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I looked around. There were no light domes on the horizon in any direction. A few lights could be seen at the resort on the south end of the rim, miles away, but they were miniscule and rapidly diminishing as people went to bed. Distant headlights would occasionally peek out as vehicles navigated the rim drive. Not all the vehicles were distant. Eventually they would reach this azimuth on the rim drive and the headlights would sweep across my little observing station and continue on. But not all continued on. A young couple pulled in to my turnout for the sheer pleasure of gazing up at the sky while in each others arms. They had no interest in me, or my activities, if even they were aware. They became aware, as yet another car pulled up, a park ranger on his rounds (a bit overdue, I thought). Like the rest of humanity, the officials that stop and question you while observing in the middle of the night can be divided into two types, those that want to see your permit, and those that want to see Jupiter. "You all know of the no camping rules here, right?" This ranger obviously belonged in the first group. We assured him that we did, I provided information about where I actually was camping. I wondered if his beat included that picnic area I had slept in the night before. Having performed his informational obligations, he drove away. I certainly don't envy the night security officers in national recreation areas, their shifts must be terribly uneventful, and stopping to check on parked cars and stargazers at a turnout probably helps pass the time, if it wasn't the highlight of his watch. I returned to my telescope, making the next exposure of the targets on my list. The young couple eventually moved on, probably to more intimate settings. I kept busy with my various imaging tasks until it was eventually time to service my camera down the slope. With trepidation, I went through the choreographed route to find the camera, cursing myself for being such a slave to the picture in my mind. But I had successfully navigated by my localized landmarks to the camera twice now in the dark, and as I closed the shutter, decided that rather than picking it up and returning, I might as well start another shot, I would be several more hours working on my deep sky exposures. So, pushing my luck, I committed to one more return trip down the rim wall. The night ticked by, the stars moved overhead, their position marking the time. Eventually I ran out of dark. Astronomical twilight having seemingly just ended after sunset, returns again a couple hours before dawn. Summer nights are too short. I retrieved my rim wall camera, living to tell about it. I packed up and headed to my campsite. I'll get a few hours sleep before "campground checkout time". I momentarily considered whether I had gotten my money's worth from this campsite, having spent only a few hours in it, but that's not the right way to think about it. Campsites are cheap, and you can't sleep at the turnouts. I would not find out whether the exposures I made that night had turned out until weeks later. This delay in feedback is a serious problem for shooting film (versus digital imaging) and prevents any immediate learning from my mistakes, but it also allows me to enjoy the process of taking the pictures, without all of the value placed on the results. The night at Sentinel Point at Crater Lake was probably the finest evening of astrophotography I experienced on this trip. It was a nearly ideal location for that activity, dark, arid, high. It was remote, but had adequate services to support my style of travel. I don't know when I will be able to return, but I will look forward to the deep dark sky when I do.
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Photographs and text on these pages © Copyright 1997-2004 by Thor Olson. All rights reserved. |
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