I hadn't really decided if I was going to stay up for the occlusion of Jupiter, or not. Being as how the planet was supposed to come popping back into view sometime around 02:45 in the morning. (We're too far west to see it disappear behind the front face of the crescent moon.)

But when you notice it's already 01:48, well, what's the point in going to bed?

At 02:25 I open the front door and step outside, frozen concrete quickly chilling my stockinged feet.

Clouds.

Well, clouds to the east, where the moon is supposed to be. But straight up, I see stars. There may not be clouds at all, just vapors from the refinery. The same vapors that kept us from seeing the latest lunar eclipse.

So, into the house, into the darkened bedroom. Jeans back on, boots back on. Only the masked heeler showed any interest in rising from the bed, and she was shushed back into slumber all too easily.

Boots crunching on the frozen snow covering the driveway. Little snowflake crystals of ice on the windshield, not quite enough to bother scraping off. Explorer starts up easily, reliably, unlike the Dodge that got towed to the shop last afternoon. The engine seems horribly loud for such a dark, frigid night. I expect to see the town cop following me out of town, but no, I'm alone.

Three blocks later, I'm out. Nothing but black to the north, town behind me, and the bright lights of the refinery on my right. Got the camera, in case this turns into an opportunity for a once in a lifetime photo, but in this paranoid day and age, you don't want to be sitting next to an industrial facility with a camera in the dead of night. Even if you do live there.

A half-mile later, I pull off onto the golf course road, and drop off onto the shoulder, far enough away from the industrial lights. There's enough breeze to shake the vehicle. Winter coat or not, I'm not stepping outside for this.

And especially not for this.

Yep, that's the crescent moon over there. And yes, those are clouds all around it. Hanging above the river, I'd guess. Thin clouds, yes, but enough to obscure any once in a lifetime viewing of Callisto, Ganymede, Jupiter or Europa popping into existance from behind the darkened face of the moon.

Craaap.

The thing I noticed, and marvel at, is all the traffic on the interstate at bloody oh-two-forty in the morning! I mean, I've heard of the 24/7 economy, but geez, people.

'Course, break down or get stuck in the middle of the night, and I suppose one would be quite grateful for all that nighttime traffic.

I stay and play with settings on the digital camera, shooting over 30 shots of almost nothing until after three o'clock. Near as my eyes can discern, Jupiter never makes an appearance through the clouds, much less any of his moons. But looking at all the nearly black images later, I see one with a trace of a fuzzy white spot up there to the upper right, right where I assume Jupiter should be.

That's it, don't you think?

Impressive, in a way. Imagine a string of light rays traveling millions of miles, halfway across the solar system towards my eyes and lens, beating against the massive moon for twenty minutes or so until it finally moves out of the way, only to be defracted in the last six or eight miles by a thin mist of water vapour.

That says something wise and astute.

I'm just not sure what.