In all likelihood underprepared, we were rushing northward to an impulsively planned destination. The copper-toned dusk prowled over glaring highway lamps, soon becoming replaced by a weighty, black shadow. It was a late Monday evening, but being on summer break, it felt like I had all the time in the world — to pursue after a comet.

The homey warmth within the car’s interior gradually faded along with the glowing skyline. Despite having seen the looming mass of clouds in the direction we were headed, I hopefully clicked onto a cloud cover map. The live image presented on the screen only contributed to my doubt that perhaps tonight’s journey was not worth the high hopes I had invested. Nevertheless, we carried on with the mindset that we could cheat the weather by some convenient stroke of luck.

No luck came to us, whatsoever. Endless hours with no news of a clear sky ground our optimism. Cramped blocks of stores and houses were deafeningly stark in the dead of night; foreign towns flickered with dull orange street lamps, and constant “Under Construction” signs blocked our most efficient routes.

Oddly enough, a muted ray of twilight refused to die even as the clock ticked to twelve o’clock midnight — the final trace of warmth left from the day lingered about the horizon, nearly for as long as we could see west. Engulfed in darkness, my eyes caught flecks of stars loosely distributed in the sky’s blackened canvas, and I leaned forward in wonder as I pieced together the formation of seven stars. The Great Bear towered from above, silently leading the way north; a familiar figure that I have only ever witnessed in pictures and text now revealed itself to my naked eyes, hundreds of kilometres from home.

Soon, however, our vehicle made its way onto the peninsula, and the constellation vanished behind a film of streetlight illumination and water vapour. We stopped at a lakeside parking lot, at this point only to confirm our obvious miscalculation. Mist had risen from the lake in the night’s coolness, covering land, water, and air; stars feebly blinked in and out of view beyond the layers of clouds. There were no sudden feelings — it had all been anticipated. Just a tinge of disappointment, and a subtle hollowness that gave way to exhaustion and the brisk air.

Minutes later, we were back on the road again. The new route brought us down a broad, unbending path that seemed to lead to the middle of nowhere. Extensive fields stretched boundlessly on both sides; we were accompanied by nothing but the distant lowing of cattle, occasional barks of dogs, and a symphony of crickets and cicadas. It was then, looking up, that I witnessed a shimmering spectacle overhead. A sweeping river of stars spanned across the sky — the Milky Way. The grandeur of it all took prisoner of our awed gazes, bringing the collision of sound and silence, and brightness and night.

The sights that bloomed in the wake of eventide hushed our fretful voices. Some lengthy, serene moments passed as we embraced the night sky’s astral blanket that camera lenses fail to capture. We didn’t notice, as seconds slipped away, the subtle approach of daybreak; nor were we aware of how the prolonged waking hours had drained our bodies.

But what we did discover, was the most treasurable of observations. For I would have been devastated, had we turned our backs and concluded the night’s journey without recognizing the pale figure that was a comet, hovering beyond the darkened horizon.