Everyone seems to have photographed the aurora. Here’s why I’m not jealous

February 1, 2026 — 5:00am

You snooze, you lose – and if my Facebook feed is any indication, I may have been the only person in southern Australia to have slept through the recent showstopping display of the elusive Aurora Australis, or Southern Lights.

Most commonly witnessed in polar regions, the iconic dancing lights have been unusually active in the past year, with the sun reaching the zenith of an 11-year solar cycle, creating severe geomagnetic storms that have been lighting up Australian skies as far north as Byron Bay.

Just kilometres from where I live in the NSW Blue Mountains, crowds gathered at escarpment lookouts to see the lights, jostling for space to capture the best photos.

The following morning, my social media feeds were a flood of colour as intrepid aurora hunters posted images of what appeared to be the artistry of unicorns and fairies, lurid pink and orange rays dancing across the southern sky. Serious FOMO from this sleepyhead.

Of course, those bands of colour may have been enhanced by a filter or Photoshop; and with cameras having the ability to capture more light over time than the human eye, I knew that what I was admiring online was far more vibrant than it had appeared in real life.

While I may have missed the chance to witness this recent activity in my own backyard, the peek-a-boo pole-dancing lights and I are actually old acquaintances.

About seven years ago, I travelled to Churchill, a frontier town in northern Canada situated directly beneath the “auroral oval”, a dynamic ring in the upper atmosphere where the Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights, are most likely to be seen.

Although Churchill’s aurora-viewing season is February to March, the lights can make an appearance up to 300 days a year, so my visit, which coincided with polar bear season in late October, was filled with possibility of two bucket-list experiences.

Sure enough, on arrival at the Churchill Northern Studies Centre, an educational field station 23 kilometres east of the township, our group was informed that conditions were perfect for the aurora that evening. No sooner had darkness descended when the alarm was sounded: head to the roof, the lights are on.

One problem, however. As an amateur photographer, I had no idea what setting was required on my DSLR camera for optimal night photography. Better prepared and more knowledgeable than I, my travel companions were already buried in their viewfinders, clicking away and gasping with joy at the images displayed on their screens. Much as I longed for help, I thought better of begging and disturbing their concentration.

Meanwhile, my phone at the time – perhaps an iPhone 6? – was woefully inadequate in dark conditions, leaving me with no option but to sit back and observe the lights with my naked eye.

In the frigid chill of night, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed, frustrated that I was “missing out” on what was possibly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. While I could detect a faint shimmer in the sky, the colours were muted – silver, soft violet, mossy green tinged with pastel pink – rather than neon. Ethereal, rather than boisterous.

But the longer I gazed up, the more mesmerising the performance became, shimmering ribbons dancing across the sky, flitting like a supernatural animation. That’s when I realised that the chill surging through my bones was not from the cold, but from sheer bewitchment.

The unicorns and fairies had worked their magic, no technology required.