THE OBSERVER
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PERSEIDS AND PERSPECTIVE
ot terribly long after The Observer pestered the Central Arkansas Astronomical Society’s admin email for advice on how best to see the Perseids meteor shower this year, an invitation appeared in my inbox. Would I like to come set up a lawnchair and watch the Perseids from River Ridge Observatory, where the society observes the cosmos with fancy telescopes from the middle of nowhere in Perry County? Yes, I would. And was I fully vaccinated, by the way? And willing to wear a mask if entering one of the facilities? Even better, I thought. So that was how I ended up booking it to Bigelow around sunset in the middle of August, my car loaded with a companion, a picnic blanket, a pillow, a cooler full of the fanciest snacks I could conjure from the contents of my pantry (stargazing deserved raspberry seltzer water and hunks of mozzarella with Krogerbrand prosciutto, I determined), two bottomshelf headlamps that emitted low-power red light, plenty of mosquito repellent and the pair of camp chairs that have taken up permanent residence in the back hatch of my car since I forget when. A few observations, astronomical and otherwise: Adjusting your eyes to the dark — and keeping them there — is way more important than I’d realized. I know, I know, every set of guidelines about stargazing tells you exactly this. Problem is, it’s really hard to do unless you’re pretty intentional about it, or unless you’re surrounded, as I was, by a handful of folks who know what they’re doing. Maybe you’re watching from your backyard and find yourself going inside for bathroom breaks, where harsh 114 SEPTEMBER 2021
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white lights undo any adjustments to the dark you’ve taken time to make. Or you’re camping out and need to turn on your flashlight to find your Off! Deep Woods. Or, more likely, you’re picking up your cell phone to google “where is the Big Dipper,” and unless you’ve made some adjustments to your device’s brightness, you’re not doing yourself any favors. Do some research beforehand on where in the sky to look for a particular constellation so you don’t have to pick up that phone. Adjusting your eyes takes awhile, and you’ll see a lot more if you can keep the light around you at an absolute minimum. River Ridge’s clubhouse and bathroom facilities have low red overhead lighting for this very reason. The astronomers at the Central Arkansas Astronomical Society consider what they’re doing “amateur astronomy,” which to true novices like me just means “We’re not NASA.” It may be, technically, amateur astronomy, but make no mistake about it, the members of this group are pretty dang serious about it. (Type caasastro.org into your browser window for a taste.) Our brief tour of the grounds, courtesy of longtime member and tech guru Jim Dixon, came complete with definitions of the three types of telescopes, all of which are represented among the individual members’ equipment. One of those is a robotic research-class telescope that the group operates at River Ridge in partnership with Arkansas Tech University. At the Zoom meeting I attended last year, much of the camera and telescope jargon was way over my head. Don’t let a lack of tech savvy or science background dissuade you. The stars belong to everyone, and intimate knowledge of fish-eye lenses and sky-tracking
software is not a prerequisite for getting into astronomy. The demands of skywatching are antithetical to the way we live in 2021, and it is simultaneously one of the most humanityaffirming things you can do in the middle of an abysmal year. Stargazing is not, generally speaking, productive. It doesn’t produce any tangible commodity and it doesn’t grow the economy or create a lot of jobs or directly solve any of our current social ills. When I arrived at River Ridge, longtime member Bruce McMath was giving his family — and a couple of us within earshot — a “constellation tour” using a tiny laser pointer to point out stars in the sky. First, Lyra. Then, gargantuan Scorpio and Sagittarius’ little teapot, with the “steam” of the Milky Way emerging from its spout and spilling across the ether. Because it was dark, the instrument itself was imperceptible, and it seemed for all the world like his extended hand was connected to the sky itself by a thin, perfectly straight green string. He showed us the hazy M-13 and the Ring Nebula star clusters on a telescope and told us the story of Cassiopeia and Andromeda. One of the family’s younger subset asked earnestly, after an explanation of the life cycles of stars, “Why doesn’t the sun blow up, too?” “Because it’s not old enough,” McMath replied. If he knew how poetic that reply was, he didn’t show it (or, more accurately, his expression couldn’t be seen in the dark), but it was a dose of perspective that the kid probably needed. (And by “the kid,” I mean me.) The Perseids are in the rearview mirror now, but if you can find a time to recline on a blanket and stare at the night sky for a few hours — tonight, next week, two months from now — I doubt you’ll be sorry you did.
