Light

     I was sitting at the UCC Church in Garrison, North Dakota for a service. My wife Ingrid just completed a masterful poem focused on remembrance and coping with loss, and now we were going to celebrate life. One by one we lit candles and set them in sand lying within a large, wooden cross. In the dark rooms of the church, the candles stood out brighter than all else, symbolizing the light that we each carry within us, and how we never let it die. Each of these lights representing a life missed, and it was a moving experience. Light is powerful. 

     On the drive home, beneath a dark, starry, December sky, there is a slight orange glow to the west and northwest. Here in rural North Dakota, there has never been any reason for light pollution to fill up the sky when an area the size of Vermont and New Hampshire combined has a population less than Fargo, North Dakota. With the advent of oil development has come flaring, or burning of natural gas that is produced as a by-product of fracking. This natural gas is burned on-site and produces an incredibly bright, continuous fire that lights up the whole country-side. The closest oil development is only 40 miles away. On a cloudy night, the clouds appear orange, much like what you might see in a large city. It makes the stars less spectacular, but it can also help defeat the intense darkness of the rural Great Plains. Light is powerful.

      Back in July, a friend and I were hiking in the badlands on the beautiful Maah Daah Hey Trail. Our first night of camping, we were in a spot where the sky above us illuminated the full Milky Way, almost like a thick glitter in the sky. From high up on a ridge we could look down the valley at the only lights for miles- the tiny tourist town of Medora. We marveled how the next day we would be approaching that town, even though it seemed like a daunting task. Walking back to our tents, we needed to use our headlamps to guide us, because the darkness made it difficult to even see our feet on the ground. Light is powerful.

     Light is also a basic lifeline for runners. Many runners can survive by running in towns with streetlights bright enough to light the paths. When I was in college, I would run on the greenway in Grand Forks, and though the darkness was deep by the river, the lights in town were enough to show at least the outlines of the path. I didn’t need a light for that. However, for many runners the darkness faces an insurmountable challenge- not only from the inability to see, but also from the devious behavior of some that can, along with making sure others can see you! For me, this is paramount. I run on a paved two-lane highway that is completely dark when the sun is down. I can faintly see the general outline of the road, but if there was a person or animal, I wouldn’t see. If a car is driving down the shoulder-less road, they might not see me until it’s too late. As a result, I have to buy things to get electrons moving fast enough to make sure I don’t get into trouble.

    I run with two lights, a headlamp for my front, and an LED anklet for my back. Both are highly effective at keeping me safe, because every car that drives past will move over to the other lane and- perhaps the best thing that can happen- turn off their brights. See, lights can be TOO bright. We all know how it feels to be driving down the highway, and the person coming from the opposite direction still has their brights on. Continuing to look at the road becomes difficult as we squint, feeling the searing pain on our eyes. Eventually the car either drives past, or the driver turns off their brights; either way it’s not a fun experience. While running on the road, this can be even worse. In the moments before an approaching car goes past, lights will make the road beneath my feet disappear; the car in front of me becomes a large, intense yellow light that blinds me, while the road below me also turns yellow and more difficult to see. When I weigh 155lbs and the car hurtling towards me is 4000lbs, the road has no shoulder, and I’m blinded, it’s a scary scenario. That’s why people should always move over while driving.

     Conversely, we all have been the driver that forgot to turn off their brights. I personally will apologize out loud to the driver zooming past me, with no hopes of them hearing me or knowing who I am. Almost all of us sit in bed in our dark room, staring at our phones while awaiting sleep, knowing perfectly well that doing so lessens our chance of a good quality night of rest. Our towns have street lights that stay on all night, every day. Buildings and businesses shine security lights and have interior lights on in case of a break-in. Dormant cars sitting in parking lots have a small, flashing blue lights signifying auto-start ready and waiting. At this time of year, houses line the street with magnificent Christmas colors, adding more light to the night sky.

     A few days ago during the evening I was flying in an airplane through the Eastern US and Midwest, and the whole landscape was dotted with bright lights. Cities, cars, farmhouses- you name it, it was probably emitting light. I’ve never flown over the Bakken oil fields, but I’d imagine the light, as seen from the sky, is incredible. It begs the question- where can we go to escape light? We as humans have worked so hard for so long to avoid and tame the darkness that we have succeeded, magnificently. Many places in the US you can step outside in the middle of the night and go for a walk without bringing any extra light with you. So, where is there left?

     White Shield is one of those places. On a clear night, I’ll put my headlamp on, wrap my LED light around my ankle, and run out the door. I’ll run a half mile or so and be out in the country. Despite this being the main highway, all is quiet. No cars, no towns, no traffic lights. As I run, I become increasingly aware of the multitude of stars sitting calmly above my head, twinkling on a cold winters night. I turn off the light attached to my forehead. Dark blackness comes rushing into my face, temporarily blanking my vision. Slowly items start coming into view- farmhouse lights two miles away, the dim glow of flaring to the far west, and the electric pad 4 miles up the road. My legs are now the same color as the air around them, and I can’t tell one from the other. My shoes are hitting the road, but I can see neither. What does illuminate most brilliantly around me, though, is the sky. Millions of stars open up above me, and the milky way cuts a dense, glimmering line through the middle of the half-sphere that is the night sky. I try to follow the whole milky way with my eyes, but I arch my head so far back that I end up losing my balance and almost falling on the road. It’s beautiful.

     Running in the dark can be quite scary, too. There have been inklings around town for almost a year now that a resident mountain lion has been lurking. There have been supposed sightings, confirmed first-hand by folks, but never confirmed when followed up on by law enforcement. Often when I shut off my running light, I become painfully aware that I am in the middle of the country, with absolutely no protections at all, and a mountain lion could be sitting in the ditch 10 yards in front of me and I would have no idea, despite their being no crops, no trees, and no anything for it to hide behind- it’s just that dark. This will entice me to occasionally turn on my headlamp and do a little spin while I’m running, looking into the farmland for any sign that my light is being reflected back by a small pair of eyes. On rare occasion I do see eyes in the field, and while my heart rate spikes to about 400 and I start wishing I could’ve told my family I love them one last time, it usually ends up being a rabbit or deer. 

     The light that we see the least of during the winter is the sun. After months of only seeing the sun a few hours a day, if at all, we sit around and wait for those summer days where we can go out for a run at 9pm and the sun is still shining in the northwestern sky. Who would hate such a life-giving time of year? But alas, I find myself coming to enjoy those late-night or early morning runs, where all is quiet and dark. There’s a certain sense of peace in the deadness of winter on the prairie that can’t be mimicked anywhere else. The beauty of it grows on me with each run. There’s no way that I’ll miss the cold and dark once the days start getting longer, but a part of me will still be running in the dark, staring up at the starry sky, each bright light like a candle, reminding us and allowing us to think deeply about things that matter. The road, much like the sky, has no end as it undulates through the open land, and my thoughts will still be floating there, on a calm, cold night, in the middle of nowhere, far from any of the powerful lights.