I'm looking out over an ever deepening sky right now. It is tinged with lavenders and pinks and multiple shades of blues and greys. Today was the last day we'll see the sun in Arctic Bay, until it reemerges from below the horizon in February. Until then we'll only have twilight as the sun stretches, but does not reach, the horizon.
Technically there is another week or so before the sun disappears at this latitude, but because we are ringed with mountains and hills it is lost to our view from town. On the sea ice with an unobstructed view of the horizon, or from atop the hills we can see it, but from town we can only watch as the sunlight on the mountain creeps higher up the sides of King George each day, until that too disappears.
I went to get a photo of the last sliver of the sun today, but alas a low band of clouds obstructed the orb, leaving only the tantalizing hint of its presence behind backlit clouds. Now it is just a matter of awaiting its return, on hopefully a clear day in the beginning of February.
I've written many times that I don't mind the dark season, and I truly don't. The six weeks of diminishing twilight passes so very quickly and after the winter solstice, the returning glow, growing longer and longer each day offers the promise of bright sunny days, that really never end. The dark season is somewhat misnamed, as really we always have some light every day, even if it is only that hint of light's glow in the south, "daylight in the swamps" as a friend of mine used to say. And there is a lot to be said for our sky at night, blacker than most of the world can imagine, pricked with more stars than you could count or name.
So bring on the night, bring on the stars, and full moons so bright that the land glows a peaceful, cool blue. Bring it on, for I know the sunrise that will follow is the most anticipated in the world.
Comments
2 responses
Clare–This loss, even though temporary, of the sun must be one of the most fascinating transitions. I think I would feel it in my body–perhaps with a conscious slowing, like a will to hibernate (of course, I’d prefer that hibernation to occur on a comfortable couch with a pot of tea and a pile of good books.
larry,
It is fascinating, and strangely, at least to me, it seems very natural – part of the natural cycle up here. Hard to put it into words but it just fits with the land, anything else would seem strange. There is a drop in energy, but not overwhelming. And a pot of tea and a pile of good books always sounds inviting.