Fireflies like little variable stars

While checking out my bedroom window for clear skies last night, I noticed the first fireflies of the season, blinking and darting in the horse pasture behind the house. And it reminded me of a Robert Frost poem I couldn't quite recall. So this morning I looked it up on the internet. Gotta love Google.

Fireflies in the Garden
BY ROBERT FROST

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.

It reminded me that last year we had a bumper crop of fireflies. There were literally tens of thousands of them flashing, winking, diving and darting for hours each night in the field out back. Not often am I able to convince Irene that there is something worth her time and effort outdoors in the dark. She hates to get cold, and her eyesight is jacked from chemotherapy. Astronomy is not even on her list, unless its a fantastic display of aurora or an eclipse. But even she was impressed with the little buggers by the thousands as far as the eye could see.

I couldn't help but think how much they reminded me of thousands of little variable stars. Winged cataclysmic variables going into outburst at irregular intervals, but their sum in real time was like a visual music of the spheres.

And like many things in nature, it couldn't be captured in a photograph or turned into bytes. No, you have to just take in the whole with your own eyes and enjoy it for what it is. No need to record it as data. Just eat it up in the now and soak in the miracle. And when it is all over you won't be able to quantify it, or prove anything. But you know what you saw, and it is all yours, to share as you will...or not.

How's the weather?

We had very strange weather here last night. It was perfectly clear, calm and a little on the warm side as I crawled into bed around midnight. (The first weekend of football trumps variable star observing)

About 2AM I heard thunder in the distance getting closer. At 3AM it was raining cats and dogs, well actually coyotes.

At 4AM it was perfectly clear again. I could see Orion rising out the window over my pillow and I could hear a pack of coyotes butchering what I think was a deer in the woods about 40 feet from the house. It was loud and scary. The cats upstairs all ducked under the bed.

At 6AM two of the cats were having one of their fake fights where they just hiss and scream at each other then run away.

Irene noticed me getting up and said, "Can't sleep with the cats making that much noise, eh?"

I said, "Yea, and the damn coyotes last night."
She said, "Coyotes?"

I said, "Yea, right after the thunder and rain."
She said "Thunder? It rained?"

Sometimes I wonder if we live in the same house.

Midnight Marauders

Here is another on for the Animals in the Dark series-

My neighbors get a chuckle out of me once in a while because I'm such a city boy transplanted to the country. One moonless night in the fall of 2008, I was in the dome observing variable stars. It was after midnight, clear and cool, barely a breeze, peaceful and silent. It was such an awesome night my plan was to stay out until dawn chased me indoors.

Suddenly without warning something made a loud snorting or blowing sound about three feet from my head, just outside the dome.

Not only was I startled nearly out of my boots, I couldn't imagine for the life of me what the heck could stand that tall, just outside the dome, making aggressive, angry snorting sounds for my benefit in the still of the dark night. Then I heard it again, slightly further away, but just as loud. Now I was spooked.

Normally, when I hear critters scuffling around outside the dome I just bang on the walls or rotate the dome and the noise scares them away. So I rotated the dome in the direction of the sound outside and the midnight monster snorted at me again.

At this point all sorts of irrational scary pictures of yeti, werewolves, mountain lions, serial killers and unspeakable horrors began filling my imagination. I didn't move a muscle for at least a half hour. I just sat there silently in the pitch dark waiting for it to either rip open the door and eat me or go away peacefully.

When I was reasonably sure it was safe, I walked to the house about as fast as I could. My perfect night was done.

The next day, I described what had happened to my neighbor, John. A big smile came across his face, and he chuckled slightly as he said, "Yea, Mike. That was one of them killer deer we have around here."

"C'mon, John. Don't mess with me. What was it?"

"It was a deer you sissy! They sometimes make a loud blowing sound when they can sense the presence of a man or predator, but can't see it, or tell exactly where it is. Their eyesight ain't that good, but they can smell you. So they make that blowing sound trying to get you to move so they can make out where you are. That way they know which way to run."

