Walking Into Nepal

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I depart the train in Gorakhpur, India and hail a jeep driver. When he decides not to go any further, I get out and walk half a mile to the India Nepal border crossing at Sunauli. Swarms of pedestrians are walking or riding on bicycles, rickshaws and motorcycles towards the border. Across two square columns a banner reads: “Indian Border Ends.” I get my passport departure stamp at the India Immigration office. On the Nepal side painted on a cupola are a trio of Buddha eyes casting down on us. Two of the eyes are said to see the material world while the third much smaller eye sees wisdom and truth. I straddle one leg in India and the other in Nepal. “It’s possible to be in two places at one time,” I joke to passersby. Just steps away I receive a visa from the Nepal immigration office after having filled out required forms previously in the U.S.

Nepal border crossing at Sunauli

Approaching the border crossing into Nepal

I get into a van with other folks heading towards Lumbini, the birthplace of Buddha. The landscape is tranquil. It’s like a ghost town compared with India. Open fields stretch for miles to a shadowy mountain range in the distance, the Himalaya. A single pole waves the country’s flag. Nepal is the only country with a non-rectangular flag. It’s shape is comprised of two stacked triangles.

Our first stop is the Nipponzan Myohoji World Peace Pagoda. Three levels surround the white dome building. At its base are four sculptures depicting the life of Buddha, each facing one of the cardinal directions. Japanese Buddhist monks designed the building’s pagoda. People walk with reverence around it.

Lumbini, Birthplace of Buddha

Lumbini is to Buddhists what Bethlehem is to Christians, or Mecca is to Muslims – a holy place. There is some difference. When people want peace, they can lean toward faith traditions or find their own peace within, the way Buddha did. The Buddhist way is through one’s self, not a religious deity.

Maya Devi Temple, the place of Buddha’s birth is a UNESCO World Heritage site. Colorful prayer flags wave in the gentle breeze. The building lies like a bunker in the foothills of the Himalaya. Mottled bricks indicate a long history. We follow its ancient walls to the very spot where it is believed Queen Mayadevi gave birth in 249 BC while traveling to her parent’s home. The temple was built over the site to protect the relics. I was surprised to learn that both Jesus and Buddha were born to traveling mothers.

I walk over to the pool of water where the Queen mother bathed before giving birth and rest under the prayer flags.

At the nearby Lumbini Heritage Park excavated remains of monasteries and memorial shrines date from the 3rd century BC. In the Park, Buddhist monasteries depict the architectural style of the country or region represented. Notably missing is the United States. Representing North America are Canada and Mexico.

Lumbini Heritage Park

Stupa at Lumbini Heritage Park

River and Jungle Safari in Chitwan National Park

When I arrive in Chitwan I see young men riding on the backs of elephants and others on the seats of motorcycles. The town shops are filled with colorful textiles and ceramics all made in Nepal. The shopkeepers are friendly and proud of their wares.

This feel-good welcome continues when I meet Fule Chaudhary, the guide who will take me and a handful of travelers through Chitwan National Park.  We are staying on Park grounds in quaint, clean rooms that look like little houses but contain only two beds and a bathroom. Fule’s eyes are kind and keen. A continuous smile stretches across his round face. He’s wearing a forest green shirt and green pants. I take out my notebook and jot down some of what he is telling us about the Park – First national park in Nepal, world heritage property, two kinds of crocodile – gharial and mars mugger; 632 species of birds, Sal (Shorea robusta) forest; home to horned rhinoceros and Bengal tiger. Best way to avoid a charging rhino is to hide behind a tree.

Chitwan National Park

Bird in flight at Chitwan National Park

The sun is hot in mid-day. I question going out at this time. “Aren’t safaris supposed to happen during the morning or early evening hours, when it’s cooler and the animals come out to eat?” Fulé laughs. “That’s what people think. It’s why the area gets congested with jeeps and no one sees anything. The animals don’t want to see us as much as we want to see them.” I remember the traffic jams from past safari trips and let my thought go. There is no fakery about Fulé. He knows what he’s doing.

Before we set out, Fulé tells us to wear brown or green clothes to blend with the forest. He shows us hand signals he will use upon sighting an animal. He doesn’t like to verbally announce their presence as it could startle an animal. We are guests, not intruders. Fule’s favored mode of transportation is a long, shallow dug-out canoe carved from a Champ tree.

“The canoe requires balance while on the Rapti River so be careful,” he explains as we load ourselves into the narrow vessel. The birds are the first creatures I notice. Then the sun-dried crocodiles lying on rocks with their opened V-shaped mouths showing rows of serrated teeth. The red-orange blossoms hanging on branches of the Kapo trees remind me that it is spring.

“What are the worn paths leading to the river from?” I ask.  Fulé gives the hand signal for rhino. He flashes a smile at my observation. “They come to the river to drink.”

Except for a few bird calls, it is quiet. We drift easily in the secluded river’s slow current. Sitting at the head of the canoe, Fulé again signals rhino. The creature is poking his head out from the brush staring at us. “They are real,” I whisper.

“It’s a male,” Fulé says.  “They are heavier with a thicker, shorter horn than females. More aggressive in protecting their territory too.”

Rhino in Chitwan National Park

One horned rhino in Chitwan National Park

Minutes later, we see a herd of water buffalo on the west bank of the river, but Fulé signals tiger. On the east bank the wild cat stands in prowl position. Slivers of black stripes cross his back. He approaches the water with a slouch. None of us moves. We watch the tiger slip into the river without a splash and paddle across, keeping his pudgy head and whiskers above the water.

The water buffalo scatter. Fulé steers the canoe to the shoreline and listens. He breaks the silence with a hushed voice.  “Let’s wait and see if the tiger comes back.”  We sit quietly for about 20 minutes, then float on when the tiger doesn’t return.

Fulé tells us he hasn’t seen a tiger in the Park for several years. With joy in his voice, he announces: “It’s an auspicious day.”  Our awe lingers as we bank the canoe and travel by jeep through the jungle. We see multiple rhinos aim their horns towards us, elephants lingering, and playful monkeys swinging in trees. What we don’t see is another human or jeep throughout the day.

We lodge near the river with a multi-generational family that rents rooms in an outbuilding just feet from their home. We borrow bicycles and ride through a part of town we haven’t seen yet. We stop to talk with a farmer in his field who is growing red lentil seeds.

