Prince Edward County, Ontario, Canada
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.