"Well it scared the hell out of me," I confessed.

A couple weeks later was the annual stone soup party John holds every year after Halloween. Everyone brings some meat or vegetables to throw in a big cauldron. The broth is flavored by a 6 inch stone that has been used to make soup for I don't know how long. We deep fry a turkey and there are plenty of side dishes and desserts. The eating, drinking and card games go on long into the night.

I took plenty of ribbing that night about the 'killer deer', and 'did I want anyone to escort me home in the dark after the party' and a bunch of other jokes at my expense. They were merciless, and I still hear comments every once in a while.

A few years ago, I planted several arborvitae on a berm I created at the corner of the property to block a couple intruding lights from neighboring properties. I was very careful how I placed them. Slightly staggered and spaced just right, so they would block the stray light as I stood out on the paver pad in front of the door of the dome. They were filling out nicely, and my plan was to top them off at a certain height so they would never block any portion of the sky once they were fully grown in.

I don't have to worry about pruning them now.

This winter, the midnight marauders have come back with a vengeance. It's been cloudy just about every night since early November, so I haven't been outside observing for months. Along with this record stretch of cloudy nights has come record snow fall and bitter low temperatures. The deer are hungry and the ground is snow covered, so anything evergreen above the snow is high on the dinner menu. Unfortunately, that includes my prized arborvitae.


They've eaten all the green off the trees as high up as their necks will stretch, leaving me with some pretty ugly Bonsai arbs. They'll never grow back and fill in to block light, so they are going to have to go on the burning pile in the spring.

If I had been out there observing with any regularity they would probably have been spared this radical pruning job. After all, they've survived winter many times since I planted them. But with no Simo-scent emanating from the dome the deer have been emboldened, and now my property is on the local deer dinner run.

The feast is over, damn it. The next time I am out there observing and hear any of those killer deer in my yard I will be making some aggressive snorting sounds of my own!

Coyotes and the Dicks Across the Road

We have coyotes around here. That's right, the dog creatures that let out that familiar "ow-ow-owoooo" call in the night. That's not a sound you like to hear break the foggy silence at 1 o'clock in the morning when you're outside, alone in the dark.

For the most part, they stay across the road, living and hunting around the lake where there is plenty of food, water and shelter. Sometimes, they get all riled up for whatever reason, and a whole bunch of them will start yapping and howling. It usually gets all the dogs within earshot going at the same time. It usually raises the hair on my arms and neck too.

A couple times a year, they get chased over to my side of the road when the Dicks across the road have a big party and build a bonfire.

Now let me explain. This is not a derogatory remark. The Dicks are a nice family. That just happens to be their last name.

The old man, grandpa Dick, his name is Donald. That's right, Donald Dick. His son Darrell, his wife and their two kids live nearest the lake. Donald's daughter, Delma, and her girls, live in the house on top of the hill to the northwest part of the property. The family owns all but a small sliver of the shoreline around the lake and most of the adjoining property. The Dicks have been here for decades and everyone knows them.

The coyotes have them figured out too. They know all the game birds and small animals are going to head for shelter as soon as the Dicks set up their party tent and stack up the bonfire wood. So they head for better hunting grounds, which means they scavenge along the tree line of my property and the woods southeast of me.

Usually they are pretty stealthy, but sometimes I can hear them in the horse pasture east of the observatory as they travel across my property in packs in search of prey.

Once I walked out to the dome, armed only with a red flashlight against the darkness of a moonless night, and just as I got to the door of the observatory my flashlight caught the glint of a pair of eyes looking right at me from about twenty feet away. A moment later, another pair of eyes was staring at me, sizing me up for dinner in my mind. I'm not a sissy, but that will dampen your enthusiasm for the cold darkness, no matter how clear the sky is that night.

Every once in a while one will get a little close to the house. A few nights ago, I walked outside and was greeted by a growling voice feet away in the dark. I never saw the beast, he retreated into the trees in a hurry, but I assume it was one of the local coyotes.