Celebrating Holi

Unbeknownst to me the next day is Holi, the Hindu festival of color that celebrates good over evil and the promise of spring.  I had seen photographs of people celebrating Holi in National Geographic magazine when I was a teenager. Now here I am, celebrating Holi in Nepal. The shops are decorated with marigolds to celebrate the holiday. Shop owners rub smudges of colors on my forehead for what reason I do not know. I am unaware of what to expect on Holi but enjoy the festive mood everywhere I go.

When I arrive back at the house, the sun’s light has dimmed its bravado and hovers casting pastel colors across the horizon. The grandmother in the family where I am staying wears an apron around her waist and smiles graciously. She listens attentively to our accents as we greet her. A little girl around age seven teases us swinging a lei of marigolds. She wants to wrap it around my neck, but I am too tall for her to reach. I bow so she can complete her task. She follows with a laugh.

One of the other guests is a disk jockey from London named Paul. He prefers to be called his stage name, “Pig.” He sits under the gazebo with a bottle of beer. He lets us know he doesn’t want to participate in any holiday rituals. Everyone else seems ready to go along with anything and anyone. Pig sulks. Dinner under a canopy fills our stomachs with homemade boiled cabbage, lentils, eggs, curry and chapatis. Glasses of mint lemonade and chai tea quench our thirst. I hadn’t eaten meat for weeks and didn’t miss it.

Celebrating Holi in Chitwan, Nepal

Celebrating Holi in Chitwan, Nepal

After dinner a large tray of powdered colors appears. We whip the clouds of rainbow colors into the air covering our faces and clothes. Neighbors come out and join the jubilation. The music shifts from Bollywood to American Country to Korean pop. We dance joyfully in sync to PSY’s Gangnam style dressed in our now multi-colored clothes.

Later while washing my clothes in the sink, I promise:  “I’m going to celebrate Holi every year.”

Alleys and Valleys of Kathmandu

I leave Chitwan for Kathmandu early the next morning. The van rocks as it climbs through the Himalaya mountains on narrow, under-construction rutted dirt roads. It is a scary balancing act. Of Kathmandu I had some expectations. I envisioned a valley paradise like the one in the 1937 Capra film, Lost Horizon. I did not find that. Many buildings in the city are still crumbled and in need of repair from the earthquake that hit in 2015. However, Durbar Square and the city’s maze of alleys make it intriguing.

Durbar Square, Kathmandu, Nepal

Durbar Square in Kathmandu

It is in this half-wrecked valley city, with its thin air turned thick with pollution, that I recognize the rhythm of life. It’s not meeting for lunch or attending an event. It’s where we go, what we eat or don’t eat; what we read, listen to, or observe during the day; who we talk with and reach out to, our reactions to irritants and surprises, who or what we are curious about, feel responsible for, say goodnight to.

Unfortunately, travel adventures must end. I don’t walk out of Nepal. After weaving through Kathmandu’s street markets, stopping at the serene Garden of Dreams and the dusty, dark Kaiser Library I board an airplane that climbs and climbs until we’re higher than the Himalaya.

Garden of Dreams in Kathmandu

Serenity prevails at the Garden of Dreams in Kathmandu

Frozen in Place by the Polar Vortex in Chicago

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Chicago skyline at nightThere’s only one time when I hesitate to advocate for a visit to Chicago. That’s when the Polar Vortex hits. Temperatures plunge below zero. Many services stop and transportation is iffy. Here is my winter tale of being frozen in place by the Polar Vortex in Chicago.

I position myself at a front window while the Polar Vortex begins dropping its windy, bitter cold air. This is not my first time experiencing Chicago’s extreme weather. The city averages seven days of below zero temperatures annually. A bone-chilling -27°F in 1985 set a record. I was young and single then. During the winter of 2013-14 the city endured 23 days of subzero temperatures. Aging with the Artic air feels different. I’m fretting. Everything is frozen in place. Shiny slivers of ice encase tree branches. Plowed snow mounds reach above my head.

The warnings have been coming for days. National media headlines are announcing an approaching mass of cold air that will “blast,” “threaten,” “seize,” “attack” and “invade” us. Airplane flights and scheduled trains are cancelled. Businesses close. Schools close. The library closes. And the bank. No garbage is collected. However, the sky is blue. The sun is bright. Wispy clouds match the color of snow.

Snow mounds in Chicago during the Polar Vortex

From my breakfast nook, the quiet stillness outside shifts from serene to eerie. No one is heating up a car or carrying a backpack to the bus stop. The dog walkers are absent. As is my neighbor Maria, who often calls me ‘dude’ to my chagrin. Middle schooler Alfred doesn’t pass by swinging his arms and whistling a song only he knows. Dan the mailman doesn’t rouse my dog.

Had I been stranded on a deserted street I would start praying. But I am inside a warm house with a community of neighbors nearby. I want more information on what to expect. I don’t care as much about temperature as I do about the wind chill. That’s what we feel. At 6:00 am the temperature is -22° Fahrenheit. The wind chill is -50°F. For our weather to become this extreme, something prompted its emergence. The culprit is often wind. Wind is both a rainmaker and a flame thrower.

Living in the Windy City, I start reading about the science of wind on my phone. It’s created when air masses of different temperatures interact. Cold air tries to snuggle up to warm air, creating pressure. The bigger the temperature difference, the faster air flows. Unlike in my house where heat rises, outside air closest to the ground is warmest and gets colder the higher up it goes. As any mountain climber knows.

Tree branches sway towards my window as the wind picks up. Relax, I tell myself. I inhale the aroma of my slow-cooked chicken soup wafting through the house. I decide to go outside to walk my dog. I dress in layers – warm socks, silk tights under my pants, wool sweater over a t-shirt. I add fury boots, a down-filled coat, scarf, mittens and a hat that covers my ears. But my arctic encounter is cut short. The wind is a butcher knife slicing into my forehead, giving me an instant headache. My dog jerks one leg up and trots on the other three before I turn back inside. Nature bears no intent, so no blame can be cast. Icicles on window duirng Polar Vortex in Chciago

I don’t remember the harsh winter of 1985 as much as I do the spring that followed it. My thoughts turn to spring as I continue reading about the weather. I see some beautiful images in the newspaper of a sea fog over Lake Michigan that dims Chicago’s skyline, and rail workers using blowtorches to heat up switches for the commuter trains. A fire and ice drama.

The jet stream’s shifting shuffle of warm and cold air causes its boundary to buckle, much like train tracks do in extreme heat or cold. The stream sags toward the equator bringing pockets of polar air with it. Into the Midwest. I jump at hearing a loud pop sound outside. It’s too cold for icicles to be falling. I learn via social media that the sound is underground frozen soil cracking.

