Strange Things In the Sky

STRANGE THINGS IN THE SKY  

May/June, 2010 issue
“I  don't know who else to ask about this, and I really enjoy reading your   columns. I live just outside Tamworth, on a hill with great views in  all  directions. Today at 5:30 I saw the oddest thing on the western  horizon. The sun  was setting, and there were beautiful clouds swirling  above it in a  northwesterly arc. To the south there was almost a second  sun. It seemed to be  part of a rainbow-like arc which had a south  easterly curve - as if it completed  a large circle. I could see the  various spectrum colours in the curve, as well  as a very bright area -  almost as bright as the sun. It was gorgeous - but I'm  stumped as to  what it was. I'm sorry to bother you with this, but I would really  be  grateful if you could share any ideas.” 
  
 The  above query arrived in the form of an e-mail, and right away I knew   what she was referring to as I have noticed this strange phenomenon in  the sky  before.  I was with a group of kayakers several years ago, and  we were paddling  home after an exceptionally beautiful evening on the  Bay of Quinte. The serenity  of early evening, the absolute stillness  with the glassy water reflecting the  colours we were now looking at as  we paddled along, was a moment I shall never  forget. 
  
 Last  month, my wife and I were returning home from teaching a Bird   Identification Course in Kingston, and she pointed out the same  atmospheric  phenomenon in the sky off to my left.  As the highway began  to curve in our  favour, we found ourselves mesmerized   by the halo  phenomenon, now straight  ahead of us.  Most of us know these as  “sundogs”.  The colourful, almost  rainbow-like splotches of light on  either side of the sun are more properly  known as parhelia, if you want  the more scientific term. They are caused by  reflection and refraction  in aligned ice crystals in the upper atmosphere and  appear as brightly  coloured spots on either side of the sun; hence the  colloquial name  mock suns, and most always they appear as pairs, on either side  of the  sun. A single one, when it does occur, is called a parhelion.  As might   be expected whenever sundogs occur, there were cirrus clouds about  during each  of these sightings, and these have to be present before we  can see the parhelia.  Light shining through the ice crystals in these  clouds make a sundog, much the  same as light shining through raindrops  makes a rainbow. The crystals bend the  light 22 degrees as the light  enters then exits the crystal and, lo and behold,  the parhelia appear. 
  
 The  phenomenon predicts little, and really says nothing more about the   weather than what is already happening. It happens during certain times  of the  day and during certain sky conditions, and these are already  present and  happening when we see the spectacle. Others we see such as  full halos around the  sun and moon do mean something. Since the halo is  produced when light reflects  off ice crystals in cirrus clouds, and  cirrus clouds portend worsening weather,  a ring around the sun or moon  is a fairly accurate indicator of stormy weather  in a day or two. These  upper atmosphere clouds form when a warm front approaches  cooler  ground air.
  
 My  most memorable sun halo was in 2004, during an organized kayak trip on   the Rideau Canal, from Kingston to Ottawa. At Rideau Ferry, I seemed to  be the  only member of our group concerned about a perfect halo around  the sun, but it  didn’t  take one skilled in reading the skies to know  what was coming. We knew  that the tail end of Hurricane Francis was on  its way, and it was just a  question of when it would arrive. It hit  during the night while we sat huddled  in our tents in Smith’s Falls,  horizontal rain straining at the tent pegs and  making for a miserable  night and following day as more than five inches of rain  fell. 
  
 So  often you can predict, by reading the sky, what kind of weather is   forthcoming. Once we understand why a particular phenomenon is  happening, then  we can better understand its meaning, and conclude  there is really nothing  occult or supernatural about the things we see  and do not immediately  understand.  Some people though do put too much  credence in some of the things  they see. 
  
 Skies  can tell us a lot, if we pay attention. Sometimes though knowledge is   painfully lacking. I am reminded of one person during an evening outdoor   presentation on a bright, starry, calm night at Sandbanks Provincial  Park, who  asked if it would be raining within the next hour of the  program. This person  had no concept of any clues that might serve to  predict the weather conditions  over the next hour, never mind within  several days. Clouds, or the lack of them,  meant little, and there was  no experience with the meaning of that morning’s  heavy dew, he didn’t  look for a halo around the moon, or check the colour of the  sunset.
  
 Mariners  long ago learned how to read the skies because they had little  else to  rely on when they were beyond the safety of land. With one eye on the   sky and the other on a fish-oil barometer, the old salts could make some   stunningly accurate weather predictions. Lives and livelihoods  depended on it.  It's easy for modern boaters to forget the basics as we  become more reliant on  high-tech sources for weather.  On one boat  tour in the middle of Lake Ontario  some years back, the captain of the  boat pointed to a phenomenon in the sky that  he referred to as  “mares’  tails”, wispy, cirrus streamers that seemed to  converge at the horizon  with little other cloud cover present, an indication of  more active  weather ahead, likely in a day or two.
  
 During  our farming days on the bay of Quinte, the old Point Anne Cement  Plant  told us more about the weather than the local radio station. The smoke   from the chimneys became our wind sock. As a back-up, if we could  detect the  yeasty smell of Corby Distilleries, then we knew the wind  was out of the  north-west. If the smoke was rising high, we knew we  could draw in hay that day.  On the other hand, if it hugged the ground,  then rain was on its way.  A good  day to clean out the henhouse. Even  the sounds told us a lot. Often we could  hear the train on the north  shore of the Bay of Quinte as it rumbled and tooted  its way to and from  Belleville. I even had a ditty - “The clearer the train, the  nearer  the rain.” Our senses tend to be sharper when the air is damp and sound   carries much better. There is nothing supernatural about any of this. 
  
 I  still listen for that train. And it, and the skies above it, can be  just  as accurate, if not more so, than the weather I download from the  Internet. You  just need to understand the skies and the messages they  carry. 
  
 For more information on birding and nature and guided hikes, check out the  NatureStuff website at www.naturestuff.net       
  
 Terry Sprague lives in Prince Edward County and is self-employed as a  professional interpretive naturalist.