The skies of Lyngenfjord weren’t quite as dark as we had expected. Though remote from major light pollution, its shores were dotted with tiny fishing villages whose street lamps were visible as twinkling rows of orange light reflected in the icy water. Rather charmingly, I have to admit. And the faint glow of Tromsø, 60 kilometres to the west, was discernible over the peaks of the Lyngen Alps across the fjord. But none of that mattered. Not even the Moon, skipping over the mountain tops from one night to the next as it waxed from a crescent to first quarter and beyond, could dim nature’s brilliance.
We soon discovered that there was a pattern to the auroral displays. The fun would start early in the night, shortly after the long twilight had ended, with a hint of a glow on the northern horizon. Then, around 8 pm or so, we’d detect a thin greenish band snaking from east to west through the far northern constellations that graced the skies of Lyngenfjord. The Plough, Cassiopeia, Ursa Minor—star-patterns that were unfamiliar to those of us more accustomed to the Southern Cross, Vela and Centaurus. As we watched, the green band would broaden, and we would begin to see delicately structured filaments of light stretching upwards, with more bands starting to fill the patches of dark sky.
And then, if we were lucky, the show would ramp up to its evening crescendo. Swirling curtains of light, twisted into impossible shapes, would sweep in waves across the sky, taking only seconds to form, brighten into prominence and then fade again. Still more green bands would roam from east to west. And this silent display would be interrupted by our shouts of excitement, as we looked on in awe. By now, our fumblings with tripods, ISO settings and exposure times had been transformed into a model of proficiency. With surprising deftness, we performed the nightly balancing act of getting enough light into our cameras while still managing to capture the aurora’s fleeting patterns. And all the while trying not to slip over on the icy snow, or expose our fingers and thumbs too long to the frozen air. The only question was where to point our cameras, as the sky exploded into curtains of green, tinged above with red, and below with a pale magenta.
Sometimes, these shows put on a rare climax, with the formation—almost overhead—of an auroral corona. Like crystals precipitating out of a super-saturated chemical solution, green, finger-like rays would burst from the zenith before our astonished eyes. We knew this was a trick of perspective, caused by parallel columns of light forming along the near-vertical lines of the Earth’s magnetic field, but that made it no less extraordinary. Except in the most extreme conditions of auroral activity, this display is exclusively the province of those who venture to the planet’s polar regions. This week, that meant us—for our vantage point in far-northern Norway was well inside the Arctic Circle. And on those frozen, magical nights early in 2012, members of the Fire in the Sky study tour from Down Under wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else in the world.
In earlier times, the Sami people who inhabited this frostbitten country regarded the Aurora Borealis with fearful awe. Legends about the origin of these eerie lights were intertwined with traditions concerning the souls of the departed, and their campfires flickering mysteriously beyond the northern horizon. The lore of the dancing lights dictated that you must remain as inconspicuous as possible in their presence, lest you attract their baleful gaze. Wearing white was out of the question. In western European culture, too, the Northern Lights belonged in the realm of mystery. A broadsheet printed in Augsburg in 1570, and now in the Crawford Collection of the Royal Observatory, Edinburgh, depicts a bright auroral display that occurred on 12 January of that year as a row of heavenly candles above the clouds. No doubt the artist was at a loss to imagine how else such an unearthly apparition could be represented.
It was only at the turn of the twentieth century that the first glimmer of understanding began to emerge as to the true cause of the aurora. But it was an idea so outlandish, and so unpalatable to the scientific establishment of the time, that it was rejected almost out of hand, particularly in Britain. It generated a human saga of epic proportions—and it had its origins not far from the small Norwegian town of Alta, where our study tour had begun its rendezvous with the dazzling aurorae of 2012.
