No Comets Here

The week-long spell of fog broke this Saturday and there was a possibility that Comet ALTLAS G3 would be visible in the Northern Hemisphere, at least according to the photos shared on the EarthSky website. A secondary web ephemeris painted a less rosy picture, and an app on my phone split the difference.  ALTAS G3 was there, and maybe, just maybe, it would be visible from Eugene.

Thinking that I would kick myself if I missed a chance to get a viewing—and photograph—of the comet, I bundled up against the 38F temperature, loaded up my camera and tripod into the car and sped off to Spencer Butte. I was pretty sure that if I tried to see the comet from the top of our local hill, the comet would be behind the South Hills of Eugene.  Or someone's house.  Or a streetlamp.

Spencer Butte isn’t that far away, but it’s about a 25 minute mile hike to the 2054 foot summit. Eugene spills out to the northeast, there’s a good view of the Cascade Mountains to the east, and the Coastal Mountains to the west. When I got to the butte's parking lot around 4:30,  it was packed. I rested the tripod and camera against my shoulder and began the assent. It’s been a few months since I last climbed the butte, my not-quite-huffing-and-puffing was a reminder of how I’ve gotten out of shape.

The setting sun painted the west sides of the pines and shrubs ruddy gold.  A little over halfway up, there was something like white ash on the trail, and occasionally, white flakes of not-snow fell.  I reached over and touched a frosty white branch of underbrush.  The water drop hanging from it was rigid ice.  Closer to the summit, the sun turned the frost golden. I paused for just a moment to take a photo with my phone, then I continued on to the final steps along hewn stone stairs.

The sun had just gone below the horizon around 5:00 when I unfolded my tripod just below the old observation point at the butte’s peak. A wind from the north whipped loose strands of my hair. Haze from the week’s inversion smudged the edge of the sky, and low clouds on the horizon glowed pink and crimson. 

The sky was way too bright for any comet to show up.

I was under the impression that the parking lot closed at 6:00, which meant that I’d only have about a half hour to get any good photos. I scanned the horizon, thinking that the comet might be at a magnitude to be visible, but all I saw was a really nice twilight glow and one striking cloud formation that looked like a trireme. The comet might have been behind a band of clouds, or it might have been much dimmer than I thought.

Venus became apparent, so I snapped a photo of it. The layer of haze from the inversion also became apparent.

A young woman—I wasn’t sure if she was in high school or college—asked me, “Is that a camera?” I was a little puzzled by the question—maybe she thought my camera was a telescope, or maybe she meant to ask “What are you doing?”—but I explained that it was a camera, that I was hoping to spot ATLAS G3 (here I whipped out the astronomy app), but that so far all I was seeing was Venus, and that as the comet moved away from the sun, it might be in a better position for viewing, but that it might get too dim.” This seemed to make an impression on her and her female friend, and they left with a benediction of good wishes.

More and more folks left the summit.

I pulled out my iPhone, which sometimes can capture traces of auroras and comets that I’m missing, and snapped a series of photos along the horizon. At 5:30, I checked the astronomy app: it showed ATLAS G3 setting. I took some more photos of the area of the sky where I guessed the comet might be, thinking that seeing the comet would have been much easier from Australia or Ecuador or some other place other than Eugene. 

Then it was time to head back.

The darkness grew. I had rushed out of the house without a proper flashlight. This wasn’t so bad; I could have used my phone’s light, and in any case, I like to walk at nigh without a light. The stone stairs weren’t too much of a problem, but I was glad that it wasn’t too dark when I descended. Two (different) women about thirty feet ahead of me walked with a cell phone light, so it was easy to see where the dark path was going.

As I followed, I thought to try to really listen to the woods as I walked (and not think about cougars). I caught glimpses of Venus through the shadows of the tree trunks. Eugene traffic noises floated up from the city. I became aware of brain chatter, and a soundtrack in my head. When I tried not to name the trees or Venus, I heard Ursula Le Guin reading a passage from “She Unnames Them.” I never really got rid of the soundtrack. I did change the brain chatter to “crunch, crunch, crunch” to match my footsteps on the gravel path, but it was still getting in the way of a zen moment in the woods.

The most challenging part of the hike was returning to the parking lot, which was illuminated by a Very Bright Light that blinded me and made staying on the pathway difficult.

