The Last Adventurer

We got out of the car, and began to arrange things in the back so we could nap sporadically in between photos. The interior lights of the car attracted a horde of moths that flew in through the open rear doors. They latched onto car headrests, sleeping bags, and batted against windows confusedly. With lantern in hand, I turned off the car light, opened the remaining doors, and walked ten feet away. After several minutes of waiting, I could see their white wings flying at me in looping erratic arcs. After several more minutes, the lantern was covered with moths. I left it on, walked back to the now moth-free interior of the car, shut the doors, and walked back to the lantern and turned it off, causing the moths to actually navigate by the real moon.

The moon. I hadn’t noticed it before, because of city lights, traffic, clouds, motion sickness, potential car accidents, and insect infestations. But there it was, shining in its uncontested manner in the western quadrant of the night sky. As my pupils dilated, and my feeble homo sapiens night vision kicked in, I realized just how bright it was. I could see every thorn on every branch of the neighboring ocotillo in pale clarity. I could distinguish the small rocks and boulders in the wash we were parked in. Minerals sparkled under the reflected light of the sun. And, as I set up the tripod, my high-noon shadow followed my every move.

It was frustrating. The same planetary body that cast off an excess of light on our previous trip was back to harass us again. In all fairness, the moon had never left, and we hadn’t really checked to see if the sky was going to be moon-free. As I pointed the camera northeast – farthest away from the moon – as well as the supposed best quadrant to view the meteor shower, Pink poked her head out of the car.

“The moon’s out?” She said in a tone that was both cranky and dismayed.

I nodded. I couldn’t fault Pink for how she felt, because I felt the same way; but as we couldn’t cut the moon loose from gravity’s tether, there was nothing to do but wait for it to set. Fortunately, it was hanging low on the western horizon and sinking lower each time I checked. I set up the camera; adjusted the aperture, and took some test photos. While I waited, my eyes were as wide as the shutter, intensely watching any part of the sky for meteors. Every few minutes, I would slowly examine yet another cosmic region for any movement other than the standard planes and orbiting satellites. I saw nothing out of the ordinary; an observation that was confirmed by Pink, who was standing next to me. Once my test photos were done, and I was confident about the setting, I hit the button, and went back to the car, where Pink had gone to sit down.

Long-exposure photography at night needs darkness. One can’t sit by the fire, or have a lantern on while the shutter is open, because the light will spoil the photo. As a result, there are few things a person can do during the long exposure. One can talk; stargaze; sip pre-cooked hot drinks; stare blankly out into the darkness and ruminate; sleep; or come up with some other creative option. At the car, Pink informed me that she was going to nap until the exposure was over; then get up in the hopes of seeing something at all. With no one to talk to, and the stargazing only fair at best, I decided to catch a little rest as well. Since it was only a little after midnight and I knew that I couldn’t see anything extraordinary I felt confident about napping because I had heard that the best viewing was going to be before dawn.