Snowflakes start to fall. Something about how they are dropping makes me think of a snow-globe I bring out each year for Christmas. The flakes outside float, like the puffs that drift off cottonwood trees in the summer. They are not plunging, plummeting, crashing, diving, dumping, or pouring. They are fluent in the way of air and wind.

Hours pass until darkness blindfolds the sky. There’s nothing more to see outside my window. The frigid air soon retreats to its Arctic home. A reinvigorated jet stream brings unseasonably warm weather to the Midwest. I rejoin the outside world. A 16°F temperature feels warm. Neighbors return to their routines. A local clothing shop has a “Polar Vortex Sale” offering 20% off. The wonders and welcome of Chicago seldom cease.

Chicago Millennium Park

One Thousand Miles Away

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When traveling, sometimes it matters more who you are with than where you go. My long-distance relationship involved lots of travel between our two cities and other destinations. We both enjoyed being active and outdoors. It was an ongoing adventure. Until we realized we wanted different things from the relationship. The end was kind of a trainwreck. A year had passed without a word between us. Then I see his name on my phone as a recent call.

I had put my phone on silent mode during a yoga class and forgot to switch it back. I check, but there is no voicemail. Maybe it was a butt dial. I text him anyway: “Did you call me? Should I call you back?”

I hesitated about calling him back because our relationship is of a sensitive nature. The last time we talked, we argued. I hung up on him. He texted me immediately after the hang up. I deleted the text without reading it.

Days pass since his call. Still no word between us. My question lingers: “Should I call you back?” I decide against it. A thousand miles still separates us, though good memories seep in.

Soon after, my phone rings and his name appears. “Hell o” I say with a forced cheerfulness. He starts talking. I listen. “How have you been? Is it hot there?” And he says something else but I stop him. “Are you walking somewhere?” I ask with a bit of agitation in my voice. Am I not worthy of his full attention?

“Yes,” he says. “Along a path, up a hill.” The rhythmic crunching of his footsteps continues. My voice softens. His words mingle with a crackling wind. “You’re breaking up,” I say. “Oh, let me try this. Hold on. Is that better?”

“Yes.” I put the phone closer to my ear listening to his stride, his steady pace, with words and wind mixed in between. He tells me he wasn’t invited to his brother’s wedding. He is happy with the cast iron skillets I recommended he buy. He offers condolences when I tell him of a death in my family from alcoholism. His footsteps slow. “I’m sorry to hear. Are you okay?”

“Not yet, but I will get there,” I say. The crunching stops then picks up again. “It can happen to anyone, rich or poor, educated or not. I’m sorry,” he repeats. With so few words he relieves me of some guilt surrounding the death.

The wind goes mute and is replaced with chirping. “I can hear the crickets,” I say with a girlish laugh.

“There are swarms of them here, crossing the roads, hiding in trees.” In this moment I am walking beside him. We are friends, caring about each other, mending. The miles between us vanish.

Night falls outside my window. I’m remembering all the paths we walked together.

“Sweet dreams,” I say when his feet stop and I hear a door unlock.

“You, too.”

His name disappears on my phone.

The journey is always worth it. Sometimes you can feel closer to someone when they are a thousand miles away than when they are in the same room.

 

The Nature of Science at Brookhaven Lab

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On a secluded patch of land in central Long Island trees blocked any view of the buildings I knew were there. I paused my rental car at the guard station to receive a pass and drove cautiously as if something or someone was about to stop me. This is the campus of Brookhaven National Laboratory in Upton, New York, approximately 50 miles from Manhattan. Like many people I have an unsettled relationship with science. For me, it’s a what-could-have-been feeling mixed with you-made-your-choices. Decades ago, I wanted to be a scientist.

I’m exploring what access the public has to our national laboratory system. Magnificent in scale, these palaces of inquiry are more industrial than lush, but they elegantly balance mysteries with explanations. Unlike static Mt Rushmore, the Grand Canyon, or Statue of Liberty, our national labs are always a work in progress.

Before 1947 Brookhaven was a U.S. Army training camp. After the camp closed it grew into a national laboratory. Home to the first nuclear reactor in the United States. Home to the first reactor designed for medical research. And home to the soon to be Electron Ion Collider, which will explore how the proton got its spin and the still mysterious strong nuclear force that binds atomic nuclei together. The designated effort of the Department of Energy, Office of Science national labs is to solve human energy demands. That quest takes into account how the universe was formed, “seeing” matter’s building blocks, and learning from nature’s amazing ability to self-organize. I hope my enthusiasm will camouflage my Wikipedia-level knowledge of science.

The size of Brookhaven is deceptive. Its sprawling 5,280-acre campus is pocked with 300 buildings that catalog years of architectural history spanning from pre-industrial red brick low rise to LEED-certified modern steel frame.

The mammoth machines constructed here and the people who operate them hold the power to prove ideas right or wrong. They identify those with potential to change the future, or not. Either way, answers get found and new questions arise. So much begins here. This is the land of big science, basic science, experimental science, user science. The difference between ideas and experiments is as plain as that between a water faucet and white crested rapids. I grab my raft. I am thinking big, as in universe big, but the actual experience directs me to think small, as in atomic nuclei small.

I’m greeted by a manager in the Communications office and two staff members. I’m looking for a good reason to trust science, to come and see how science gets done, to be awed by science that benefits all humankind. We sat down at a large conference table where the manager click-started a Power Point presentation and handed me a site map. He’s been working at the lab for 27 years and still maintains excitement about his work. “No one really knows what it is like until they are here,” he said. I’m ready!

Our first stop is the Center for Functional Nanomaterials (CFN). At the CFN size matters. A nanometer is one billionth of a meter. A grain of salt or strand of hair is considered large in this microscopic world. I remember my first peek into a microscope was in a crowded fifth-grade Catholic school classroom with 55 students. When I asked my parents for a microscope, they thought it a ridiculous request for a girl.

Objects not only look different by scale, they behave differently. Think of the sounds coming from different sized pipes on a church organ. Or how light rays of different wavelengths emerge from a prism at different angles.

Scale helps scientists understand how nature self-organizes and opens the door to new energy efficient nanomaterials, as well as biological and industrial processes. Ash from forest fires and volcanic dust are naturally occurring nanomaterials.

Self-assembly is how evolution solves problems. In nature, if something is still here it knows how to exist. What are the structures that support that existence?

Through the eye of a moth

As an example, at the CFN observing the organic structure of a moth’s eye revealed an anti-reflective quality. This led Brookhaven scientists to create a nanotexture that increased solar cell efficiency. Like the eye of a moth, the solar cells harvest light rather than reflect it.

