you?!?!  Cripes, you burned down my observatory!" 

Of course, it was not I who burned the observatory; according to the Columbus Dispatch, the cause was determined to be faulty wiring. But it was this devastating event on that fateful and terrifying Tuesday night four decades ago that led me away from research and into communicating the wonders of the cosmos to the public. And, quite frankly, I can't imagine a better and more rewarding career.

And so, tonight, I think I'll take my telescope out to gaze at my old friends h and chi Persei... just to say hi.

Harvest moon... in October?

Here’s some trivia for you… in which month can you see the “harvest” moon?

If you said September, you’re right.

Sometimes.  But not always.

The harvest moon is defined as the full moon that occurs nearest to the autumnal equinox, which happens around September 21, 22 or 23 of each year.  But that doesn’t mean the harvest moon must occur in September.  In fact, the full moon nearest to the equinox can occur in early October, and it would be this full moon we know as the harvest moon.

The last time we had this set of circumstances was in 2009, when the equinox occurred on September 22. The full moon that year happened on September 4 (18 days before), but it was the full moon of October 4, only 12 days after the equinox, that was nearest to the equinox and, therefore, that year’s harvest moon.

This won’t happen again until 2017.

Make friends with the stars...

Each time I wrap up a visit to my hometown of Easton, Pennsylvania—as I’m doing this week—I always find it humbling to realize just how much I’ve received from this place, and the family, friends and even strangers who call it home.

I always loved those warm summer nights during my childhood, and one could usually find me lying on the cool freshly-mown grass, gazing into a star-filled sky. 

It was a simpler, more innocent time—a time when neighbors sat on their porches in the evenings, fireflies lit up the landscape, there was no homework for at least several months, and ice cream or watermelon was all we needed to stay cool. Life seemed just about as good as it could possibly get. 

It was on nights like these that I recall watching my favorite star Antares, its ruddy glow shimmering through the summertime haze that always seemed to hang over the Coursen’s house to the south. 

Antares marks the heart of the celestial arachnid we know as Scorpius, the scorpion, one of the most recognizable constellations in all the heavens; I always enjoyed seeing the several stars outlining its claws at the top, and its long curving stellar tail and stinger, all accompanied by the ghostly band of the Milky Way.

Though life has changed much since those halcyon days of the late 1950s and early '60s, Antares remains a wonderful friend.  Even today I enjoy watching Antares and Scorpius as they rise in the southeastern sky not long after dark.  It’s amazing how just a quick glance at them floods my mind and my heart with such warm memories of that wonderful time in my life, even from in my current home in the Anza-Borrego Desert many miles—and many years—from my Pennsylvania roots.

What a marvelous time of year to leave one’s mundane worries behind, get out under a dark rural sky, and make lifelong friends with the stars.

July 11... the 20th Anniversary of ”Big One!”

I’m sure that in everyone’s life there’s a date that sticks out as the most memorable.  For me, that date is July 11. 

It was on July 11, 1979 that Skylab, the first orbiting U.S. space station, came plunging through the atmosphere to its demise.  As you can imagine, that caused a bit of concern for people on the ground!

On July 11, 1992, I got a German Shepherd, and in the 13 years we were together she became my very best friend.  No judgment, no anger, no prejudice… only unconditional love.  We humans could learn a lot from our dogs. 

And on July 11, 1983, my father died of lung cancer and emphysema.  That was a rough summer for everyone involved.  But it was he who, during my childhood, supported my love of astronomy, even though he had no idea what it was really all about.  And it was he who, nearly 20 years earlier, took me to see my first total solar eclipse. 

Almost.  

I was 12 that summer (OK, I’ll wait for you to get your calculator…) and my parents had taken me on a long drive up the East Coast from our home in Pennsylvania, through Maine and on into northeastern Canada.  We did this during a few summers, but I remember that trip specifically because there was to be an eclipse of the sun.  

When the sky show began, my Dad pulled out some color film from his Super-8 movie camera and doubled it up so we could watch as the moon’s silhouette drifted across the blinding face of the sun.  This, I know today, is NOT a safe way to do this!  Nonetheless, we saw the eclipse and, somehow, managed to keep our vision.  

What sticks in my mind most vividly is that, near the eclipse maximum, the sun had nearly vanished.  It had become just a thin sliver—probably 98 or 99% of its full disk was blacked out—the sky darkened considerably and I was quite impressed.  Years later I looked back at a map of this eclipse and realized if we had driven just a few more miles we would not have seen a partial solar eclipse, but a total solar eclipse.   

Why should that matter?  What possible difference could there be between a 98% total and a 100% total eclipse?  Same questions I asked most of my life. In fact, during the 1970s and ‘80s a number of total solar eclipses passed over North America and I didn’t make the effort to get to them.  I couldn’t really afford to do this, so I rationalized it this way: “Why spend all that time and money to go someplace to watch the sky get dark in the daytime, when I can just wait a few hours and it’ll become dark here.” 

Well, it was exactly 20 years ago today that I found out just how dumb that was!
 
