The Aurora Borealis is what we have journeyed so far to see. Hunting the Lights is more a case of searching, fingers and heartstrings crossed, for the right conditions – a dark night and a cloudless sky. Technically, the Northern Lights are there all the time, the magnetic process that creates them more or less continually, though diva-like Aurora makes herself visible only when the environment is correct. And she can be fickle.
We’re cautiously optimistic. As we clambered out of the van, Dan pointed out a ribbon of shimmering silver reaching from horizon to horizon across the sky.
“That’s the Aurora,” he says. “The Vikings believed that band was the bridge to Valhalla.”
Indeed, when we level our camera phones at the beam, their flexible, designed-for-low-light lenses can pick up the viridescence that our diurnal eyes can’t quite. Squinting, I can see – or perhaps just imagine – a glimmer of violet-green.
“I hope for more,” Dan assures us. “Everything can happen.”
As we wait, Dan constructs a small fire for warmth. We don’t know how long we’ll be here, and the thermometer will hit -15°C before the night is out. There’s beauty in the flames, enchantment, and the fire’s flickering tongues seem a foretaste of what may appear above us, if we’re lucky. Home-made soup and carrot cake are passed around.
“Eat it before it freezes.”
The faint Aurora still hangs, suspended over us. If you didn’t know what you were looking at, it would be easy to mistake it for thin cloud, indistinct and gray. It moves slightly, a second band emerges from the south and extends in a new arc, like fingers reaching to touch the stars. It’s brighter now, a little whiter, a promise.
Then: “Look there! Just behind the mountain!”
As though a curtain has opened, she’s here. Light, unmistakably green, billows across the sky. Suddenly it seems everywhere at once.
“It’s right above us!”
“Look, look, look – it’s over there now!”
“There weren’t any magic mushrooms in the soup, I promise – you’re really seeing this!”
A dance begins. We spin on the spot to catch every ripple, we twist, we twirl to match the undulating phenomenon above us. At times, the lights are a silken veil unfurling in time to some silent music. At others, they are a crowd of countless figures in procession, a terpsichorean tableau. I can well understand how the ancient myths arose – that when the lights appeared, the ancestors were celebrating.
And it does feel like a celebration. That we were fortunate enough to see this spectacle and join, for a moment, with all the peoples and societies who have seen it before us. It’s almost a form of time-travel. I can’t quite put into words my mix of emotions, the leap in my stomach, the lump in my throat. Even Dan, who must have seen this myriad times before, is animated with a childlike exhilaration.
“This is the best it’s been in a month,” he raves, his excitement contagious. “I love my job, I love it. It’s the best job ever.”
Eventually, all too soon, the curtain falls. Aurora performs a final flickering bow and takes her leave. For a time, a pale strip remains, contrasting against the darker heavens, but that too fades. We remain a while by the fireside as Dan regales us with stories and a brief stargazing lesson.
We wonder if we’ll see a second showing, though nobody feels shortchanged when the Lights remain at rest. As the temperature dips lower, we call it a night and head back to Tromsø.
A perfect host, Dan drives us right to the door of our hotel and promises to send us photographs by the time we wake tomorrow. “Guests before rest,” he vows.
Waving off our gratitude, he says only, “Thank Mother Nature” before driving off into the night.