When Science Fiction becomes Science Fact
This evening humans made history with the successful landing of the fourth and most complicated rover mission to Mars.

What struck me as most incredible was the opening presentation at the Planetary Society, several hours before telemetry from Curiosity was provided, wherein it was made clear that science fiction does become science fact, that the shared dreams of thousands of people across this planet made is possible to land on another. This is the unifying power of science, to bring people together for a common goal, a greater good.

We owe an entire generation of vision and motivation to accomplish the impossible to the likes of Carl Sagan, Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, Ray Bradbury and others for before there was the reality of space travel, there was science fiction which created the dream of space travel we are now fulfilling.

What touched me deepest was when Ann Druyan, widow of the late, great Carl Sagan spoke about the Voyager I and II spacecraft. Each carries a representation of humanity through mathematics, music, art, language, religion, and philosophy on gold discs intended to last a billion years.

Included is something I was not aware of–a recording of Ann’s brain waves while she meditated for an hour, just two days after she and Carl expressed their love for each other. For all the airwaves broadcast into interstellar space at the speed of light which depict our capacity for unbridled xenophobic dysfunction, there are also two gold discs speeding at 38,000 miles per hour in opposite directions, carrying a different kind of message, one of the perfect marriage of science and art and our capacity for something even greater.

As Jim Bell, President of the Planetary Society and Chief Photographer for the Mars Rovers said, “Unbelievable… phenomenal… miraculous… audacious… Words can’t describe the experience, and now we have another rover on Mars and a glorious mountain in front of us to explore.”

For more information, visit www.nasa.gov/msl/

* all images are screenshots of the streaming internet broadcast from the Planetary Society and NASA, August 5, 2012

My Return to the Sun
When I arrived to the Mauna Kea visitor center at nine thousand feet elevation, just after dark, I was surprised to find a dozen vehicles, shuttles, tour buses, and some fifty people wrapped in blankets, winter jackets and caps, huddled around a dozen telescopes focused on Mars, Saturn, and several nebulae.

I learned the Mauna Kea Visitors Center holds a public star party, a viewing session every night of the year, weather permitting. My heart lifted and I was a kid again, eager to interact, share, and learn. I changed from shorts into long pants and added layers in the back of my friend Vitus’ truck. I grabbed my camera and tripod and walked down the side of the road and across the parking lot. I felt like the last guy to arrive to the party, a bit late, but excited to see who was present.

Children, their parents, lone travellers and couples, people of all ages and walks of life. The guides were part- and full-time employees of the National Park, some working three days on, four days off at this incredible site. They were patient, knowledgeable, and intent upon providing a positive experience for all who were present. I was impressed, for hosting a star party every night of the year is analogous to teaching the same class over and over again without opportunity to advance to the next level for none of the students will return the next day. The reward, of course, is the expression on someone’s face who sees the rings of Saturn for the first time, and learning from those who are experts in the field.

While the light of the moon saturated the night sky, Mars and Saturn provided an elegant show, rich in color and image quality. At 10 PM, when the scopes were put away, a half dozen vehicles remained. People like me would spend the night wrapped in a blanket or sleeping bag in order to guarantee a means to the top the next morning.

The next morning the sun rose and it was vibrant. At 6 AM I walked to the top of the wind whipped ridge just West of the Visitors Center. I captured the shadow of Mauna Kea as it moved over the valley floor toward the sea. I could clearly see the summit of Mauna Loa where I had experienced the total solar eclipse in 1991. That was twenty one years ago, but at that moment it felt like yesterday. I recall parts of the three days backpack, just a dozen of fifty who gained permits made it to the top. In the end, of the thousands who came to Hawaii for that event, it was only the amateurs on Mauna Loa and the professionals here on Mauna Kea that witnessed the eclipse for the entire island was covered in a heavy cloud bank just two hours before the transit of the moon across the face of the sun began.

