Last week, I shared the first part of a short essay by one of my astronomy friends, Susan Carroll. Susan observes through an 18-inch Starmaster Dobsonian-mounted reflector. To read the first installment, click here.
NIGHTFALL (part 2)
by Susan S. Carroll, Bradenton, Florida
Finally, the first stars in my deep southern object peek above the horizon; it won't be long now. I stare at them, hoping that I can raise them higher with my own eagerness. This doesn't happen, and I content myself with scanning the horizon yet again for the enemy. If clouds move in and obscure my view, the southern deep sky will be lost to me. Fortunately, there are no enemy troops in sight.
Now the object is standing, just on the horizon, and I swing the 18 down. This one will be a knee-biter; no chair or ladder is required. I site the object through the Telrad, and eagerly drop to my knees. The ground is grass over sharp coral, and I congratulate myself for the forethought to wrap heavy socks around each knee. I cannot, however, see the object in my eyepiece, so I consult the finder again. I nudge the 18 down just a millimeter, put my eye back to the eyepiece — and gasp. There it is. It fills the field of view of the medium-high magnification eyepiece I am using; but it is all there. I stare at it so intensely that it feels as though my eyeball will jump out of its socket. Show me your secrets, I plead. Just a hint will do. As though it heard my silent plea, the object shines brighter and I gasp again.
Now a blanket of adrenaline and sheer wonder covers me. That one split second has given me the thing I treasure most — enlightenment. One more tiny piece of the puzzle of the universe has been implanted in my brain, to be retrieved and lived over and over again. As the object sinks below the horizon in farewell, I pat the 18's secondary cage and again feel the gratitude and humility I have for the exquisite primary mirror she has.
Like a dog sniffing the breeze, the 18 rises up a little of her own accord, as if to say "What's next? Let's go!" I reluctantly turn back to reality, and site my next object. Now the voices are much fewer, and only occasionally does the red beam of an astronomer's flashlight shine. As I peer once more through the eyepiece, I shake my head in wonder at the many people who have already gone to bed. How could they have missed this, I ask myself. But I shake off the thought. After all, what others do when observing is not my concern.
As night finally begins to fade, and a faint pink glow is visible in the east, I carefully put the 18 to bed, and slide her long silver cover over her. Silent now, she doesn't protest. I close my eyepiece case and look again to the east. A beautiful sunrise is just beginning, so I make my way to the beach, find a suitable rock to sit on, and watch. The glorious sunlight becomes brighter and suddenly I feel the signs of exhaustion; the stiff knees, the protesting feet, the sore back. I am the only one still up, so I watch the sunrise in silence, hugging my stiff knees in front of me. Then I reluctantly make my way back to our trailer for some much needed sleep. After all, behind this sunrise is another sunset, and another opportunity to look heavenward at the wonders contained within. I fall into bed; to sleep, and to dream of what I will find after that sunset.