Columbia - February 1, 2003

by E. J. Michaels

 

My daughter and I stepped outside into a bright crisp February morning.  The birds were noisily going about their normal feeding routines; the sun had just cleared the horizon.  As we began our short walk I noticed the sky overhead was very blue with only a little ground fog obscuring the low spots.  Our destination was a treeless clear cut near our country home, my favorite location for peering through the atmosphere to the universe beyond.  Down a creek and up the other side we started down an old abandoned railroad bed.  Again the crispness of the morning was evident with a white coating of frost covering the ground in the open areas.  Leaving the railroad bed we crossed through a patch of woods and began a short climb up an old logging road.  We were both dragging a little bit, our work week was more hectic than usual and we were both looking forward to sleeping in this weekend; but not this morning.  The space shuttle Columbia was scheduled to pass almost directly over our central east Texas home.  It would be reentering the atmosphere heading for its Florida spaceport home and we had front row seats! 

 

The sky suddenly opens as we leave the woods.  A quick survey reveals only a narrow low fog bank obscuring the southern horizon.  Most of the sky was a sparkling clear blue, illuminated by the low eastern sun.  Three crows perched in the upper branches of a large leafless post oak tree were keeping us under surveillance.  We focused our binoculars on the distant tree line in preparation for the over flight.  I had not obtained beforehand the exact time and direction of the shuttles appearance but using NASA’s ground track map and knowing the predicted landing time in Florida I estimated an 8:00 am arrival, give or take 5 minutes.  We began to watch the western horizon intently at 7:54.

 

I had previously seen one other shuttle reentry.  It occurred shortly after dusk one December evening and it was so spectacular I decided to never miss another one.  With most shuttle missions now going to the space station it is rare for us to see a shuttle landing flyover anymore.  Landings for space station missions usually bring the shuttle in over the Gulf of Mexico due the high orbital inclination.  Now a second viewing opportunity has presented itself and we were ready.

 

Around 7:56 am a very bright glow suddenly appeared about 15-20 degrees above the western horizon.  Our binoculars were immediately on target.  “Wow, cool, and incredibly bright”, we exclaimed.  Something’s not right . . . the visual information pouring into my brain in those first few seconds had already sounded a warning deep in my subconscious.  Why was the shuttle so extraordinarily bright and what was that object well to the lower left of the shuttle?  Perhaps it was an airplane—no it was moving with the shuttle.  No time to ponder that mystery as the shuttle would shortly pass almost directly overhead.  As we followed the shuttle’s progress, our binoculars were providing incredible details.  The shuttle looked like a Fourth of July sparkler in slow motion.  Glowing orange sparks could easily be seen emanating in all directions from the craft.  Is that normal?  Probably just stuff coming off the thermal tiles I told my daughter.  I was grasping wildly for an explanation.  Clearly something was horribly wrong.  Within seconds multiple contrails were becoming visible as the shuttle was obviously breaking up.  After passing just south of the zenith the many contrails seen seconds before had been reduced to three fragments flying in parallel across our blue February sky.  Observations ended as they passed within the sun’s field of view.  We stood in silence.  I simply could not believe what my eyes were telling me.  Maybe I was wrong; the pressure wave should arrive momentarily.  If we heard a loud, sharp double boom then the shuttle was most likely intact.  We waited patiently for the sounds of a tortured atmosphere.  Suddenly, a series of low frequency rumblings began that gradually increased in loudness until they became quite intense.  They lasted for perhaps a minute.  My eyes had not lied.  We had just witnessed the death of seven dedicated space explorers and their fragile craft. 

 

With the contrails slowly dissipating overhead, I slowly began to walk back to the house.  After a short distance I turned and noticed my daughter had not followed.  She had not moved and was silently looking at the sky.  It was clear that she understood the magnitude and historical significance of the human disaster that had just unfolded high above our Texas home.