This morning I looked out my office window as the sun was coming up and there were two of them just the other side of the fence in the horse pasture. I opened my window to get a better look with binoculars and even that slight noise got their attention. They ran away, which is fine with me.

I don't expect any problem with one or two of them in the night. But I am concerned that one night there may be enough of them together when I step out into the darkness that they will be less afraid than normal.

I hope to peacefully coexist with them for many years to come. Living in the country has its advantages, and I think the wildlife is one of them. But in the darkness I always feel they have the upper hand, and it's a little unnerving.

The problem with birds...

The problem with birds isn't the birds, it's me. I love birds. We plant all kinds of trees, flowers and shrubs to encourage birds to visit us year round. I like watching them at the feeders. I marvel at their acrobatic dodging and diving. I like hearing their songs in the morning in spring and summer. I even like the way the turkey vultures around here clean up the road kill. Birds are in a word, amazing.

My problem with birds started years ago when we lived in the suburbs. Our house backed up to a wooded area, and our extensive landscaping kept creeping further and further into the woods as the years went by. At some point, I decided to plant some spruce trees near the cottage garden on the east side of the house. They were lovely trees and every spring the robins would come and settle in our yard by the woods and build their nests in the spruce trees, which offer cover and shelter from the local predators.

Unfortunately, the spruce tress were a little close to the garden beds, and when there were eggs or young in the nests the parent birds would get very protective, and at times, downright aggressive in their protection. They would dive-bomb Irene and I on the weekends as we worked in the garden. They'd come so close to our heads at times, I swore they were gonna collide with us eventually.

I understand what was going on, and I would never disturb or destroy a nest, but to be honest, it pissed me off. We were minding our own business in our garden and they were taking hostile and aggressive actions against us, the people who planted the trees they loved so much. Eventually, I cut down the spruce trees. Problem solved.

Then we moved to the country.

The second summer we lived here, I bought a new garden tractor to cut the grass. I was so proud, cutting my lawn in half the time it took with the old, used beater I had purchased as an afterthought the first year. The lawn looked good and I didn't mind cutting 2.5 acres of grass each week.

Then the barn swallows showed up.

I'll never forget that first time. I was mowing the lawn and a couple barn swallows started swooping in towards me as I criss-crossed the lawn. They got nerve-wrackingly close at times, and I was actually ducking, fearing they were going to collide head on with me as I tooled across the lawn.

The second time it happened, maybe a couple weeks later, I got off the mower and called Irene out to see what was going on. I didn't think it was my imagination, but I was a little sensitive to bird aggression from my previous experience, so I wanted a witness. She was as amazed as I was. There were a half dozen birds swooping and diving and doing acrobatic maneuvers in mid-air, in front of me and right above my head as I rode my tractor across the property.

I couldn't believe my rotten luck. The first thing I did was check all the trees in and around the lawn to see if there were barn swallow nests nearby. Well, barn swallows like barns (doh!) and other man-made structures. So, not surprisingly, I didn't find any nests.

Near the end of that second year I just happened to be wearing my glasses instead of my non-prescription sunglasses while I was out on the mower. The barn swallows showed up again and started in with their acrobatic 'Mike attack'. But this time, to my amazement, I could see clearly what it was they were really up to.

As the tractor plowed through the grass, it stirred up frogs and bugs the whole way across the lawn. I saw a barn swallow dive down and nab a grasshopper in mid-air three feet in front of the tractor. I watched as moths, crickets and other bugs became lunch in the snap of a beak and beat of a wing. Truly amazing to watch...with my glasses on.

Ever since then I've been at peace with the swallows. There is no maliciousness in their little hearts. It is a simple symbiotic relationship they have with me and my tractor. When I go out to mow the lawn I often call back to Irene as I step out the back, "I'm going to feed the birds!"

So what does any of this have to do with astronomy and animals in the dark? I'm getting there. It's one of those deals where I have to tell you a story to tell you a story. Trust me...

