The Search for Aurora Borealis: How to See the Northern Lights in Chicagoland

Lake Michigan, October 7, 2024 (KP - 5.67)

In the Beginning

I’ve wanted to experience Aurora Borealis for as long as I can remember. As a kid it seemed impossible, because at the time it was only visible in faraway places. I put it on my bucket list all same, and got a bit more proactive when I read places like northern MI, WI and MN would see an uptick in sightings through 2024 and into 2025.

We spent our last two family vacations chasing the lights in those states to no avail. But then, by some gift-from-the-universe miracle, they started making appearances even further south, with the greater Chicago area often “making the cut” on maps used to forecast Aurora’s nightly reach. I wound up seeing them for the first time less than a mile from my home in May. And then this past week: I saw them twice. But these sightings were by no means sheer luck. They took time, effort and – this one is especially important – patience.

Lake Michigan, May 11, 2024

I recall when they first appeared here in May, the lakefront was packed with like-minded souls on a quest to see the elusive lights. But this past week, I was the lone person at the lake, soaking in this magnificence all by my lonesome. At first I wondered if that sighting back in May had been sufficient to quell the area’s collective appetite for the lights. But then, after talking to a handful of folks, I realized most actually hadn’t seen them yet. There was a desire to but an uncertainty about how to do it, where to go, and what to expect.

I am by no means an astronomer or a meteorologist, so take this advice with a grain of technicolor salt. Suffice it to say I’ve been stalking aurora since early 2023; I’ve actively gone out in search of it on 9 occasions and only seen them on 4. But those 5 failures and 4 successes taught me a lot, and I’m happy to share in hopes of spreading the awe.

TLDR;

I go into detail on all of these below, but if you need a quick and easy guide, here you go:

1. Pay attention to the news and monitor KP numbers.

2. Anything over a KP of 5 can pop up in the Chicago area if conditions are just right (but the higher the KP, the better).

3. You need a dark, clear sky. Avoid light pollution and cloudy weather. For those in the Chicago area, this means either heading to the lake, a forest preserve with open spaces, or a nearby rural community.

4. Make sure you’re looking to the north/northeast, at and above the horizon.

5. It’s very unlikely you’ll see — with an unaided eye — the vibrant colors we’ve all come to recognize in photos. Instead, look for grayish white hues that don’t look like clouds and possibly (but not necessarily) have noticeable movement.

6. When it doubt, hold up your smart phone or camera; if the lights are there, the colors will pop through a newer smartphone or camera.

7. Be patient. Conditions need to be JUST RIGHT for the Northern Lights to make a grand entrance, and they don’t always last for long (anywhere from a few minutes to over an hour). I recommend waiting a good 1-3 hours while also monitoring KP numbers.

8. Be persistent. You might need to go out a few times before you have any luck.

9. Bring the comforts of home (e.g. chairs, picnic blankets, layers to stay warm, friends/family, etc.); this makes it easier to abide by tip #7.

10. Embrace the experience, no matter the outcome.

Temper Your Expectations

Aurora is only faintly visible here (KP - 5.33)

• It is very unlikely you’ll see Aurora Borealis in full color without the aid of a newer camera / smartphone. This is because we’re in northern Illinois, not the arctic tundra, though I’ve read some Aurora chasers in Finland say that even there you sometimes need a camera to see all the colors.

• It would take a very powerful storm for the full colors to be visible here without the aid of a technological device. Such a storm IS possible, but the ones we’ve been getting here require a little extra help to be fully appreciated.

• Thankfully, many of us have all the tech we need to see the full color display in our pockets (and if you know what to look for, you CAN see the lights without the camera – the camera just helps bring out the colors we’re all expecting to see).

• Unfortunately, seeing the full colors won’t come easy with older smartphones. My 5-year-old, 3-lens iPhone picks up the lights; my husband’s single-lens, 6-year-old iPhone doesn’t.

• If you have an older phone that doesn’t offer night mode and/or manual controls, research camera apps that might give you that ability. There are some out there, but I haven’t tested any and so cannot vouch for them.