And the mounting socket on the bottom of my camera fatigued off when I set the camera against the car's seat.  This will make using the tripod to take pictures of stellar objects difficult.

At home, looking at the photos on a larger screen, I might have gotten a picture of the comet, but its much more likely a bright cloud lit up by the setting sun.  

Lunistice and Summer Solistice

Last Thursday was the solstice, so I suggested that we hike up Spencer Butte and watch the not-quite-full moon rise before the sun set. In a different world, Mark and I would meet our gay pagan coven at the top for high ritual drumming and dancing; however in this world it was just us, lemon-honey-ginger tea, and macaroons. And my camera. And hippie-lite Eugene.

I may or may not have intoned intentionally trite couplets with poor meter while making vaguely mystical passes with my upraised hands and a spacey look on my face. Mark may or may not have said sarcastically, “that’s so hot.”

Spencer Butte is a Eugene City park. It’s not too much of a climb, but it is a good indicator of how in shape one is. We took the easy route up, mostly because I’ve sprained my wrist and I didn’t want to slip scrambling up the steeper side of the butte and re-injure myself.

The parking lot was full-ish, but we found a parking stall. The number of folks were evenly split between jogging attire, hiking attire, and hippie attire. As we hiked up the path, several scantily clad men wearing chunky jewelry descended; so I’m guessing we must have missed any Gay Pagan Men’s ritual at the butte’s peak.

We walked among the cedars on the east side of the butte in twilight, but the growing Earth-shadows had not yet become one night. In some corner of my mind, Suzanne Vega’s “Night Vision” played. There’s arched stone causeway which lends itself to one of us shouting “Smooching Bridge!” which is followed by smooching.

It was around 8:15 when we achieved the peak and daylight. The climb wasn’t too bad, but I will admit that the stairs at the end were challenging.

A group of loud folks coalesced at the end of the trail. Four vultures perched on a snag near by, and I took some photos of them. One by one they launched themselves into an updraft rising on the northwest side of the butte.

The old fire spotting station site freed up, and we managed to snag a seat on the flat triangle of concrete at the butte’s highest point. A stranger and his dog, Rico, joined us to get away from the jabbering crowd.

The haze to the east surprised us. Mark thought it was pollution stirred up by the 85F plus temperature. If you squinted, you could make out the Three Sisters. The sun was still about a handspan above Fern Ridge Reservoir on the western horizon.

The shadow of Spencer Butte stretched away from us, and I realized that it would be pointing in the general direction of moonrise. I had forgotten that the moon was at its lunistice, so it rose to the right of the butte’s shadow, about as far south as possible for it to rise. At first, you couldn’t see the moon as it rose just a little north of Mount June: its white dome blended in with the eastern haze. Slowly it inched upward until it broke away and hung over Mount June’s peak.

We turned around. The setting sun reflected off of Fern Ridge Reservoir, turning the western horizon into molten red gold.

We at the macaroons; they were a mélange of artificial flavors and aftertastes. We drank the tea, which was supposed to be summery and fiery; I liked it, Mark thought it was too sweet, but it did wash out the synthetic taste of the macaroons.

I took photos, pausing every now and then to appreciate what was going on directly. In a different time, I might have been drumming; in a different time, I might have chanted “Isis / Astarte / …” ; or walked a spiral lit with candles ignited with flame from the sun’s rays.

But just before the sun set, we started down the butte, descending into the twilight trees and not lingering at any potential smooching sites so as not to be caught in the parking lot in full night.

Our car joined the caravan of other cars heading back to Eugene. As Blanca Paloma sang AEAE (“…may they bury me on the moon / so that I might see you every day / every day but one…”) I spied a heart shape at the wooded side of the road: a three-point deer with its antlers arcing over its head.

Hiking Bribe Sandwich

For the last few days, Mark has been wanting to go up Spencer's Butte or Mt. Pisgah, but hasn't had enough umph to do so.  This was sad because being in the woods and hiking rejuvenates Mark.   I decided that if The Family went, Mark would be more likely to go.  I enlisted the help of The Child.  This required some negotiation.

Me:  "Mark's been wanting to hike, and I think if we all go, he'll be more likely to."

The Child:  "Oh... Kay..."

Me:  "So Saturday, we should all get up first thing in the morning and climb up Spencer's Butte."