The glass walls, computers, and clean rooms in this building don’t suggest organic life to me. I can’t see what these scientists see. To me the shape of things are static. A leaf, a blade of grass can be held in my hand. I can draw a picture of it. However, depending on the scale, objects can be modified in different ways. At the macroscale, I can bend the blade of grass but the composition of it is static. At the nanoscale, I can’t bend the grass but its molecular structures can be modified.  For example, scientists can apply coatings containing organic molecules to develop a flexible shell. They learned to direct the organization of objects the way nature does, creating structures with new properties.

The idea is not new. Ancient Islamic potters and medieval European artists employed nanomaterials by grinding silver, gold and copper metals into powders to add luster to pottery and color to glass. Such uses were confirmed through electron microscopy and precision spectroscopy using laser light sources. In ancient India therapeutic processing of minerals and metals continues today in their Ayurvedic system of medicine. However, the scale to which scientists can “see” and direct nanoparticles is new.

A research team from Columbia Engineering and Harvard University used tools at Brookhaven’s CFN to view, measure, and image cross sections of butterfly wings at a nanoscale. Once thought to be useless membranes, the wings of butterflies were revealed to have incredible temperature control and a sophisticated sensory network. Such knowledge brought them closer to developing new radiative-cooling materials. Maybe one day advanced flying machines!

Before we leave CFN, I looked into a glass cubicle where two young scientists were crouched in chairs with their eyes fixed on computer screens. A pink hoodie encircled the woman’s neck. I could not hear their voices. They were like tigers scenting prey, unaware of our presence.

Let There Be Ultra Bright Light

The concrete floor in the building that houses the National Synchrotron Light Source II (NSLS-II) is clean to a shine. It is so expansive that scientists ride adult-sized tricycles to get from one area to another. Octopus like cables extend from the stainless-steel machines that sparkle under the fluorescent lights dangling high overhead. The quiet in this grand space is unexpected.

The National Synchrotron Light Source II building at Brookhaven.

Shining light on a metal knocks some of its free-flowing electrons out of the metal completely. The discovery of this law, called the photoelectric effect, landed Albert Einstein his one and only Nobel prize. At the NSLS II, electrons are extracted from materials such as metals then accelerated to circulate around the half-mile storage ring at a temperature hundreds of degrees below the freezing point of water. While racing around the ring, the electrons emit ultra-bright X-rays. However, emitting light causes the electrons to lose a bit of their stamina, so at a precise moment the electrons move through well-tuned superconducting cavities to gain their momentum back. Kind of like pushing a child on a swing. The NSLS-II shines its intense waves of light to “see” atoms that measure one-thousandth of a billionth of a meter. This kind of science led to advances in CT scan technology as well as discoveries in chemistry, matter physics, and biology.

Three of the beam lines here were used to characterize the atomic-level structure of viral components in COVID-19 and how they connect with receptors on human cells. Scientist from pharmaceutical companies, academia and Brookhaven lab collaborated in the search for antiviral agents and targets for vaccines.

From the sub, subzero cold environment inside the NSLS II we moved to the STAR (Solenoid Tracker) detector on the Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider (RHIC). A temperature that is 250,000 times hotter than the center of the sun is generated. Such contrasts intrigue me. I remember going from being popular to being ostracized the day my seventh-grade teacher announced I had received the highest grade on a science test.  Higher than the boy brainiacs? It was a fluke I told my fleeing friends who were more interested in go-go boots than how temperature impacts atoms.

STAR tracker

When we reached RHIC, the largest circular particle accelerator in the U.S., I’m introduced to a nuclear physicist who is flanked by coils, cables and pipes that make up STAR, a heavy ion detector stationed on RHIC’s 2.4-mile ring. STAR is as big as a house and I am invited in.

STAR detector

When I see the few women of my generation leading important science projects and the following generation of women achieving their goals in science, I realize that my career detour was only in part due to cultural and familial influences. What really halted my pursuit of science was high school math. I was terrible in math.

I saw only a fraction of what they do at Brookhaven and certainly didn’t understand all of it. It’s like being in the foothills with only a view of the mountains. Yet, any scientist will say there is always more to learn no matter where you start. This thought diminishes my regret of not being science savvy. I, like others who visit our national science labs, always want to know more.

In just a few hours my view of the world changed. I drove slowly on the road that led me away from the lab. Sunlight twinkled between the tree branches in a most perfect way. The autumn spray of color surrounded me. I smelled the musty ground that waited for leaves to fall. I imagined all the extras science will bring and all that nature has yet to reveal.

Star Power at Princeton

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A poetic phrase on the U.S. Department of Energy’s website drew my attention to the Princeton Plasma Physics Lab (PPPL) in New Jersey. The phrase describes fusion energy sciences as “…bringing the energy-producing power of a star to Earth for the benefit of humankind.” Like most people, I’m not familiar with how fusion energy works and why it’s so difficult to obtain. But we’re all wondering if it can or will help save our planet from calamitous effects of climate change.

The PPPL plays a prominent role in plasma physics and fusion energy research. In 2019, through their website I registered to attend a public tour and encouraged my cousin Charlie to do so too. He agreed. He lives in Philadelphia, just 45 miles from Princeton. Now retired, Charlie formerly analyzed plastics for bio-chemical markets. He now likes working with wood. When I reach his house, he was pulling on a cable to charge his white Tesla sedan. Our journey to the lab would not emit any carbon into the beautiful blue sky overhead.

During the drive I tell him about the lab’s history. In 1951 during the Cold War a professor from Princeton received funding from the U.S. government to study and develop fusion power for weapons under a top-secret project called Matterhorn. A decade later the focus changed to basic research so the lab name changed too.

“I never would have thought of visiting a national lab,” Charlie says. Yet he is familiar with lab life. His father, my uncle Bob, was a chemical engineer at Oak Ridge National Lab in Tennessee. He worked on nuclear fission during another top-secret undertaking, the Manhattan Project. As we grow closer to Princeton Charlie admits to not knowing much about his father’s work. “He rarely talked about it. I guess I didn’t ask either.”

In Princeton we follow Scudder Mills Road to Campus Drive and curve around some tall trees before reaching the lab’s entry guard house. We show our registration papers and pass through. A security background check is made on all visitors prior to their attending the public tour.

Guard house at Princeton Plasma Physics Lab

Princeton Plasma Physics Lab entry guard house.

