Cottonwood’s Journey to Dark Sky Community

January in Seattle, after 80 days without sun. The clouds hang like a cold, oppressive ceiling. It’s enough to make me reminisce about the generally warm and clear conditions of my hometown of Cottonwood, Arizona. I haven’t lived there for nearly a decade, but last December, my unassuming roots made a bit of a splash: Cottonwood became the latest International Dark Sky Community, one of just 17 in the US.

Cottonwood is located in a stretch of valley two hours north of Phoenix. A small town of around 12,000, Cottonwood is the type of place most people pass through on the way to Sedona or the artsy former mining town of Jerome. With rolling hills but no real high points, Cottonwood’s best visual features are the layers of red rocks that appear at sunrise and sunset, or a glimpse of Flagstaff’s San Francisco Peaks on clear days.

How Cottonwood Became a Dark Sky Community

Three neighboring areas have already established themselves as Dark Sky aficionados, so you could say Cottonwood was a bit late to the game. The basic requirements for designation include shielding existing bright lights, reducing over-lighting, and setting curfews for any future fixtures, among other regulations. Support from organizations such as the Chamber of Commerce and companies like the local electric utility are necessary, as is demonstrating community engagement through night sky events.

Christina Anderson works in Community Development for the City of Cottonwood and is one of a handful of people who managed to get the Dark Sky paperwork together after years of starts and stalls. Tweaking lighting ordinances to fit – which required public comment, planning and zoning commissions, and council meetings – was the most challenging part, simply because it took so much time. The city worked directly with a Dark Sky representative to ensure the regulations were effective and community-friendly.

Christina, originally from Chicago, moved to Cottonwood for a change of pace. “I was tired of living in a concrete jungle,” she shared. She was frustrated that she couldn’t see the stars even after driving an hour into the suburbs. In contrast, in Cottonwood, “You get to look up at night and see the Milky Way. That’s phenomenal. Why wouldn’t you want to protect that if you could?”

Ultimately, getting Cottonwood its Dark Sky designation took about four years. Christina’s compatriot in handling the last push was Bruce Morrow, head of the local astronomy club. Bruce joined the club three years ago after his daughter started studying astronomy and physics at Northern Arizona University.

During a recent conversation, I mentioned my trip to do some stargazing. Bruce hesitated, saying, “That’s a full moon weekend. It washes out everything.” I realized my trip planning could have been better. Moreover, as my flight approached, reports about the coronavirus began to surface, causing concern. Nevertheless, Bruce was still eager to show me around while I was hopeful about hand sanitizer and regular handwashing.

A Night Out in Cottonwood

We decided to meet at Deadhorse Ranch State Park, a 423-acre preserve that I’d never visited during my time in Cottonwood. The park had three lagoons dotted with fishers, surrounded by yellowed grass and bare winter trees. The sky was patched with fluffy white clouds that I hoped wouldn’t turn to rain.

When Bruce arrived in his Chevy truck adorned with an Astronomers of the Verde Valley magnet, I felt a bit underdressed in my shorts and t-shirt, while he wore pants and a jacket. However, Bruce was eager to share the rising enthusiasm for the night sky in Cottonwood. When there’s not a full moon, the local library hosts star parties, and the astronomy club sets up in surprising areas, such as the local skate park where the ground is smooth for tripods. While tourists are yet to flock to Cottonwood for stargazing, reaching out to the local astronomy club is your best bet for a guided experience.

After dinner, we met again on a dirt road past the airport, where the moon shone brightly. Despite the full moon’s brightness, we were still able to spot some stars. On darker nights, Bruce would typically set up his telescope to view planets and nebulae, sharing those “wow moments” with others who have never seen celestial bodies through a telescope.

That evening, Bruce guided me through the visible constellations, explaining the differences between stars and planets. He noted, “You’ll notice that Venus isn’t pulsating; stars twinkle due to Earth’s atmosphere, causing their light to shimmer.” Bruce elaborated, discussing how planetary light appears steadier due to their relative proximity to Earth. Atop the sky, both stars and planets do not exhibit flickering.

As the evening progressed, Venus made its way across the sky, eventually disappearing behind the horizon. The sounds of coyotes yipping and an owl hooting accompanied our stargazing. Even during my prior residency, I had never experienced the night sky with such clarity. Eventually, Bruce and I exchanged friendly goodbyes, acknowledging the joy of the evening.

Ultimately, the Dark Sky designation wasn’t meant to attract visitors but to keep locals in love with their small town, Christina shared. More residents have begun installing rooftop decks with telescopes, and it helps that a local commissioner is a passionate stargazer. “There was already that movement here,” Christina remarked. “We were just trying to ensure that we were protecting it.” If neighboring areas join, like Clarkdale and Jerome, the entire Verde Valley could transform into an astronomer’s paradise.

When I returned to Washington, the news of coronavirus had intensified. Consequently, travel started being canceled, and I realized my life would look entirely different for the foreseeable future. Arizona would be my last escape for quite a while.

Still, I find comfort knowing that Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn continue to chase each other across the sky. I think about how, in the Northern Hemisphere, we have a star that points near-perfectly north. I remember Bruce telling me that on especially clear nights in Cottonwood, the Milky Way shines so brightly that it even casts shadows in the dark.

That evening, my husband called me onto our patio. “Look,” he said. “The stars are out.”

He was right. The clouds had cleared and all we had to do was look up.