Veils across the light

Otago Daily Times

03-05-2025

Photo: Ian Griffin
The move to Middlemarch has been great for skywatching. I've been out almost every night since Easter, chasing stars. The nights are clear, dark, and cold — perfect at first. But after midnight, something always creeps in. It starts with a thin breath across the paddocks. By 2am, the stars have vanished and I'm standing alone in a blank world.
At first, I thought it was mist. Or maybe it was fog? My tired brain whimsically dubbed it "mog" at that hour.
One night, halfway between Easter and Anzac Day, an aurora appeared in the sky. Soft, low curtains of light moved like slow breaths across the southern horizon. I stood by the telescope, watching. In the distance, the trees seemed to shift. In the thickening mist — or fog — they appeared to swell and lean closer, like weary old ghosts. If you stared too long, you'd swear they were walking towards you.
The aurora's light shimmered through the haze, making everything seem unreal. It was beautiful and strange, a little unsettling — but in a good way.
Later, once I was indoors thawing out, I looked it up. It turns out the difference between mist and fog is simple: it all comes down to visibility. If you can see more than 1km, it's mist. If you can see less than 1km, it's fog. Simple enough. You're never too old to learn something new, even if it's something you probably should have known decades ago.
That night, I think it was fog — a thick fog, curling around fence posts and soaking my jacket. My telescopes and cameras were dew-coated in minutes. The stars faded away along with the aurora, leaving only a soft glow, like the memory of a dream. Luckily, one of my cameras captured the scene so it was not lost forever.
Middlemarch is going to be a great place to watch the sky, even if some nights the mog wins.