February 13, 2024

In my companion article to this piece, I wrote that one of the top reasons that stargazing is the ultimate outdoor pursuit is because of the real world drama played out in the nightly motions of the stars and other celestial objects. A recent night of stargazing which I recently enjoyed in the remote and therefore star-happy location of Big Bend National Park serves as an illustrative example. I reserved a backcountry campsite sight unseen; as I set up my tent and went out for a day hike, I didn’t think much about the mountainous ridge to the east, especially not as a backdrop for my evening entertainment of stargazing. Indeed, as I made my post-hike dinner, I was preoccupied with the action in the west and the (apparent) motion of only one star — the long and thrilling opening act represented by the sunset. The World’s Best Opening Act A description of the subtle but inexorable changes in the sky along with the appearance of the most vivid colors on the earthbound objects of the desert landscape during the progression of the sunset merit their own article, but it’s not my intention for this to be another ode to the majestic sunset. From the perspective of the stargazer, the hour and a half or so between the final disappearance of the sun and the onset of full darkness is maddeningly slow. It’s easy to get impatient as seems like it will never get fully dark. But patience is rewarded as the evening’s first stars (and planets) appear. If we can think of the evening’s celestial events as a stage drama, the transition from twilight to night is like the slowest imaginable raising of a curtain. But instead of taking the stage from the wings with dramatic entrances, the players participating in the first act are already there, slowly coming into view one by one as the stage lights brighten just enough to reveal their silhouettes, until they finally appear in full view and the proper action can begin. Act I – Setting the Stage As I geared up for the evening and turned my gaze upward, I felt a brief twinge of regret at having left my planisphere at home, forcing myself to rely on my somewhat rusty knowledge of the stars’ positions. But in a way, this made it more fun. Eventually I’d be able to identify the major constellations, but I wouldn’t quite know what they were until most of their stars were in sight. As the constellations began to take shape, Perseus and the Pleiades were prominently showing several degrees above the ridge line, and the wedge of Taurus with its brightest red star Aldebaran was distinctly visible along with its neighboring constellation Auriga, its main star Capella shining brightly as well. It was clear that this was destined to be a winter star extravaganza. Looking to the west trailing the setting sun, the three stars of the summer triangle were visible although it was clear that Altair would soon disappear below the horizon while Deneb, the smear of the Milky Way running through it, and the rest of the constellation Cygnus would be sticking around for a little longer. A different polygon, the Winter Hexagon would be my focus tonight; it’s shear massiveness makes it an easy viewing target. Imposing in its bulk, it takes up one third of the sky when fully visible. With two of its six stars already on the stage, the Hexagon was well on its way reaching this stage of completion although it would take a few hours for the other four corners to show themselves. Luckily, time was something I had plenty of; after a long day of backpacking and hiking including an ascent of the park’s highest peak, I was more than happy to lie supine in my sleeping bag and remain mostly motionless while the counterclockwise pinwheel rotation of everything around the North Star played out above me. When a Ridge is a Stage Several features of the ridge turned out to play critical roles in shaping the evening’s drama, none more than a deeply vertical V-shaped notch. At evening’s beginning, a bright star occupied the space within the notch, but as an isolated star, I didn’t think much of it. It was only after several minutes when another bright star rose closely behind it through the middle of the V that I realized that what I was seeing was Orion’s belt, oriented perpendicular to the ridge. Soon, Betelgeuse and Rigel came into sight, flanking the belt with perfect symmetry like the tips of a gyroscope’s central axis. With Rigel’s appearance, half of the Hexagon was in sight. Next to make its way through the notch was the prominent star cluster I’ve always thought of as the hilt of Orion’s belt, but which is more commonly known as Orion’s sword. Along with the Collinder 69 cluster (Orion’s head) and the Pleiades, it was one of three prominent star clusters easily visible in a small patch of sky, a nice treat because if stars are great, having a whole cluster of them is even greater. Finally, the third star of the belt made its way up through the notch, and I watched intently from its first appearance until it completely cleared the ridge, amazed as always by the speed at which celestial objects appear to move past a fixed reference point on the horizon. Familiar Friends A few stars were visible to the left of the hunter, but lacking my handy reference, I couldn’t place what they were. With the main stars of Orion in sight, I turned my attention to other features.  Normally, Taurus’s neighbor in the zodiac, Aries, doesn’t offer much of interest with its slant of three stars appearing more or less like a celestial hockey stick; but tonight Jupiter was shining brightly beside it, making me regret I’d left my binoculars behind. Undoubtedly at least two of Jupiter’s brightest moons, among my favorite