COLD HARD FACTS

As my young friend, Margaret and I left the pollen driven, dusty winds, and the 95-degree heat of the Tucson foothills, we began our 90-minute drive up to the summit of Mt. Lemmon, where we were to participate in the Mt. Lemmon Sky Center Observatory Night Program. When we signed up, we were sent instructions that, “Winter clothing is imperative.  We make Alaskans cold.” And, as we got closer to the 10,000 ft. elevation, I noticed snow on the ground.  Further instructions had stated, “For safety reasons, children must be seven years or older.”

We arrived early, so we decided to share a piece of rhubarb pie at the Iron Door Cafe which is located near the ski lift. So far, the trip was exhilarating. It was cool outside due to the high elevation and the pie was delicious.  At 4:30 p.m. we parked in the area near the closed gate, where we were met by two astronomers who guided us up  the dirt road to the summit of the mountain, where we got our first look at seven of the largest public observatory telescopes in the West. We were told that we would be driven from telescope to telescope in vans. We were not told that the first step into the van was a very long, long way from the ground—-about the length of a 7 year old child.

As I looked around, I noticed that I was obviously the oldest kid in the class. It reminded me very much of when I used to go to an amusement park and the children were measured before being allowed to go on a ferris wheel.  “Your head has to be above the line, or you can’t go!” It was then that I realized, I was in way over my head. So, I commandeered the seat next to the driver, because it had two straps I could use to pull myself into the seat. I was dressed in my winter jacket, hat, gloves and scarf, and  now, we were taken to watch the sun set.

We were given little eye protectors and advised not to look into the sun until it was just about to meet the horizon, and then to look quickly and see the green flash as it disappeared. I did not see the green flash, but was acutely aware that when the sun sets, the rest of the mountain top turns pitch black—something like standing in a miner’s tunnel.  We had been given miniature red lights to avoid falling off the mountain and find our way back to the vans, where I once again hauled myself up and rode shotgun. The participants were broken into two groups to observe from two different telescopes. As my teeth began to chatter, I asked, “Which observatory is warmer?” “Neither of them is warm,” was the reply, “But the bigger one has a warm room.”
“That’s the one I want!” I shouted.

When we entered the dome, the other participants sat around the huge telescope on metal chairs, and the astronomer went to his computer to pinpoint the area in the sky that he wanted us to see. Then he rotated the telescope and opened the dome to expose the beautiful night sky and let in the frigid night air. As everyone exclaimed their appreciation, I said, “Where is the warm room?” The astronomer led me to a room as big as my bathroom. It had two chairs and a radiator. He left me saying, “Just don’t touch that switch.” With my frozen fingers, I wasn’t about to touch anything. As the evening wore on, I could feel the rotation of the telescope in the Dome and from time to time people would rush into the “warm room” to gather a bit of heat before rushing out again. And, I would tell them not to “touch the switch.”  They usually stayed in the room only long enough to let the cold air in. Finally, my friend, Martha came in to check on me and warm up a bit. She was the only one who asked, “What happens if you touch the switch?”  I said, “Your tuchas (an astronomical term) falls off.”

The grand finale viewing through the telescope was of Saturn, and Martha urged me to take a look after everyone else had passed through the line. Saturn and her rings were a beautiful sight indeed, and I am glad I took a peek at her.

Now, we were led to our cars in the pitch black, and ordered to, “Do not turn on your headlights until you leave the gated area.” It was then that I understood the release we signed when we came in. “If you drive off the mountain, it’s not our fault.”  After the gate was closed, Margaret turned on her headlights and drove carefully down the winding mountain road. After that harrowing drive down a mountain in the darkest of nights, I can say that, “The good hands of Allstate” are nothing compared to the good hands of my friend, Margaret. I would go anywhere with her. Except the next time I am challenged to an adventure, I will have to measure if—for that ride—my head is above the line.

Esther Blumenfeld