Cosmodrome

 

Cleaning out my office a few days ago I realized I had, mixed among the stacks of bills, unfiled paperwork, books, records, and boxes of DVDs and NJ memorabilia, 27 Astronomy magazines.

Now, I have been an off-and-on subscriber to Astronomy magazine since my Seton Hall days, beginning sometime around 1992. Occasionally I’d let the subscription run out and start up a new one with Sky & Telescope, but I’ve been with Astronomy for probably twenty years. Back in NJ I’d read them cover-to-cover, especially in the 90s, then as physics left my life and I started a family and gained other obligations, I’d skim the magazines, reading at best one or two articles for each. We moved down to Texas two-and-a-half years ago and I notified the publisher of a change in address, and, 27 issues later, realized I haven’t read a single one.

So I decided that I’d try to get through one a week when the Mrs. and I are watching the Dallas Stars or she’s watching her thing on TV. Beats scrolling through twitter. I’m already halfway through the most recent issue, and will read them backwards over the next couple of months. I’ve learned (and re-discovered) a lot of interesting things, and learning new things is high on my values list.

I can’t remember when I last renewed my subscription. It’s probably due to end soon. Probably did a three-year run for something like $1.99 an issue. Dunno. Maybe I’ll switch to Sky & Telescope. Again, dunno. Regardless, I don’t like wasting any amount of money, so I’m off on a mission.

That mission involves my backyard, my own private cosmodrome. It’s a heckuva lot better than the one I had in NJ. Back then, nested in houses, trees, and a downward sloping hill to a highway, I probably could access maybe 20 to 30% of the bowl of the sky. Here, thirty miles north of Dallas, sitting in a chair on my backyard patio, I have access to something like 60 to 70% of the sky.

Down in Texas we have far horizons and big sky. Where I live there are literally no mountains. Trees, but no forests. All the houses are no higher than two stories, or fifty feet I’d guess. When I open the backyard and take a few steps to the center of the patio, I can see the complete southwest sky to the horizon. A close neighbor blocks off a small part of the south above the horizon, and another to the west an even smaller portion as he’s further away. So I can see clear to southern California, in a range from the Mexican border straight up to Canada, with a slight addition of kryptonian vision.

I can see up and over my head to zenith, and perhaps twenty degrees eastward tilting my neck back. (To view the full eastern sky I’d just have to open my front door.) And turning my head north I see two-thirds of the sky above the garage. Here’s where I see Polaris, the North Star, every night, accompanied by the Great Bear, Cassiopeia, or Cepheus, depending upon the season.

Looking though to that open southwest, this image from Close Encounters of the Third Kind always comes to mind, though it doesn’t quite represent actual reality for me:

 

(Actually, the scene where the police are chasing the UFOs and come to a screeching halt at a cliff as the objects fly over the countryside is a better image, but I couldn’t find it online).

 

There is lots of activity in this sky: Dallas Fort Worth Airport is 23 miles south/southwest. Sheppard Air Force Base is 112 miles west/northwest. Dyess Air Force Base is 200 miles directly west. So there’s lots of motion all the time. Planes of all types, including helicopters. I often see them dance before bright Venus setting in the west, or Jupiter and Saturn slowly traversing a great arc overhead. The moon is brilliant – to my chagrin as it makes identifying stars more difficult – but it seems to be out and full every evening, so clear and close I could hit it with a rock or dust it off had I a stepladder and a broom.

A few days ago we hit 71 degrees – unseasonably warm for this time of year even down here. I reclined on a chair and mapped the skies as Charlie the dog inspected the perimeter of the yard for bunny infiltration. Off to the northwest I see bright globes on the horizon, slowly nearing, getting brighter, more defined, eventually resolving into massive jet liners en route to DFW. And each time I see one I hope it won’t. Perhaps it will zig zag, change colors, speed up or speed away at some crazy angle. And who knows? It might be some aircraft of unknown origin escaping F-18 Super Hornets launched from Sheppard or Dyess in hot pursuit.

Ah, my cosmodrome! Looking forward to spring nights sitting out there sipping a beer and watching the stars.

(And yes, I know “drome” connotes “airfield”, such as “aerodrome” – UK airfields in WW II, but “cosmodrome” sounds cooler than plain ol’ “observatory”.)