The goal of fusion research is to create sustainable energy much like the stars do. That means energy without greenhouse gases or long-term radioactive waste. The risk of accidents occurring with fusion is diminished because unlike fission which creates an uncontrolled chain reaction, a fusion reaction is controlled through a precise calculation of temperature, pressure and magnetic field. A disruption in any of these causes the reaction to end without incident.

Fusion’s promise as a clean, renewable source of energy has yet to fully pan out after 80 years of research. But that fact doesn’t dampen the enthusiasm of our guide, graduate student Oak Nelson.

“Oak? As in the tree?” Charlie asks after the young man introduces himself to our tour group. Bashfully, the tall lanky blonde-haired guide responds, “Yah. I grew up in Colorado.” He’s on break from classes and has time to be a guide before his next research project begins.

Plasma cloud

The lab’s lobby contains a lounge area where science-related posters hang on the walls. Against a windowed wall a hands-on plasma machine beckons visitors. I immediately gravitate towards the machine before the tour starts. I wait as two middle-aged women fiddle with its handle. By sliding and rotating the handle one can manipulate a magnetic field that pushes and swirls the plasma. The plasma appears as a pink, cloudlike smoke. The ladies allow me. I move the handle slowly at first and then quickly. The plasma cloud responds to my touch, billowing and thickening. I have no idea what it’s used for, but I feel powerful controlling it. The ladies tell me they live nearby and have long been curious about what happens inside this lab. “We are looking for something hopeful with all that’s going on in our country,” the tall one says. They nod to each other. I think they are referring to the political division in our country, but I say nothing in response.

Oak asks our group if anyone knows about plasma. No one raises a hand or speaks up. He explains it as a fourth state of matter where fusion reactions take place. “Ninety nine percent of the universe contains plasma,” he says. None of us knows about this? “Basically, plasma is very hot, charged gas,” he continues. Some of what plasma research has led to are computer chips and flat screen televisions.

We stop to eye what looks to me to be a modern work of sculpture. But it is actually a plasma containment device called a stellarator that was used in early nuclear fusion experiments. Relics such as this are to remind us of how far we’ve come.

Stellarator at Princeton Plasma Physics Lab

To explain fusion, Oak shows us a video with two animated nuclei portrayed as Pacman-like figures. They fuse together and ‘Pow!’ form heavier elements that release a lot of energy.

Fusion’s two sources of fuel are hydrogen and lithium, both plentiful on Earth. Oak is excited about something called ITER, pronounced “eater”. It’s a plasma physics experiment being conducted at CERN, the European organization for nuclear research in France. December of 2025 is the planned date for ITER to launch and create plasma that will reach temperatures of 150 million degrees Celsius. That’s about 10 times hotter than the center of our sun. Wow!

NSTX-U, apple versus doughnut

We move on to the National Spherical Torus Experiment Upgrade (NSTX-U). It’s the most powerful experimental fusion facility of its type in the world. Its design distinguishes it from others by using a cored apple shape rather than a larger doughnut shape. The hope is that the spherically shaped plasmas created could allow them to develop smaller, more economical and more stable fusion reactors. The big question here is can a machine be built where the energy produced surpasses the energy used to trigger and sustain the reaction. They are searching for the right recipe of heat and plasma density.

“We can change the planet with fusion,” Oak says as if the solution is at his fingertips. The challenge is on. Our sun’s core fuses 600 million metric tons of hydrogen per second.

The NSTX-U main control room looks similar to a lecture hall with banks of computers. It’s here where the power of high-speed computing, machine learning, simulators and models are pushing the perimeters that may lead to success. From there, we pass through an underground tunnel to enter a maze of thick copper-colored pipes that stand as walls and a ceiling at the base of NSTX-U.

Charlie and I climb a stair with the rest of the group. I ask a graduate student from Carnegie Mellon University why he came on the tour: “I’m studying computer science so am curious about how data is gathered and the simulations they use.”  A young Asian woman tells me she wanted to take the tour because her husband works here. At the top of the stair a young physician from Georgetown takes selfies with his father, who works as a mechanical engineer at the lab. His mom is a doctor. “My son takes after his mother,” the father jokes.

At different times we take turns stepping up to what I call the lookout platform. Instead of marveling at a deep canyon or distant forest, we peek at the top of the most powerful spherical tokamak (nuclear fusion reactor) in the world. There is no natural light, no windows or wind. No sound is emitted. A tennis-court-green grid surrounds the circular mouth of the tokamak. Inside is a stew of electrons and atomic nuclei. Red painted superconducting magnets and multi-colored cables bulge from its belly. A bank of electronic equipment records its every move. I don’t see any of the star part here – the shining light, the friendly twinkle or the streaking trail across a night canvas.

NSTX-U at Princeton Plasma Physics lab

Members of the public take turns viewing the NSTX-U at PPPL

Family members from Brazil approach the lookout platform snapping pictures. They are visiting a relative who works as a theoretical physicist here. The daughter in the family, Letica, says: “This is our future. My generation wants to know how we can live in a clean environment. It’s great to be a part of it.” The two middle-aged women I met in the lobby agree with her. “It’s terrific. Fascinating to see the work they are doing here.”

Before we leave the NSTX-U the Carnegie Mellon student asks: “How do you debug any problems?”

“Good question,” says Oak. “We had to call a retiree recently to diagnose a problem with the circuits. We’re glad he was available. This system has been growing organically for the last 20 years.”

Cousin Charlie smiles at the thought of a retiree coming in to fix it. “I guess it’s best to keep us around,” he says.

Public outreach

I had arranged in advance to meet with physicist Andrew Zwicker who heads the Office of Communications and Public Outreach at the lab. I asked him why they are optimistic now after decades of chasing the gold ring of fusion energy. He gives me a trio of reasons for why today’s optimism is not misplaced. “Our computing speed has increased tremendously. We use sophisticated simulators that allow us to tweak design easier. And advanced manufacturing capabilities allow us to create the components as needed.”

Zwicker tells me that their most popular public outreach program is the Ronald E. Hatcher Science on Saturday lectures. The lectures are held in the MGB Auditorium and have been ongoing for 34 years with an average of 300 people attending. They are live streamed at 9:30am EST for nine weeks from January to March. Any member of the public can watch live on the PPPL.gov website.

Princeton Plasma Physics Lab campus

End of the public tour at Princeton Plasma Physics Lab

Cousin Charlie sums up his thoughts on the tour as we walk to the parking lot: “I like the matter-of-fact personality of scientists. They want to find answers, not impose them like politicians do. That’s refreshing. It’s a precise, efficient operation here. The computers, modeling and prediction theory weren’t around when I was in school.”

