Dark Sky Movement

In most parts of this restless country, the night sky is now overwhelmingly dull, a once black gulf studded with brilliant stars obscured by a whitish glare from the lights of the cities and suburbs. Even away from bustling population centers where it’s hard to find a lone streetlight, a look to the horizon reveals a pervading yellowish glow, with orange undertones discretely intermixed. If it wasn’t for us knowing what time it was, we would swear this light was arising from the sun, the very first tinges of the dawn. It’s remarkable how intense this light can be on such large a scale that it would mimic the sun to an extent. And yet it does. Only the moon and the brightest of stars pierce through our light pollution, leaving some of the most splendid constellations and the auroral hue of the Milky Way to remain hidden in the dark, behind the veil we throw over them.

We have tackled air and water pollution, as well as addressing a myriad of other disastrous environmental problems, and yet the issue of light pollution has been left untouched for the most part. Granted, compared to other problems this is of a lesser magnitude, but now that these other situations are greatly improving, our sights should be set on the sky and finally attempt to fix a problem that has gone unmitigated since the dawn of the industrial era.

The first time I really ever gave any thought to the matter of light pollution took place several years ago while backpacking a section of the Appalachian Trail that passes through Bear Mountain State Park in New York’s Hudson Valley. I started my trip in Connecticut heading southbound. And up until reaching the Hudson, most of the shelters I passed and slept in for a night had an ample canopy overhead cloaking the heavens, and as a result, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time trying to stargaze. When I did attempt to get a glimpse of the stars the view was seemingly satisfactory, being beyond the worst of the light pollution. The quaint New England towns below the ridges and mountains only threw minimal amounts of light into the atmosphere. Looking back on it now, the conditions were far from optimal, but they weren’t so poor as to alert me that something wasn’t quite right. This all drastically changed upon a stay at the West Mountain Shelter.

Built in 1928—making it one of the oldest shelters on the AT—this structure is situated on the southern summit of West Mountain, providing dramatic views to hikers of the Hudson River and Highlands during the day, and at night, front row seats to the crisply illuminated New York City skyline. In many ways the view from the shelter is all the more remarkable during the night.  I was thoroughly impressed, snapping numerous photos of the unusual scene, enraptured to be see a vibrant and lively New York from atop an airy mountain 30 miles north. You vaguely felt as if you were close enough to descend into the action. It was the best of both worlds to a hiker tiring of the monotonous forest green.

After the hours passed and the scene became more ordinary, I couldn’t help but notice how it was barely possible to distinguish any stars in the sky, despite being perfectly clear out. The light was flooding everything and the beauty of it was wearing off quickly, devolving merely into a harsh whitewash. New York’s motto “Excelsior,” or “Ever Upward,” took on a whole new meaning.

A month later, while on another trip, this time in the woods of northern New Hampshire at the base of the titanic Mount Washington, I would see for the first time what a truly dark sky devoid of any extraneous light looked like. I arrived in the state just before 1:00 am on a balmy August night accompanied by three close friends. Such a late arrival was due a work conflict that resulted in us not being able to leave home (New York) until the early evening. Our excitement to hike a northern segment of the trail bolstered our decision to leave that day instead of postponing our departure until the following morning.  

Exhausted upon reaching the trailhead parking lot near the Great Gulf in Gorham NH, we briefly considered just sleeping in our vehicle that night, but cramped conditions for the past 7 or so hours led us to reconsider. In the midnight darkness we fumbled around for our gear. It was almost impossible to see anything without the aid of a flashlight, the moon being absent from the clear sky.

It felt like an eternity trying to find a place to pitch our tent in the profuse vegetation. The northern states certainly have some of the thickest woods around, comprised almost entirely of conifers and birches, which sprout nearly as close together as corn stalks in a farm field. The additional ubiquitous jumbled rocks, hummocks of sedges and tall ferns, and decaying limbs strewn everywhere made finding a comfortable spot nearly impossible, especially in the black of the forest.

