Blackout Dark Sky Territory

Mick drove down the dark highway, dingy yellow light spilled from the truck’s lone headlight. The damp pavement softened the road noise as the truck coasted to the forest service road turn. He eased the clutch out and bounced down the gravel road. He flicked on the high-beams. The headlights illuminated the brush, and the leaves sparkled with raindrops.

Eric and his dad, Gene, brought Mick to the Mt. Hood National Forest three years ago, when he was thirteen. Gene loved to camp. As a former through-hiker of the Pacific Crest Trail, he missed the solitude and self-reliance. Eric and Mick just wanted a summer adventure, somewhere to disappear into the trees. Mick had never wild-camped before.

Gene handed Mick his beat-up Plants of the Pacific Northwest Coast. “Let’s find nature’s candy, shall we?” Gene said, rubbing his hands together.

Mick stared at the page. “You want me to eat a fern?”

“Not just any fern.” Gene tapped the name. “Licorice fern. We’re in the perfect area — see that maple?” He pointed. “The moss on the branches hosts these little guys.” Gene dug a rhizome out of the moss. “Yep. Brush the silt off. Now take a small bite. Chew it, but don’t swallow it yet. Wait for it.”

Mick hesitated, then did it.

“Um — this tastes just like a black Jelly Belly!”

Thanks to Gene, Mick fell in love with camping and the forest. For months after that trip, all he talked about was licorice ferns and how dark the sky got at night. The darkness reminded Mick of his childhood outside of Detroit, when his dad was still alive.

The forest and camping became his escape. Out here, he could pretend nothing was wrong.

The first weekend after he got his driver’s license, Mick drove for hours, trying to find Gene’s magical spot. He finally stopped at the Ripplebrook Ranger Station, hoping someone behind a counter might know where memory lived on a map.

Ranger Russ didn’t laugh at him. He just listened, elbows on the scarred map table. The radio in the corner hissed, then cleared just long enough for “wild horses couldn’t drag me away” before the mountains swallowed the station again.

“You’re describing Oregon,” he said, but the corner of his mouth lifted. Then he stood, dug through a drawer, and slapped a topo map down like a dealer. His finger traced the river, paused, and circled a bend.

“Start here,” he said. “And here. And — ” one more circle, farther out — “here. If you find your magic spot, come tell me. I don’t get much company up this way.”

Mick nodded like it was nothing. But when he took the map, his hands were careful.

He drove to each circled place. Each had something. But the second one — quiet, tucked back from the river — felt like relief. It wasn’t Gene’s spot. Close enough counted.

Tonight’s air was crisp. The earlier clouds had rolled over Mt. Hood, and the cold seeped through his jacket as the truck bounced down the road. He rounded the corner and parked on the soft shoulder.

He set the brake and switched the truck off. Gravel damp under his Sambas, he stretched. He tossed a tarp into the bed, snapped on his headlamp, and spread a few army surplus blankets like padding. He climbed into the bed and lay on his back, and pulled the binoculars from his bag.

Tonight was a new moon. Away from the city, it was dark sky territory. The inky blackness was perfect for stargazing, the last clean connection he had with his father.

He found the Big Dipper by sight. See those two, Mick? That’s Dubhe and Merak. His dad’s voice filled his head.

Mick glassed slowly north. And that one. The voice softened. That’s the North Star. It’s called…

“Polaris,” Mick said into the darkness, a small tear slid down his left cheek.