Working at Death Valley National Park as a night sky leader had been nothing short of a dream, honestly. Even on the most unremarkable clear night, Death Valley's sky was a spectacular playground of stars and space dust and planets. Each night for the entire winter, I brought a tour group deep into the center of the park to talk in the profound darkness about constellations, mythology, and conservation.
And tonight was going to be the most special cosmic event possible: The Leonids, a meteor shower that came only once every thirty or so years, was coinciding with a new moon. With Death Valley being a national dark sky zone, the views and educational opportunities were going to be a career highlight.
I dressed for the occasion, which I know sounds silly. Since I was volunteering for an event run by the state instead of the parks department, I didn't have to wear my usual stuffy, hot ranger uniform. During the day, I worked for the public school system as a contract teacher, running field trips to planetariums and bringing planetary models to science classes. That informed most of my wardrobe. So I wore a flowy skirt that ended right above my knees. Navy blue and covered in white constellations. On top, I toned down the teacher part and opted for one of the park's tees, sleeves cut into a tank top, with the bottom tied up to look cropped.
For my makeup, I went classic for the occasion. My black eyeliner spiked into a sharp point, but I added a layer of silver right above it to look like a shooting star. On my eyelids, I swiped a layer of shimmery dark blue over a nude base, careful not to make it too heavy. No lipstick. Never wear lipstick in the desert. You'll be flaky and constantly reapplying for hours. I checked myself in the mirror one last time before heading out of the house, pleased with how the outfit highlighted my curves. I hadn't been thin since I was a teenager on the soccer team, but I didn't mind. Thick thighs and full breasts suited me more than toned legs and abs had.
I left early to make sure I got there before any guests. There were other daytime rangers making sure people ended up at the right place, directing cars and families, but I liked to make sure my mic worked and everything well ahead of time. I parked my car in the closest staff lot and then swapped to a dune buggy, which we used to bring guests to the site. I turned it off at the perimeter of the designated meeting site, a quarter mile or so past where the road ended.
Nodding to some of my coworkers, I got a lay of the land. A few food trucks had permits for the event until sunset and they marked the edge of where guests could sit. Families spread out blankets to sit on and dug into picnic dinners, couples nestled up together, and kids ordered popsicles that dripped down their chins. It was kind of weird being alone among so many happy groups, but I was used to it.
There were a few single people dotted along the crowd, mainly in lawn chairs rented at the visitor center. I walked around to introduce myself to people and let them know what time we'd be starting in case they hadn't checked the website or signage in advance. When I reached one guy in particular, my eyes lingered a little too long and he gestured for me to kneel down by him on the blanket.
He wore golden aviator glasses that were fashionable, not dated, on his angular face. He had a blondish-gingery beard that matched long hair pulled into a bun on top of his head. The beard was trimmed along a sharp, rugged jawline. I found myself stealing glances at him whenever I could, my heart skipping a beat whenever our eyes met. There was an unspoken connection between us, and we were both aware of it, even if we wanted to deny it for a while longer.
His eyes matched the dusky blue sky. He had his own foldable telescope set up next to his blanket, which was held down by a small cooler, a book on meteor showers, and a spare jacket for when it got cold. The park made a killing off of people who didn't know how cold it got after dark, selling blankets for $49.99 a piece. My own jacket stayed on the dune buggy, locked up in a little box with the rest of my things.
Admiring his setup, I said, "I see you know what you're getting into here."
"Definitely. I drove here from Denver to make sure
"The Rockies are a dark sky zone; you would've had just as good of a time there," I chuckled.
"They don't have as beautiful educators," he replied, voice heavy with flirtation. "Can I offer you a drink or anything? I've got hard seltzers."
Blush rose in my cheeks. I didn't get hit on very often as an unapologetic space nerd. Not even my C-cups and round lips and wide hips could make up for that for a lot of guys here. Unsure, I replied, "Staff gets free concessions, but I appreciate it."
He persisted, eyes roving all over my body and face, "Then why don't you come and sit over here after your presentation is done? I've got the best view in the house for the shower."
I looked him up and down, too. For a clear fellow space dork, he had toned arms and strong legs. I pegged him as one of the guys who was just into the parks system as a whole: Biking, hiking, and climbing, yes, but also conservation, birding, and classes. Trying not to reveal too much hesitation in my voice, I said, "Sure. We'll see."
Before I moved to stand up, he stretched out his hand. "I'm Finn."
I shook his hand. "Dawn."
"Funny."
"I get that a lot."
Then, I stood back up, feeling his eyes on my skirt, and went off to do tech checks. I felt a mix of excitement and nervousness about the interaction with Finn. His flirtatious demeanor and genuine interest had caught me off guard, leaving me with a subtle flutter in my stomach. I was accustomed to being appreciated for my knowledge and passion for astronomy, but Finn's attention felt different--more personal, more intimate.
Even while I tested the microphone and ensured all the audiovisual equipment was in working order, my mind kept drifting back to our conversation. Finn's invitation to join him after the presentation was tempting, and I found myself pondering the possibilities. Despite my initial hesitation, there was a magnetic pull, a curiosity about where this connection might lead.
As the sun began to set, casting a warm golden glow over the desert landscape, the anticipation for the meteor shower grew palpable. The last rays of sunlight slowly faded, revealing the first twinkling stars in the darkening sky. I grinned at the excited faces of the visitors, their eyes fixated on the slowly appearing canvas of stars above.
As the night sky deepened, I took my position at the front of the gathering, welcoming the group and thanking them for joining this special event. I could feel the sense of wonder and curiosity radiating from everyone. That's why I loved teaching; there were always at least a few kids who were discovering their spark for science for the first time. The night was clear, and the Milky Way arched across the sky like a silver river, guiding our gaze toward distant solar systems.
"Welcome, everyone, to this magnificent night under the stars at Death Valley National Park," I began, projecting my voice through the microphone. "Tonight, we have a rare treat in store, as you all know. The Leonids meteor shower is a celestial spectacle that happens only once every few decades. And with the new moon providing us with an incredibly dark sky, we're in for a truly unforgettable experience. I'm Dawn -- yes, it's funny, it's okay -- and I'll be walking you through everything you can already see and will see before the shower begins."