Winston-Salem Astronomical League - Articles

Home

Articles

Clouds

by Paul B. Jones

Clouds. Clouds on the horizon. Clouds in my eyepiece.

Interesting, I think, that one keeps you away from the eyepiece while the other entices you to it. The clouds in my eyepiece were swirling around on the planet Saturn but those clouds weren't the only thing that brought me to the eyepiece this cold Saturday night. This was my first chance to take my telescope out under the stars since I moved to North Carolina in August. Right now, the best clouds in the solar system are putting on a wonderful show in the winter sky. I have watched the two giant planets gain altitude every night as I drive home from work in the dark. I've waited for the night when it would be clear and I would be free enough to take advantage of it.

I didn't think it would be tonight. For the second weekend in a row, the local weather guys were preaching gloom and, if not doom, dreariness. Last weekend they predicted up to 18 inches of snow. Figuring my observing plans were scotched, I made other arrangements. Not only was there no snow but there weren't even clouds - earthly ones at any rate. This weekend, I didn't listen to the predictions of snow - the weathermen didn't learn their lesson last weekend - and with my last class of the semester taught and my wife at a party for her running club, I had a few free hours to finally get outside and see the celestial show.

The show was peaking this weekend as the moon slid gracefully between the two cloudy planets and provided a wonderful bit of perspective. The moon, large and flat and shiny, like a newly minted coin; Jupiter, brighter than Saturn but not as bright as the moon. The ancients would have said that the moon was close, Jupiter was farther away, and Saturn farther still. And they would have been right, bless them.

Of course, I hadn't used my Celestron 8 for several months. Nor, indeed, had I used it nearly as often in the last five years than had I when it, and I, was new, when the demands of profession and family were nonexistent, when the need for sleep wasn't nearly as extreme. So I made several beginners' errors. I set up on the deck of my house, which seemed sturdy enough but, at 250x, was as wobbly as a house of cards, necessitating a hasty move to the driveway. My motor drive was using batteries purchased in Maryland some unknown time ago. I was, in preparation for planetary precession, polar aligned, seemingly, on Vega. But, I was finally out under the stars and planets on a crisp, cold night, a perfect night for me, but one that must have made the local weathermen sick.

I spent nearly an hour staring at Saturn, taking note of the swirling clouds that were apparent on the planet's disk. I savored the sharpness of Cassini's division, the slight difference in color between the A ring and the B ring. As I examined the planet it occurred to me that I had never seen it look so sharp, so beautiful. I was sure this was just a figment of my imagination, starved as I was for a view of astronomical beauty. But, I slowly realized there was more to it than that. I first saw Saturn through my Celestron 8 in the summer of 1985 - fifteen years ago. It was low in the south, in Scorpius, and the view from my Oklahoma driveway, across an asphalt street and several houses was murky and fuzzy. I fell in love. I've gotten busy, and in the last few years I remember only two or three observing sessions that included Saturn. In those sessions, the planet was low on the horizon, not a dozen degrees from the zenith. Since then, Saturn has slowly moved from the southern end of the ecliptic to the northern end without my particular notice. Saturn is halfway around its circle about the Sun, a time frame which corresponds exactly to that of my amateur career. More importantly, Saturn's slow roll through the heavens corresponds to half of my life. The Saturn of this evening is the Saturn of my birth. That temporal coincidence alone would move me. Combined with the spectacular view of the great ringed planet I was truly awed.

I was also cold. After a quick trip inside for a cup of cocoa and a bite to eat, I scooted back outside with Jupiter. Jupiter, too, was better than I remembered. It started to dawn on me that the seeing was unbelievably good. Io and Europa were playing tag off the western limb of the planet and the Great Red Spot was also on that western limb. I watched the face of the planet for a long time. The Red Spot was a distinct pink oval buried inside the equatorial belt. There was a storm the local weather guys would have appreciated. It has raged for 400 years. I estimate they could predict, with near perfect accuracy, the weather in that locale, although I'm sure the odd Jovian weatherman would still occasionally call for clear and calm in the South Equatorial Belt.

I had been watching Jupiter for almost an hour when I noticed something really strange happening. I thought my eyes must be going (fear of turning thirty!). The fabric of space seemed to be rippling. I pulled away from the eyepiece and blinked several times. It was then that I noticed the clouds, much nearer than the great storms I had seen on Jupiter, these were thin cirrus moving in from the west. I went back to the eyepiece and appreciated the contrast of the thin, wispy clouds of water vapor moving in front of the thick, powerful clouds of methane, hydrogen, and ammonia swirling millions of miles away.

The seeing was going as the clouds moved in. I moved the scope to the moon to cap off the night. I've never been a big lunar observer. Like many amateurs, I find it a nuisance -- right up there with mercury vapor lamps. It is always impressive through the scope but, let's be serious, men have walked on it, how exotic can it be? I guess that's the Greek in me. Tonight, though, it was nearing full and the seeing was still good enough that it was a fantastic treat. I spent fifteen minutes or so at high power, pouring over the surface, the terrestrial clouds lending a feeling that I was flying over the lunar surface. Stunning.

As the cloud cover advanced, I switched back to 68x to take one last view of the entire lunar disk before calling it a night. After a few minutes of purely aesthetic bliss, the ancient batteries finally gave out. The moon began to slide gracefully out of view and the clouds, moving east, opposite the moon, gave the impression that the moon was boiling away. Finally, when only a sliver of moon remained, the moon evaporated completely, leaving a field full of cirrus moving rapidly toward the sun. It was one of the most amazing moments I recall at the eyepiece.

As I packed up the scope, I thought of the irony that clouds and the moon, normally such hindrances, combined to give me a night of astronomy I won't soon forget. A night of new memories with a connection to old.