This June, we spent a week in the Virgin Islands as my son got married on the beach on St. John. When we came home, we noticed that a pair of barn swallows had begun building one of their ingenious little mud nests on top of one of the drop down blinds we have on the porch. Not wanting to disturb 'Momma Bird', or any eggs that might be in there, I watched over the next week as she completed construction on the nest.

Well, momma laid eggs, and stayed there religiously through some cold nights keeping then safe and warm, chicks finally hatched and then the amazing process of raising ugly little fuzz balls into graceful dive-bombers began. Of course, both mom and dad swallow were very unhappy if I ever ventured out on to the porch to enjoy my million-dollar view of the lake across the road, or took the direct path to work on the gardens out front. In fact, they were much more aggressive than any robins ever were. They'd come diving straight at me, letting out a blood curdling screech and getting so close I cold feel the beating of their wings. For the better part of the summer, including at night, I was not allowed access to my front porch, which is where I usually step out to see the weather conditions, since all our weather approaches from the west.


It was almost worth it for the incredible close-up views we got of the raising of swallow chicks, mom and dad feeding them feet away from our window, and that first day when three of the four decided they could fly away, leaving their one poor chicken-hearted sibling alone for several hours. It was in a word--amazing.

But mom and dad knew who I was. And they would make a point of attacking me whenever I went outside, even in the back yard! Even at night! Unfortunately, I couldn't cut down my porch.

Even worse, while all this was going on, it became obvious that sparrows were taking nesting materials into the roll-off observatory through a small space leading to the tracks for the roll-off. By the time I figured out what they were up to, the track beam, cavity and roller wheels were packed with straw, grass, cloth, string and anything else the sparrows could use to make their nest. Not only did I not want to roll the roof off, crushing eggs or killing chicks, Irene made it clear that we would have serious issues if I even considered it.

Summer dragged on, eggs hatched, chicks flew away, and eventually I got my porch and roll-off back. It's all a trade-off. I told you, it's not the birds, it's me.

Next year--no birds allowed. I've learned my lesson. I am a pushover. I let tiny little birds, weighing ounces, rule my life for almost a whole summer. They kept me from my gardens and they kept me from enjoying my astronomy at times. I swear it won't happen again.

Do you hear that?
Irene is chuckling to herself in the next room as I write this. She teases me all the time saying, "That's it, Big Mean Daddy has spoken!"

Yeah, right...

Howling at the Moon

Contrary to conventional wisdom, I observe variable stars during full moon. No, it's not my favorite time of the lunar cycle to observe due to the sky brightness, but I think you should take advantage of a clear night regardless the phase of the moon. Once in a great while a syzygy occurs and even full moon isn't such a bad time.

A syzygy is the alignment of three or more celestial bodies in the same gravitational system along a straight line. The word is usually used in context with the Sun, Earth, and the Moon or a planet. Solar and lunar eclipses occur at times of syzygy.

February 20th was the last total lunar eclipse for North America until 2010, and it happened to be the first clear night here in 2008 that wasn't -50C, so I headed out to the observatory as twilight ended. The moon was already well above the horizon in the east, parked slightly NW of Saturn in Leo. Between the snow-covered ground and the full moon it was impossible to tell twilight had ended. It was bright enough outside to read by. The snow underfoot crunched sharply as I walked out to the dome, a sign it was already pretty cold outside, but the forecast low was for -20C, seasonably cold for a Michigan night in February, and bearable as long as there is no wind to speak of.

Orion was just about due south, and neither the telescope nor I wanted to move very far from our parked position, so I began observing in and around Orion first. The seeing was pretty steady and there was no haze or cirrus. On a good night like this I can easily see stars down to about 14.5 from the celestial equator to about -20 declination with the 12 inch. Full moon's added charms had reduced that to around 13.8. I checked off three stars in Eridanus and then moved on. Fortunately, the southernmost stars in Canis Major on my list were both fairly bright, 10th magnitude, so making the estimates there was easy. The Moon was rising higher and the eclipse hadn't started yet, so the sky was getting brighter as I moved into Orion.

