“The sunset was that long, achingly beautiful balance of stillness in which
the sun seemed to hover like a red balloon above the western horizon,
the entire sky catching fire from the death of day; a sunset unique to the
American Midwest and ignored by most of its inhabitants. The twilight
brought the promise of coolness and the certain threat of night.”
Dan Simmons
“Summer of Night”
Life on planet earth is dominated by the sun. Its absence provides me with a time to rest. Its presence announces when it is time for me to head on down the highway. The ebb and flow of night and day is written in our DNA. Our internal clock is a steadying influence, regulating our sleep, our meals, and even our moods. Civilization is the great disruptor. The glow of our cities at night may well be the reason half the population suffers from depression while the other half of the population wring their hands with anxiety.
I need to find a place to camp at least thirty minutes before sunset, otherwise I struggle to set up my tent in the darkness. Of necessity, I always know approximately when the sun will set. Similarly, waking with the sun each morning, I soon learn the exact time of sunrise. Before my bicycle journey, I doubt if I could have confidently announced these times. Imprisoned behind walls and curtains, I was barely aware of these heavenly phenomena.
At night I admire the starry sky. I can’t count the number of times I have looked out the door of my tent and observed the Big Dipper. What a gift for travelers! The Big Dipper slowly rotates in the night sky, yet always points towards the center of that heavenly pinwheel. This makes it easy to spot Polaris, the North Star. If this heavenly display were a bicycle wheel, Polaris would be the axle for that wheel and the stars forming the lip of the “dipper” would be perfectly aligned with one of the spokes pointing towards the center of the wheel. The thought amuses me. The night sky is like a giant bicycle wheel!
Sleeping outside, I am surrounded by the cooling night with its breezes and perfumed dews. The experience is revelatory, something new and exciting compared to my home bound life. There seem to be many more hours in the night than previously recognized. Early in the night, I often lie awake listening to the night sounds. The flutter of wings, the snort of a deer acknowledging my presence, the hum of insects, the distant barking of a dog, and the droning sound of traffic suggest that not everyone is resting. I can tell time by the temperature. A delicious coolness finally arrives and signals my deepest sleep. Awakening much too early, I think about the end of night and the morning rituals of breakfast and coffee. I am tired of this endless slumber. Then, when morning finally arrives, I sometimes resist the insistent demands of daybreak.
It is difficult to fully capture in words the mystery and magic of the forest at night. Here is how Jean Giono describes the sound of the nighttime forest in his sublime novel, “Song of the World”:
“Antonio heard the sound of the forest. They had left the region of silence, and from where they stood, they could hear the night teeming with life. It came and touched the ear like a cold finger. It was a long, muffled breath, a throaty purr, a deep noise, a long, monotonous song from an open mouth. It filled all the tree-clad hills with its presence. It was in the sky and on the earth like rain; it came from all sides at once and it surged up slowly like a heavy wave, rumbling in the narrow corridors of the dales. In the depths of the noise, slight patterings of leaves scampered away like rats. Off they went and shot to one side, then slipped away down the stairs of the branches, and one heard the pit-pat of a light noise, clicking and soft like a raindrop dripping through a tree. Moanings rose from the earth and went heavily up through the sap of the trunks to the forking-off of the big branches.”
On a clear, moonless night in the desert of New Mexico, fifty miles or more from even the smallest town, I venture outside and look up. The stars are simply staggering. The milky way is a silvery crescent. The edges of our galaxy are so distinct I can trace them with my finger. Looking out I am looking into the past. The further we look the more deeply into the past we can see. I have read that our most powerful telescopes can take us back to a time not too distant from the cataclysm that announced the birth of our universe. At the center, where I am standing, is the present. Unfortunately, we can’t see into the future. My head is spinning as I walk back to my tent. I look down to make sure I don’t disturb a rattle snake on a nocturnal hunt. I wonder if animals are aware of the moon and stars? Arriving back at my tent, I welcome the comfort and relative safety of my tiny home.