Witt’s End

I once worked for a publisher who, too often, commented on a picture I made (with great risk to mind and body), “Well, I guess even a blind pig sometimes finds an acorn.”
Last night I guess I was the pig. We’re camped on the outskirts of the Forillon NP on the tip of the Gaspe Peninsula. Several times we passed this incredible light house, the tallest light on the eastern shore of Canada. I knew it would be a great nightscape image. So, when the sky cleared (so I thought) last night, and after losing a round of Five Crowns, I headed to the light—alone since all of my compatriots thought going to sleep was a better option than standing around in the dark, on a path traveled by unknown creatures. Turns out, when I got to the spot I had scouted earlier in the day, the sea fog had moved in and things were less than gloomy. Any sensible photographer would have left the gear in the car and returned home. However, being the blind pig in search of eats, I persisted.

No stars, as I had hoped, way too contrasty light, and the occasional pickemup truck speeding by on the near highway, all sort of came together.

Last night was one of those times when an astro photographer with any sense would put his gear back in the car and go home. Well … I really wanted to get an image of the full moon because we only get a dozen a year—and you can’t count on that, given the weather and so much more. Plus, it’s the 55th year since Neil Armstrong walked on the moon’s surface. After that momentous night I recall asking my grandfather if he thought he’d ever live long enough to see men walk on the moon. He replied, “I never thought I’d live long enough to see men fly.” Oh, right.

While setting up the Sigma 150-600mm/Nikon D850 on the star tracker—not sure it would even work, not really focused, clouds all over the sky, I glanced up and saw an air liner headed right at the Tyco crater. Yikes! Just push the button! Okay, so it’s a bit out of focus. I’ll keep it.

I nearly nodded off while waiting for the clouds to move on to some place where people don’t care about clouds at night and thought, well, let’s see what happens. Hmmmm

Then it looked like the sky might clear, yay! No! Stay away from those trees! Oh, never mind. It’s all about composition. Ya seen one full moon ya seem ‘em all.

Imaging the International Space Station (ISS) is one of those targets plenty of astro photographers attempt—or would like to attempt. Success takes plenty of reliance on things over which we have no control. What we can do is map out the Station’s overpass track (248 miles overhead) and times (thanks to NASA), angle of the moon, or whatever we want in the background, and prepare our gear to the best of our abilities. So, it was last night. I ventured out for my umpteenth attempt at photographing the fast-moving mothership, which falls at a rate of about 17,900 miles per hour. Yes, falls. It actually travels in an orbit at a specific altitude, as gravity pulls it back toward Earth. It falls at about the same speed as the Earth turns, thus never getting any closer. (Ultra over-simplification Clyde, get on with the story.)

Prepared as I was, the weather had other plans of which it did not consult me. At precisely 21:36 EDT when ISS was about to arise in the sky south of southwest of my position, the clouds rolled in. Uggg. Any sensible astro photographer would have packed up his paraphernalia had headed back inside. Right. Another part of my plan for a happy life is to do the best I can with the tunes I got. Hey, clouds need their picture taken, too.

We have a trail camera set up on a tree in our yard to monitor creatures that raid our bird feeders—on a regular basis. We’re currently hosting a mama racoon (affectionally known as Fat Mama because of her girth) who shows up with three of her youngsters. We also have a family of skunks which have taken up residence under our deck. This mama has five (!) little ones that frolic and generally enjoy the yard and area beneath the feeders in case there’s some spillage. Then there are the white-tail deer which, when not consuming Susan’s plants, bump against the feeder tray to knock out whatever the birds have not consumed. So far, we’ve all lived in harmony and the plan, at least on the part of we humans, is to keep it that way.

Last night, however, was a first capture for the trail cam. It took the analysis skills of a CIA photo analyst to noodle this one out. It’s a picture of a firefly, or lightning bug, if you prefer. The camera is triggered by motion so occasionally we get images of falling leaves, sticks, even rain drops during a storm.

Because of chemical applications and mowing of lawns, there are fewer lightning bugs around these days than ever before.

So, what turns a lightning bug on? The light of a firefly is a chemical reaction caused by an organic compound – luciferin – in their abdomens. As air rushes into a firefly’s abdomen, it reacts with the luciferin. Consequently, it causes a chemical reaction that gives off the firefly’s familiar glow. Each firefly species flashes differently. This pattern helps them search for potential mating partners. Male fireflies use a specific flashing pattern while flying in the air finding a female. Many lightning bugs flash only once, while others do so around nine to 10 times.

Lightning bug brightens the way for one of our occasional skunk visitors.

Been a while since I made a run down to the Oak Hill. My goal was to get an image of the International Space Station crossing the Milky Way. I noodled it all out for a couple days and was pleased with the predicted weather forecasts. After greeting all my coyote buddies, with an Eastern Screech-owl singing soprano, I set to work. Alas, although the sky looked clear, there was a lot of upper atmosphere turbulence, thus the Milky Way was not to be seen.

This is a shot in the dark—or right direction. ISS can be seen in the lower central part of the image. It’s a 2-minute-long exposure and the stars are still pin-point sharp thanks to my new star tracker. (You have to look at these on a large monitor or double click to really see the stars.)

I made another attempt at imaging the Milky Way with a long exposure. Here you see a hint of the edge of our galaxy in the lower left of the image. Squint a bit. It’s there. The other big white thingy is a cloud.

Finally, the surprise of the night (thanks to Susan for unraveling the mystery) is this image of an aurora, not seen naked eye. The camera sensor can pick these things up. I was baffled by the purple stripe and green coloring. Susan took one look and said, “It’s an aurora.” Of course. I knew that—not. I thought I was imaging the Swan constellation.

In spite of the sultry temperatures here in the northeast, the strawberries are ripe. At least the Strawberry Moon is ripe. The first lesson most astro photographers learn in this part of the country is to shoot when the sky is clear ’cause it’s only gonna happen about 30% of the time. June 20, the Summer Solstice, promised a full moon–the Strawberry Moon. Well, not exactly. It was 98.something of full. The percentage was about the same as the temperature as I waited for Luna to rise in the spot I had chosen. My calculations were a bit off, however, she did not disappoint. In color she was a pinkish tone, not quite strawberry red, but close enough. According to legend, it’s called the Strawberry Moon because Indigenous people knew the berries would be ripe at about the same time as this full moon–not because of its color. Well, ya coulda fooled me. This was a single image taken through my Explore Scientific ED80CF scope, Nikon D850, ISO 200, 1/125th f4.5. If you look closely, to the left of the moon about an inch away you can see a bat. He accompanied me for a while but I could not catch him in front of the moon.