I recall how the moon’s shadow raced across the top of the clouds and the steaming caldera of Mauna Loa. The few birds at this elevation settled down for what they assumed was the night. The air grew cold, quickly. I recall the sensation of that day perfectly, knowing I was in the right place at the right time, and the next forty five minutes impetus for the summer on the island doing biology research with ASU and Stanford University.

Without a digital camera, it would be another month before I knew if I had captured the event on film. Just two rolls dedicated to the eclipse, I bracketed carefully and in the end, the images I captured on my Nikon FE2 with an 80-200 lens were my reward.

There is an energy to astronomy, the oldest of sciences and perhaps the most gratifying, as it brings people of all ages together. I was reminded of last summer at David Levy’s Adirondack Astronomy Retreat, seeing again that astronomers are generous with their time, experience, and gear. They find as much joy in sharing of themselves with the next generation as they do making their own, personal new discoveries.

This morning, I realized I was given a second chance at such an incredible event, but this time from the other side of the valley in the shadow of the world’s most famous observatories. Amateur enthusiasts came from Germany, France, Canada and across the U.S. Some arrived at 5 while others at 8, 10, and into the early afternoon to watch the transit of Venus across the face of the sun. We all shared in our braving temperatures in the low thirties with winds gusting up to 50 MPH. The wind chill presented a harsh dichotomy to this otherwise tropical island.

As I travelled light to the Big Island, I had only my Canon 60D, a macro and 18-135 lens. I came across Carl R. who was kind enough to allow me to borrow his 400mm lens in exchange for the images it produced on my DSLR body with relatively stable tripod (compared to his). He sat by me for more than an hour as I shot stills and video, describing his own personal history with amateur astronomy. As with nearly everyone who looks up and asks how, when, or why, there is a parent or grand parent, or in the case of Christina a great, great, great, great grandfather who had observed the last transit of Venus in 1882. She ventured to the Big Island in order to carry on her grandfather’s tradition, even after a four generation gap. Eric and his mother spent the entire day on top, applying sun screen, eating from their cooler and enjoying conversation. Eric took more than 500 photos through his scope with a Nikon DSLR attached.

This was a very big deal, literally a once in a lifetime event as the next transit will not occur until 2117 and then again in 2125. While some two hundred people came up and went down along the winding road by shuttle, two dozen of us remained in the intensity of the cold air and bold sun for the duration, more than eight hours at nearly fourteen thousand feet.

If given the chance to observe a solar or lunar eclipse or any major astronomical event in the presence of skilled amateurs or professionals, I highly encourage you to do so. Introduce your children to this magical, gratifying science or re-introduce yourself to the joy of being a kid and seeing something spell binding for the first time.

(video footage at the top of Mauna Kea is showcased in A Study in Motion)

Transient Homes
Certainly, Good Sam’s was not my first pick, but at thirty seven dollars for one night it was half the cost of the next accommodation in this beach side, New Hampshire town of Seabrook, one mile from the intersection of I395 and I95 and on the Atlantic Coast.

I was granted the very last tent spot 47A which has no official parking spot, but does sport the highest spot in the campground at some ten or twelve feet from the roadbed, a picnic bench, fire pit, and a view down and into the court yard of the half dozen adjacent RVs, none of which is more than thirty feet distance.

The smell of camp fires mixed with bug spray, cleaning supplies from the nearest bathhouse, outdoor cooking, and diesel from a large truck which just passed by. Across the road and a few meters down, a father crept beneath the window of the RV in which his kids were playing cards, popped up to slap the glass and yelled in his best monster voice. The kids screamed and then laughed in quick succession. The same interaction likely plays out night after night and neither grows wary, at least not until the children grow to be teenagers and dread the very presence of their father as much as the mandatory, summer family camping trip.

In the toilet and shower facility I quickly discovered that the men’s and women’s units were separated by a wall but shared an open ceiling space, all conversations moving without resistance into the adjacent facility. Two girls, perhaps in their late teens dared each other to pee in the shower, I gathered, without taking a shower at all.