Just to the west of Alta, in the spine of mountains that dominates Norway’s far-northern coastline, a high plateau called Haldde became the site of the world’s first auroral observatory. It was set up by a visionary Oslo University scientist called Kristian Olaf Birkeland, who had a wild notion that the Aurora Borealis was caused by subatomic particles in space, and was somehow linked with the Earth’s magnetic field. To this end, Birkeland and a handful of colleagues wintered on two mountain peaks at Haldde during the bleak months of darkness from late 1899 to early 1900.
Measurements of the local magnetic field were correlated with appearances of the lights, and attempts were made to photograph the auroral displays simultaneously from the two peaks—Sukkertop and Talviktop—in order to estimate their height by triangulation. This was intended to reveal whether or not the aurora actually touched the ground, since many scientists still believed it was purely a meteorological phenomenon. In his first expedition, Birkeland failed to make these measurements due to the insensitivity of his photographic equipment, but observations a few years later proved that aurorae do, indeed, populate the upper atmosphere at levels above 90 kilometres.
It was Birkeland’s formulation of a radical theory in the wake of that early work that made him so unpopular with British scientists. He postulated that the Sun was a source of the subatomic particles that were then known as cathode rays (but are today called electrons), and that their interaction with the Earth’s magnetic field near the poles caused them to excite the atoms of the upper atmosphere into a frenzy of luminescence. He later suggested that the particles we now call protons might also be emitted from the Sun, and play their part in the celestial light-show.
The idea that the Sun could be responsible for anything other than heat, light and gravity was what so incensed Birkeland’s critics. And Britain’s Royal Society led the charge, believing that its scientific heritage effectively endowed it with ownership of these phenomena. After all, they had been the province of Newton and Herschel, among others. But subatomic particles from the Sun? Proposed by a Norwegian? Oh, dear me, no.
As the twentieth century dawned and matured into the gentility of the Edwardian era, Birkeland’s ideas were put to the test at the University of Oslo. In his Terrella (‘little Earth’), he set up a magnetised model of the Earth, enclosed in a vacuum chamber, which he could bombard with electrons. Sure enough, a recognisable simulation of the aurora was generated. Locally, at least, Birkeland gained credibility, and was encouraged by the university authorities to continue his relentless pursuit of the aurora’s mechanism.
But with the drums of war now beating loudly on the horizon, he also turned his attention to other inventions. He invested considerable time and effort in the development of a novel electric cannon, at the same time following more peaceful ambitions in perfecting an electric furnace for the fixation of atmospheric nitrogen for fertiliser. That work led to the creation of the Norsk Hydro company—still a major industrial force in aluminium and renewable energy.
Birkeland would have been the first to admit that these diversions were undertaken merely to allow him to fund his obsession with pure research. As the First World War lumbered forth on its dreadful course, his work took him to Egypt to investigate a phenomenon called the zodiacal light, a faint luminous band that towers over the horizon at dusk and dawn. He wanted to discover whether this, too, had an electromagnetic origin. Sadly, though, amidst growing paranoia about being persecuted by the British authorities, Birkeland began to sink into a mire of mental instability from which he never recovered. His condition led to growing usage of sleeping preparations, which eventually reached dangerous levels. In 1917, en route homewards from Egypt via Japan to avoid the British, Birkeland died in Tokyo at the age of only 49.
With Birkeland gone, there was no longer a champion for his ideas, and the notion of electric currents carried through space by a solar wind of particles dropped off the agenda in the face of a hostile, principally British, scientific establishment. The origin of the polar aurorae was relegated to the too-hard basket. But half a century after his death, when the space age was still in its first flush of youth, magnetic measurements taken from Earth-orbit revealed what ground-based observations had failed to detect: that space is full of subatomic particles—electrons and protons. Astonishingly, on both counts, Birkeland had been right.
Not quite so insightful was his research into the zodiacal light. This is now known to originate in the flattened ring of dust particles surrounding the Sun, which envelops the inner planets. While the streams of electrons and protons from the Sun certainly buffet the dust particles, they don’t play any part in exciting them to luminosity, as they do with atoms in the Earth’s upper atmosphere. Rather, the zodiacal light is caused simply by the reflection and scattering of sunlight.