Research, Research, Research

Pay attention to the news but don’t rely solely on the news. If they say aurora is likely to be visible near you anytime soon, perk up and start actively monitoring the other resources I link to below. But you might also want to casually stroll through those other resources from time to time; sometimes the peaks don’t make the news.

3-Day Forecast (Link)
I use this site just to have some idea of how things are looking for the next three days. If it says the “High Latitude 3-Day Aurora Forecast” will be 7 or above, I take note. If it’s an 8 or above, I start to seriously consider re-arranging my evening plans for the day. If it’s a 9, as it was this past weekend, I absolutely do.

2-Day Forecast, With Map (Link)
Anything within the thin red line on this page is within the range of possibility. I normally use this to gauge whether or not it’s worth going out, but I have to say: This isn’t an exact science. None of it is. I mean, it’s science. Yes. But there are so many factors that determine whether or not aurora will be visible – and where, and when – that it’s important to know that sometimes we’ll be above the red line and might not see a thing. Others, we’ll be below it but might still see something. This is where monitoring KP numbers in real-time comes into play.

Real-Time Prediction (Link)

• This website updates every 2 minutes and shows the forecast up to 14 minutes out.

• The bigger the KP number, the better our odds of seeing some lights in the Chicago area.

• According to the site’s own map, northern Illinois will only see lights if the KP number is a 7 or above. But I’m here to say: I’ve seen the lights 3 times, and each time the KP number was in the 5-6 range.

• If I see the KP become a 5.33 or above, and the weather is clear and my schedule is free, I head out to try to see them.

Local Weather

It doesn’t matter what’s happening with the sun and the resultant magnetic storms if it’s rainy, cloudy, foggy or stormy where you live. You need a mostly clear sky to have any chance of seeing Aurora Borealis.

Find a Dark Corner Near You

• Whether you head to the lake or a rural area will depend on where in the Chicago area you live and what’s easiest/closest/safest.

• Think of the darkest place you can go that has an open view of the northern sky and head there.

• Thus far all of my sightings have been on the lakefront on a particularly dark beach, where I had a view of the horizon (apparently lower KPs are generally most visible along the horizon, rather than high up in the sky).

Timing is Everything

Technically the KP number is everything, but it’s important to note you’re unlikely to see the lights until a little after the sun has fully set. I keep reading things that say Aurora Borealis is most active from 12-2a, but I’ve seen them at 9p, 9:30p and 11ish.

Bring a Friend (or Two)

This kind of experience is better when shared. But even more than that: Hanging out in expansive, dark spaces can be kind of unsettling, particularly if you’re the only person there – as I was the last two times – and another lone stranger approaches.

Make Yourself Comfortable

How long you’ll be out will depend on how patient you can be (and how shy the aurora is that night). If you’ll be out for more than a few minutes, you might as well bring a few comforts from home and make a night of it. I recommend packing the following:

• Fully charged, newer camera and/or camera phone (this is required if you want to see the full colors)

• Lawn chairs and/or a picnic blanket

• Flashlight (but don’t use it unless you must)

• Water

• Snacks

• Wireless charger for said phone

• Bug spray (depending on the season)

• A hat, jacket/coat and/or gloves (depending on the season)

Know What to Look For (And Bring Your Camera)

As mentioned earlier, it’s unlikely (but not impossible) you’ll be able to see the lights in all their glory with your naked eye in the Chicago area. So what exactly are you looking for?

The rosy hues here appeared as unusual color blocks that were barely visible to the unaided eye (KP - 5.33)

• Make sure you’re looking to the north (on the horizon or above), but note that if you’re along the lake you’ll see a bit of them over the lake, too.

• Be on the lookout for a grayish white presence or any other changes in the sky’s “natural” hue. These can be super subtle and easy to miss. You might notice them moving in an unexpected way (but they also might move so slowly that you don’t notice).

• For one of my experiences, my clue that something was happening was that the darkest parts of the sky seemed to have somehow gotten even darker (with the deepest of purples just barely evident over the horizon). When I held up my camera, that darkness turned into a brilliant fuchsia.

