Orion was obvious, if upside down. To his right was Saturn in Gemini, then Leo with brilliant Jupiter, and finally Virgo. Although that star is orange-tinged Arcturus, I strained to pick out the kite-shape of Bootes. The Big Dipper, the familiar guide to this part of the sky was well below the northern horizon. I was just outside the city of Gisborne, on the east coast of New Zealand. The city’s lights caused surprizingly little sky glow—a departing cyclone blew away lingering clouds and humidity. With the first quarter Moon set, I hoped for one of the darkest nights I’d ever experienced. When clouds are silhouetted dark against an inky background, you know the sky is really dark. 

Familiar southern constellations shown brightly: the Pointers, Alpha and Beta Centauri, Crux, the Southern Cross, Vela's False Cross, and Canopus, south of the only brighter star, Sirius. There were familiar regions too: Scorpius was rising in the east, but this was the first time I ever noticed a bright spur of the Milky Way cutting across it. Ophichus’s head was low on the northern horizon, but Hercules was upright from down under.

My most vivid impressions of my nights on East Cape are of the Milky Way. Unlike the view from mid-northern latitudes, the center and brightest parts pass directly overhead. At this time of year, our galaxy arcs from east to west across the whole sky. It is unmistakably pancake-shaped: from inside the disk, you stare into the central bulge at dark dust lanes and brushstrokes of stars. And it appears to me that we’re slightly south of the middle of the disk. I don’t know whether astronomers have found this to be accurate, but the impression is unmistakably three-dimensional. You sense distance and enormous size, yet you also recognize that you’ve got a perfect celestial vantage point for the awesome show overhead.

Observing deep sky objects with the unaided eye is a delight. The show-stopping globular cluster, Omega Centauri, was a fuzzy glow much like the Orion Nebula. Nearby were the luminous knots of Eta Carinae. Grainy M7 was readily visible just off Scorpius’ stinger, yet the Lagoon, M8, was impossible to discern amid the swirling nebulosity. Later, I logged another naked-eye globular, 47 Tucanae. The Large Magellanic Cloud was as bright as most of the Milky Way but well off it, appearing decidedly elongated, about two-finger widths across. I had to wait to the wee hours of the night to see the Small Magellanic Cloud. While it’s hardly possible to mistake these for “clouds,” it is marvelous to be able to view other galaxies just by looking up. 

Night ended with a cone of zodiacal light in the east. I first mistook this for nearby street lights or maybe moonlight spilling into the sky. Both were impossibilities: the Moon was on the other side of the Sun, and to the east and north there were no lights, only the ocean for thousands of miles. Shorelines and beaches were what brought me to East Cape—for research and teaching materials from marine habitats unlike any found near home. It’s syrupy to say that in traveling far from home you more often find out about where you live. But standing beneath the Milky Way, I certainly came away with an enhanced cosmic perspective. Fortunately for me, the earthbound part of the trip was far from over: there was a low tide to catch.

Moondark is written by Doug Miller, published on the Moondark web site, and printed in the Delmarva Star Gazers' Star Gazer News. This document was last revised on 25 April 2004. Text and images copyright © 2004 by Douglas C. Miller, All Rights Reserved. This material may not be reproduced in any form without prior permission.