I seem to have driven above the fall colors of central Utah. The Old River Bed of the ancient Great Salt Lake, where I had been walking an ancient delta earlier in the day, was far behind me. With the light fading, I realized I was too late in the season – beyond the middle of October – for peak color in the aspen groves of the Wasatch Mountains. Never mind ‘peak color’, I was clearly too late for leaves of any kind; the aspens formed rows and rows of picket-lined, skeletal woodland, no leaves in sight. My goal this autumn, however, was something different.
I have had a long interest in the night sky. While I completed college courses and picked up a nice collection of books on astronomy, none of that prepares you for a night under a desert’s canopy of stars. Before I wandered deserts, living in the cross-timbers of northern Texas, telescopes had my attention, and I even fumbled around with camera mounts in high school, trying to connect a Canon AE-1 to an 8” tracking scope. I never solved that puzzle. My astrophotography has advanced little since the early 1980s.
However, comets.
In 1986, while I was at college struggling through physics class, my dad tracked Halley’s Comet as it approached perihelion on its ±76-year orbit. My grandfather had seen it as a boy, and my father wanted him, his father-in-law, to see it twice. Although I did not get to share in that effort, I have the picture my father captured from our front porch after several attempts at various locations. An engineer, he was able to get his AE-1 attached to a modified tripod to get the image. Although he recorded settings for several of his attempts in a notebook (high-quality paper metadata!), his best image is almost an afterthought; a classic moment of ‘one last image’.
So, my fascination with comets, and photographing them, has been transmitted across generations. The lumen-tailed visitors connect us to calendars of expansive scale, with predictable orbital cycles of centuries to many, many millennia. Some pass by only once, surprises from discovery to departure. As they approach the sun, the solemn apex of their journey, cyclical or not, they increase in brightness, shredding mass in the solar headwind, but their ultimate display remains a mystery of our night sky; an experience unpredictable to even the most experienced astronomer.
I have taken to photographing the celestial visitors, building on my father’s passion in the spring of 1986. My imagery could be more creative, certainly – this post is personal motivation for the next visitor.
Comet Neowise lit up the morning sky for several days in 2020. I captured its sudden drama, maybe as a sign of new days beyond the Covid pandemic. It was bright in the morning sky, and I only needed to walk into the hills above our home to set up a photo. I remember thinking it was fascinating that I could do this without having to travel at all, a unique spectacle just outside the house. I now wish I had found some landscape interest to go with its brilliance – I have time, it will be back in about 5,000 years.
I had slightly more success with Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS four years later. On a night Desna and I thought to go into the hills above Washoe Lake to simply look for it, I captured a ‘portrait’ shot with wonderful detail of its tail and anti-tail (the anti-tail appears to point toward the sun, but it is a rare trick of perspective as the earth crosses the comet’s orbital plane). It was for Comet Tuchinshan that I climbed into the leafless and windy Wasatch, hoping to capture its image against the backdrop of the Milky Way. I was not happy, at first, with the light pollution from the towns in Utah’s Sanpete Valley, but the image has grown on me, remembering my camp on the windy ridge of Skyline Road. It is nice to have two very different views of this exceptional comet – a comet that will never be seen again.
As I drafted an early version of this post, thinking about my father’s Comet Halley, I learned of the appearance of Comet Lemmon in the fall of 2025 – just last month. I was leading a project in Yosemite National Park, testing the boundaries and depth of several archaeological sites on the park’s boundary. I had little free time, but I also knew I could not complete this post without at least trying to capture an image of the most recent visible comet. I waited into dark on a hillside below the road to Tioga Pass, and soon enough Comet Lemmon revealed itself. It reflected a subtle, suggestive light, difficult to keep an eye on, but a careful, long exposure revealed its short-lived spectacle. I will have to wait a millennium for this one to return. It was worth it.
For the past couple years, my searches for fall color have been timed poorly. I will, however, have chances next year. These comets are once-in-a-lifetime, so I am happy to have spent at least one night in a buffeted tent, far above and beyond the leaves of autumn. Icy fragments of the cosmos, luminous for a moment in an evening sky, are worth missing the perennial colors of our locally wonderful trees. I will camp in the color next year, I hope – unless there is another comet.
Keep going.
Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.
