An Aurora Storm for the Ages
Astronomy is a funny business. Sometimes it takes years of planning and many hard-earned dollars to be in position to see a rare celestial event (like April’s total solar eclipse), only to cross your fingers that the skies stay clear. Other times, a once-in-a-lifetime celestial experience drops into your lap on a random weekend in May.
That’s what happened on the evening of May 10/11, 2024, when a series of solar storms arrived at Earth, triggering one of the largest geomagnetic storms and aurora borealis (northern lights) displays in modern history. Seeing the northern lights from here in Washington state isn’t wildly uncommon, especially during periods of increased solar activity. Aurorae are caused by interactions between charged particles from the Sun and the Earth’s magnetic field and atmosphere. The Sun has an 11-year cycle of activity that is scheduled to peak in 2025, so opportunities to see aurorae have been fairly common over the past few years. I’ve seen them a handful of times since moving to Central Washington almost five years ago, but displays this far south are typically a modest affair. I’d always assumed that, to really see the northern lights, I’d need to plan a trip to Alaska or Iceland some winter and hope for the best.
I was wrong.
On May 9th, I started seeing forecasts calling for a sizeable geomagnetic storm the following day. Aurora forecasting is notoriously challenging though—there have been enough occasions where solar storms have fizzled upon arrival to merit a healthy dose of pessimism on my part—plus I was taking care of my five-day old newborn son, so the night sky wasn’t exactly the top thing on my mind. My first indication that something historic was happening was seeing a photo of brilliant red and pink auroras from Alabama pop up on my phone while eating dinner on the evening of the 10th. That got my attention in a way that the forecasts hadn’t. The fact that our skies were clear and the Moon was dark only added to the anticipation, but still, geomagnetic storms often last just a few hours and I figured the show would subside by the time darkness fell here in the Pacific Northwest.
I was wrong.
I set up my camera on our back porch shortly after sunset and before long a subtle but telltale green glow was visible in photos above the northeast horizon:
As the sky darkened, pale green curtains of light began to fill the entire sky. While they weren’t extraordinarily bright, the fact that they were visible from horizon to horizon made it easily the best aurora display I’d seen. We watched the faint lights dance across the sky for about half an hour before heading inside with the intention of preparing our newborn for bed. Thankfully, I popped my head back outside abut half an hour later to see if anything had changed.
It had.
Here is a time-lapse video I created of the entire event, starting at about 10:30 pm and lasting until sunrise. About two seconds in, you can see the dramatic transition from “good” to “once-in-a-lifetime” that occurred during the 30 minutes we were inside getting baby ready for sleep:
I never imagined that I’d get to witness a dusk-to-dawn all-sky aurora storm from my back porch in central Washington. Sitting here two weeks later, I am still dumbfounded scrolling through my pictures from that evening. Given that this is a photography blog and that I’m struggling to find the words to describe what witnessing this in person was like, I’m mostly going to let the photos do the talking from here:
Two specific moments do stand out in hindsight. First, around 1:30 am, when a narrow band of green ribbons began “flowing” across the sky like a river of light. As they meandered across the sky, the ribbons alternately flashed on and off, as if controlled by some bizarre cosmic light switch. Again, I’m having trouble finding the right worlds to describe it, but it was one of the wildest things I’ve seen in 20+ years watching the night sky. Here’s a photo from this period of time:
The other was a handful of minutes (I don’t know what time…) where nearly the entire sky was filled with a diffuse red aurora. (What shows up as pink in the photos definitely appeared more red to the naked eye.) The light that this cast on the surrounding landscape was eerie, and made me feel like I was standing under a heat lamp:
A few notes on color: in the days following the aurora storm, many of the conversations that I had with friends, family, and students revolved around why the color wasn’t as vibrant with the naked eye as it was on camera. There are several factors involved here.
One is light pollution. For example, folks in urban areas generally saw very little color, mostly just gray shapes shifting around in the sky. Where I live, on the outskirts of a mid-sized city (and thus still quite light polluted by astronomical standards), greens and reds were clearly visible to the naked eye throughout most of the event, though not to the degree visible in the photos. Those who observed the storm from very remote areas generally reported seeing much more vibrant colors (and possibly even hearing sounds!) In short, most folks saw little color because most folks live under light polluted skies.
The second factor involves some basic physiology of the human eye. I’ve written about this before with regard to photographing the Milky Way, but the cone cells that our eyes use to see color aren’t triggered in low-light situations. Cones need a minimum amount of light entering the eye in order to be activated, which is why objects appear in monochrome in a dimly lit room. A bright aurora is quite a bit brighter than the Milky Way, which means that it IS possible to see colors under the right conditions.
For comparison purposes, here’s the image from the top of the post again. I haven’t adjusted the color on this image at all; this is exactly how it came out of the camera after a five second exposure, save for a few small adjustments to brightness and contrast:
Here’s the same image again, this time desaturated in Lightroom to mimic approximately what I recall seeing with the naked eye:
Still colorful, but a good example of why digital imaging is the norm in professional astronomy these days. A common misconception is that astronomers spend most of their time looking through telescopes, when in reality everything is done with cameras. Our eyes can’t see squat!
Prior to May 10/11, my top 3 most memorable astronomy experiences were undoubtedly a pair of total solar eclipses (August 2017 and April 2024) and the 2001 Leonid Meteor Storm (during which I counted several hundred meteors every 15 minutes for over an hour.) It’s going to be hard to top a total solar eclipse, but the May 2024 aurora storm definitely earns a spot on this short list, in part due to sheer unexpectedness and the fact that I got to check off a “bucket list” item from the comfort of my own home. And, despite the fact that he was asleep most of the time and had no clue what was going on, it was still memorable to share the experience with my newborn son on his first weekend in this world!
