When visiting the Lofoten Islands with a group of photographer friends, we had our hopes up to see and capture the Aurora Borealis during our trip. With only a few hours of daylight, the chances are pretty great all winter long—as long as the weather cooperates. The first night, it did not. On the second night, we were all hanging out inside in front of the fire, periodically going outside to see if we might get lucky. And all of a sudden, we saw the first hints of green steal across the sky.
As quickly as it came, it was gone again, and we were left feeling underwhelmed. While beautiful, the lights were soft and sky, barely visible to the naked eye. We were just about to head back inside when the real show started, and for the next hour we were all jumping with joy behind our tripods, passing a bottle of whiskey around for warmth, and crying happy tears that the lights decided to give us what we’d come for.
Even growing up in Norway, and seeing the Northern Lights all throughout the winter when walking to school in the dark, when chopping wood outside my parents’ garage, when driving home from visiting friends, I’ll never take this miracle for granted, and it’s only more special know that I don’t see them regularly.