It was getting colder, so I quickly finished my program stars in Orion and went inside to have some coffee, warm up and wait for totality.

About twenty minutes before the last bit of bright white Moon disappeared I stepped back outside and looked at the moon with binoculars again. The back yard was noticeably darker and most naked eye stars visible on a moonless clear night were pretty easy to make out. I headed to the observatory hoping to get dark-adapted by the time totality began, so I could take advantage of this 'bonus' dark time in February.

I pointed the telescope up towards Auriga. It looked like the darkest part of the sky, was riding nice and high, and Auriga is chock full of interesting Miras. At this point the dogs in the area all seemed to notice the moon was disappearing and began barking. One would start barking here, another one would answer him off in the distance, and the racket grew louder and louder as all the dogs within earshot started sharing eclipse notes. As the moon turned completely dark
orange-red the coyotes began howling. This got all the dogs going again. As if that weren't enough to scare away whatever sky dragon was eating the moon, the donkey on the horse farm north of me started braying as loudly as I've ever heard him. I found it somewhat comforting to know I wasn't the only jackass outside freezing my butt off as the Moon slipped into the Earth's shadow.

The canine cacophony eventually subsided and I enjoyed the hour of totality observing Miras in Auriga. About the time the moon started to escape the grip of eclipse, both the telescope and I were pretty well frozen. My fingers were starting to hurt and the corrector plate was frosted on the inside about an inch all the way around the central obstruction. The dew heater can't keep up with pointing straight up on a -20C night for long. I packed it in, closed up the dome, took a last quick tour of the moon in binoculars and headed for the warmth of the house.

In the morning I noticed the blue jays at the bird feeders seemed a little grumpier than usual. They probably didn't sleep very well with all the racket from the dogs and the donkey the night before. Me, I slept like a frozen rock.

Pepe' Le Pue

Skunks are cute little animals with bushy white tails. They remind me of cats. I love cats. I have five.

You rarely see skunks during the day. You hope not to run into them at night.
Let me re-phrase that, you hope not to surprise one at night!


Anyone who owns a dog and lives in the country around here has at least a few stories about their dumb-ass dog cornering a skunk and getting blasted by the most unpleasant perfume ever created. You have to bathe the poor canine in tomato juice or mouthwash for days to get rid of the smell, and it is really demoralizing for the dog to have to stay outside for days on end because you just can't let them near your furniture.

My worst fear, astronomically speaking, is to be coming out of the domed observatory late at night, where I have to lean over to get out of the door, and have a startled skunk raise his tail in my face as I stare down the back-side barrel of a loaded skunk who just happens to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I'm sure Irene would make me burn my clothes in the fire pit, and there's no way she would let me in the house for days. She would buy the tomato juice, but I'd be standing naked by the fire pit at night, dousing my own stanky body and sleeping in the roll-off observatory for a while. That's one of the reasons I call it the 'doghouse'.

Sometimes it's easy to tell when a skunk is in the vicinity. The smell comes wafting through the dome slot, swirls around a little bit and then just lingers, long after the stinky visitor has passed. I found out not long ago that the skunks who smell really bad themselves are amorous males who have been rebuked by uncooperative females. Man, I thought it was rough in the singles bars!

Even more disconcerting, is the fact that sometimes what I am smelling is a coyote that had a bad adventure with a skunk, passing by in the dark.

Skunks eat just about all the things that thrive on my property. They eat insects, larvae and earthworms, small rodents, lizards, salamanders, frogs, snakes, birds, eggs and moles (we have lots of moles!) They also eat roots, berries, grass, nuts and fungi. My yard is a virtual smorgasbord for skunks!

Needless to say, I am visited by skunks on a regular basis. Sometimes I hear them digging and foraging outside the dome at night. In the morning I can see where they have dug up little patches here and there, grubbing out insects or moles. Often in the garden beds around the house, but sometimes right around the observatory where the grass is thick and juicy with bugs and frogs.

