We went out stargazing tonight. The spring night was warm, the stars brilliant. The Montgomery Hill Observatory, run by the Evergreen Valley College, is practically in our backyard. We walked up the winding road and gave our eyes time to adjust to the darkness.
Then, one by one, the stars began to bloom and we knew right then that there could not have been a better way to spend the night than looking at the universe.
Just above the western horizon, above the faint glow of the city, was a dim Jupiter. About 30 degrees above it was the dazzling Venus, easily the brightest object in the sky. At the zenith was Mars and as you completed the arc at the eastern sky, I was told that the unassuming star there was Saturn. "I will believe it when I see it," I said. The resident astronomer of the college, Dr. Celso Batalha, could only smile.
But first, Venus. Peering through the telescope, I saw a crescent Venus, a first for me. It was just like the moon, only brighter. Unlike the moon, however, crescent Venus is not visible to the naked eye. She was so bright, though, that I thought I could extend my hand to touch and tickle her. Her laughter would no doubt ripple across the sky if I succeeded.
Children were excitedly running around. Young boys and girls looked longingly at the stars, then at each other. I had eyes only for Saturn, though. And when my turn came to see it through the telescope, I was overwhelmed into uttering two utterly inadequate words: "My goodness!"
The ring was a fat ribbon around a perfectly spherical shape etched against the dark horizon. There was something so delicate about it that for a moment I thought it would come free off its gravitational bondage and float away like a balloon. When I first saw the Saturn several years ago in wintertime through the same telescope, it was in the western sky and its beauty seemed more set, more mature. But this version was brighter, yet more intimate, more fragile. It was so achingly beautiful that I lingered more than my allotted time at the eyepiece until politely nudged by the fellow behind me.
There were other attractions in the crowded sky: Orion and the Big Dipper and so many more stars and constellations whose names I did not know or wanted to know, for fear that some mystery would go away if I knew their names.
So I went around the hill, taking in as much of the beauty of the night sky as I could with unaided eyes, feeling not insignifcant at all but part of an ineffable whole whose meaning I could only dimly glimpse. The warm and breezy spring air was filled with the fragrance of freshly-cut grass and the chirping of crickets
Just when I thought it was time to leave, a shooting star fell. I waited for more but none came. Still, what a finale, what a memorable night!
Friday, April 20, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Wilderness in the City
The Montgomery Hill Park adjacent to the Evergreen Valley College is perhaps San Jose’s best-kept “nature” secret. Its rising and dipping hiking trails are the city’s best, as are its serene meadows and sublime vistas. This unusual and unexpected 60-acre wilderness in the midst of a metropolitan city perfectly sums up Shakespeare’s observation: “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”
The Park is named after John Montgomery (1896-1011), an aviation pioneer and professor who developed flying gliders and tested them in Santa Cruz and Santa Clara counties. A gliding accident caused his death in 1911. The Park was declared a California Historic Landmark in 1967 in his honor.
What makes the park and its trails unique is that they are undeveloped. Surrounded by rows and rows of dense housing, crisscrossing roads and congested traffic, the park is a miraculous oasis of peace and quiet.
On a recent unseasonably warm winter day, I walked around the park, keeping to the dirt trails sometimes and wading through the grass at others. The temptation to roll down the hills was strong but I resisted. Rain has been scarce and the hills were not as green as they ought to have been. But the exhilaration of open space and rustling trees were enough to lift the soul.
From atop a hill, I could see the college campus sprawled out, the dome of the astronomy department’s observatory glistening in the sun. Cars crowded the parking lot of the shopping center at the base of the park, separated thankfully by a line of trees and hedges.
Some days later, the rain came. The dazzle of lightning and the boom of thunder one Friday night meant only one thing to me: I would be spending hours in my backyard park the following day.
Almost overnight, the meadows are full of tall grass, mustards, sorrels, poppies, thistles, wild roses and lupines. Although only a trickle flows in the stream at the park's edge, the oaks, the laurels and the pines are loud with robins, jays and sparrows. I am serenaded by crickets along the reddish trails that meander through the park like rivers.
Parents are out hiking with children and their dogs. Bicyclists pedal with purpose up the steep dirt paths. People fly kites. Some even fly, soaring and circling on machine-driven gliders. A pair of eagles above a grove of eucalyptus trees wheel, bank, pause, dip and soar, as if in homage to John Montgomery. Their grace and beauty is something to behold. An excited dad points out the eagles to his son and daughter and they are wonder-struck. Everyone looks up to see the eagles against a beckoning sky, their wings etched by spring light. All four picnic tables by the park’s college entrance are occupied by families enjoying a day in the “great outdoors.”
In the seductive shadow spread by an ancient oak in the middle of a hillock sits a musician strumming his guitar. The music mingles with birdsongs and floats upward. Like ripples in a pond, it also spreads outward across the open space. This is what repose means, earth, sky, birds, wildflowers and humanity connected in a holistic web. No matter where you are, you don’t have to venture too far beyond your backyard to find it.
The Park is named after John Montgomery (1896-1011), an aviation pioneer and professor who developed flying gliders and tested them in Santa Cruz and Santa Clara counties. A gliding accident caused his death in 1911. The Park was declared a California Historic Landmark in 1967 in his honor.
What makes the park and its trails unique is that they are undeveloped. Surrounded by rows and rows of dense housing, crisscrossing roads and congested traffic, the park is a miraculous oasis of peace and quiet.
On a recent unseasonably warm winter day, I walked around the park, keeping to the dirt trails sometimes and wading through the grass at others. The temptation to roll down the hills was strong but I resisted. Rain has been scarce and the hills were not as green as they ought to have been. But the exhilaration of open space and rustling trees were enough to lift the soul.
From atop a hill, I could see the college campus sprawled out, the dome of the astronomy department’s observatory glistening in the sun. Cars crowded the parking lot of the shopping center at the base of the park, separated thankfully by a line of trees and hedges.
Some days later, the rain came. The dazzle of lightning and the boom of thunder one Friday night meant only one thing to me: I would be spending hours in my backyard park the following day.
Almost overnight, the meadows are full of tall grass, mustards, sorrels, poppies, thistles, wild roses and lupines. Although only a trickle flows in the stream at the park's edge, the oaks, the laurels and the pines are loud with robins, jays and sparrows. I am serenaded by crickets along the reddish trails that meander through the park like rivers.
Parents are out hiking with children and their dogs. Bicyclists pedal with purpose up the steep dirt paths. People fly kites. Some even fly, soaring and circling on machine-driven gliders. A pair of eagles above a grove of eucalyptus trees wheel, bank, pause, dip and soar, as if in homage to John Montgomery. Their grace and beauty is something to behold. An excited dad points out the eagles to his son and daughter and they are wonder-struck. Everyone looks up to see the eagles against a beckoning sky, their wings etched by spring light. All four picnic tables by the park’s college entrance are occupied by families enjoying a day in the “great outdoors.”
In the seductive shadow spread by an ancient oak in the middle of a hillock sits a musician strumming his guitar. The music mingles with birdsongs and floats upward. Like ripples in a pond, it also spreads outward across the open space. This is what repose means, earth, sky, birds, wildflowers and humanity connected in a holistic web. No matter where you are, you don’t have to venture too far beyond your backyard to find it.
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