• For my other two experiences, I could actually see the lights appear and move, swirling about in some places and staying seemingly still in others – they just weren’t in full color. Much of the lights were a greyish white to the naked eye, but there were other shades too. I just couldn’t make them out until I held up my camera and let out a sigh. IT’S SO PRETTY, Y’ALL.

Patience is a Virtue

As I said, I’ve actively sought out the lights on 9 occasions and only seen them on 4. Each trip was 1-3 hours and involved lots of waiting, observing, monitoring the KP numbers and – yes – holding up my camera to fact check my eyes.

Prepare to Be Disappointed

Lake Michigan, Oct. 7, 2024 (KP - 5.67)

I’ve been out when the KP number was a 7 – which is supposed to be a sure thing on a clear night for this area – but I saw nothing. I’ve seen an 8.33 be super faint (because the bulk of the particles were pushed further east). I’ve seen them appear and disappear in under 5 minutes (though on 3 occasions, they were visible for 10-30 minutes). Point being, some nights they’re there when the odds are low, and not there when the odds are high. You might go out and not see a single thing. Or you might wait an hour and see everything. That’s part of what makes these lights – and the experience of seeing them – so darn special.

In Sum

Discovering these displays of celestial magic can be a bit of a time commitment, so make the most of it. Go some place where you’ll be happy to just sit and observe and commune with the universe – and whichever friends or family you take with you – for a while.

You might not see it on the first try. It might take a few hours, or you might need to pack up and try again some other day.

But trust me when I say it’s worth the effort.

Things Forgotten

One of the best gifts I’ve ever received is little more than an inch long, a fragile thing made of metal and plastic. It arrived on my doorstep two weeks ago, the hard work of a cousin who spent the last several months converting old family reels into digital files.

I knew so very little of my father’s childhood. His mom died when he was a little kid, and his dad passed not long after my father went away to college. What I knew of the years in-between was a very sad time, coping with the loss of his mother and dealing with an abusive stepmother.

My dad spoke of it sparingly, but he would occasionally make the passing remark about how he wished his dad was still around. About how he wished he’d had a chance to meet my siblings and I. I knew he played the saxophone in a band. I knew he was a railroader who was away from home a lot, and he eventually kicked out the woman when he realized how badly she was treating his three youngest kids. I knew he sometimes took my dad and his brothers on trips to lakes “up north” but never realized how frequent or full of joy those trips were (nor how far away they sometimes traveled to get there). I never knew he was the source of my dad’s silly demeanor until I saw him wipe away fake tears and pretend to be devastated when my dad was leaving for college.

Or perhaps he wasn’t really pretending.

All of my childhood, I would hear about these old family reels, tucked away at my dad’s brother’s house. But we never got to see them. Never got to see my grandfather smiling and laughing. Never got to watch this footage with someone who was there (my dad passed away three years ago, as did the brother who had these reels).

It’s been a rough three years. So much death I can hardly stand it. And most recently: a beloved aunt who was like a second mom to me passed away on Christmas.

This past week when everyone was waiting to learn whether or not a groundhog would see its shadow, I whispered a “happy birthday” to her and told her I missed her. Like all of these other recent losses, she was gone too soon. The life expectancy is dropping, and I’m seeing the data that proves it in real time. In real life.

And then we had another bittersweet day yesterday: my dad’s birthday. I had a few reasons to make a trip home to Indiana — baby hand-me-downs for a family member, a birthday present for a niece, etc. What better weekend to plan the trip than on my dad’s birthday? My entire life, no matter where I lived, I made it home for his birthday (or called that day and visited soon thereafter).

As luck would have it, we wound up staying in a lake house “up north” thanks to a friend and her kind family. It was our first time visiting this town and this lake, but being there reminded me of the reels: Was this one of the many lakes he visited with his brothers and their dad? Had they ever stood where I was standing?

I will never know for sure, just as I will never know the names of most of the people in these reels. But I know they are smiling; laughing; enjoying life. I can see they loved my father. That he was happy.

