My eyes were drooping as I sat sorting through my pictures; I had been fighting dark skies for the past 7 hours. Cami was climbing into her onesie, and I closed my laptop. I wondered whether I should go too. After all it was our last night. Yet I had little hope that we would be able to see any more than a smidge of green colored clouds floating, barely visible—unless captured on camera—not worth changing and going out into the frosty air for. My body was more than ready for sleep. But Cami nodded her head, agreeing that it was our last night and we should at least try to see them. Also it would be hard to say when we would ever be back in the Arctic, if ever, and my passport still had unseen pages, unseen countries to travel.
I was about to ride the lift with Cami and Danielle when I caught myself from making a foolish mistake. I rushed back to my room and retrieved the SD card, which I inserted into my camera, and shuffled out the revolving front door. I jogged up after the two. They were waiting for me on top of the slight slope, where the end of the hotel met a new road. I looked up at the sky. My eyes widened. There it was, nonchalant, gliding above the apartment buildings as if it were an everyday occurrence. I pulled out my camera from the belly of my onesie and started filming.
My heavy boots and warm get up didn’t help my heavy breathing as I attempted to catch up with Cami and Danielle yet again. Every breath sent needles down my throat as the piercing -4 degree air flowed in and out of my lungs.
Where the small city glow and LED Christmas lights ended there was the midnattssolstigen trail entrance. Endless, alpine trees embellishing snowy hills, waiting to be fully camouflaged. I walked up the trail. The Aurora—with no cement buildings to diminish its beauty—was in a more suitable and natural atmosphere. The patterns, the colors, the movements, ever-changing and unpredictable. Truly as definition reads, a natural electrical phenomenon.
For the first time, my lens could see clearer than my own two eyes. And the colors appeared much brighter. My camera aided me to see beyond my own capability, detecting hints of magenta, which were impossible to see with my bare eyes.
The adrenaline—possibly also the cool air on my face—had washed away all previous signs of drowsiness. I no longer wanted to sleep. I was eager to stay out all night and just marvel at the sky. It was real. I was restless. I remembered another moment in my life when I had been struck with as much awe. It was in New Zealand around the same time just last year. I was on a boat trip and the surrounding ocean water contained fluorescent algae. The water had been just as cold as the arctic air. Nonetheless, I had swum for an exhilarating 10 minutes. The algae had reacted to every movement of my body. My fingertips created glittering light just as a fairy would. I was magical. It was real. There was nothing more satisfying in life, then experiencing these miracles in nature.
It was 12 O’clock, I wasn’t at home—sleeping in my room in California—no, I was in the arctic. How had I managed to find myself across the Atlantic Ocean, at the tip of Northern Sweden?