How to see in the dark Last week I went out my gate at a time I would normally be in bed in hopes of seeing the Northern lights. The beam from my small flashlight bobbed along the stretch of roadway that passes our community mailboxes, carved a bright path towards the packed earth trail down to the beach. Picking my way over a yellow milk crate and some logs at the bottom, I walked a little and found the place I’ve moon-gazed from before. On clear days in the summer, Mount Baker is visible from here. On a winter night, with only a crescent moon, the lights of Gibsons and West Vancouver are apparent, haloed by the glow from the big city just a few kilometres to the south. But despite the fact there are lights on the shore across from me, the place where I sit, tucked into the bottom of the bank, is unlit. The house above me is unoccupied for much of the year, as are many of the water-facing homes. Fortunately, they are older places, and not owned by the kind of people who use automatic timers to mimic activity when they are away. I click off my flashlight as I settle in, let my eyes and ears adjust to the sounds of the dark ocean, and pull my coat around me. There is no trace of aurora borealis, but I decide to stay for awhile and look for shooting stars.