Ringing in the Solstice

Happy Winter Solstice! Once again we've reached the far edge of the annual pendulum swing. From here on out, we ride on momentum back the other way, into the light, as days grow longer one by one.

Back in September, when the full moon coincided with the autumnal equinox, Nick and I resolved to sleep outside each time the moon was full for ... a while. The last time I did this, ten years ago, it lasted an entire year. That's a good goal to strive for, and we didn't let a rainy night stop us that first month (although we did spread our sleeping bags under an overhanging porch roof). Then October travels quickly broke the trend before it had even gotten off the ground. But we made up October's sleepout on the new moon in November, on the shores of Torch Lake under a starry sky. Then, two weeks later, November's full moon (a blue moon, by one definition) found us in Bellaire again, camping in a grassy clearing surrounded by evergreens with sheep, llamas, and shaggy cows slumbering just across the meadow.

Then along came December. As you've certainly heard already, this year the full moon not only fell on the same day as the winter solstice but also brought with it a lunar eclipse. A once-in-a-lifetime event (the last time it happened was in 1638) and sure to be a sleepout to remember. So when Nick said he was scheduled to get on a bus bound for Wisconsin on Tuesday the 21st (headed home for the holidays), I was supremely disappointed. But then we realized that this amazing confluence of astronomical events was happening just after midnight on the 21st. We'd be able to catch it all on Monday-night-into-Tuesday, with plenty of time before he had to board the bus Tuesday evening.

Well, I'm so glad we saw it! And so glad we had this pre-established tradition, by now obligatory, to ensure that even though we were tired and the temperature was dropping, we wouldn't be tempted to stay inside.

Late in the evening, we bundled up, filled a thermos with cocoa, piled sleeping bags and mats and blankets into our packs, left the dogs snuggled in at Nick's place in Suttons Bay, and drove out to the land in Lake Leelanau where Nick has a yurt in progress. The yurt is just a skeleton right now - an open platform of floor joists that looks a lot like it did in this photo (from beneath) back in October:

We hauled a sheet of plywood from the barn up the steep slope to the yurt and hoisted it over the joists. We lay down to test the moon view: Clearly visible, although a little hazy-blurry, surrounded by a wide halo, and accompanied by a few stars. Just then Nick's phone chirped and our friend Michelle indicated that, despite the fact that it was almost midnight by now, she could perhaps be persuaded to join us. We persuaded. She agreed. We arranged our nest of bedding and then slid back down the hill, where Nick lit an enormous pile of brush for a solstice signal fire. We drank cocoa and waited for Michelle and watched the moon for signs of shrinkage. Michelle arrived, the fire roared and sent orange sparks shooting skyward, and before long one edge of the moon grew fuzzy and faded. It had begun.

(photo by NASA)

By the time we were tucked into our sleeping bags, there was a big black bite out of the glowing orb. I soon fell asleep, but later I woke up and poked my nose out to find the moon entirely gone. Later still, I looked up again and saw that it had reappeared, the shadow now positioned over the opposite edge from where it started. The next time I woke, it was getting light, the sky was a uniform cloudy gray, and flakes of snow were drifting down on us.

We packed up and headed back to tend to our doggies and put on a kettle of hot water, feeling lucky to have been out all night bathed in moonlight that was even more magical than usual. Talking to others later that day, it sounded as if clouds had obscured the moon in central Traverse City and out on Old Mission Peninsula - somehow our spot midway up the Leelanau Peninsula may have been one of the few windows of clear sky. Lucky indeed!