Zhurius Noctus Magnificus
Zhůří, a vanished village once rising atop a rounded ridge above the Šumava plains, whose last remnants—once mighty dwellings—slowly merge with the surrounding nature. In the deep embrace of the mountain, beneath the abandoned village, the Vydra River has for countless ages smoothed the boulders jutting from its bed—mute witnesses of the epochs before the distant dawn of our earliest ancestors. These rounded stones stand in silence, for millennia, in the rushing waters of the young river, and perhaps they remember the evenings when celestial beauty above their granite crests was not veiled by the glow of our cities. Only in rare moments, when the cities around grow dim, can we too—fleeting as we are—lift our heads and behold that infinite splendor of the stars, together with the immortal stone sentinels of the river valley.
The forecast for tonight did not look good at all in the north, and in the coronavirus-sealed Czech Republic, our last hope lay in the Šumava region. For us from Liberec, that has long since been the southern edge of the Ještěd region, with significantly darker skies. I had some doubts about whether I would end up being the only member of the crew, but Vic quickly dispelled them, despite countless sleepless nights in recent days. And so we set out in our trusted lineup, a team that had already experienced both disappointments and unforgettable tales from our nocturnal adventures. This time, our set of observational instruments was missing Almara, which was on an undeserved medical leave after partially going blind in its 40cm eye. In place of the main instrument, we had a much younger 40cm Dobsonian comrade from Explore Scientific—Night King, known among American amateur astronomers as „The Meter from the East.“ And so we packed up: a 125mm binocular, a 250mm Dobsonian known as „the half-meter,“ and the aforementioned largest 40cm Czech „Meter.“ Surprisingly, all this gear fit comfortably into the Octavia, from which we had to evict some critters that had taken a liking to the nighttime environment—a subtle premonition of what was to come. We departed from Skala with an uncertain hope for clear skies to the south and a clear prospect of a three-hour journey across the country. To ensure a smooth trip, I tuned the radio to Saturday’s church services, which, in the coronavirus era, fortunately filled the airwaves.
During the monotonous journey, we reminisced about recent days, such as when I tried to translate Uwe’s project on thin galaxies into Czech. Since my German is lacking, I used Google Translate and discovered that Germans refer to a thin galaxy as a „pancake.“ We both found this amusing, as it opened up the possibility of shifting the dull, technocratic nomenclature of astronomy toward a terminology filled with gourmet expressions.
At the end of our journey, we noticed darkened guesthouses, a practically deserted Horská Kvilda, and just before Zhůří, we encountered a lone photographer capturing the evening scenery of the setting Venus alongside a few-day-old Moon. We arrived at our destination shortly after 9:30 PM. We set up our telescopes, and to my surprise, I assembled the Meter in a time that did not provoke Vic’s usual smirks, as he is accustomed to the „pull out, extend, observe“ approach. And so, we began! The sky was clear, we measured the sky brightness extensively, and stared in disbelief at the first numbers, which I tried to verify by looking at the visible zodiacal bridge and gegenschein. I turned the Dobsonian toward Hickson 44, where all four members were shining clearly. Then, I compared Abell 1367 with my memories from recent days. Incomparable! As I counted individual galaxies, I lost track; they faded one by one and disappeared from my field of view. I looked up at the sky—clouds were beginning to gather from the west. It almost seemed like we would be unlucky once again. How many times in the past half-year had the weather thwarted our attempts here? Be it bright airglow, high humidity, or frost-covered telescopes. Once, the fog was so thick that we had to turn back near Strakonice.
We lie in boredom,
on Zhůří’s meadows,
gazing into the smudged stars.
Time carves away the night,
until the moment—
a coin flips past midnight,
and from our slumber we awake
as the Milky Way drifts in,
spilling silver upon black velvet.
And there it was. After midnight, the clouds completely dissolved, and the sky revealed its treasure trove lined with black velvet, finally allowing us to touch this wealth!
Cautiously, I chose the Whale Galaxy, NGC 4631, first. I gazed in awe at the Black Sea, in which it swam with its calf. I stretched both cetaceans across the entire field of view, searching for bands and notches on their bodies. Stunning, just like the neighboring NGC 4656, aptly named the Hockey Stick due to its characteristic bent shape. I moved a little further to the undeservedly nameless NGC 4395, a weaker, smaller sister of M101, surprisingly breaking into inner structures with hints of spiral arms—a stark contrast to the faint smudge I knew from spring observations near Ještěd. And why not check its sister—M101? The well-known Pinwheel Galaxy, so familiar from the Jizera Mountains, appeared much more pronounced here, including its satellite galaxies. Vic and I spent some time examining the grainy, sparkling structures in its arms, one of which was significantly isolated, making the entire structure resemble an ammonite in photographs.
