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One could be forgiven for thinking that the April sky at 2:00 A.M. would be dark enough to see the stars. And depending which stars are being sought, one would be correct...mostly. This evening - this morning? - the star I seek isn’t quite bright enough in the northeastern sky to penetrate the city’s light pollution. Thus I find myself stifling a yawn while driving down HWY 77 looking for an appropriate country gravel road to park on.
This year there are only about four days - cloud cover permitting - when the Lyrids meteor showers can be seen. Though not as grand as the Perseids, for me, the Lyrids are more meaningful. The radiant or origin of the Lyrids, where they get their name, is the constellation Lyra - the Harp. It’s one of the only constellations affiliated with music which is why I sometimes consider it my personal muse.
“Chelsea,” Jensen murmurs from the seat next to me in the pickup. “Just at the top of the next rise there should be a turn-off to the right.”
“Up on a hill would be perfect,” I tell him. We’re at least 90 minutes outside of town and my high-beams are getting a workout. Along the highway we’ve seen a few deer, a family of foxes, and so many raccoons there might be an invasion. Cresting the hill, the truck’s headlights reflect off a yellow and black road sign indicating a crossroads ahead. There are no streetlights or house lights out here. It’s completely dark with only a smidgen of moonlight. I make the turn and slow to a stop about a quarter of a mile down the road. I roll down the window before getting out of the truck to listen to the area. It’s definitely windy on this hill, but not gusty, and the temperature is around 40 degrees. There are a few distant animal cries and maybe some cowbells, but nothing close.
“OK,” I whisper. “Be careful of the ditch on that side, Jensen.”
He grunts his acknowledgement while I open the cab’s rear door to pull out the stargazing essentials. Two camp chairs are in the truck bed already and I add a large Thermos of hot chocolate, a picnic basket with snacks, a blanket, a sleeping bag, and some pillows. As I drop the last of the fluffy things in, Jensen hisses as he’s climbing over the tailgate.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, but that’s gonna leave a mark,” he quips, rubbing a knee.
I snort in sympathy while unfolding the chairs only to yelp when I pinch one of my fingers in a crossbar. Shoving my abused digit in my mouth for solace doesn’t help as much as I thought it would, so I press it against the cold metal of the truck.
“If we keep going like this, we might see a meteor up close and too personal, Chelsea.”
“We’re just tired, Jensen. The late hour combined with a long-ish drive. I’m surprised you didn’t sleep on the drive out here.” Then again, since he's been gearing up to release a new album, this visit to my neck of the woods is woefully short. With so little time, why a spontaneous short road trip to see a celestial event that MIGHT deliver 12-15 meteors an hour? Well, as someone famous once said, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
This surprisingly well-maintained gravel road is hidden between a field and what smells like a cattle farm. Weather patterns over the last month have kept farmers out of their fields, so the scent of musty soil in desperate need of turning washes across the road. A faint mechanical whir and squeak tells me there’s an old windmill nearby. If it was a wind turbine, we’d see a light for passing aircraft. Small nocturnal animals might be rustling through the weeds and grasses in the ditch or it might just be the wind. Regardless, the quality of the peacefulness here is different from what we encountered along the Pedernales River last summer.
Water naturally changes the feel of the air, but here in low, opalescent light from the moon, everything around us is holding its collective breath. Even the brisk breeze has gentled to where it’s barely moving my hair. I suppose I could be projecting my own anticipation of actually seeing some “shooting stars” onto our surroundings. Well, if I’m going to see them, I better look up!
We’re parked facing north and I scan the sky for Lyra, pointing it and it’s brightest star, Vega, out to Jensen. I relayed a bit of the mythology of the constellation: how as compensation for stealing Apollo’s cattle, Hermes created a magical lyre out of a seashell for him. Apollo eventually gave the lyre to his and Calliope’s son, Orpheus. With the lyrical talents inherited from his mother and the enchanted instrument from his father, Orpheus became the most accomplished and famous poet/musician to ever walk the earth.
Alas, Orpheus’ tale ends tragically, with his young wife Eurydice dying of a snake bite. Orpheus’ journey to the underworld to retrieve her soul did not go as planned, so he continued to play his lyre despondently as he traveled, until he was set upon by worshippers of Dionysus. At first, the magic of his music protected him, but gradually the attackers’ screams drowned out the music allowing them to literally rip Orpheus to shreds, throwing his body and the lyre into a nearby river. Apollo retrieved the lyre after his son’s death, and cast it up into the sky as the constellation Lyra.
“That’s a story worthy of turning into a song, but why are you whispering,” Jensen asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” I laughed softly. “It’s not like there’s anyone else out here, I suppose. Huh!” I spoke a normal volume then. “Pass me the Thermos. I’m chilly and there’s hot chocolate in there.”
“Hot chocolate on one condition,” Jensen cocked that infernal eyebrow.
I huffed, “What?”
“We share a cup and then no more until we see a meteor.”
“Mr. Ackles,” I raised an eyebrow of my own. “There’s a very real possibility that we won’t see ANY meteors. Why put off indulging in that warm, sweet, luscious liquid?”
“Because maybe that way we won’t have to find a pee-tree on the way home,” he exclaimed, pouring the steaming drink into the Thermos cap. He had a valid point. This far out from the city, in the hours between midnight and 6:00 A.M., gas stations were few and far between and most weren’t open 24 hours.
I leaned my head back in the chair to scan the sky again before taking a slow drink, warming from the inside out. One more sip and I handed the cap to him, nodding my acquiescence. Jensen finished the chocolate, re-capped the Thermos, and settled back in his chair, eyes slowly roving along the horizon.
We sat like that, almost completely still, patiently observing the stars. Occasionally, a small, smoke-like cloud scudded overhead, dancing through our sight lines. About 40 minutes passed before I felt like I had to move and when I did, one of the vertebrae in my neck popped so loudly that Jensen jumped! Rubbing the back of my neck gingerly, I muttered, “Ow. I think we might be more comfortable laying out flat.”
So, we moved the chairs back against the cab and spread out the sleeping bag. Jensen put two pillows on each end of the bag.
“This way we can cover more sky if one of us watches this way and the other watches that way,” he explained, plopping down and carelessly throwing my nebula-themed blanket over our legs.
“You facing me is going to be pretty dang distracting,” I teased him.
Rather than responding, his eyes widened, arm raised pointing to a spot behind me. Just above the horizon a copper-gold thread streaked across the sky. And then a few degrees over, a small reddish dot fell towards the horizon. Turning back towards Jensen, I grabbed his chin to turn it so he could see two larger threads traveling side-by-side for a few seconds before they faded out of existence. It appeared Lyra was putting on a show for us.
Over the next couple of hours, I lost track of how many meteors we saw skipping across the sky. Sometimes they were just little blips and I questioned if I even saw them. Others journeyed along for seconds, either just bouncing off the Earth’s atmosphere or falling right down, lesser angels destined for other realms; each light graceful and breathtaking in its own way. When I looked at Jensen, he was wearing Dean’s smile; the one he reserves for special occasions and Baby.
“I haven’t seen one for about 30 minutes,” I whispered. “The sky’s starting to lighten. It’ll be dawn soon. Wanna head back?”
“That’s a good idea Sweetheart. This was awesome! So many of them, I think Orpheus did a bang-up job,” Jensen gushed.
“Pretty amazing light show,” I agreed and began folding the sleeping bag, humming “Under the Milky Way Tonight.”
“Next time, Chels, we bring Baby with us.”