Tromsø: Aurora Borealis

Auroras, sometimes called the northern and southern (polar) lights or aurorae (singular: aurora), are natural light displays in the sky, usually observed at night, particularly in the polar regions. They typically occur in the ionosphere. They are also referred to as polar auroras. In northern latitudes, the effect is known as the aurora borealis, named after the Roman goddess of dawn, Aurora, and the Greek name for north wind, Boreas by Pierre Gassendi in 1621.^[1] The aurora borealis is also called the northern polar lights, as it is only visible in the sky from the Northern Hemisphere, the chance of visibility increasing with proximity to the north magnetic pole, which is currently in the arctic islands of northern Canada. Aurorae seen near the magnetic pole may be high overhead, but from further away, they illuminate the northern horizon as a greenish glow or sometimes a faint red, as if the sun was rising from an unusual direction. The aurora borealis most often occurs from September to October and from March to April. The northern lights have had a number of names throughout history. The Cree people call this phenomenon the "Dance of the Spirits."

(Thank you, Wikipedia.)

I came to Tromsø in search of the northern lights.

Wait, let me clarify. This entire trip, through Norway, first, and then on to Sweden and Denmark, was a direct result of my seeking them out. That, and, the 2003 Danish film by Cristoffer Boe, Reconstruction, which left me with little doubt that Copenhagen must be one of the most heartbreaking cities in the world (meaning, of course, that I had to visit).

The thing about the northern lights is that there are a number of preconditions that need to be met in order to see them: clear skies, distance from any sources of artificial light, the right moon phase (new moon), and the right 11-year sunspot cycle phase (next up in 2013). And even then, there's no guarantee.

"I never look at the forecast," my guide told me. Jan, a forty-something outdoorsman, leads tours around Tromsø, ranging from cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and dog sledding, to northern lights tours. The forecast he was referring to is the University of Alaska's Geophysical Institute Auroral Forecast. Jan is more concerned with clear skies than high tech measurements. His approach, though not rigidly scientific, is based on a lifetime of observation. I chose his tour exactly for this reason: he pursues the lights based on empirical knowledge and is known to change locations more than once in the course of a night to chase better atmospheric conditions. (I was instructed to bring my passport, as he sometimes ends up as far as Finland.)

Nonetheless, I was somewhat disheartened when, on arriving in Tromsø, I discovered that the forecast was a zero for pretty much every day I would be in town (that's zero as in zero activity; the forecast is done on a 9-point scale). And that the weather forecast was equally unfavorable: cloudy and snowy. My best (and only) shot was heading out on Saturday when the activity level was forecasted as a whopping number one. The next day, I would leave Tromsø.

When Jan picked me up in his van at around 7 pm, I had pretty much accepted the prospect of seeing a less-than-spectacular show of lights. The tour out to Ramfjord had other attractive elements to it. Like a roaring fire inside a traditional Sami lavvu (tent). And sitting out on reindeer skins, looking up at the stars. And eating spiced bread and drinking hot chocolate. And meeting travelers from all over the world.

But I was still hoping to see something. Anything, really. Which is why, when we arrived to Ramfjord, and after I geared up in heavy duty arctic gear (a giant, blue, padded onesie; a fur hat with ear flaps, snow boots, and mittens), I felt (and saw) a glimmer of hope: a faint but distinct green streak pulsating gently in the night sky.

Everyone dove for their cameras and snapped photos indiscriminately (lots with flash; later you could hear them cuss in various foreign languages upon discovering they had captured nothing but pitch black). I took one or two shots without flash, ISO at 1600, 15-second shutter speed (the slowest my camera could manage), and was pretty happy with the result: an equally faint but equally distinct green streak across my LCD screen.

Then the lights disappeared. There was nothing. From about 8:30 pm onwards, the sky was black, and the only visible light sources were the stars and the city of Tromsø.

So I trudged back and forth between the warmth of the lavvu and my reindeer skin outside. For ages, it seemed. A shroud of resignation fell over us all. Slowly but surely, more and more people retired to the lavvu until just me and a handful of others were left outside, straining our necks and eyes, trying to will the lights to appear.

It worked. Like freaking magic! The lights came back, faint at first.

And then the entire sky caught fire.

The effect is sometimes described as curtains of color opening and closing. Maybe it's because I tend to channel so many of my emotions into music, but to me, it looked like what the second movement of Beethoven's 7th sounds like. Starts out soft, with just the violas and the cellos carrying the first theme. Then the violins take over the first theme, and the violas and cellos open up a new theme. Then the winds come in and add another layer. And then whole thing just opens up and explodes with rich sound and harmonic texture.

That was my experience of it anyway.

"Very good. Very good." That is all I heard from Jan as we all stood there, mesmerized. Jan hadn't seen a show this good since Christmas time.

We rode back to Tromsø soon after, in reverrential silence. But the skies had more in store.

"Look out the window now," Jan sputtered, and we scrambled to scrape off the ice that had accumulated on the windows inside the van (by about 11 pm, the temperature had dropped to -12 degrees Celsius). He pulled over abruptly when it became clear that we would make little progress on the windows.

We all jumped out and looked up.

The sky was pink. Pink and green. And pulsating. Swirling and twirling around. Where each swirl ended, another began.

"It is one of the best I have ever seen," Jan informed us matter-of-factly. "It's not often you see the other colors." He turned to a Japanese couple on our tour and smiled. "It is a good thing for a couple to see the lights. You will have pretty babies."

According to Wikipedia, "the Sami people believed that one should be particularly careful and quiet when observed by the northern lights (called guovssahasat in Northern Sami). Mocking the northern lights or singing about them was believed to be particularly dangerous and could cause the lights to descend on the mocker and kill him/her."

We certainly weren't quiet. We laughed and cried out with glee, as the colors chased each other across the sky. At one point, Jan turned to me and told me that some mythologies considered the lights to be the energy of dead souls. He also told me that if you high enough in the mountains, you can actually hear them.

Me (like a breathless schoolgirl): What do they sound like?
Jan: Like this...(grabbing me by my sides and howling) OoooooooOOOoooo!

I laughed, and cast my eyes back up.