Vic finds NGC 3115, the Spindle Galaxy, in Sextans—here a stretched and prominent representative of thin pancakes, of which we had a long lineup awaiting us tonight. I move a bit eastward—into Hydra, to NGC 2974, which is interestingly nestled against a bright star, much like the nearby planetary nebula Abell 33. It’s as if the deep-sky objects in these parts are huddling near bright stars in fear of some sea monster. With sufficient aperture equipped with an OIII filter, Abell 33 resembles a ring with a diamond embedded. A stunning sight at the transition of winter and spring!
A brilliant sky demands a technical confirmation of quality using the SQM. Immediately after clearing up, the wide-field SQM shows stable values of 21.80 MSA, and the SQM-L in the zenith records an incredible 21.96. Our jaws drop as we repeatedly verify what the SQM display is telling us. Seeing M13 with the naked eye is expected, but M92—not as common. To the east, the familiar deep-sky objects of the galactic core blaze forth, with a concentration near the Lagoon Nebula far exceeding what I know from the Jizera Mountains. There, the Milky Way fades above the level of the asterism, but here, it is absolutely magnificent, far more impressive than my memories of observations from Edelweissspitze. My favorite indicator of sky quality in these situations is the silver band’s boundary. Here, the western edge touches the star δ Dra and extends beyond Vega in Lyra. I haven’t seen this even on the best inversion nights in Jizera. Next to me, Vic exclaims that he has never in his life seen such an obvious Coal Sack next to Deneb. He repeats it several times, as if stuck in a loop like an old record. I don’t mind at all because I’m remembering the last 15 years of chasing dark skies across the Czech Republic, hoping to see the sky as I did as a child at a summer camp near Pecka. I still recall the wonder of the Milky Way, teeming with tiny sparkling stars, appearing like a mighty celestial river composed of millions of gleaming grains of sand… Tonight, just like back then at Pecka, it’s an absolute marvel—perhaps even more so, a Super marvel. Vic tests his visual limit, reaching 6.7 mag with his imperfect eyesight, but for higher values, we lack the quality charts I foolishly discarded recently.
After a short break, it’s time for an inventory of faint galaxies—tonight’s conditions are perfect for them, and the quality of the sky is the crucial factor for visually detecting such objects. I don’t have a meticulously prepared plan in advance, so I can’t afford to waste this excellent night searching for unknown objects on a map. Instead, I select well-known targets that require no guiding references. First up is the easily located Abell 1656, where NGC 4889 and NGC 4874 blaze in the 400mm Dobsonian at 220× magnification, just like M65 and M66 do in the 250mm under skies measuring 21.15 in the last week’s sessions. Surrounding them is a swarm of smaller galaxies, and I sweep the field toward the southwest, northeast, and east, where additional dense clusters of the Coma Cluster lie.
Next is the neighboring Hickson 61, the well-known „Box“ galaxy group. It’s easily found in an optical finder, though harder with a red-dot. At 220× magnification, all members are clearly visible—including the seemingly largest one, which is actually the weakest in the group. In reality, it doesn’t even belong to this gathering; it only appears in front of them, halfway between us and the cluster! Vic then shifts the view to Hickson 68—yes, shifts, because if he’s holding the telescope, objects aren’t searched for; the field of view is simply moved from one object to the next, just like a GoTo mount. Unlike a GoTo, however, after shifting the view, he’ll tell you the object’s exact catalog number along with additional details. He knows hundreds of these targets. In our club, we have a respected Czech neurologist who has no rational scientific explanation for this behavior. Vic grunts approvingly at HCG 68—a rare thing for him when it comes to galaxies, as he is usually devoted to comet hunting. The sight of Hickson 68 makes me chuckle, and I think to myself: This can’t be real—I can’t possibly be seeing what I’ve only known from photographs!
After another short break to thaw our frozen bodies with hot tea, our program continues with the famous galaxies of Virgo. Twice, I swept the binoscope in a loop from M100, through all the local Messiers, to M60. Even in the binoscope, the view was breathtaking, resembling what we see in the 250mm Dobsonian back home. We then went through galaxy after galaxy, eventually reaching the long-overlooked, textbook example of colliding galaxies: NGC 4298 and NGC 4302. Their appearance strongly impressed us for a few moments.