When I finished brushing my teeth and left to walk back to my rental car, I recognized the voices of the girls who exited their side of the bathhouse at the same time.

One said to the other, “Where are we”?

“I don’t know. You live here, and you don’t know?”

“No. I’m lost.” She then turned to me, “You know where we are?”

Given that we were in a campground whose density of patrons matched that of Japanese tube hotels, and roadways the narrow streets of old Barcelona, I played along, “No. No clue. I was hoping you knew,” as I approached my car and reached into my pocket to grasp the key remote. A few more steps, and I pressed the unlock button. The lights flashed and the horn chirped.

“Is that your car?”

“Yup.

“Oh, so you DO know where you are.”

“No, but I do know the location of my car.” She didn’t catch the subtle challenge in that response and said only, “Oh!”

I stopped to open the back and they continued. I lost track of them quickly as the road was dark, lit only by the camp fires, porch lights, and rope lighting of the RVs.

Escape from Ourselves
I sat on the bumper and looked around. The Good Sam’s campground took on a new form in my mind. I was less offended by the obvious eye sore and more interested in the social experiment at play.

For the prior three nights I had been staying in cabins whose tenants were amateur astronomers, assembled for the intent purpose of sharing their passion for observing, for exploring the night sky. They maintained the utmost respect for each other by using only red lit headlamps, car dome lights, flash lights, pen lights, and perimeter lights on their scope legs and bodies.

Here, I originally found the stimuli overwhelming as loud voices contended with car doors slamming, kids screaming, fire crackers, televisions, radios, and the laughter of drunken adults who freely expressed all they had withheld since their last escape to the great outdoors.

With the words of the second girl, “You live here” I realized the unique qualities of this place in that it was congregation of semi-permanent residents with transient campers, like me. In a subtle way, everyone in this place agreed to a certain level of compliance to an unwritten set of rules which enabled the place to function without major confrontation.

The residents understood that their neighbors may come and go, staying one, two or a half dozen night before moving on. Those who passed through understood this was home to some people, and therefore deserved a level of respect for property and space.

I walked the entire perimeter and all interior roads twice, once to explore and then again to capture some time lapse photographs, the shadows of the night giving way to streaks of illumination as burning wood yields dancing flames. This is what I experienced.

A couple sat to the side of a fire, an open bottle of wine and two glasses reflecting the light. They said little, mostly staring into the flames. Several fires burnt unattended, the flames dropping between my first and second pass. A father played cards with his daughter at a picnic bench, their faces illuminated by the blue glow of a lantern reflecting from the inside of a suspended tarp. A dozen teenagers sat ’round a large fire on the edge of the campground, one boy played guitar and sang, his audience completely engrossed. A half dozen adults spoke aloud from stackable plastic lawn chairs, a block party unfolding.The side of their RV was adorned with string lights up and across the awning supports and around the bumper. Some RVs showcased plastic deer, white picket fences, water fountains, and an American flag. A preteen boy raced by on his BMX bike, apparently able to see well into the midnight spectrum where the rest of us walked with caution. A man in his sixties leaned over a picnic bench, his glasses low on his nose as he attempted to read the instructions of a manual printed in too small a font. The battery powered lantern to his side cast a cold, nearly white light upon his face, the bridge of his nose the divide between the light and dark portions of the rising, crescent moon.

Everyone came to this place to get away from home, with the understanding they would be living a simpler life for the duration. One bowl, one plate, one spoon. A small cook stove with few pans. Simple foods, and for most, no television, laptop, or cell phone. This is a retreat from the very things we work our entire lives to acquire, only to be overwhelmed by them in return. These people, myself included, are happier living this way. And yet, they will soon return to the complexity of ownership of more things, things which were not forced upon them but acquired of their own accord.

