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On the first big night of the auroras, I fed my children too much ice cream and drove them north, seeking a place outside the gauzy veil of city lights where the dark sky could open up in front of us like a stage. We ended up at a county park outside North Branch, squelching through the sodden grass at the edge of a lake, gobsmacked as a tent of purple and green appeared above our heads the moment darkness fell.
It was, indeed, awesome. But one of the parts that sticks with me most about that night back in May happened after we turned our attention away from the sky and toward the lights of the road on our way back home. It was 11 p.m. The kids were now cranky lumps in the back seat, completely unconvinced by my millennial, child-of-a-hippie belief that Pink Floyd is great music to sleep to. And that was when I noticed something strange.
There we were, still a good 30 minutes outside Minneapolis, late on a spring Friday night … and the northbound side of I-35 was absolutely packed with the kind of traffic usually reserved for summer afternoons. Hundreds of pairs of headlights pointing north toward the dark lakeshores we’d just left, like a shift change at the wonder factory. We had driven away from the city to get a view of nature, but the city had come with us. Or, anyway, the people had. The northern lights, an experience usually associated with loons and lakes and lonely forests, became a party.
It’s been a good summer for that kind of shindig. We’re currently in the midst of an 11-year peak in solar activity, leading to the kind of geomagnetic storms that produce intense auroras at latitudes visible across Minnesota. If you didn’t see that big, multiday extravaganza in May, perhaps you made it out for the one last week. There will likely be more opportunities through early 2026 — potentially even some as powerful and widely visible as the one in May. More chances to watch cars pack the parking lots of small town lakefronts and line the ditches on the sides of county roads. More city-zens plunking down their folding chairs at sunset while children run wild on the high of late bedtimes and strange play equipment.
And, to be clear, I think this is a good thing. I think the crowds enhance the auroras, not detract from them. It’s one thing to see some lights alone on the edge of a dark bog. It’s another to hear people gasping, squealing, even clapping as darkness settles in the east and the colors that had already been there, all around you, are suddenly visible. There’s something special about being able to turn to a stranger and make eye contact and silently know this is the most amazing thing either of you has ever witnessed. Guy with the beard, wrapped in a plaid blanket, you know what I’m talking about.
People drive north not just to see the auroras but to be a part of the collective experience of seeing the auroras. If they miss the first night of a storm, they’ll try the next. If you follow aurora hunter groups on Facebook, you’ll see them overflowing with newcomers who don’t know the lingo or the technical knowledge, but still regularly ask, “Is this going to be a big one? Will this be the night everybody goes out?”