After choosing the best spot we could find and getting everything set up, I was strangely filled with energy. Not desiring to be further confined in my tent just yet, I followed the trail back to the parking lot to search for an item I had forgotten in the trunk. Once reaching the opening in the forest afforded by the spacious lot, the Orion constellation overhead caught my eye, this being the only star cluster beside the Dippers that I could identify. It was expansive; much more so than I ever realized before. Each star, especially those of his belt, looked like fixed gems set in an expensive piece of jewelry, sparkling and shining resonantly—they no longer resembled blurry dabs of paint on a wall, but rather morphed into something firm and tangible. No matter where I turned my head the sky was populated with these countless golden orbs in full relief, some remaining static, others pulsating to a minor degree, and a select few noticeably twinkling, reminiscent of the show exhibited by fireflies, with each light nearly being extinguished and then quickly coming back with full and undiminished vigor. We often hear of the “twinkling of the stars,” and frequently use it in common vernacular, but very few are acquainted with the concept and know the actual sight.  It’s vastly impressive.

When the sky has a true, primeval darkness, such as the one that was towering over me in the isolated section of New Hampshire wilderness, the entire sky, like a cosmic map, seems to unfold; the Milky Way now visible points the way into the interior, far wilder and remote than the perceptions of the American West of the past—the stars no longer faint appear close; the universe overhead deepens. We grow small and insecure beneath it, realizing the mote of cosmic dust that we reside on is nothing more than flake of snow in the celestial blizzard above. This haphazard display of intertwined lights and shadows, though filled with chaos and uncertainty is remarkably peaceful—every roving question and unfilled desire drops away the instant your gaze takes hold of this fluid, eternal artwork.

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The sky-glow emitted from residences and industry doesn’t solely impact our view of the heavens, but also negatively affects terrestrial and aquatic ecosystems. Many organisms become disoriented and display unusual behavior upon finding themselves inundated by an unusual degree of night-time light. A prime example which everyone has undoubtedly witnessed when an artificial light is turned on is the flurry of frenzied insects that descend upon it, uncontrollably bombarding the light source. Apart from the physical harm, their schedules are upset, so that feeding and mating opportunities may be missed. Migrating birds are also drawn to the light and may impact high-rise buildings—countless birds perish every year as a result. Additionally, some amphibian species navigate to breeding sites by the light of the moon and stars. An exceptionally bright sky makes finding these almost impossible. Physiological injury may also be wrought: retinal damage, reduced fertility, and other homeostatic upsets are all possible outcomes to creatures that are highly sensitive to changes in their environment.

While the sky will never again be completely free of light pollution, it is possible to significantly reduce the quantity that makes it into the atmosphere with relative ease. The simplest method is obviously to turn unnecessary lights off when not in use. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to make a large difference. We must ask ourselves whether we really need to illuminate every street corner and front stoop in America. Is such a level of illumination really necessary?  I don’t think it is. It seems like we’re still somewhat afraid of the dark.

Aging light fixtures can also be replaced with more contemporary designs that are capped with a shield-like enclosure. This ensures that light shines directly onto the targeted feature while blocking extraneous light from spreading above and sideways. Altering the components of the light source can also be beneficial. By making the bulbs exude a more natural light, harsh glare can be reduced which often is reflected and amplified in the sky; lower watt bulbs can be substituted as well. Furthermore, municipalities have the ability to enact regulations to aid the effort.

Certainly, there is no shortage of mitigation techniques available to reduce our “lumen footprint.” When we cut down on light pollution we also save energy and money in the process, further benefiting the environment (and our wallets). There’s no reason why we shouldn't begin implementing these simple, yet effective changes today.

Often we take the mundane for granted, never realizing what a refreshment even the simplest piece of nature can bring about. In the spring, for example, the dandelion makes a prolific appearance in our freshly greened lawns, popping up randomly in cheery abundance, much to the consternation of homeowners, who easily tire of this bright weed, mainly due to its widespread nature, which lends to it being disregarded as anything of significance. The stars of the firmament have the same plight. If only we looked at them differently and recognized their inherent beauty regardless of their commonness, then perhaps we would be more inclined to preserve the element they reside in. As Ralph Waldo Emerson sagely noted: “If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.”