Satellite Struck

Sitting in the outdoor tub, gazing upward at the night sky, eyes adjusted to the dark, there are many thrilling celestial delights that I view. The stars themselves are, of course, the main show. They provide the unvarying but constantly fascinating backdrop for various transient visitors: planes, planets, meteors, but most especially, satellites.

A satellite looks just like a star—a point of light—except that it moves. It’s as if a star took a sudden notion to yank itself from its fixed location and soar across the sky. My fancy takes flight with it. A typical satellite circles the planet in about 90 minutes, so it can take some 10 minutes or more to cross a small viewing field.

You need a pretty dark sky to spot satellites. City lights mask most of them. Out here in the woods they are common—especially on clear nights. On any given night, if I gaze into the sky for five minutes, I can expect to see a satellite cruise overhead. So an hour’s soak in the tub can treat me with as many as a half dozen of them.

Like the moon and planets, you can see a satellite only because it reflects sunlight. So it’s the ability of them to bounce sunlight down to you that governs their visibility. A satellite can be quite bright for awhile, but then suddenly wink out, as it passes into the Earth’s shadow.

There are several types of satellites I’ve seen. Some are steady points of light that drift relentlessly along. Some blink on and off, as they tumble—and like a moving mirror, send their reflected light in diverse directions. The most spectacular satellite is the International Space Station (ISS). It’s as bright as Venus. There are a few websites that, when you put in your site, list when the ISS will pass overhead. They give the time and sky location when the space station first will appear in your neighborhood. It’s a thrill to look up at that patch of sky and suddenly see this very bright light pop into view.

I’ve occasionally watched satellites cross each other’s path. Recently I saw two of them almost appear to crash into each other. I couldn’t help but wince. Once I saw three closely-grouped satellites chase each other, like some migrating constellation. They were headed east—towards the Earth’s shadow. One by one, they winked out. Another time I lay on my back, looking into the deep sky with binoculars. (I love to view the sky this way—seeing far more stars than my naked eye can.) Suddenly a very dim satellite swam across the field of view! I’d never have seen it without binoculars.

Satellites can be more fun than stars. They move. They attract the eye. But that constant backdrop of real stars engages my imagination more than satellites. Stars are truly heavenly—not just a manmade piece of hardware. Stars are much more mysterious. They speak to my mind, more than to my eye.