Conjunction

Sunset, Caspersen Rowing Center

26 December 2020

I was still at work on December 21 when I saw Tom's email, and hour after he'd sent it. There was a chance of a break in the clouds after sunset. He'd be at the rowing center at 5:00. If the sky were to clear, we'd be able to see the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn, not at their closest, but close enough.

On my way home from work on December 18, I'd seen the two stars clearly as I drove down Princeton Pike. From my deck at home, though, the stars were between tree branches. It was the first deep freeze of the season, and it was too cold to mess with my tripod and camera. 

This time of year I can watch the sunset from my office window. This will be the last year I can do that; four dorm buildings are going up where my view used to be. It was almost 4:30. The sun would be going down in a few minutes. From my perch, it didn't look promising. 

I left anyway. As I walked to my car, the eastern sky was clear enough that I could see the moon. I went home, grabbed my tripod, binoculars, and camera, and met Tom in the rowing center parking lot around 5:30. By this point, even the moon was obscured by clouds. 

"Same time tomorrow?" I asked.

There were still clouds to the west as the sun set on December 22. I left work a few minutes too late to be by the lake for the best colors, missing the firey orange. I got the pinks instead.

There was enough wind to send little ripples through the shallow water at the lake's edge, putting the pebbles in and out of focus.

Tom arrived with the last light. We set up our tripods and waited for a break in the clouds. We both have the same camera: a Canon PowerShot with 40x optical zoom and a tilting view screen. He liked what I had and got one for himself last year. He's a much better photographer than I am, and he's a bit of an astronomy buff too. 

In July he'd gathered us at a ballfield near here to see the comet NEOWISE. He knew where to find Saturn and Jupiter tonight. 

It always takes me a few shots to figure out the focus and timing. Following Tom's lead, I set the exposure to 2 seconds. He likes a 10-second delay; I have a steady enough hand that 2 seconds works for me, once I can get the tripod tight enough to stop drifting.

At first I thought it was lens flare, but Tom assured me that what I'd gotten a picture of was one of Jupiter's moons. Our 40x zoom lenses are good enough to pick up Saturn's rings, but not enough to separate them from the planet, so Saturn ends up looking like half a lentil. 

Hey! I caught three moons on this one!

We'd get off a couple of shots and then the clouds would move in. While we waited we talked through our masks. 

"The PTSD after this is all over is gonna be weird," I said. "There'll be triggers we're not gonna expect. Like, we'll come through here on our bikes and remember the comet and this."

For a moment I felt unstuck in time. 

The clouds came back and didn't go away. We went home.

The next night, December 23, wasn't as cloudy as the forecast had led us to believe. Independently of each other, Tom and I both tried to get pictures from home. For me, there were a lot of branches in the way. 

It took some tripod maneuvering to get a good aim between the trees. I wasn't as successful as the night before, but at least I got something. The planets were noticeably farther apart.

As they moved across the sky, the planets became lost in the branches. I took a few more pictures then gave up.

I turned around and took pictures of the moon instead. That was much easier.

I wonder, when this is all over, if I'll still go out at night to take pictures of the moon, the stars, and spiders. Or will the night sky always remind me that 2020 was the year one in one thousand Americans died from a virus we could have contained?