I think of my master-of-the universe moment in the lobby when turning the handle to control the plasma machine. I ponder fusion science. Are we called to understand, emulate, one up the sun?

Charlie and I look for but don’t see any other electric cars in the lot. We spend the rest of the day in Princeton eating lunch at a farm-to-table restaurant, visiting the University Chapel and the Art Museum on Princeton’s main campus. During our drive back under the night sky I look up. My understanding of star power has forever changed. The crook in my neck assures me that my star wonder remains intact.

The search to harness fusion energy continues. In December of 2022 the U.S. Department of Energy announced an achievement of fusion ignition at Lawrence Livermore National lab. Scientists conducted the first controlled fusion experiment in history to produce more energy from fusion than the laser energy used to drive it. We will see where it goes from there.

Meeting Mustapha in Morocco

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Shoreline in Rabat, Morocco’s capitol city

I was nervous when I first arrived in Morocco. My muscles tensed. My head got light. I planted my feet firmly on the ground, breathed slowly in, out. I reminded myself that I came to Morocco from Chicago to experience a culture different from my own and that of my ancestors. It is a country whose people practice different religions, speak different languages, hold a longer history, and created a kingdom. My intent was to visit its four imperial cities – Rabat, Meknes, Fes, and Marrakech. I did so much more.

I pulled out a crinkled paper in my pocket that had Mustapha’s phone number on it. He is a Sunni Muslim of Berber (Amazigh) origin, Northwest Africa’s indigenous people. He grew up in the western Sahara Desert near Marrakech, a descendant of nomads, and is now owner of Roaming Camels Morocco. He met me at a designated meeting spot near the train station in Casablanca. His black framed glasses complemented dark fuzzy hair that dropped to his shoulders. A neatly trimmed mustache and short beard surrounded his smile that when widened revealed silver braces on his teeth. A string of leather around his neck dangled a silver pendant, called a Tifinagh or yaz. Of its symbol Mustapha said, “For the Berbers it symbolizes freedom, peace and dignity for all people.” He gave me a quick rundown on what to expect while in Morocco. “It is a progressive Muslim country. You don’t have to cover your head or bow for prayer. The Moroccan people are very friendly so don’t be surprised if you are invited to their house or they put their arms around you. This is normal.” He cautioned me about fake tour guides on the streets and how to take normal precautions while traveling.

I was hungry so we went to a nearby restaurant. A starter dish for any table in Morocco usually includes bread, olives, and cheese. The tagine (Moroccan stew) was served hot in a ceramic dish with chicken, potatoes, olives and sliced vegetables. The waiter exaggerated the pouring of mint tea, outstretched his arm toward the ceiling while the tea cascaded down like a waterfall into the glass. A tourist favorite, I was sure. But ah, the scent of mint leaves. The food was fresh, as if it had just been snapped from the ground. Organic is the rule in Morocco, not the exception.

Tree lined boulevard in Rabat

Arabic and Berber are the country’s official languages but in Casablanca, French is likely. In Tangier, it’s Spanish.

Rabat

After an hour-long train ride to Rabat, Morocco’s capital city, I saw a French influence in the streets’ curly cast iron light poles, tree-lined boulevards and French colonial style architecture.

But all that changed as I moved further into the old section medina (market) where food stalls and shops lined the narrow streets. I was on my way to the Udayas Kasbah, which is a walled city within the city, when I saw the sky spreading itself gallantly over the Atlantic Ocean. An upsweep shoreline was populated with tombstones that looked like an assembled crowd watching the waves slip onto shore. The Kasbah was originally built to fend against invaders and pirate ships. Later it became home to sultans as well as Muslim immigrants fleeing Catholic Spain.

I followed the Kasbah’s winding paths and got lost in its maze. My anxiety grew. It was hot in early March. I feared I might faint. Thoughts of a foreign hospital clouded my thinking. My breath quickened. I tried one path and then another and backtracked trying to find the spot where I started. Watching me was a woman with her head veiled and a cat at her feet. She pointed to where I needed to go. “Sukran,” Thank you, I said. I would learn that the Moroccan people have low tolerance for anyone in distress. They will help. Mustapha was right about that.

Freed from the Kasbah’s web, I headed over to the King Mohammed V mausoleum. Royal guards dressed in red uniforms stood frozen on horseback. Others stood erect under the scalloped arches of the white stone entrance. Out of respect I covered my head with a scarf. I stood on a marble floor beneath the wooden gold leaf ceiling in a viewing gallery above the revered king’s tomb. He was a freedom fighter who helped his country gain independence from France.

Royal guard at the King Mohammed V mausoleum

 

Meknes

A landscape view on the train to Meknes

On the train to Meknes the countryside reminded me of Tuscany with its rolling green hills filled with fields of herbs, orange groves, and olive trees. I arrived on a Friday, the Muslim day of devotion. On this day families solemnly celebrate Allah’s mercy and blessings. It’s reminiscent of the way Sundays used to be observed in the U.S. Many of the shops were closed. The squares were nearly empty. Of the quiet Mustapha said: “Inside the mosques people are asking for and giving forgiveness.”

In preparation for this day of prayer, on Thursdays many Muslims go to a local Hammam (bathhouse) where they engage in traditional bathing and cleansing rituals. Mustapha told me a story of his own childhood. “As a young boy I attended with my mother but when I got older, I no longer wanted to go to the Hammam with her. I was embarrassed because girls my age were there,” he blushed at the memory.

Moulay Idriss

At the nearby sacred pilgrimage village of Moulay Idriss, non-Muslims were not allowed in the mosque. I climbed up what seemed like a thousand steps past the communal bakery to watch the sun set and listen to the Islamic call to prayer echo across miles of valley hills. I let the scene sink inside of me.

Sentissi Mosque in Moulay Idriss

By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs the village was dark, lit only by candles. The glow added to the romance of this idyllic place. Then I realized that the village was dark because the electricity had gone out. I rejoined Mustapha for dinner with a family he knew. He was dressed in traditional clothing, a white cloth turban atop his head and a shoulder-to-toe blue kaftan. While preparing food in the kitchen with the family, he told me: “The women make couscous and the men make tagine.” The kitchen was lit by candles and food prepared without electricity. The family offered for us to spend the night. I slept comfortably in a small room off the dining area. Floor to ceiling tiles covered the walls.

