We made some super funky and super-caffeinated tea, passed the cup back and forth whiskey-style, then lay in our bags staring at the Milky Way shining massive and cold above, me all wired and eyes darting after any imagined motion in the sky, peripherally listening to the crackle of the fire or occasionally catching the sound of my heart beating against my sleeping bag, and some bird kept squawking in the darkness every 2 minutes or so like a Central Casting pterodactyl. Then there'd be a massive shot across the sky and we'd both go whoop. They'd come in sets the way ocean waves do, usually in groups of three, each leaving trails that would dissipate slowly, like a comet. Then a grand finale meteor would show up, trailing five times the length of the others and exploding into a green streak then a flash of magnesium orange. Chris said "A few more like that and we can keep warm from the stars." Here's a picture of the sky through my digital camera, for whatever it's worth (prepare yourself):

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(click the pic for a much
better off-site picture)

I kept flashing on the image of worlds colliding, or of us interacting with some stellar ancient force. It seemed one of those rare moments when you can see geological time passing. Here's Chris in meteor-watching mode:

 

 

 

 

 

As it got later there'd be a streak every thirty seconds or so. It felt weird and almost silly, like an overwrought Star Trek set. Some were faint, like satellites sped up, and others were like comets in a time-lapse picture. Here's me being very glad my sleeping bag is such a beast:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aside from our fire, the only light was on the eastern horizon from damn Reno at the base of the mountains. The city's slogan is "the biggest little city in the world", but it should be "the brightest....".