When I first installed the dome, I laid sod around the observatory where the ground had been destroyed by construction. In the morning I would have to go out and turn the sod back to green-side-up where the skunks had come around and flipped it over to feast on grubs and earthworms.

I wouldn't mind the skunk visits so much if it weren't for the fact that they have notoriously poor eyesight. I've had them come right up to me, seemingly totally oblivious to my presence until the very last moment. My strategy has usually been to move very slowly, or not at all in the presence of Pepe Le Pue. I really don't want to get them excited.

The other night I was standing on the patio by the driveway, checking the weather and enjoying the quiet, when suddenly I heard the clicking of claws on the pavement. I thought it might be one of the stray cats who had been coming around lately (word gets out when you're a cat lover) so I was tempted to bend over and say "here kitty, kitty" when that unmistakable black and white pattern caught my eye in the moonlight.

I let out my best cat hiss and jumped back about as far as a guy my age can, knowing full well that a skunk can launch bad smelling anus juice 10-15 feet. The skunk seemed as surprised as me, turned around, raised its tail, and I thought "Oh shit".

Pepe just slinked off into the darkness and I was spared the humiliation of being skunked once again.

I've been lucky so far, but I can't help feeling I'm living on borrowed time.

Splat!

Being an active visual observer, I spend a lot of time outside at night at the eyepiece of my telescope dealing with the weather, the moon, unwanted light sources and wildlife that happens across my path.

This week I plan to write a series of pieces about my encounters with animals in the dark while pursuing my astronomical interests. If you'd like to read them all, simply click on "Animals in the dark" under Simotopics and the whole series will come up.

This first story is from several years ago, while I was actively monitoring cataclysmic variables (CVs) for outbursts. On a typical night I would race from one field to another, checking on stars in my program and logging an observation about once a minute or so. I'd start in the west and work my way east across the sky, checking each field for a sudden brightening, or outburst, of a CV. My goal was to monitor as many fields as possible, and I'd try to do at least 100 per night. The other part of the process is, when you do not detect an outburst you need to report the faintest star you can see, to provide an 'upper limit' on the magnitude of the variable.

If the sky conditions were good, I could see as faint as magnitude 14.9 with the ten inch telescope I had at the time.

On this particular night I had been observing for about an hour and a half, when suddenly I pointed the telescope to a new field using the finder scope, looked into the eyepiece and saw nothing. No stars, just a hazy darkness. It was a perfectly clear night when I began and now I couldn't see crap!

When you observe from inside a dome you don't always notice weather or clouds approaching, and I've been surprised many times stepping out of the observatory to see that the whole sky has suddenly clouded up on me. So naturally, the first thing I did was to step outside to see if the sky conditions had suddenly deteriorated. Happily, the sky was still perfectly clear with no signs of passing clouds or approaching fronts.

Thinking that maybe I had just been getting tired and needed a break I stayed outside, breathed in the fresh air and enjoyed the view for several minutes. Once back inside the dome, I checked the finder scope to be sure I was pointing where I wanted to be pointing, and then looked into the eyepiece again. Still nothing.

I checked to be sure the eyepiece hadn't got fogged or frosted over, I tried refocusing, nothing worked! As a last resort I aimed the telescope down to where I could examine the corrector lens on the front of the scope to see if the dew heater had quit and the lens had fogged over. I couldn't believe what I saw next.

There, covering probably 80% of the lens, was the biggest gob of bird poop I had ever seen in my life, complete with the remains of some partially digested blue berries. What I can only imagine must have been some giant condor, at the precise moment I moved the dome slot and re-aimed the telescope, had silently dropped a huge splattering mess, like a smart bomb, right through the slot and delivered a bulls-eye strike to the lens of the telescope.

The problem wasn't that I couldn't see crap; it was that I couldn't see through the crap!

That was the week I learned how to clean the corrector plate of a Schmidt-Cassegrain. But that's another story for another time.