Aurorae, on the other hand, are the result of a highly complex interaction between the wind of particles from the Sun and the Earth’s magnetic field. Our modern understanding includes such subtleties as the occurrence of aurorae in a circular zone around each magnetic pole rather than a concentration of light at the pole itself—something that was not explained by Birkeland’s theory. We also know that aurorae occur on Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune, all of which have their own magnetic fields. And our knowledge of the energies carried by the solar particles lets us understand why we see aurorae of different colours at different heights. The prominent green bands occur between 100 and 200 kilometres above the Earth, and are caused by atmospheric oxygen atoms being excited. Often, there are extended pillars of red light above them, which are again due to oxygen atoms, but at a lower energy. In the most energetic displays, molecules of nitrogen are excited below 100 kilometres, causing them to emit red, blue and violet light, giving a characteristic magenta fringe to the underside of bright aurorae.
We know, too, that the solar wind of particles is variable in its intensity. The importance of this cosmic buffeting of the Earth’s environment is so great that we now refer to it as ‘space weather’, and monitor it with a flotilla of robotic spacecraft. In fact, the solar wind has its origin in magnetic activity taking place near the surface of the Sun. As our star progresses through the eleven-year cycle that was discovered in the 1840s by observing variations in the number of sunspots on the Sun’s surface, it becomes increasingly prone to the occurrence of magnetic storms in its atmosphere. These storms propel energetic particles and magnetic fields into space at up to 1200 kilometres per second, and generate powerful shockwaves in the solar wind. They can damage orbiting satellites and disrupt power distribution grids. The underlying mechanism of the storms is now known to be the sudden release of magnetic stress in the Sun—a kind of gigantic magnetic ‘twang’—and the end-product is a monumental dumping of energy into the inner Solar System. When this occurs, aurorae become visible nearer the equator than normal, and ground-level magnetism increases dramatically—as was noted by Birkeland. These phenomena tend to occur near the maximum of the Sun’s eleven-year cycle of sunspot activity, and each event typically lasts for a day or two. Such is the state of our knowledge, only a century or so after Birkeland pioneered the discipline of space physics.
Photographs taken in Oslo while Birkeland was experimenting with his Terrella show him wearing a fez. Although that was not uncommon among scientists of his era, I’ve always thought of it as a bad sign, an indication that someone could be on the slippery slope to madness. If you ever see me wearing a fez, shoot me. For Birkeland, what had begun as a passionate interest ended as a maniacal obsession. Perhaps because of that, history has consistently undervalued his contribution. While he is celebrated on the Norwegian 200 kroner note, as well as in museums at Alta and elsewhere, he is not well known outside his own country, even today.
Our Fire in the Sky tour in January and February 2012 paid due homage to Birkeland. But what dictated its timing was, of course, the Sun. Predicted to reach a peak in its cycle during 2012 and 2013, the Sun was likely to be more active than it had been for almost a decade, with the promise of enhanced auroral activity. And it didn’t disappoint us. Blessed with clear skies, we were able to experience for ourselves this most awe-inspiring celestial phenomenon, rivalled in grandeur only by a total solar eclipse. For a brief spell, we allowed ourselves to share the apprehensions of the Sami, while experiencing a face-to-face encounter with the magnetic workings of our planet using state-of-the-art photographic technology to document the astonishing colours that lit the sky. We left the Arctic enraptured.
But, as I’ve mentioned before, Marnie has a flair for putting together itineraries that cater for everyone on our study tours. Thus it was that after our rendezvous with the Northern Lights we embarked on an expedition to other attractions of the region, both scientific and otherwise. Alta and Lyngenfjord are within striking distance of Narvik, for example, which boasts a spectacular railway line linking the famous port with Kiruna in northern Sweden. And Kiruna has a rocket range—the Esrange, operated by the Swedish Space Agency, whose restricted airspace will eventually be used by Richard Branson in connection with his Spaceport Europe. From Kiruna Airport, Virgin Galactic will fly well-heeled passengers through the Aurora Borealis, as opposed to their simply observing it from below. This is perhaps the most intimate encounter possible.
