05/06/2026
There’s cold… and then there’s Fairbanks at -30. The kind that bites through anything, where every breath feels sharp and your camera starts to second guess your sanity. But geared up head to toe in battery-heated layers, tucked near a tiny Forest Service cabin a solid 90 minutes from anywhere, you settle in and wait.
And then the sky wakes up.
At first it’s a faint glow… easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. Then suddenly it’s everywhere. The entire sky erupts—horizon to horizon—curtains of color spilling and twisting overhead as the solar wind sets everything in motion. Greens so intense they look electric, ribbons of magenta weaving through like something alive. Up here, the aurora doesn’t just glow… it burns neon across the night.
And you realize quickly—you don’t even know where to point your camera.
Every direction is the shot. You’re spinning, chasing light, trying to keep up as it dances faster than you can think. One minute you’re framed to the north, the next you’re swinging south, then straight up… over and over, lifting the whole tripod and camera to catch what’s happening directly above you. It turns into this full-body effort, like you’re in sync with the sky, just trying not to miss it.
My only disappointment? No strong foreground to anchor it all—no icy lake reflecting the colors, no mountains cutting into the glow. Just endless sky and trees. But honestly… seeing the aurora that intense, that alive, more than made up for it.
You forget about the cold. You forget about time.
You just keep shooting… all night, completely wrapped up in it. And the next day? Exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with no sleep—arms sore, body spent—but still buzzing from what you witnessed. Frozen, worn out, and already knowing you’d go right back out and do it again.