Fes

Train station at Fes

I was amazed at how easy it was to travel by train in Morocco. The next city I visited was Fes, described by Mustapha as the spiritual and cultural heart of Morocco. I was hesitant to enter the medina, the largest of its kind in the world. I was afraid I’d get lost again. Then I watched an old woman walking towards me. Her step slowed as she approached a big drop from the sidewalk onto the street. She lifted her arm as if knowing someone would help her navigate the drop. Which did happen. A young woman came up from behind her, took the old women’s arm, helped her with the step down, crossed the street with her, and helped her step back up onto the sidewalk. The young woman then released her arm and was on her way. I remembered the woman with the cat who steered me in the right direction in Rabat. This willingness to help others happened again and again. Days ago, when it started to rain a man signaled to me where I could find shelter. When a bench was full, a man stood and offered his seat. When I was not sure what train ticket to buy, I was led to an English speaker at the station. These small acts gave me the confidence to enter the medina at Fes.

Inside craftsmen worked at throwing pottery, designing mosaic tiles, and tanning leather. The stench from the leather tannery dye pits was only dissipated when I was given a twig of mint to hold to my nose. The craftsmen paid no attention to me or any other wanderer, keeping their heads down intense on finishing their work.

Potters at Fes medina

They left sales to men who were just as intent on getting people to buy. “Lo,” I said meaning “no” in Arabic, but they followed me. Speaking in English they repeated: “It is very good quality. You will miss this.” The prices are not fixed so a buyer has to barter, which I was not good at doing. Most of the business people were men. Most of the people sitting in cafes were men. With no space for cars in the medina, goods are transported in by men with donkeys. It seemed a male-centric society. However, women are represented in Morocco’s parliament. Sixty of the 360 elected members are women.

I found that my sense of direction had greatly improved. In the medina, I watched for landmarks and steadily made my way through the bustling markets stopping to watch the butchers cut up meat. I ate a camel burger which tasted like dry beef. I admired the baskets full of nuts, figs, goat cheese and olives. Two knockers on some of the residential doors aroused my curiosity. A shop owner dressed in black and adorned with silver chains around his neck and wrists told me, “The knockers carry different sounds. One is used by family members and friends so the woman inside will open it. The other is used by strangers and she will not open the door.”

That night, I washed the smell from the tannery dye pits out of my hair.

Chefchaouen

Before heading to Marrakech, I took a side trip by bus through the Rif mountains to a beautiful village called Chefchaouen. The houses, all painted white and blue, looked as if the sky had fallen and left its color there. I hiked a path up the mountains to a small mosque where an Imam was teaching class to elementary school children. The village below looked like a fairyland.

Beautiful village of Chefchaouen

Tangier

Balcony view from the Hotel Continental in Tangier

Another side trip was by train to Tangier. It is a beautiful, romantic city on the Mediterranean Sea just an hour ferry ride from Spain. Approaching the city, I saw sleek modern high-speed trains parked on tracks. The trains travel from Tangier to Casablanca cutting the former travel time in half. The sky was overcast but it didn’t diminish the city’s allure. The Tangier American Legation Museum is the oldest U. S. diplomatic property in the world, but it was closed the day I arrived. I walked the waterfront promenade and sipped tea on the balcony of the Hotel Continental looking out at the Strait of Gibraltar. I imagined what it was like to travel across the sea in an explorer’s ship. Surely in summer the harbor would be filled with boats from around the world.

The first and only bar I entered while in Morocco was in Tangier. A solo guitar player sang Elvis Presley songs including White Christmas. A picture of Bob Dylan hung on the wall. People were smoking cigarettes. Mustapha said the religious side of government was against alcohol. But in this international city I guessed the rules were relaxed for infidels.

Around the corner from the bar was the train station where I caught the midnight train to Marrakech. I slept soundly in the bed that rocked in rhythm with the train’s rolling wheels. Around 10:00am the next morning I watched the stately snowcapped Atlas Mountains come into view. Tiny white dots near the base were sheep.

Marrakech

At Marrakech’s main square, Djemaa el Fna, a barrage of sights, sounds and smells encompassed me. Rhythmic drumming, clinking cymbals, wafting flutes and guitar-like string instruments called gimri created an orchestra of sounds that pulsed through the square. Plant and herb peddlers stood ready to perform smoke rituals to protect, bless, or alleviate one’s problems. Huddles of people surrounded storytellers who were sharing tales of mystery, adventure, and love. Wheeled carts filled with fresh vegetables and fruits tempted visitors. Henna-painters and street performers all vied for attention. It was a fabulous high energy place. In the nearby medina visitors can find all sorts of hand-made ceramics, clothing, furniture, baskets, you name it. The souks are filled with surprises.

Marrakech main square, Djemaa el Fna

 

In Marrakech I visited a Hammam to relax and feel pampered. I stood naked while two young women holding buckets splashed water across my body and over my head. In another room, they scrubbed nearly every inch of me and rubbed oils onto my skin. Refreshed, I strolled through the Yves Saint Laurent garden with its bold yellow and cobalt blue planters brimming with exotic plants. The fashion designer’s legacy museum was a block down the street. It is a beautiful, inspirational space. He said that it was while visiting Morocco that he discovered color.

It made me think of all I had discovered while in Morocco. The kindness of strangers, delicious food, various cooking techniques, differences in gender roles, unfamiliar religious traditions, overnight train compartments that fit six. Also, I needn’t be afraid of different. I was in a pensive mood when I returned to the main square. I sat on a balcony and watched the shadows on buildings change as the sun set. The people below started moving in a wave toward a mango-colored sky as the call to prayer began. I hoped their prayers would be answered.

The next day I would say goodbye to Mustapha and get on a train to Casablanca. He had become a friend. I hugged him as I would a brother. His unwavering attention and care continued as he had arranged for a driver to meet me in Casablanca. He insisted I see the Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca before leaving Morocco. “The mosque is cradled by the sea with the world’s highest minaret piercing the sky,” he said.

Casablanca

Back at the train station in Casablanca smiling young men approached me with their nearby car engines running. I looked away to avert their eyes. I was relieved to see Amine, holding a sign with my name on it. Amine grew up in Casablanca. Dangling from his neck was the silver yaz, similar to the one Mustapha wore. I got into the front seat of Amine’s van and began enthusiastically telling him about my trip. I asked if he had been to Tangier, Meknes or Chefchaouen. No answer. He eyed the traffic ahead.

Amine tried hard to understand what I was saying. I began speaking in French. I told him that the must-see mosque Mustapha had mentioned would be my final stop in Morocco. We drove through Casablanca’s business district. It was early spring, but I saw no flowers. When I first spotted the mosque I exclaimed, “Magnifique”. I then stumbled with my French. He wanted to tell me something. He pulled the van over to the curb on a busy street and yelled, “Get out” in English.