Southern Scandinavia, too, has much of interest. Not far from Stockholm is Kvistaberg, where the historic Uppsala University has custody of one of the largest Schmidt telescopes in the northern hemisphere. With an aperture of 1 metre, the Kvistaberg Schmidt bears a distinct family resemblance to its larger siblings, the 1.2-metre Oschin Schmidt Telescope at Palomar Mountain, and our own UKST at Siding Spring Observatory. Although equipped with a modern electronic camera, the telescope is little used today due to indifferent weather conditions compared with overseas sites. But the astronomical jewel of southern Sweden is a place we have already visited in this book—Tycho Brahe’s island of Ven in the Øresund. In autumn the island is enchanting, but a winter mantle of snow and the occasional basking seal on the Øresund’s ice-floes made our February visits just as magical.
And so on. There’s little space here to mention our trip to Tartu in Estonia to see telescope pioneer Joseph Fraunhofer’s masterpiece: his 24-centimetre Great Dorpat Refractor of 1824, which set the pattern for refracting telescopes throughout the nineteenth century. Nor our visit to Tuorla Observatory in Finland, where the tall tower housing its 1-metre reflecting telescope of 1959 sprouts incongruously from a snow-laden pine forest. Nor a captivating night-time excursion to Copenhagen’s curious Round Tower of 1642, whose 209-metre-long internal spiral ramp allowed horse-drawn carriages to access an astronomical observing platform high above the streets of the city. Oh, and did I tell you about Iceland, with its volcanoes, hot springs and glaciers . . . ?
Besides science and history, there is one other strand to our touring. It arises from a lifelong passion of mine for the great music of the world, and it’s what took our Stargazers to hear the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra in Chapter 1. In the Fire in the Sky tour, it took us to the Sibelius Museum in Turku, to celebrate the life and work of the great Finnish composer. But it also resulted in an encounter that was, in its own way, as baffling as my meeting with Messenger Nine. What it lacked in comprehension, however, it more than made up for in inspiration.
Urmas Sisask is an Estonian composer, very well known in his own country, who writes music celebrating the Universe. Intrigued by the astronomical connection, Marnie had attempted to contact him while planning Fire in the Sky, in the hope that our tour participants might catch a concert of his music. Those attempts came to nothing, perhaps because of Sisask’s unfamiliarity with English. Then, by a remarkable coincidence, she was approached by the Griffyn Ensemble, a Canberra chamber group, wanting to know whether I might be interested in narrating a series of Australian recitals of the music of—Urmas Sisask. The recitals did, indeed, take place after our tour, but the approach from Griffyn opened the door to an extraordinary experience in Estonia.
Sisask’s fame is such that when our local guide, Katarina, was told that she would accompany us on the drive from Tallinn to his conservatorium in the village of Jäneda—and act as his interpreter—she wept with joy. That was the first surprise. The second was Jäneda itself. As we forsook Tallinn’s stunning mediaeval centre for its drab, Cold-War era suburbs, we had low expectations of the snow-covered landscape beyond. But ugly apartment blocks and power stations gradually gave way to pine forests and charming villages. And Jäneda was pure Christmas-card delight. At the heart of the village is the imposing manor, built between 1913 and 1915, with a history that links its first occupants, Johan von Benckendorf and Maria Zakrevskaya Benckendorf, to the Russian Revolution—and Maria to a life of intrigue and espionage. Amazing stuff. But that wasn’t why we were there.
When we entered the manor house, which now doubles as a conference centre, we were met by Sisask himself, and ushered up a long staircase to a shuttered room. In the centre was a piano surrounded by chairs, and all around the lower walls were pictures that looked as if they had been removed from old astronomy magazines. Outdated they might have been, but they included all the familiar iconic images of stars, galaxies, nebulae and planets made with the Hubble Space Telescope and other great telescopes of the world. They betrayed a humbling passion for the sky, pursued with minimal resources.