After observing the swirling disc of M99, we arrived at another highlight of the night—the famous Markarian’s Chain. I recalled an illustration from Uwe’s sketches, depicting „galactic eyes,“ where one eye, NGC 4435, appears stretched and as if pierced by an intergalactic bullet, leaving a drawn-out stream of gas in its wake. In the Dobsonian, we used 220× magnification. The view through the 100-degree field eyepiece at this 50-million-light-year-distant structure was overwhelming. The dark sky revealed the galactic halos much more distinctly, and the field of view was carefully chosen to include only the immediate neighbors, appearing almost to touch. This impression was especially strong in the densely packed western section around M84 and M86.
Surveying the vicinity of Markarian’s Chain, I explored westward toward an area concealing the beloved silver „galactic needle“—NGC 4216. To my surprise, instead of one, I immediately saw two bright, nearly parallel galaxies. Vic then found a third in the field of view, making the region resemble a carelessly scattered celestial pincushion.
As the night continued, the pristine sky compelled Vic to open his long-hidden list of objects reserved for future expeditions at EWS. A dusty dream list, strictly off-limits in our usual conditions. He pulled out the still-unseen UGC 9749, a dwarf galaxy in Ursa Minor (UMi Dwarf). I’ll spill the secret—finding it took him a full minute! Then, he went quiet at the eyepiece before finally admitting that something was there. Knowing Vic’s penchant for seeing „comet ghosts“—which he swears are real—I was glad to confirm this one. It was really there. This otherwise subtle creature turned out to be one of the night’s highlights.
The breathtaking rising Milky Way forced me to reconsider my observing plan, dedicating an hour to nebular objects of our galaxy. Half a year ago, I equipped myself with a high-quality Lumicon OIII filter, which, along with an Astronomik UHC, rotated in and out of the eyepiece throughout the night. I like to start with known, time-tested objects, where there’s no risk of frustration from long searches or disappointment from faint appearances. A perfect candidate was NGC 6888—the Crescent Nebula in Cygnus. The view through the 100-degree APM eyepiece with OIII at 150× defies description without superlatives. It somewhat resembles Uwe Glahn’s sketch; visually, it looks completely different from photos, but unlike photography, the eyepiece view is fantastic. This one must be seen in person—one of the evening’s best moments, burned into memory.
Next in line was the nebula Sh2-125, known as the Cocoon Nebula. I have observed this nebula several times before from the Jizera Mountains, where it appeared as a very faint halo surrounding a central group of stars, and tonight was not much different. I’ll definitely need to get a proper H-Beta filter for this one. Some say the H-Beta filter is only useful for the Horsehead and California Nebulae, but that’s far from true—Cygnus and Cassiopeia host plenty of nebulae that respond well to it. There wasn’t much time for further experimentation, so I chose Sh2-112, an unknown but easily located nebula that turned out to be a stunning sight, resembling a comet. Vic, who, as I’ve already mentioned, has a deep fondness for comets (as is well known from our club), was particularly delighted. This one even had a tail! The only flaw was that it didn’t move, didn’t fragment, and all brightness estimates remained unchanged.
And now, we approach the grand finale. In the southeast, the entire teapot asterism of Sagittarius begins to emerge. Stretching from the right side of the asterism down to the base of the constellation Scutum is a dense cloud of star clusters and nebulae, visible to the naked eye—the last targets to crown tonight’s celestial nirvana. But first, we begin a little higher up, with the well-known Dumbbell Nebula, M27. This object is so famous that it hardly surprises seasoned observers. However, from Uwe’s sketches, we know that under excellent skies, faint hints of outer nebulosity can be detected—normally visible only in photographs. Looking through the eyepiece at 150× magnification, we find ourselves saying: It’s really there. In the spots familiar from drawings, we truly see faint traces of the nebula!
We move closer to the galactic center, and the first target in the eyepiece is the Eagle Nebula, M17. I push the magnification and call Vic over to remind me where exactly the Pillars of Creation are. He acts as a navigator, quickly spouting the coordinates and directions on how to find them. I follow the trail—and yes, I actually see what I had only moments ago thought could merely be a figment of my imagination.
After the Eagle Nebula, we shift our field of view even farther south, where we encounter the golden highlight of the evening—the Swan Nebula, also known as the Omega Nebula. As we drink in every delicate filament and shadow woven into the otherwise brightly glowing feathers of this celestial swan, our mental ranking of all astronomical objects reshuffles and collapses. At last, in reverent awe before the eyepiece, we watch Omega ascend to its rightful place—seating itself atop the throne of all cosmic wonders we have ever observed. This was the true peak of the night—one that revealed more objects than could possibly fit into this report. Perhaps next time, we shall recount those as well.
