Okay, Chris, I did make an effort!
Posted: Wed Jan 25, 2012 3:03 am
Some time ago I mentioned that I had never seen an aurora, and I was surprised at Chris' reaction of horror at this. Not having seen an aurora, is that such a big deal?
Well, last night was the night of the Solar storm, and I decided that at least I would make an effort to turn myself into a normal person who had seen an aurora. I had read at the DMI, the Danish Meteorological Institute, that there was a 35% chance of seeing an aurora over Denmark on the evening of January the 24th. And since I live just across the Strait of Öresund from Denmark, I reckoned I had a 35% chance of seeing it, too.
Of course the 35% chance probably required me to keep my eyes glued to the sky during the entire "window" of possible aurora viewing, that is, from between 6 p.m. to 10 p.m. Not a chance that I would do such a thing! I had thought that I would look out my kitchen window now and then to see if anything was going on outside. But then I read that I had to find a dark spot away from streetlights. Oh, joy! Where do I find that in Malmö?
Yesterday I had taken a cab to the stars and taken the cabbie with me, too. But what could I do tonight? How about taking a cab and telling the driver to take me to the darkest spot in Malmö and drop me off there? Eh. I don't think so.
No, I would have to go somewhere within reasonable bicycle access that was as dark as I could make it and seemed safe and normal, too. I chose the Ribersborg beach facing the Strait of Öresund. The picture shows you Ribersborg by daylight. When I came from the brightly lit streets and suddenly saw these long wide stretches of grassy fields that are completely unlit by any streetlights, they seemed startlingly and somewhat scarily dark. I cycled to one of the bridges that you can see at the upper left in the picture and stood there, looking out over the Strait of Öresund.
As soon as I my eyes had adjusted, I could see that the spot I had chosen wasn't very dark after all. On my right was Västra Hamnen, the West Harbour, dominated by Turning Torso, prettily decked out in white and red lights. It really looked prettier and more full of lights than in does in this picture. Also, I could see a lot of colorful neon lights in Västra Hamnen. And it was as if the whole West Harbour was encased in a dome of dull brownish light of light pollution. And across the Öresund is Copenhagen, and I could see a dome of light pollution on the other side of the Öresund, too.
As I stood there on the bridge, I became aware of how lonely the place was and how strangely alive it was at the same time. The night itself seemed alive. I could hear the constant murmur of the water around me, of course. And as I looked at the horizon, it seemed completely alive with flashing, blinking, pulsating lights. Blue lights (I liked those), green lights, red lights, yellow lights, white lights. Flashing and blinking at different beats. What were they? Lighthouses? Some other kinds of lights in the water or along the Swedish and the Danish coastline? Light signals from the Kastrup Airport just across the Öresund? A huge photoelectric sea monster, stranded in the shallow waters of the Öresund, panting and blinking its distress at me?
The sky rose uninterrupted almost all around me, and I could Venus sinking slowly in the west to the left of me, becoming ever yellower as it did so. Jupiter stood high in the sky on the left behind me. Almost right ahead of me, just slightly to the right, was Polaris. The Big Dipper hung to the right of it, its handle hanging down. To the left was the handsome outline of Cygnus and the pretty bluish light of Vega.
But the sky was abuzz with airplanes, too, airplanes on their way to or from Kastrup. They were too far away to make any sound, so they sailed like silent, glittering birds in the sky. Often they looked just like a star, so it was as if some of the stars "had come loose" from "the firmament of the sky", as if the entire sky had come alive. Planes flew above and below Venus as if they were courting her. Another plane flew in an elegantly curving line from Mizar and Alcor to Alkaid in the handle of the Big Dipper, as if the Dipper had spouted an extra star that was moving, too.
It was almost hypnotic to stand there alone in the (relative) darkness being completely surrounded by the night and the lights and the sounds and the stars and the airplanes flying like birds in the sky. The only thing I didn't see was the aurora.
But at least, Chris, I can say that now I have made an effort to see one.
Ann
Well, last night was the night of the Solar storm, and I decided that at least I would make an effort to turn myself into a normal person who had seen an aurora. I had read at the DMI, the Danish Meteorological Institute, that there was a 35% chance of seeing an aurora over Denmark on the evening of January the 24th. And since I live just across the Strait of Öresund from Denmark, I reckoned I had a 35% chance of seeing it, too.
Of course the 35% chance probably required me to keep my eyes glued to the sky during the entire "window" of possible aurora viewing, that is, from between 6 p.m. to 10 p.m. Not a chance that I would do such a thing! I had thought that I would look out my kitchen window now and then to see if anything was going on outside. But then I read that I had to find a dark spot away from streetlights. Oh, joy! Where do I find that in Malmö?
Yesterday I had taken a cab to the stars and taken the cabbie with me, too. But what could I do tonight? How about taking a cab and telling the driver to take me to the darkest spot in Malmö and drop me off there? Eh. I don't think so.
No, I would have to go somewhere within reasonable bicycle access that was as dark as I could make it and seemed safe and normal, too. I chose the Ribersborg beach facing the Strait of Öresund. The picture shows you Ribersborg by daylight. When I came from the brightly lit streets and suddenly saw these long wide stretches of grassy fields that are completely unlit by any streetlights, they seemed startlingly and somewhat scarily dark. I cycled to one of the bridges that you can see at the upper left in the picture and stood there, looking out over the Strait of Öresund.
As soon as I my eyes had adjusted, I could see that the spot I had chosen wasn't very dark after all. On my right was Västra Hamnen, the West Harbour, dominated by Turning Torso, prettily decked out in white and red lights. It really looked prettier and more full of lights than in does in this picture. Also, I could see a lot of colorful neon lights in Västra Hamnen. And it was as if the whole West Harbour was encased in a dome of dull brownish light of light pollution. And across the Öresund is Copenhagen, and I could see a dome of light pollution on the other side of the Öresund, too.
As I stood there on the bridge, I became aware of how lonely the place was and how strangely alive it was at the same time. The night itself seemed alive. I could hear the constant murmur of the water around me, of course. And as I looked at the horizon, it seemed completely alive with flashing, blinking, pulsating lights. Blue lights (I liked those), green lights, red lights, yellow lights, white lights. Flashing and blinking at different beats. What were they? Lighthouses? Some other kinds of lights in the water or along the Swedish and the Danish coastline? Light signals from the Kastrup Airport just across the Öresund? A huge photoelectric sea monster, stranded in the shallow waters of the Öresund, panting and blinking its distress at me?
The sky rose uninterrupted almost all around me, and I could Venus sinking slowly in the west to the left of me, becoming ever yellower as it did so. Jupiter stood high in the sky on the left behind me. Almost right ahead of me, just slightly to the right, was Polaris. The Big Dipper hung to the right of it, its handle hanging down. To the left was the handsome outline of Cygnus and the pretty bluish light of Vega.
But the sky was abuzz with airplanes, too, airplanes on their way to or from Kastrup. They were too far away to make any sound, so they sailed like silent, glittering birds in the sky. Often they looked just like a star, so it was as if some of the stars "had come loose" from "the firmament of the sky", as if the entire sky had come alive. Planes flew above and below Venus as if they were courting her. Another plane flew in an elegantly curving line from Mizar and Alcor to Alkaid in the handle of the Big Dipper, as if the Dipper had spouted an extra star that was moving, too.
It was almost hypnotic to stand there alone in the (relative) darkness being completely surrounded by the night and the lights and the sounds and the stars and the airplanes flying like birds in the sky. The only thing I didn't see was the aurora.
But at least, Chris, I can say that now I have made an effort to see one.
Ann
YEE-HAA!! 
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