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The Light Falling on Mauna Kea

ridges and brown and red cinder cones surrounding a shallow, tilting valley. Light gushes down unimpeded, like water from a fire hose. Twenty miles to the south, the dark bulk of Mauna Loa, the island's other volcanic titan, shoulders through the clouds. To the northwest, seventy miles distant, neighboring Maui's Haleakala reminds me of a surfacing humpback. At 13,800 feet I feel giddy, but not simply because the oxygen is scarce. This place itself has raised a dizzying emotion in me, part terror at the sudden evidence of nature's inhuman scale, part exultation that even here a brave, inquisitive—and possibly absurd— handful of humanity has managed to find a foothold. These people are astronomers. Their observatories, eleven varying assemblages of sphere, cylinder and box, stand about the scene like exhibits in a lunar sculpture garden. One astronomer who uses these tools is a woman named Andrea