Like many people, I have for a long time harboured a dream to see the northern lights “properly”.  For me, this dream was kindled by a kindly man called Ron Livesey, who coordinated aurora observations for the British Astronomical Association.  In my early teens, after my parents moved to the north east of England, I would exchange letters with him about how to see the northern lights and noctilucent clouds; at the time I had no joy with the former, but I had some success with the latter, even when they weren’t such a well observed phenomenon.

In late 2021, I decided I needed to do something about the repeated “I’d love to see them properly one day” response I’d give when people asked if I’d ever seen the lights.  Having got into landscape astrophotography only a year before, it seemed logical that I’d plan a trip to capture images of the aurora as well as see them with the naked eye.  Research of locations had me examine Alaska (too far), Iceland (too high a risk of cloud) and the far north of Norway (possibly just right).  I settled on Senja island, off the north west coast of Norway, within the Arctic Circle and fairly accessible from the UK.  

A week before my trip, the whole affair was thrown into some jeopardy when my best mate and travel partner fell ill. We decided to leave it to the last minute to see how he was, and on the day before our flights, he called to properly pull out as his whole family had now succumbed as well.  I started to readjust to the idea of going solo, but it was likely some of the more extreme mountain-top shooting locations were now off-limits - I’m a competent hiker, but it wouldn’t be fair on my family to head into unfamiliar wilderness alone at night!

But then in a flash of inspiration my wife Esther suggested she might be able to come instead.  I looked blankly at her, failing completely to comprehend why she’d want to tag along on an essentially nocturnal “holiday”, with only a peripheral interest in the night sky, no suitable clothing and only very basic accommodation booked. And besides, with two school-age kids I just didn’t see logistically how it would work. An hour later, she’d convinced her parents to drive over from the other side of the country that same day and look after the kids for the week (for which I’ll be forever grateful), we’d navigated the needlessly complex process of switching passenger names, and we were looking forward to a completely unexpected trip together. 

While I was shooting the serene scene in Light and Tranquility, Esther started to get excited about a distinct brightening and more rapid movement to the south.  Arcs of pulsating and flickering pillars were starting to form, and greens were turning to pinks more frequently, even to the eye.  The whole sky was starting to take on a distinct glow, with different hues appearing and dissipating with increasing frequency.

I rushed to move the car out of the way in order to set up an alternative foreground for a timelapse.  My heart was racing.  As I moved it forward I heard a horrendous noise from underneath.  Immediately I realised I'd run over my camera bag, which I'd stupidly left in front of the car earlier.  Words were uttered.  Bad words.  It was completely wedged under the floor pans - I had no choice but to keep moving forward to dislodge it, and just hope any damage was limited.  Incredibly, though the bag took a battering, including the thick metal rods encasing the main compartment, the contents were completely unscathed.  It pays to keep your head when the sky is kicking off - I didn't, but thankfully no serious harm was done.

By now the sky was ablaze and this substorm was in full swing.  There were curtains, arcs, flickering pillars, beautiful complex coronas forming and disappearing overhead, and colours like I've never seen in my life.  It's hard to describe - at times, the mixture of colours in the sky made it look heavily light polluted, but then the colours would separate and it would look truly magical.  I knew this was my chance to get the shot of a lifetime and that these conditions were not likely to last long.

I climbed back down to the side of the stream and decided to shoot a panorama so as to catch as much of the colour in the sky as possible.  The images on the back of the camera were utterly surreal, and I was already looking forward to getting them home on the computer to really see the colours.

The 10 minutes or so that this substorm was in full swing were breathtaking - I honestly never knew the sky could be so dynamic and almost violent in its colour.  I still get goosebumps thinking about it.