The Compass of Night

When I think about hiking in Washington, most memories begin with light. Fir trunks striped by morning sun, ridges outlined in gold, alpine lakes turning silver under a wide sky. Yet some of the most important lessons arrive after the light fades. Night alters the trail. It slows us down, rearranges our senses, and asks for a kind of attention we rarely practice. Years ago I poked my head out of the tent while camping at Chaco Culture National Historical Park in New Mexico on a moonless November night. Cold air pressed against my jacket, and I tilted my head back until my neck ached. Above me the Milky Way poured across the sky in a dense river of light. 

There was a silver flood, textured and luminous, stretching so thick across the sky it seemed like another terrain layered above the desert. I felt pulled upward into that glow, my body swaying as though gravity itself had shifted. My breath slowed without decision, caught by the immensity of what I was seeing, and tears streaming down my face.

Astronauts speak of the overview effect when Earth is seen from orbit, a reordering of perception, a collapse of borders. That night was my version of it. For the first time, I felt myself placed in the right proportion to the universe, steady in the recognition that I was inside it, not outside, not separate. The noise of daily life receded, and what remained was an awareness that the world holds its own order regardless of my lists and worries. That recalibration is something only darkness can do.

"The Overview Effect is the profound experience of seeing the Earth from space, recognizing in an instant that our planet is a single, fragile whole, without borders, floating in the void." - Frank White

Experiences like that are becoming rare. For many children growing up today, the sky at Chaco would be unimaginable. Artificial light now reaches every corner of the globe, altering bird migrations, disrupting pollination, and confusing sea turtles. For humans, the consequences are less visible yet just as profound. Our circadian rhythms slip, our sleep thins, and perhaps most of all, our access to awe narrows. Paul Bogard writes in The End of Night that darkness is not empty space but habitat, silence, and depth. It is also a resource for the psyche, one that cannot be replaced by artificial light.

Astronomers measure night with the Bortle Dark-Sky Scale, from Class 1 skies where the Milky Way casts shadows to Class 9 skies in the middle of cities. Chaco belongs to the rare Class 1. Washington’s urban core is closer to Class 7, yet the state still holds pockets of Class 3 skies in the Cascades, Olympics, and along the coast. These are not pristine, yet they are enough to reset perspective.

I’ve felt that recalibration at Marmot Pass, where the trail leaves forest for high meadows and the Olympics rise like jagged teeth. On a clear night, the Milky Way arcs across the ridge, insistent enough to stop anyone mid-step. At Shi Shi Beach, the surf hammers the shore while stars tumble into the Pacific, the line between water and sky blurred until it feels like standing inside a single vast movement. On Tolmie Peak, the lookout becomes a perch between Rainier’s immense shadow and the sky’s quiet scatter of constellations. Even Colchuck Lake, usually remembered for turquoise water, transforms at night when stars fall into its surface and the granite walls retreat into outline. 

Walking at night changes how I walk by day. A headlamp narrows vision to a small cone of ground, but switch it off and the world enlarges. Shapes arrive slowly. Sound sharpens: the trickle of water, the shift of wind, the creak of trees in the dark. At first it feels disorienting, then it feels like a correction. Night reminds me that forests and mountains are not only for daylight. They live fully in these hours, and I am a guest moving through them.

That November sky at Chaco remains my compass. It taught me that awe is not luxury. It is necessary if we are to stay in proportion to the world we inhabit. Without it, perspective warps. Even clouds over Washington ridges carry that memory now, because once you have stood under thousands of visible stars, you cannot unlearn the scale of what surrounds you. Moss on a cedar, the call of a raven, the persistence of a stream, all of them belong to the same order as that river of light across the desert sky. To walk into darkness is to accept that we are shaped by what exceeds us.

“Awe arises from the sublime, from something vast in its dimensions, which the mind can neither fully grasp nor measure.” - Edmund Burke

An Invitation

If you have never walked into darkness, seek it. Choose a trail like Marmot Pass or Shi Shi where light pollution is less severe. Carry a headlamp for safety, then switch it off long enough for your eyes to adjust. Let the world emerge at its own pace.

• Tolmie Peak Fire Lookout (Mount Rainier National Park) By day, it’s an easy trail through wildflower meadows. By night, it’s a front-row seat to Rainier glowing like an ice palace under starlight. If you’re lucky enough to stay for twilight, the mountain holds court while the first stars prick through.

• Marmot Pass (Olympic National Forest) A steep climb, yes. Your thighs will curse you. But cresting onto the pass, you face the jagged Olympics one way and the San Juans the other. Camp overnight and you’ll see a sky that, on a clear night, still feels raw and honest.

• Colchuck Lake (Enchantment Lakes) Everyone hikes here for the turquoise water. Few stay long enough to notice the stars reflecting like coins on the surface. Colchuck’s granite guardians turn into shadows at night, giving the sky permission to dominate.

• Shi Shi Beach (Olympic Coast) One of the best dark-sky spots in the state. Fall asleep to surf, wake up to stars tumbling across the horizon. Out there, with the smell of salt and the hiss of waves, you realize night has its own soundtrack.

Suggested Reading

Paul Bogard’s The End of Night is the book I recommend. He writes with urgency and care about what vanishing darkness means for ecosystems, culture, and the human spirit. Reading him is a reminder that to protect the night is not a nostalgic gesture. It is a commitment to awe, proportion, and belonging.