“What?” I questioned.

“Get out,” he repeated. I had tossed my luggage in the van’s backseat and wondered if I should leave it or take it with me. I left it. At this sacred place, it would be unusual for him to betray my trust or act with malevolence. A woman’s luggage was not worth bad karma.

Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca

Amine signaled with his hands to meet him on the other side of the plaza. I jumped out of the van. Walking towards the towering structure I felt like Dorothy when she first sees the Emerald City in the Land of Oz. But the Hassam II mosque had the Atlantic Ocean as a backdrop. For the past weeks while traveling in Morocco I had not entered any of the mosques either out of respect or it was forbidden. I hadn’t thought to buy a ticket or book a tour which I learned was available to anyone at the Hassam II mosque. I just gazed, circling its sides. I let my eyes trace the brows of arches, climb the lattice shaped tiles and with bended neck looked up, up to the emerald-green tiles. The minaret with three shiny copper circles ascended towards the heavens. It did indeed pierce the sky.

On the other side of the plaza red Moroccan flags flapped in the wind along with Amine’s waving arms. We drove along Casablanca’s shoreline into a desolate lot a few blocks away from the mosque. I wasn’t sure what he was up to. He turned the engine off and got out of the van. He was facing a six-foot-high tin construction fence. No one was around. He gestured for me to follow him. He opened a crack in the fence wide enough for us to fit through. Just beyond the fence was orange dirt and surveyor equipment. When I looked up, I saw the mosque with white cap ocean waves rushing towards its walls. “It is my favorite view,” Amine said.

I understood why it was his favorite and why he wanted to share it with me. I knew this view wouldn’t last. I froze it in my mind. The construction of high-rise buildings was being planned for the shoreline. Occupants of the newly built buildings might take this view for granted. Their eyes won’t trace the waves as ours did. Their bodies won’t feel the pull of the wind, the smell of the sea and the sky cradling us there. Perhaps Mustapha and Amine knew of psychologist Daniel Kahneman’s Peak-End Theory. It describes how we most remember experiences by their intensity and how they ended. I feel my trip to Morocco has never ended as I carry it with me still.

Hassan II Mosque, Casablanca shoreline view.

 

Barefoot in Sri Lanka

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Jetavanaramaya StupaI would rather have taken off my shirt than my shoes when I first arrived in Sri Lanka. The July heat overwhelmed me. I thought I’d drop in the streets giving the flies a delightful morsel fresh from Chicago. At the time I visited, Sri Lanka was a country at peace and poised for tourism. Modern boutique hotels were my respite.

I quickly acclimated to the heat and began walking the paths, steps, hills, and shores of this island country barefoot. I followed local people in and beyond the country’s cultural triangle of Kandy, Polonnaurawa and Anuradhapura. In some instances bare feet indicated poverty and low social status. In other places it was a sign of respect and humility to spiritual traditions. Sri Lanka’s majority population is Buddhist but there are also Hindu, Muslim, Christian and indigenous Vedda communities. Continue reading→

My Tour Through a Particle Detector at Fermilab

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We forgo the bicycles that are reserved for staff at the Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory (Fermilab) and take a shuttle bus from the main building to a warehouse-like structure painted baby blue. This is where monthly tours of the DZero particle detector and Tevatron begin, only the Tevatron, a four-mile circular underground tunnel is excluded this day due to “minor issues” after a recent inspection. A dozen people who had registered in advance show up for the two-hour public tour. We are divided into groups with mine consisting of a young Indian couple traveling cross country from Boston to L.A., and a Chicago woman and her father who is visiting from Florida.

What we are about to see is a non-operating ode to American scientific discovery. The Tevatron was once the largest energy particle collider in the world. It opened a new frontier in particle physics, bringing scientists and researchers from across the world to Fermilab’s 6,800-acre campus in Batavia, Illinois, a southwest suburb of Chicago. In 1995 CDF and DZero were two experiments connected to the Tevatron that confirmed the existence of the then holy grail of particle physics – the top quark, one of the fundamental particles of matter. Nearly 30 years later in July 2019 this discovery and the detailed measurements made here was awarded The European Physical Society Prize.

Visitors need not have a scientific background to enjoy this tour at Fermilab. All that is required is curiosity, advanced registration and a government approved ID such as a driver’s license.  Continue reading→

From Back of Truck to Front Line Science at Fermilab

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Fermi National Accelerator Lab

Wilson Hall, Fermi National Accelerator Lab

In early summer two physics professors each drove a truck from their lab at Stony Brook University in New York to Fermi National Accelerator Lab (Fermilab) near Batavia, Illinois. This was the only place in the U.S. where they could perform their test. It was a fine place. On the road that led them into the lab campus they passed a grove of leafy mature trees. They saw miles of preserved prairie and a pond used for cooling accelerator magnets, but also a home to swans, ducks and geese. They parked the trucks in a sandy lot beside a building they called the hut, also known as the Test Beam Facility. Bunkered by a grassy knoll on one side, the hut could be mistaken for an airplane hangar except for its wavy roof, made with rows of half pipes. Continue reading→

Interstellar ‘Oumuamua Still Mixed with Mystery

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Pan-STARSS1 in Maui, Hawaii. Photo credit: Forest Starr and Kim Starr

On the island of Maui, lassoed by the Pacific Ocean, hikers are not the only ones stargazing. The Pan-STARRS1 telescope scans the sky from the island each night with a primary mission to detect moving celestial objects, especially ones hurtling near Earth. The telescope crouches near the summit of the 10,000-foot Haleakala volcano. Equipped with one of the world’s largest digital cameras, on a good weather night it can image a total of 1000 square degrees of sky.  The telescope transfers its images through a high-speed data connection from Maui to the University of Hawaii Oahu campus for analysis. On the night of October 19, 2017 an unknown moving object was detected by Planetary Defense Researcher Robert Weryk. He observed for the first time ever an object of interstellar origin enter our solar system.

Weryk told me recently in an email that he has not seen anything like ‘Oumuamua since that night in October of 2017. “With good weather we can detect well over 10,000 asteroids in a single night, but most are known objects from the main asteroid belt.” He said on average they find two or three Near Earth Objects (asteroids that come close to the Earth) per night.

Upon the initial sighting Paul Chodas, manager at the Center for Near-Earth Object Studies (CNEOS) in Pasadena, California said: “We have been waiting for this day for decades. It’s long been theorized that such objects exist – asteroids or comets moving around between the stars and occasionally passing through our solar system – but this is the first such detection.”

Continue reading→