John Pepin

“Diamond sky, oh, tell me the truth, will there be any real satisfaction. Diamond sky, oh well, tell me the truth, are my wheels spinning closer to traction.”

— Steve Forbert

I count myself among those in a longstanding tradition who have looked to the skies to marvel at all there is to see in the heavens above.

I’m the backyard type of astronomer who likes to lay in a hammock, on the grass or across a picnic table with a pair of binoculars, staring up at the stars and planets, satellites and meteors. Sometimes, I take long-exposure pictures.

From cavemen to the imaginative Indigenous people who saw creatures in the star arrangements forming constellations to the Druids and the Greeks and the space-race scientists of NASA who put us on the moon and continue to reach farther, there has been no shortage of interest in the nighttime skies.

August is one of the highlight times of the year for me because this is when the Perseid meteor shower reaches its peak – which NASA says can typically tally up to 100 meteors an hour sputtering across the sky.

I don’t think I will ever see a Perseid meteor shower any better than I witnessed more than 20 years ago in the Mojave Desert in California.

I was near the Devil’s Punchbowl, a sandstone feature located in the Angeles National Forest not far from Los Angeles. The Bobcat Fire swept through this area in 2020 and destroyed a nature center at the county-managed park.

My friend and I were sitting on the hood of the car, parked on a slope with the desert and its pitch-black sky stretching out before us. The meteors were incredibly bright, frequent and could be seen high and low crisscrossing the sky.

My joke about the Devil’s Punchbowl is that the first time we were there it was really a letdown. There was nothing left in the bottom but a few lemon rinds.

According to Space.com, “the Perseids” is visible each year from mid-July to late August, with the peak around Aug. 11. Good viewing of the meteors usually occurs for a few days before and after the peak.

The Perseid meteor shower is caused by the comet Swift-Tuttle (Lewis Swift and Horace Tuttle), which is named after the astronomers who discovered it in 1862.

Comet Swift-Tuttle – which at about 16 miles wide is the largest object known to repeatedly pass by Earth while orbiting the sun – last came by in 1992, due next in 2126.

The Earth passes through bits of ice and rock left by the comet.

“When you sit back to watch a meteor shower, you’re actually seeing the pieces of comet debris heat up as they enter the atmosphere and burn up in a bright burst of light, streaking a vivid path across the sky as they travel at 37 miles per second,” according to NASA.

Most of the meteor particles are about the size of a sand grain, which heat up to about 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit and are visible when they are usually about 60 miles above the Earth’s surface, according to Space.com.

In 2028, a bigger display is expected at the Perseids peak when the number of visible meteors per hour may double.

For this year’s peak, I planned to head to a place I know where a recent clearcut has made for optimal viewing toward the northeastern skies. I knew I would have to wait until after midnight for the moon to move out of the way enough to dim the sky.

Watching television, I fell asleep in a big, soft chair we call “the crippler” and I didn’t wake up until 3 a.m. At that point, I decided I’d just head out the back door to see what I could find.

I was not expecting what I encountered.

The sky was still much brighter than it should have been with misty “clouds” obscuring the darkest part of the viewing area. Weather conditions have often dampened the greatest of expectations during numerous meteor showers.

I noticed the big W-shaped constellation Cassiopeia was almost positioned over the backyard rather than the front yard where I had been used to seeing it over several front yard outings. Changing seasons.

With just a few seconds of viewing that part of the sky, I noticed that the misty clouds were flashing and moving in undulating fashion. This was the aurora borealis I was seeing and not clouds at all – more like curtains of greenish-white spray drifting and dropping above me.

What a happy problem to have: my view of the Perseids was intermittently blocked by the northern lights. This is what might be referred to as an embarrassment of riches.

To add to this, Jupiter and Mars were also visible close to one another in this early morning sky. And to think I just came out here for shooting stars.

The meteors, though dimmed by the northern lights, were still bright enough to amaze me. I saw several super bright ones racing across the sky.

I stayed out for an hour, until the back of my neck got sore.

I decided I would return the next night after setting up my hammock for optimal viewing. I pulled it across the patio in the late afternoon.

Beyond moving the hammock, I had to remove an insect egg sack that had been placed on the underside of the hammock cloth, which was the topside once the hammock was flipped around to its proper placement.

The Queen of Shebis and I stepped outside just as she was ready for bed at about 1 a.m. The first thing we noticed was the distant sound of coyotes that were yipping and howling off in the hills to our south somewhere.

The skies on this second night of viewing were largely obscured by real clouds this time. We didn’t see any northern lights either, but we still were able to see some meteors before going back inside.

I came out again later and conditions had not improved much.

I heard deer stomping around the darkened backyard after they heard the back door open and close. The coyotes were no longer howling.

Strangely on either night, the loons that typically are in optimum haunting voice, singing from the lake for several minutes, were silent. They had been vocal earlier in the evening, but now they had nothing to say.

I wondered why not.

I have often heard their clarion concerts at this time of the night on plenty of occasions.

With them being such mysterious birds that date back thousands of years, who knows what ancient, coded message of nature triggers them to do what they do, or don’t do?

There might be some kind of inherent directive, like a Morse code, that prompts them. Maybe some behavior learned over all that time?

Whatever the case, common loons are among my favorite birds. Without them, the north woods wouldn’t be what they are. Their calls, and those of the white-throated sparrow, help define these environs as inviting, haunting and steeped in wild places to be explored.

For me, if I follow the call of a loon, I know I will end up in a place that I know I want to be. Just closing my eyes and listening to that sound, I envision clear, cold waters, deep forests and uncrowded shores beckoning me to walk and sit and contemplate.

The dark night skies do the same.

I plan to head to the clearcut tonight after the sun goes down to take another shot at optimizing my view of this year’s Perseids meteor shower.

I am excited to be there either way. It’s a great opportunity to encounter another environment with different night sounds, sights, smells and feels. It will also afford me more unobscured viewing with almost no trees blocking my sight.

Even just taking the ride along the dirt roads in the woods after dark is exciting to me with a better than even chance of spotting an owl, some common nighthawks or animals crossing the road – maybe even moose or a bobcat or wolf.

All these things are part of what makes me love this region where I grew up so much. They are in my blood, my heart and soul.

It’s clear to me experiencing these things can dissolve a dark day’s depression, a multitude of frustration and anxiety, and point the way toward better days and clearer skies ahead.

All that’s left to do is keep on chooglin’.

Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.