It was on July 11, 1991 that I experienced my first total solar eclipse—the “big one”—the longest total solar eclipse of our lifetime.  I use the word “experience” rather than “see” because it’s so much more than just visual! 

Many people from the U.S. went to Baja California or Hawaii for this sky show. I was lecturing on the Carnival cruise ship Jubilee off the coast of Mazatlán and, despite some weather issues and a near-mutiny by a few “difficult” passengers, we managed to get to the right place at the right time.  

This is important because, while one can see a partial solar eclipse from much of the day-lit world, only those along the eclipse “center line” can experience a total eclipse.  That’s because the moon’s shadow speeding across the Earth’s surface at more than 1,000 miles per hour traces out a path only a few dozen miles wide, so any error could be a disaster. 

But here we were, in the right place at the right time, and it wasn’t long before shouts of "first contact!" rang out as the moon's curved silhouette first darkened the western limb of the sun.  Camera shutters clicked and all eyes turned skyward.  The drama was on!

As the moon drifted gracefully in front of our star, excited chatter came from everywhere.  Some simply lay back on deck chairs enjoying the sights;  others were diligently operating complex batteries of optical tools, hoping to record every second of the action. 
      
Over the next hour or so, the eclipse progressed.  Nothing great; I’d seen this partial eclipse stuff before.  But sunlight was dimming significantly, and soon only a delicate crescent sun remained.  Shadows on the deck had become noticeably sharper, and the temperature began to drop, providing some much-welcomed cooler air. 

Now, with only seconds to go, I got my first taste of “totality.”  

In the west, the moon’s dark shadow descended ominously and rapidly from the heavens, engulfing the Pacific in a still and eerie darkness. 

The dark shadow of the moon approaches the Yangtze River during the 2009 eclipse.

Now anyone who knows me knows that I’m as logical and rational a being as any you’ll find on this planet… yet, as I looked in the direction of this descending darkness I was overcome with the most profound sensation. I could feel my heart pounding, and remember thinking to myself: “My God, something has gone horribly wrong.  It’s not supposed to be this way...”

It was terrifying.  Of course I knew exactly what was happening and why, but this wasn’t intellectual; this was completely primal.  Somewhere deep within my DNA must be data encoded that the sun—our giver of life, light and power—is not supposed to vanish in the daytime.  I can’t even begin to imagine the terror felt by unsuspecting primitive peoples when such a celestial event removed the sun from their daytime sky. 

Totality over the Paul Gauguin (2005)

Soon, the last beam of sunlight disappeared behind the moon's edge―the "diamond ring."   And then, totality!
      
The place where the mighty sun once shone was a void, around which the sun's gossamer corona streamed outward across the sapphire sky.  Some cheered its arrival;  some wept at its splendor.  I was somewhere in between. 

But all gazed in awe at the most glorious spectacle nature has to offer.  What a magnificent and exhilarating moment―one that some had waited an entire lifetime to experience.  Myself included.

In the twilight sky, the planets Mercury, Venus and Jupiter glistened like jewels near the pearly-white corona, and along the horizon glowed the wonderfully warm colors of a 360-degree sunset.  If ever an alien landscape existed on Earth, this was it.  Its beauty held even the most jaded sky watchers captive, and we all became swept up by the haunting celestial theater.
      
Six minutes and 53 seconds passed like an instant... and then it was over. Sunlight burst back into view.  As we toasted what was surely the greatest sky show I had ever experienced, a school of dolphins leaped in and out of the water alongside the ship as if to celebrate with us this remarkable celestial event.  

2008 totality over
Lake Novosibirsk, Siberia

And I had learned once and for all why people will do almost anything to travel across the world to spend but a few fleeting minutes in the shadow of the moon.  

Since that total solar eclipse in 1991, I have experienced a dozen more on six continents and several seas, and have spent more than 30 exhilarating minutes engulfed by the moon’s shadow. No two were ever exactly alike, but each changed the way I view the cosmos and our place in it.

I sincerely hope that such a remarkable experience is firmly planted in your "bucket list," but please don't do as I did.  Don’t put it off.  Join me in November 2012 for our next total solar eclipse adventure in the magical Land Down Under—Australia and New Zealand.  I promise it’ll be an experience you will never forget!

Remembering the Space Shuttle...

As the Space Shuttle Atlantis begins its final mission, the best word I can use to describe my memories of the U.S. Space Shuttle program is "bittersweet."

Over the past three decades, this remarkable flying machine has accomplished more than most of us can remember. It carried into space the first American woman and first African-American. It helped build the incredible space laboratory known as the International Space Station, launched, serviced and upgraded the Hubble Telescope which, over the past 21 years has revolutionized our understanding of the cosmos. And so very much more.

My first journey to Cape Canaveral for a launch was on April 28, 1989; I was there to watch Atlantis (STS-30) carry skyward the Magellan spacecraft which was to journey to Venus. Unfortunately, the launch was scrubbed with only 31 seconds left on the countdown clock, so I missed the opportunity.

Five years later--on July 8, 1994--I did watch as Columbia (STS-65) carried into space the International Microgravity Laboratory.  What an incredible show!