Ironic, it seems, that we must escape the very life we have created for ourselves. What keeps us from just living this simple life every day? Why are we afraid to stop acquiring, to say “Enough already! I don’t need any more.” There seems to be a process which takes us from tent to camper to RV, from Coleman fuel camp stove to four-burner propane kitchenettes. Is this the process which also takes college students from Raman noodles and masonry block book shelves to IKIA and eventually a custom built home which is challenging, if not impossible to afford?

I cannot help but laugh when I walk by the RVs whose small yards harbor miniature flower gardens, a sense of order and beauty surrounded on all sides by the chaos of an over crowded, noisy, dusty campground. They have established their island in this flotilla of drifters and weekend bums.

The Good Sam’s Utopia
I grew up with Star Trek which presented a vision of neat, clean, highly organized society filled with people who were content for their station in life. Everyone was important, everyone was needed, well educated, and capable. In contrast, Arthur C. Clarke’s “Rendezvous with Rama” books present an accurate portrayal of human society unfolding in a confined, isolated space. How many years would it take for highly trained military personel and researchers to resort to their human tendency of wanting more, to take more at the cost of their neighbor? How many generations would it take for humans to carve out camps which battle each other for resources? How soon would God intervene, showing her face in the diversity of fragmented expressions which somehow oppose each other, despite their common body and figure head?

But somehow, if I were to envision utopia, I am not certain it would be all that different than this–given a few hundred people in a completely new setting, the first to colonize the Moon or Mars, a campground is more likely an example of how humanity will touch the face of the next world. Synthetic reminders of a home far away, time made to play musical instruments at the end of a day, children free to ride their low gravity bicycles from the living quarters to the community bathhouse as long as they come right back and don’t bother the others, a loose sense of community and a respect for personal space.

Perhaps, if we are lucky, the first off-world colonies will not follow our own history played out again and again as the Rama saga depicts, rather, a Good Sam’s campground will provide the model for a perfect, human utopia.

© Kai Staats 2011

When the Clouds Cover the Stars
When the clouds cover the stars, the astronomers come indoors. The guitars are removed from their cases and laptop lids are closed. We gathered to share the songs which have been sung for five decades, since the revolution that temporarily gave comfort to those who were different from the rest. It was a time to be accepted. Here too everyone is accepted, no matter how awkward, no matter how socially odd in the real world. Here, everyone has a talent, a gift, a shared passion to teach and to learn.

Wendee and two others transition to a semi-private discussion of the politics of government, cuts in education, and how amateur astronomy remains a bridge for children, from raw passion for learning to applied sciences when the school systems fail again and again. Federal mandates curb creativity and threaten the individuality and creativity of otherwise capable teachers.

Steve, Bob, and Brad sit in the same order at the same table at each meal, and this night as well. Each is a bit cantankerous, sarcastic, and yet more generous with their time in three days and nights than some parents are in a life time with their children. They relish the opportunity to help someone, like me, snap my very first photograph of a distant planet, nebulae, or cluster of stars.

I pull up a backward facing chair and lean onto the table to their front, elbows and shoulder braced for what I know will be a fight.

I say, “So, tomorrow, I would like to interview the three of you, at the same time.”

Brad is quick to respond, “Yeah? When would that be?”

Bob adds, “I am not certain we are worthy of an interview.”

Steve stares at me for a while before saying, “I’m not available. Very busy, you know.”

Brad quips, “Yeah, you gotta talk to Steve’s agent.”

Bob again, “So why do you think we’re worth interviewing?”

Without hesitation I respond to all three, “No, not really. Individually you are boring, not worth my time. But together you’re entertaining. I need comic relief in my documentary.” We all break character and laugh. I conclude, “Allow me to rephrase: I am going to interview the three of you so all you have to do is pick the time. No option. Got it?”

Steve comes back, smiling, “Hey! He is catching on pretty quick. He’s gonna be one of us pretty soon!” They all laughed and agreed to 1:00 pm the next day.

Stories Unfold
My interviews have gone well. Good content, great stories. David tells of his phone call with a professional astronomer who confirmed his discovery of Shoemaker-Levy 9, the famous comet that crashed into the atmosphere of Jupiter. I am captivated, as though it was happening all over again.

