“Sorry that took so long,” my husband said as he came through the front door at 11:37 p.m. I was on the couch surrounded by freshly folded laundry, when he held out the keys and asked, “Are you going?”
“No. I’m too lazy and too tired,” I replied.
“You waited up. I think you should go.”

Two weeks ago, Minot was in the path of an epic solar storm. In all my years of living here, I’d never seen the northern lights—but I was determined that this time would be different.

My husband had needed to head into work “for a bit” around 9 p.m. I thought I’d stay awake and leave to see the lights upon his return. I was finally going to do it, and I was sure it would be magical. As the hours passed, my zeal faded. By 11 p.m., I had scrolled through Facebook groups, seen everyone else’s gorgeous photos, and read captions about how easy the lights were to spot—even close to town.

By 11:30 p.m my eyelids were growing heavy, and I had convinced myself the lights were just as good seen through a screen while eating cereal in my PJs on the couch.
By the time the door opened, I had decided sleep trumped a natural wonder.
When I explained this to my husband, he just jingled the keys and said, “That’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard. Go put some shoes on.”

So, I did. And it was a magical night, but not I the way I expected.

When I started driving north, the first thing I noticed was the traffic. The amount of headlights streaming out of the darkness was comical. Was everyone in Hotdish Land awake? There was an energy in the air, we were all out of bed, headed into the dark, driving home from the dark. All searching the sky for the same shared experience.

Near the base, I stopped. What I saw looked more like a mist than a light show. It was nearly 1 a.m., if I’d made it this far, I figured I might as well keep going.

Without a real plan, I turned toward Lake Darling. I fell in line with the other cars, still streaming down the country road. We drove further into the blackness, still looking toward the sky.

When I finally got to Lake Darling, I turned into a crowded lot. It was after 1 a.m., and everyone was there. In the darkness, I heard murmurs of conversation and laughter, saw the glint of a telescope when a headlight hit it, heard the click of a camera capturing a long exposure, and saw the warm glow of a fire at the other end of the row of cars.

Honestly, as I leaned against my car, staring into the sky, I was underwhelmed. It was way past my bedtime, and I still couldn’t see much more than a hazy glow. I’d come all this way, only to have missed it.

That’s when it dawned on me. Maybe, on this night, the magic wouldn’t be in the sky—but rather in seeing something so pure create so much awe. Maybe the magic would be seeing how nature has the ability to bring us together, creating moments—even in the middle of an otherwise mundane night—to cultivate conversation, relationships, and wonder. Maybe the magic would simply be the reminder of how good it is to be human—to seek out the unique, appreciate the unusual, and revel in the smell of fresh, spring air.

For a long while, I just stood with my eyes closed, taking in the hum of activity and the stillness of the night. Then I climbed back in my car, ready to head home.

I circled back to Minot past Berthold. It was out there, near the sign pointing to DeLacs, that I glanced up at the sky and stopped again. That’s where I finally laid eyes on the northern lights. For the first time in nearly a decade of NoDak living, I saw what all the fuss was about.

It’s a night I’ll never forget. Not only because of the lights but also the time spent searching for them with what seemed like everyone else in Hotdish Land. The sky was magical, but the real magic, for me, rests in the reminder of nature’s ability to bind us together and help us feel fully alive.

For more stories with fresh perspective, and a North Dakotan bent, join me online at amyallender.com, on Instagram at @amy_allender or @HeyMinot, or Facebook at @amyallenderblog.