I’d like to think of myself as a nature lover. I think those around me would agree. Birding is one of my favourite hobbies, and I once took an hour of my free time to look at a moldy leaf under a microscope.
Growing up around Vancouver, I’ve always been surrounded by the ocean, wide forests and high mountains. Those were the landscapes I’d come to know and love, which explains why my first trip to the prairies to visit my aunt and uncle was a shock to my system — the sheer flatness was almost incomprehensible.
I didn’t think I’d like the monotony of the prairie landscape, but my summer visits to Saskatchewan in high school taught me there’s more to nature and beauty than towering trees and vast seas. Sometimes the sheer emptiness of the prairie sky can leave you breathless.
Saskatchewan calls itself the Land of Living Skies. I never understood that more than at night.
I like to say my uncle is an astronomer by craft — he knows the night sky intimately and loves to share his knowledge and wonder with others.
Each summer, the two of us would drive an hour or so to Good Spirit Provincial Park, set up a big telescope by the lake and put on a star show for the campers. Like a magician and his assistant, our laser pointers were magic wands.
My uncle and I pointed out stars, galaxies and constellations and dreamed about other worlds. Constellations were no longer collections of distant points of light, but real, living figures — Ursa Major and Ursa Minor (the Big and Little Dippers) wandering the night sky, Cygnus the Swan flying in the north through the Milky Way and Delphinus the Dolphin leaping through the air.
One year, there were too many clouds over the campground for a show. We packed up our telescope and turned to the car as black clouds towered over us ahead.
“Do we have to drive through that?” I asked my uncle nervously. Something about the clouds looked distinctly threatening.
“Yup,” he said cautiously. Just then, a huge web of orange lightning radiated toward us. I’d seen lightning before, but this looked like something out of a sci-fi thriller. We quickly got into the car as a low roll of thunder boomed overhead.
We drove straight into the storm. Rain pelted against our windshield, the classic rock playing from the car’s speakers fighting to be heard over the sound of the wind outside.
My uncle drove fast as I looked out the window, our headlights and the occasional flash of lightning being the only things interrupting the dark nightime storm.
Dark turned to light, and back to black in seconds, as lightning struck the ground around us and shot from the Earth up to the clouds. Eventually, the wind slowed and the rain let up a bit.
“We’re in the eye of the storm,” my uncle said excitedly. He seemed eager to watch the storm from the inside out.
We pulled over and stepped out of the car. Warm air rushed over me and raced into the night. Despite the storm churning around us, it was peaceful.
The space felt infinite — I felt tiny.
On the side of the road, my uncle and I felt the energy around us, in awe, wondering when the rain would start again.
That’s a moment I’ll never forget, the moment I thought about as we raced home, up the driveway and into the house. The storm was muted as soon as the door closed.
The more I reflect on the experience, the more I think there was a lesson in there somewhere. Despite the energy and chaos seeming to fill the infinite expanse of sky, there was still space for peace and a sense of awe and wonder. We just had to find it and have the courage to go out and see it for ourselves.
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