With the study tour members comfortably seated, and Katarina interpreting, Sisask explained that we were now sitting in his ‘astromusical observatory’. He apologised for the run-down state of the decor, and the stains where the roof had leaked, but made it clear that this was a very special place to him. None of us had ever heard of an astromusical observatory, so this was all rather intriguing. To be honest, I could sense that some of our party were wondering what on Earth they had got themselves into. Then, with Katarina struggling to translate the more technical aspects of Sisask’s introductions to his works, he launched into a spectacular pianoforte tour through his musical universe. His music is wide-ranging in style and accessibility: some pieces are almost impenetrable, while others you can hum along to—and then can’t get out of your head. Unexpectedly, I found parallels with the music of Australian composer Ross Edwards. Perhaps that is not so surprising, given that both men are deeply influenced by the natural world. Sisask performed his work with passion and commitment, and showed great generosity as he explained what each piece was about. OK, he acknowledged, the piano was a bit out of tune—perhaps because of the damp—but that was just an integral part of the performance. Fair enough, I suppose. When resources are scarce, it helps to be able to rationalise. And, as the recital progressed, his audience warmed in their mood, from polite bemusement to clear delight, especially when Sisask introduced some of his better-known works.
His finale was the undoubted tour de force. Beginning with a repeated pattern of notes on the piano, he quickly delegated the piano-playing to his wife, while he embarked on a virtuosic tour of the world with a dozen or more folk instruments from different countries, which he played in rapid succession. As this thrilling piece evolved into a frenzied celebration of life, the listeners responded with enthusiasm—especially when Sisask produced a didjeridu, and showed himself to be no mean exponent of circular breathing. But no one was prepared for the climax. With his wife pounding away, and Sisask quickly switching from one instrument to the next, we suddenly became aware that the family dog had become part of the performance, clomping up and down the keyboard to make its own contribution to the melody. Jaws dropped around the room. While none of us truly understood this strange music—except, perhaps, the dog—Sisask won all our hearts with the performance. The recital ended with thunderous applause and warm congratulations—and the handful of CDs he had available for sale were snapped up in a twinkle. Clearly, in Sisask’s resource-starved world, every eurocent counted.
But this remarkable man had one more trick up his sleeve. And it was pure magic. Dimming the lights of the room, he revealed what he had meant by an astromusical observatory. As we grew accustomed to the darkness, we were astonished to discover that the walls and ceiling were covered in stars. With the lights on, they had been invisible against the flaking paint, but now, boosted into fluorescence by a hidden ultraviolet lamp, they shone in all the profusion of an arctic night. Yes, they were just stick-on stars of the kind you’d buy for a kid’s bedroom, but this was no haphazard decoration of a would-be astronomer’s den. All the constellations of the northern sky—the Plough, Cassiopeia, Ursa Minor, and the rest—were clearly recognisable in Sisask’s humble recital room. It was, in effect, a planetarium.
Not only had the stars been placed with painstaking accuracy in regard to their positions, but also their relative brightness was correct. This was a labour of love of monumental proportions, and Sisask told us that he had positioned no fewer than 2200 stars to make the observatory. That’s two-thirds of the real stars visible to the unaided eye on a clear, moonless night. To witness the care and dedication that this musical genius had bestowed on his fascination with astronomy was inspiring.
Emerging from the manor house into the weak late-afternoon sunshine, I felt I had encountered a kindred spirit. The language barrier didn’t matter. A blend of astronomy and music had permeated his life, and had propelled his creativity in a unique direction. And he had brought enormous pleasure and insight to the musiclovers of Estonia. His fame was well deserved. But, as we boarded our coach back to Tallinn, I couldn’t help reflecting that sticking on all those stars must have almost driven him mad. Star-craving mad.