And that, as it turns out, is enough.

The Missing Pieces

It’s been a year.

12 months since I last heard my mother’s voice. 

365 days since I last felt an iota of hope.

I marked the occasion at her home, where I’ve spent the last few months digging through boxes, unearthing parts of my parents that had been tucked away for decades. I’m realizing that as much as I love and miss them, the fact remains that I knew them first and foremost as my parents, and not entirely as the people they were.

I’ve found a treasure trove of letters my mom saved from her time as a school bus driver: notes from students telling her how much she meant to them. Because of her kindness. Because of the interest she showed in their lives.

I’ve found old report cards and citizenship awards: some moldy and ragged at the edges.

I found invitations to their wedding, cards from those who attended and endless mementos whose significance I will never have the chance to understand.

I’ve found photos of them young, happy, smiling: photos of them together, photos of them with family, with friends.

I saw my paternal grandfather’s handwriting for the first time in one of my dad’s high school yearbooks: a brief message that made it clear he believed my dad would be the first in their family to go to college. He lived just long enough to learn he was right.

Elsewhere in the book was a message from my father’s youngest brother. He also died in 2020: just three months after my father and three months before my mother. He was in junior high when he scrawled his message: TO MY DUMB BROTHER.

I laughed out loud when I read those words, knowing that was likely the closest they ever came to swapping terms of endearment.

In other boxes, less pleasant memories – ones I witnessed in real life and in full horror – are also to be found. Old test results. Brain scans. Liver scans. Half-empty pill bottles. Unfinished crossword puzzles.

And the part that really stands out to me — the part I don’t fully understand — is that I feel the same gut punch whether I’m opening a box full of sad memories, or a box full of happy ones.

They are all pieces to the same bittersweet puzzle: a reminder of hope reduced to ash. A reminder of life’s frailty and time’s cruel passing. A reminder of those we are missing.

A reminder that, when they were here, our puzzle was complete.

And the realization that it never will be again.

The Impossible Journey: Overcoming Loss in a Post-Pandemic Future

Waiting for “Do You Believe In Madness?” to begin, just a couple days before the state of Illinois went into lockdown.

A year ago today, I went to Target to find empty shelves but somehow managed to grab one of the last packages of toilet paper. I felt like I’d won the lottery.

A year ago today, my mother-in-law was in town for a rare visit, and my three-year-old daughter eagerly escorted her to a beloved store: a rock shop with dinosaur fossils in the basement. My daughter, now four, hasn’t been inside of a store since.

A year ago today, I was coming down from the high of a rare post-child outing: my husband and I caught a show at The Second City. It was their last revue before they, like other theaters, shut down.

A year ago today, we were realizing that adventure would be our last for awhile. That even though we had so many plans for places to take my mother-in-law — and places to go at night while she babysat our daughter —  our options quickly narrowed to nil.

In fact: she had flown in on my birthday a couple days prior, a time now forever marred in my head as “the beginning of the end.” We were worried about her flight, the airport, all of it. The virus seemed to be airborne but much was still unknown, and masks weren’t yet the norm.

She quarantined in our home for two weeks before going to stay with my mother, who was chronically ill but refusing to move in with us no matter how much I pleaded. She welcomed a visit from my mother-in-law, however, and saw it as an opportunity to get to know someone previously separated by a continent. At the time, we saw it as a light in the dark. My mom, still grieving from the recent death of my father, would have company for a few weeks. But not just any company: a talented chef who knew how to cook a liver-healthy diet so we could hopefully slow my mother’s decline while we battled to get her on a transplant list.

My mother, like us, had so many things she wanted to share with my mother-in-law. People to get to know, waterfalls to observe, antique stores to shop. We had planned on spending weekends and holidays with them, but everything shut down, social distancing was a mandate, and all of those options drifted away. They were alone in a house. We were alone in an apartment 160 miles away. Everyone was alone, and though we video chatted every day just as we had done before, we longed desperately for it all to end.

