If you’re able to find something that allows you to express your interest, your creativity, and that you’re passoinate about—to me, that’s success. Not how big your bank account is, not how happy and proud your mom and dad are, but that you’re doing it for yourself and that you’re getting something out of it through which you’re continuing to grow.
—GARY, University of Hawaii Institute for Astronomy
AT 9:30 A.M., we loaded up our 4×4 truck and ascended toward the summit of Mauna Kea, one of five volcanoes that formed Hawaii’s Big Island. Kenyan, our guide, was at the wheel. He informed us about the significance of the mountain’s spiritual and cultural history to the Hawaiian people.
“When the Polynesians originally made their voyages to the Hawaiian Islands, they landed on this island first, likely guided by Mauna Kea rising above the clouds as they neared land,” he said. “Because of its height the Polynesians thought of Mauna Kea as the connection between earth and sky, the land and the heavens, and the area where they could communicate with the gods.
“During ancient times only the highest of chiefs and priests were allowed to the uppermost areas on the mountain, and only for short ceremonies that occurred a couple of times a year.”
I imagined the spiritual trek to the summit to pay tribute to the gods must have taken days, maybe weeks. Now, in our air-conditioned 4×4, it was a two-hour drive uphill, the last half hour of which was on unpaved road.
In the sixties a road was built to the summit so that scientists could conduct tests to decide if the site was good for astronomical observing. At almost fourteen thousand feet above sea level, the summit is an ideal location because of its dark skies, low humidity, clean air, good weather, and proximity to the equator. It has since become one of the most important land-based astronomy sites in the world, forming a sacred convergence with a common goal—to connect with the heavens.
Ian and I rode in the backseat, while Tammy, our Hawaiian host, sat up front gazing at the endless landscape of lava rock formed from previous eruptions. When Tammy heard about One-Week Job, she felt inspired to get involved. She wanted to bring me to Hawaii because she believed the project symbolized an important message for Hawaiian youth. As a result, she organized two one-week jobs on the island for me and scheduled several talks where I could share my experience at area high schools.
Tammy was an earnest single mother with tireless patience. Her black hair hung past her shoulders. She had a youthful face and a slender physique, toned from her years as a hula dancer.
A couple of days earlier, on our way to dinner, she had confessed, “I feel good,” with a candid sincerity. “Even though my life seems a mess. I can’t explain it. But … I feel joyful.” She spoke with the elation that only comes from those who have left charted territory and taken the helm of their own destiny. Recently divorced, Tammy once again set her sights on pursuing her passions—something she’d neglected for a long time. She was being honest with her dreams, taking risks, and challenging herself, and she recognized how that contributed to her happiness.
“Growing up, things always had a way of working out for me,” she said. “Then things started to go differently. I stopped listening to my inner voice, which had guided me so well in the past.” She looked out the car window, shook her head, then smiled to herself. “Sean, for so long I’ve settled just short of what I really wanted to do—for so long. How many years I’ve wasted.”
We stopped at the visitor information station, located at ninety-two hundred feet, and stretched our legs. The summit of Mauna Kea is so high that scientists and other visitors are advised to stay at the visitor center for thirty minutes to acclimate to atmospheric conditions before completing the ascent. I picked up a book on meteorites (pieces of a meteoroid or asteroid that hit Earth), which rather dryly discussed how to determine their composition. I put it down and picked up another one, with colorful pictures of constellations.
With a break in the clouds, Kenyan decided it was a good time to head to the top. We hopped back into the truck and drove the gravel road to the summit. Only two hours earlier we’d been at sea level. Now at 13,796 feet, we felt like we were on top of the world. Measured from the floor of the Pacific Ocean (33,476 feet), this was the tallest mountain in the world. Taller than Mount Everest (the highest mountain above sea level).
At the summit, it was a blanket of white. We were above the clouds, and telescopes the size of houses were sparsely placed over the landscape. It felt like we’d landed on another planet. Bundled in my winter jacket, scarf, and gloves, feeling gusts of cold wind on my face, surrounded by snowbanks as tall as me and locals taking runs on their snowboards and sleds, I had to remind myself that I was in Hawaii.
We took refuge from the weather in the Subaru observatory, where Joe, a young and passionate graduate student in astronomy, greeted us. He explained how the photos are taken with the telescope and told us a little bit about the Subaru Telescope. The mirror of the telescope has a diameter of more than 27 feet, is 7.9 inches thick, and weighs 25.1 metric tons. The mirror has to be large in order to collect the most amount of light possible to see objects far away.
“That must take some pretty pictures,” I said. “Well, more so than my 3.2-megapixel camera anyway.”
“Yeah.” Joe laughed. “But scientists are more interested in explaining the hows and whys of these pretty pictures. It’s the same when someone appreciates art versus trying to explain why the paint is red or yellow. Astronomers are trying to get details out of the pretty pictures, out of the beauty. Some people would say, ‘Oh, you’re cheapening it—you’re not appreciating the art.’ But I like to think I’m explaining it. I’m able to appreciate the art and help understand why that art is there in the first place.”
We continued to walk through the observatory.
“Can these telescopes see to the edge of the universe?” I asked.
“Actually, the edge of the visible universe is the beginning of the universe,” he said.
“The edge … is … the beginning? What do you mean?”
“Because the speed of light is finite, the farther away you look, the farther back in time you’re looking. So when we’re looking at the sun, we’re looking at a picture of the sun that’s eight minutes old. When we look at distant galaxies, sometimes they’re billions of years old.
“When we look at the edge of the universe, the very edge of what we can see, we’re looking at the baby picture of the universe—the moment the universe opened up and the light was allowed to shine. That’s the edge that we can see from where we’re standing, but if you were to travel to that edge, and look back at us, you would see the same baby picture.”
I stood with my mouth wide open. Then he added, “Just because we have a horizon, or edge, that we can’t see beyond, does not mean there’s nothing beyond that horizon. It just means we can never know what’s beyond that horizon because of the time it takes light to get to us. So the galaxies that we’re looking at no longer exist in that form. Some stars have died, some have been born. We’re looking at old pictures—the photo album of the universe.”
While Joe searched to discover the answers of the universe, I searched to discover my meaning within it.
As I had seen this week, one astronomer might be seeking to discover the source of our very existence, how it all came to be, the interconnectedness of everything, and the implications of cause and effect, while another might simply have an affection for rocks.
Either way, two things had become clear to me. One, my view of the universe had forever been altered, and two, I was buying a telescope when I got home.