Dawn arrives, and we pack up our equipment while watching the encroaching daylight. Just minutes after the end of astronomical darkness, the sky is as bright as it is back in the Jizera Mountains. An hour later, even the Milky Way has vanished completely. And so, we bid a final farewell to this extraordinary place in our country and set off on the road home.
Acknowledgments
@Vic – for proofreading the text @Uwe Glahn – for providing beautiful sketches
Written by Ladin, Year of Our Lord 2020
Night of the Century
„This night will go down in history!“ I told Ladin as we stepped out of the car at home this morning. I would love for it to happen again, as regularly as possible. But it was more of an exception—a lucky convergence of circumstances that allowed us to have a sky better than in the Alps or La Palma, right here in the Czech Republic.
For the last 45 nights in a row, I had spent my time under the starry sky, missing only one. Many of those nights were full-fledged all-nighters, with sleep only coming at dawn. I even managed to pull off a sequential marathon. I had never experienced such an intense period before. This year, March and April brought unusually favorable weather, which I attributed to being without Almara—my main telescope, sacrificed to the gods of the sky (read: the mirror was sent for recoating, and due to the pandemic, I still haven’t gotten it back). I secretly hoped that buying a pair of Naglers for my binoscope would bring the long-awaited P.I.Z.D.O (Pleasant Even Cloudy and Rainy Sky) weather, so I could finally get some proper sleep.
Well, it happened. The sky did cloud over—unfortunately, only here in the north. This prompted Ladin, who usually skips every other night, to plan a trip further beyond Ještěd, where the forecast was better. I suggested, knowing full well I wouldn’t get any sleep again, that we should go straight to Almberg, where the forecast was the best. It never even crossed my mind at the time that we might have to fight our way across the border. So, I settled for Zhůří, which, as we already knew, was also a beautiful location.
After loading up the gear at my place and setting course south, Ladin noticed that besides our optics, we had a stowaway in the trunk—an orange-furred one, to be precise. Micina, the cat. I had no idea what a domestic cat would do in the deep Šumava forests, so we made sure to drop her off, figuring she could take the train if she really wanted a nature trip. Since we packed in a hurry, neither of us had a detailed observing plan. We agreed, however, that besides comets, we would focus mainly on „pancakes.“ Somewhere near Strakonice, we officially gave these objects—otherwise known as galaxies—a proper Czech name.
As we neared our destination, it became clear that the sky wouldn’t be entirely clear. The forecast model suggested the Czech side would only fully clear later in the night, so we didn’t worry too much. Early in the evening, we bid goodnight to the crescent Moon, said farewell to Orion, and gritted our teeth at the sight of yet another passing train of Starlink satellites. Ladin managed to set up his „Meter“ in record time, so I was able to take a quick look at the low-hanging comet 210P/Christensen before it disappeared below the horizon. The zenith darkened nicely. A band of clouds lingered low in the south, but it wasn’t much of a problem—what did bother us was the unpleasant haze forming in the north. Before long, the quiet Šumava plains echoed with: „Where the hell is Cassiopeia?“…
The sky gradually clouded over with high-altitude haze, so we lay down, hoping to catch some Lyrids. Before long, I was out like a log… Only to be shaken awake by Láďa’s shout: „Get up! It’s cleared up!“ I pried my eyes open and couldn’t believe it. Just to be sure, I grabbed my typically pessimistic SQM-L… 21.93? Ha! Is it broken? Is this just a dream? No! Even Ladin’s wide-field SQM was showing record values.
We immediately dove into observing anything and everything that came to mind. We had three scopes, so comparisons were easy. What we usually observed at home in a 16″ scope was now easily visible in a 10″, and for many targets, the 84×125 mm binoscope was more than enough. Besides a dozen comet targets, we plowed through a sea of „pancakes,“ planetary nebulae, and globular clusters. We also spent a great deal of time on well-known objects, which suddenly looked far better than we had ever seen them before. In short, we were in astronomical bliss. The SQM in the zenith remained stable between 21.95–21.97. There was no wind, no dew—simply ideal conditions. It’s a shame the nights are already getting shorter.
Even the horizon looked great. No light domes anywhere. No Boleslav, no Prague. For the first time in my life, I saw the globular cluster NGC 5986 in Lupus at a declination of -37° 47′, probably the southernmost object visible from our location. The binoscope was sufficient to reveal it. The globulars NGC 6441 and 6723 were also easily seen. And for the first time this year, I managed to get a look at my favorite, M55, which I had missed during the spring marathon.
I haven’t had a night this incredible in the last 20 years, and who knows if I ever will again. I think we’ll be reminiscing about this successful expedition for a long time. This truly was the night of the century!
Vic KaL ◊!