We thought that if we wore our masks and kept our distance, the virus would have nowhere to go. That after three months of hardship the world would re-open and normal life would resume. But we hadn’t accounted for widespread resistance to safety measures, and this thing just dragged on and on and on and...

It was discouraging, but my mom never gave up. I continued to coordinate her transplant evaluation appointments, though many were postponed indefinitely and others were switched to telehealth visits (a true obstacle for my technologically challenged mother, but she was determined). When in-person appointments resumed, I drove her to several but kept my distance (and my mask on). And then she made the transplant list and the world felt so much brighter again. We were on the right path, and we made plans to move our bubble and stay with her post-transplant. But the light was a mirage, and the closer we got to reality, the more it dimmed. My mother never got to hug my daughter again. The last time she saw me, I was wearing a KN95 mask under a cloth cover. It was red with white birds, their wings spread mid-flight.

Her last conscious moments were with strangers in an ambulance. Their objective: to take her home to die. I asked to ride with her, but it violated COVID protocol. They told me she asked for water but they couldn’t give her any. She fell asleep soon thereafter and never woke up.

 I see her face every time I wear that mask. I think of how thirsty she must have been every time I take a sip of water. I think of her, and how desperately she fought to outlive the pandemic (“So I can hug my grandkids again”), every time I look at the box that holds her ashes.

Some day, we will have a funeral for her and a proper burial for both of my parents. Some day, we will gather again with the people who remain, but we will do so knowing that a return to “normal” is a luxury well beyond our reach. That while the world slowly re-opens and the universe breaths a collective sigh of relief, those of us who suffered loss during the pandemic will be tasked with rebuilding our lives like a contractor building a house without nails.

It is essential that we continue on – and we will – but our world will be new and unfamiliar. We will be charting foreign land in our own backyard, every step forward weighted by memory and lifted by hope.  

What We Have Lost

This has been a year of taking inventory. I count three boxes full of ashes, light and insubstantial, scorched earth where once there was water and weight.  

I can hold my bodybuilding father with a single hand, my mother too, though I wrap both arms around them for good measure. I place them side by side and stare at their oaken reflection in a mirror before my gaze turns to the rest of their once-upon-a-time.  

I count empty beds, empty chairs, empty shirts and shoes. 

I see the Cubs jersey he wore when my big brother was in little league. I see the chess set he made by hand. I see cheap winter boots, still muddy from the last time he wore them.  

I see her hutch full of mementos and tea cups: a collection carefully curated over the course of a lifetime. I see an old cabinet covered in chipped paint that she never got to restore. I see family photos posted alongside grandchildren’s artwork (treasured as if it belonged in a museum).

I see the antique trunks they refurbished together. 

I see the old dictionary he purchased when he was a student, the pages at once crisp and worn following decades of careful use. 

I see the binoculars that accompanied him on trips to his tree stand, where he would watch (but never shoot) deer — the same binoculars she would later use to spy on a family of cardinals that moved into her backyard. 

I see the lists I made when I thought lists might somehow save her.

I see dark where there was once light. Impressions where there was once shape. 

I hear the ringing in my ears where there was once the shuffle of tired feet. 

This has been a year of deprogramming. Of stuttering past the dozens of Pavlovian instincts that marked my day. 

Of taking photos and sending them to no one.  

Of sitting down for lunch and reaching needlessly for my phone. 

Of hearing a pun and clenching my jaw. 

Of seeing a black shadow and waiting for it to move.

It has been a year of distance. Of grandparents disappearing into the dark corners of nursing homes.

Of cancelled play dates and the rise of Zoom.

Of pacing from one white wall to the next and dreaming of life beyond them.

Of relationships strained by politics and politics magnified by social media.

Of six foot distances extrapolated by an infinitude of months.

It has been a year without distraction. A year without movies, without theater, without concerts.

A year without relief. A year where the agony of loss upon loss upon loss has been compounded by the total and absolute lack of everything and everyone.

A year where nerve damage climbed onto grief’s back and clawed its way out, leaving a trail of scars in its wake.

This is our broken year. I pick up the pieces and swallow them whole, dust and decay where once there were stars.