I recall many years ago when David came to speak to the Phoenix Astronomical Society for which I served as President at that time. He had made his discovery just a few days prior to our club meeting at which David was speaking. He entered the room and there was silence. David cleared his throat, looked around the room, cleared his throat again and said, “As you may have guessed, there is going to be a change of subject for my presentation for the evening.”

David wears a light blue T-shirt which reads, “Don’t blame me! I voted for Pluto!” The value of this otherwise comical tribute to Clyde Tombaugh is given full weight when one considers that David wrote a biography of Clyde’s life in the ’90s, a copy of which remains on my bookshelf.

A New Adventure Every Night
It’s 12:30 am and a half dozen remain in the dining hall, watching the live Doplar radar and Star Trek out-takes on YouTube, hoping for a break in the clouds. Staying up till 1:00 am is consider the bare minimum, three to four the norm. Sleep ’till 10:15 the next morning and eat breakfast at 10:30.

Every night is an adventure, an exploration of some one hundred billion stars, nebulae, gaseous birthing chambers for the next generation of solar engines, pulsars, super novae, and black holes. Even with an eight inch diameter telescope, one that can be carried underarm, a ten minute exposure illuminates a half dozen other galaxies with spiral arms, hot, glowing centers, tilted and thrown about in what appears to be, from our point of view, a chaotic array of tossed white dishes in a black, spotted basin.

The mind has no choice but to open when one looks through a telescope. It is nearly impossible to walk away from a night of observing and return unaffected to that other world of political battles, economic downturns, looting, warfare, and starvation. The contrast is tremendous. I am compelled to ask of the congressmen who squabble over the appropriation of dollars, of religious leaders who proclaim holy wars to cleanse the world of unbelievers, and of military generals who order their soldiers to use rape as a weapon against the opposing tribe, even if knowingly naive, “Look up! Have you ever seen something so beautiful?”

When viewing an impressive photo of the Andromeda galaxy, the closest neighbor to our own, I considered that our human race could perhaps have enjoyed a very different history if only we could see the outstretched arms and rich, dynamic body of another galaxy with our naked eye. It is, after all, six times larger than the moon in the night sky.

Andromeda’s Claim
The sun, moon, and planets are our celestial partners, tightly coupled on the same, nearly level playing field. They move and interact with us directly. We have over time attributed the planets with the power of gods, suggesting that their color and motion in the sky is that of emotion expressed at how we manage our lives. But to consider that the lives and deaths of creatures whose very bodies are but an infinitesimal fraction of the mass of the soil on which they walk, somehow please or displease a power so great that it created hundreds of millions of planets in each of a hundred billion galaxies seems dreadfully egocentric and selfishly unaware.

If we could see the Andromeda galaxy overhead, perhaps we would recognize that we were never alone, and did not need to invent gods to micromanage our affairs. Perhaps we would have understood long ago that the heavens are unaware of what we say, with whom we share our bed, or whether we live clothed or bare. We are an incredible aggregation of self-organized matter, a moment of entropy in reverse. We are the heavy stuff of long ago dead stars, not the finger puppet of something greater or something less.

Six billion humans, each the center of his or her own universe … or a universe which likely harbors far more than six billion planets capable of life, each unique to all the rest.

If we could see the Andromeda galaxy overhead, perhaps then we could recognize the fallacy of believing that our lives are worth destroying in order to gain what we do not already have, when in fact we are simple travelers on an interstellar ship, spinning at 1600 kilometers per hour, orbiting our local star at more than one hundred times this velocity, racing toward the star Vega at 70,000 kilometers per hour.

With resources limited and running low, the only way we will ever arrive to where it is we want to go is to give of ourselves without concern for what remains to call our own. If only we could see the Andromeda galaxy overhead, perhaps its light would remind us that we are not alone.

© Kai Staats 2011