TC:  "Uh -- but what about videos?"

Me:  "We'll start early so we get back early and you can still Saturday binge watch your regular allotment."

TC:  "Can't you go without me?"

Me:  "Bud, Mark's been kind of bummed about not hiking, and I could use your support helping him.

TC: "..."

Me:  "I'll pack a breakfast."

TC (eyes lighting up):  "We can stop at McDonald's and get a McMuffin?"

Me (trying not to roll my eyes or make hacking noises):  "Ugh.  No.  Um.  I'll make you a McMuffin at home and we can eat it up on top."

TC: "You'll make it with 'Merican cheese?"

Me:  "Yes."

TC:  "And those sausage links."

Me:  "I can get some sausages."

TC:  "No, they need to be those little sausage things they put on the side."

Me:  "How about I chop up the bacon and put it into the eggs?  With cream cheese.

TC: "Bacon?  (clearly tempted)  Maybe I could do a bait-and-switch.  You could say, 'Come on Mark, we're going,' and I could get into the car, and then I could slip out the back and into the house and you guys could go without me."

Me:  "If you don't go on the hike, there's no McMuffin.  Come on, bud, this is to get Mark into the woods.

TC (resigned):  "Okay."

* * *

Saturday morning I roused myself from bed, started the water for Mark's coffee (and my tea), and fired up the stove top.  The crescent moon shone about twenty degrees away from Saturn (alas, their conjunction the day before was clouded over).  

Luckily, we live near a meat market, so I had some Canadian Bacon slices and some American Cheese.  It wasn't the original bacon plan, but I vaguely remember ham or something being layered in the original breakfast sandwich, and -- more importantly -- the folks at the meat market had suggested Canadian Bacon when I told them I was making a Hiking Bribe Sandwich.  I tried pouring the scrambled egg-and-cream-cheese into a round cookie cutter to make a kind egg patty, but the the egg either seeped out of the bottom or adhered to cutter, so I just scrambled the eggs as best as I could and kept things as thick as possible.  Once everything was cooked, I assembled the sandwiches and wrapped them up in waxed paper for that cheap-fast-food presentation.

I packed sandwiches, fruit, beverages, and my camera, and -- amid accusations of being an autocrat -- got everyone into the car.   I want to say we got to the parking lot at 8.  It was mostly empty, which was nice, as on pleasant Saturdays Spencer Butte is a popular destination (editor's note: borne out by a friend later).   Someone chose the Steep Route up the west side of the butte, and we got a round of cardio in climbing up to the top.  

At first, The Child ranged in front of us, but we overtook him about two-thirds of the way up.  The ferns on the lower slope were still flattened by last month's foot of snow.  Farther along, uprooted Douglas firs and ponderosa pines lay fallen on the ground or smashed against still standing trees.  Chainsawed segments had been rolled off of the path.   I'd worked up a sweat climbing the shaded side of the butte, and as my head popped up out of the shade, I discovered we'd been climbing in the lee of the butte, too.

Low clouds loomed in the distance surrounding the northern part of the valley, and trees in the meadows between Spencer Butte and Mt. Pisgah cast long shadows through the fog.  Mt. Jefferson poked up through the haze, and the Three Sisters huddled together in the gauze on the horizon.  Saturn and the stars were gone, but the crescent moon sailed the southern sky.

The brisk wind helped unfurl the ground cover, and we needed to anchor the leading edge to keep it from bunching up.  The Child foraged through the insulated bag and ripped into a sandwich.  I poured myself some tea.  Mark bit into a marshmallow-chocolate-chip-mint treat I'd bought, laughed, and said it tasted like the mint toothpaste he hates.  The Child gave the sandwich a rating of 10.  I passed out cloth napkins with a sense of smug accomplishment.  It wasn't exactly a Martha Stewart picnic, but as I sipped my tea, in my head I heard peppy, make-over show music playing.

Spenser Butte Hike

We went on an evening hike. The clouds had mostly gone and the sun was out.




I'd been listening to Wagner all week, so the woods in my mind echoed with heroic strains.

There were mushrooms. I think the one I saw is called bird's cup. The failing light confused the auto-focus on my camera.

Many folks were on the trail. Most of them seemed to be under eighteen.


And we made it back to the car before the sun set.