Comet NEOWISE: Update and Photos
Comet C/2020 F3 (NEOWISE) continues to put on a stellar show for skywatchers in the northern hemisphere. Over the past week, the comet has moved into the evening sky, making a trip out to see it somewhat more palatable than it was when I first highlighted the comet 11 days ago. Last week, I had the pleasure of viewing the comet twice in one night while camping on the east flank of Mt. St. Helens. High clouds prevented a great view at sunset, but had mostly cleared just four hours later when the comet rose again in the northeast. Just below and to the left of the comet was the distant cone of Mt. Rainier. Low clouds in the river valleys below us made for a spectacular view:
Comet NEOWISE rises over the distant cone of Mt. Rainier as seen from Mt. St. Helens.
Comet NEOWISE on the morning of July 13, 2020.
Unfortunately, the comet has dimmed noticeably over the past few evenings. While we still have a few days until its closest approach to Earth, the comet has receded from the Sun enough that its activity is likely beginning to wane. The next few nights will likely provide the final chance to see this comet and its tail with the unaided eye (until it returns ~6,800 years from now that is!) The waxing moon will begin to interfere by later this week and by the time the moon leaves the evening sky a few weeks from now, the comet will likely have faded from naked eye visibility. To see it, look northwest 1-2 hours after sunset. The comet will appear a little below the bowl of the Big Dipper, and is far enough north now that viewing is significantly better from more northerly locations. More details on spotting the comet can be found here: https://earthsky.org/space/how-to-see-comet-c2020-f3-neowise
Good luck!
Sunset to Sunrise at Bryce Canyon
Sunrise light illuminates rock formations at Bryce Canyon National Park
Sunset, nighttime, and sunrise are probably the three most exciting times for photography, and I got to hit all three on a quick trip to Bryce Canyon National Park this past weekend. I experienced a brilliant sunset, hiked into the Bryce amphitheater by moonlight, joined the masses for sunrise, and was back in my own home less than 24 hours after walking out the front door. I feel incredibly lucky to live close enough to such wonders that trips like this are possible. This impromptu trip was facilitated by the unseasonable heat wave currently gripping Southern Utah. On Sunday night, the overnight low at Bryce barely dropped below freezing (about 15 degrees above average for this time of year) making a quick camping trip a reasonable proposition.
This was actually my first trip to Bryce Canyon in the winter months. While snow has made itself scarce in Southern Utah the last few weeks, and most of the snow had melted away from the hoodoos, there was still quite a bit of the white stuff left on the north facing slopes, making for a gorgeous complement to the ruddy hoodoo hues.
Before hitting the trail for sunset, I took time to drive out to some of the overlooks at the south end of the park. Bryce Canyon may be known for hoodoo hiking, but south of the main amphitheater lie some truly mind-blowing views of the Grand Staircase and Colorado Plateau. The Paunsaugunt Plateau on which Bryce Canyon sits rises to elevations of more than 9,000 feet, allowing commanding views of the surrounding terrain. I truly believe that the view from Yovimpa Point is one of the best on the planet (albeit difficult to photograph), with a viewshed stretching from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, to Navajo Mountain and Lake Powell near Page, to the 11,000 monolith of Powell Point and the Aquarius Plateau.
Looking east from Farview Point. Note how all the snow has melted from the south facing slopes, but much remains on the north aspects
As the sun dropped lower, I headed out on the trail to Tower Bridge. In hindsight I should have taken a picture of the mud, but I guess I was too preoccupied trying not to lose a boot to the bright orange morass. With winter freeze/thaw cycles still in full swing, the trails were all littered with fragments of rock fallen from the cliffs and hoodoos above, a good reminder of the primary process responsible for creating this unique landscape.
Late afternoon sun illuminates hoodoos, fins, and walls along the trail to Tower Bridge at Bryce Canyon National Park
A scraggly Bristlecone Pine (Pinus longaeva) between residual snow patches along the trail to Tower Bridge
A classic Bryce view at sunset: looking northeast towards Powell Point (10,188′) and the Aquarius Plateau
The full moon rising over Powell Point and the Sinking Ship
My visit happened to coincide with a full moon so Milky Way photographs were out of the question. The light made it quite easy to navigate the trails looking for interesting photo opportunities. In several hours of wandering around the amphitheater, I don’t think I turned my headlamp on once. It was seriously bright out there.
The constellation Orion hovers over the hoodoos of Bryce Canyon National Park
Star trails above Thor’s Hammer, Bryce Canyon National Park
With the photo above, I was hoping for longer star trails but after just half an hour, my camera battery died. After scrambling to replace it, I discovered that someone (who shall remain unnamed…) had forgotten to charge their spare camera battery. With only enough power on the spare for a few dozen more exposures, I decided to pack it in for the evening rather than continuing with the star trials, and save my remaining juice for sunrise…which turned out to be a good call.
While Bryce is beautiful at any time of day, sunrise is truly the golden hour. Because most of the amphitheater faces east, sunlight creates so many interesting light patterns among the hoodoos that one almost can’t decide where to look. This was the 2nd morning since the switch to daylight savings, and the crowds reflected the fact that sunrise was now at a quite palatable 7:30 AM.
A famous and tenacious Limber Pine (Pinus flexilus) at Sunrise Point observes yet another sunrise
Hoodoos at sunrise, Bryce Canyon National Park
The crowds assemble for sunrise at Bryce Canyon National Park
Zach Schierl Photography 