I was goofing off in my room yesterday afternoon, having just gotten up at 3pm after a good night's observing. Suddenly, the room began to rumble and shake. I looked out the window to see if there was some large truck driving by, and then I realised that I was at the top of a mountain with just narrow roads. There are no trucks up here.
This was an earthquake.
However, from the fact that I was still on my feet and things weren't falling off my table yet, it couldn't have been any more than 3 or 4 on the Richter scale, so I didn't bother leaving the room.
Still, it was my first direct experience with seismic activity. (My indirect experience came from the fact that a beach-side house I once lived in was hit by the 2005 tsunami).
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Magnificent desolation.
Standing on the edge of a cliff high in the Atacama desert, with the sun beating down on me from the cloudless blue sky, I can almost feel my skin burning under the merciless rays. A cool wind howls past, offering some respite from the relentless heat. I had never realised there were so many different hues of brown and red, the palette colouring the mountains stretching out across the horizon. Mighty as they are, these mountains are no more than the southern foothills of the mighty peaks of the Andes far to the north.
Apart from a few telescope domes and small dormitories, the landscape of Las Campanas is an alien one, implacably hostie to human life with its heat and scarcity of water. Humanity's presence here is no more than a small community of people dedicated to servicing the observatory to support visiting astronomers, but even they work only in one-week shifts.
At night, I am reminded even more of the fragility of life, as the immensity of the cosmos is spread out at night. In the clear night sky, unspoiled by water vapour and the lights of civilisation, one can see the Milky Way stretching from horizon to horizon, and thousands of stars across the entire firmament. It tingles my spine to comprehend the vastness of the universe, and also a sense of gratitude that I have the opportunity to do astronomy.
Standing on the edge of a cliff high in the Atacama desert, with the sun beating down on me from the cloudless blue sky, I can almost feel my skin burning under the merciless rays. A cool wind howls past, offering some respite from the relentless heat. I had never realised there were so many different hues of brown and red, the palette colouring the mountains stretching out across the horizon. Mighty as they are, these mountains are no more than the southern foothills of the mighty peaks of the Andes far to the north.
Apart from a few telescope domes and small dormitories, the landscape of Las Campanas is an alien one, implacably hostie to human life with its heat and scarcity of water. Humanity's presence here is no more than a small community of people dedicated to servicing the observatory to support visiting astronomers, but even they work only in one-week shifts.
At night, I am reminded even more of the fragility of life, as the immensity of the cosmos is spread out at night. In the clear night sky, unspoiled by water vapour and the lights of civilisation, one can see the Milky Way stretching from horizon to horizon, and thousands of stars across the entire firmament. It tingles my spine to comprehend the vastness of the universe, and also a sense of gratitude that I have the opportunity to do astronomy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