It was quite common to see the Shuttle pass over our homes during evening or early-morning hours. During the last bright pass of STS-69 over Southern California in September 1995, I photographed Endeavour as it flew in front of the constellation Canis Major before dawn.  On board was San Diego astronaut Jim Newman and, when the mission was completed, I presented to him my photo.  I didn't think it was all that great, but he asked for four more prints to give to each of his crew mates.  Why?  Because the constellation Canis Major, the great dog, was featured on their mission patch and the crew knew  themselves as the "Dog Crew."  And I'm now the proud owner of one of the patches that flew with him on that very mission.

And a couple of times I watched the Shuttle's fiery re-entry into the atmosphere. I remember once watching from my home in San Diego as its cherry-red light streaked over the southern horizon; when it was gone, I went inside and watched as it landed in Florida... only 20 minutes later.  Amazing!! 

Flying in space has always been a dream of mine, and in late 1985, I was one of 1,033 applicants for NASA's new "Journalist in Space" program. But that dream ended only weeks later with the Space Shuttle Challenger tragedy. Most of us remember where we were and what we were doing on that dark January day... I was teaching an astronomy class in Southern Arizona when I heard the news. I can't even begin to describe the sickness I felt; if you were not around at that time, no words can capture the feelings we all had; if you were, no words are necessary.

On board mission 51L that day was not only Christa McAuliffe, the first "Teacher in Space", but also veteran mission-specialist Dr. Ronald McNair. Ron and I came to know each other when he shot the very first wide-screen motion picture from space for a consortium of planetariums I worked with, and I interviewed him for an article I wrote ("America Rides the Shuttle") which appeared in magazines such as "The Planetarian," "U.S. Black Engineer, " and "U.S.Hispanic Engineer."

Ironically, I photographed the Space Shuttle Challenger on its last successful flight... on August 11, 1985. On that day, it took off from Edwards Air Force Bace on its return flight to Florida, riding on the back of a specially equipped 747. It stopped for re-fueling at the Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson, Arizona, and my family and I went out to welcome it and to see it off to the Cape.

Little did we know at the time, as we watched her vanish into the blue desert sky, that this would be her final flight.

It has, indeed, been a remarkable journey. It'll be sad to say goodbye to this magnificent flying machine, but I look forward to a glorious new era of manned space exploration--wherever it takes us. I can only hope that America will continue the dream.

Godspeed Atlantis!

Today's the solstice... so why are the sunrise/sunset times "out of sync?"

Today, the Earth’s Northern Hemisphere experiences the summer solstice—the longest day of the year.  (South of the equator, of course, it’s the winter solstice).  Officially, this moment occurs today at 1:16 p.m. EDT (10:16 a.m. PDT).  

Being the longest day of the year—the day when the sun is in the sky the longest—you’d think this would also be the day when the sun rises at its earliest and sets at its latest, no?  But, amazingly, it’s not.

Even a quick glance at any sunrise and sunset table will show this “flaw” around both the summer and winter solstices.  So what’s going on here?

It's a great question, and one I receive at this time every year. One of the best explanations of this phenomenon is offered by the Royal Greenwich Observatory in their Short Special Information Leaflet No. 5 titled ‘The Apparently Odd Behaviour of Sunrise/set times near the Winter Solstice.’

“The winter solstice is the time when the Sun reaches its southmost distance from the celestial equator and hence, in northern latitudes is the day when the Sun is lowest in the sky at noon. This is, naturally, the shortest day of the year in northern latitudes. To many people it seems odd, therefore, that the time of sunrise continues to get later in the day after the solstice.

“The reason for this is that the Sun does not cross the meridian (when it is highest in the sky) at precisely noon each day. The difference between clock-defined noon and the time when the Sun is on the meridian is called the Equation of Time and represents the correction which must be applied to the time given by a sundial to make it agree with clock time.

“There are two reasons why the Sun is not on the meridian at noon each day. The first is that the path of the Earth around the Sun is an ellipse, and not a circle. The second is that the Earth's equatorial plane and its orbital plane are inclined to one another. The two effects add together to yield the Equation of Time which can amount to some 16 minutes difference between solar and mean time.

“The period when the Equation of Time changing fastest in the whole year is very close to the Winter Solstice. It changes by 10 minutes from December 16 to January 5. This means that the time at which the Sun crosses the meridian changes by 10 minutes in this interval and also that the times of sunrise and sunset will change by the same amount.

“Near the Solstice the Sun's height in the sky changes very slowly and the length of the day also changes slowly. The rapid change due to the Equation of Time dominates the very slow change in day length and leads to the observed sunrise times.”

If you could measure the sun's position at the same time every day throughout the year--say at 12 noon--you'd discover that it would trace out a figure-8.  It would be highest, of course, in the summertime and lowest in the winter, but would not appear due south every day at noon.  This figure 8 is that strange figure we've all seen on a map or globe at one time or another.  It's known as the analemma, and at this link you can see graphically how the “equation of time” affects the sun’s position in our sky throughout the year.
 

And be sure not to miss some truly spectacular—and quite difficult to take—photos of the analemma by my friend and TWAN colleague Anthony Ayiomamitis.

--Dennis Mammana

21 June 2011