Starfest is Canada's largest starparty, hosting over a thousand attendees. Each year my daughter and I travel there from the upper peninsula of Michigan, a trip of about 500 miles. We're there to take in the usual fare – the camaraderie of fellow observers, peeks at the latest astro-gear and time spent away together. It's always an enjoyable event for us, one that we look forward to with anticipation and that sometimes provides the unexpected.

    It was on a clear night at Starfest this last year that the unexpected happened. We were on the observing field, a large and open rectangular area, strewn with instruments of every size and type imaginable. The only sound came from the whirl of slewing telescopes and the quiet talk of fellow observers discussing the next target or the latest piece of new equipment. It's a place familiar to us and one that we find very appealing; a peaceful, inviting atmosphere that beckons to be explored with red flashlight in hand, meeting new friends and sharing familiar views. However, on this night it was to hold something special.

    Without warning a cry suddenly pierced the peaceful scene: "there it is - I.S.S.". Every view and discussion was abandoned, as eyes looked skyward, scanning the stars for a moving object, the International Space Station. We couldn't help but join the search and soon we were rewarded with the sight of a bright dot of light sweeping across the sky in the direction of Cassiopeia. I found myself imagining what it would be like to be aboard, gazing down at the field below. It was a real treat for my daughter, but it was to hold more significance for me. For as I enjoyed the view, a feeling began to come over me that this event was strangely familiar, like I had experienced it before.

    That is when it happened; instantaneously, I was back in a Detroit suburb, just 10 years old and lying flat on my back on the 50-yard line of the local football field.

    It is a similar night; a couple of friends and I are searching with anticipation the evening sky. Just this morning, we diligently checked the newspaper for the exact time and path and now all there is left to do is wait. To fill the time, we gaze at the patterns of stars above us. We don't know the constellations, so we do the next best thing, we make up our own. "There's a baseball diamond, a rocket ship, a cow. Where, I don't see a cow!" A finger slowly traces the shape against the dark background. Suddenly the insightful work of pattern recognition is interrupted as one of us cries: "there it is - Sputnik". What a thrill as we watch a tiny point of light sweep across the sky in the direction of the "cow" constellation. With very little effort, I imagine what it would be like to be aboard looking down at the field below. The sight made our night and fueled our dreams. It was a magical time when humans took "first steps" into the realm of space.

    This was not the only time we searched for these lonesome travelers, we returned on many occasions to welcome another visitor. And as much as I enjoyed each new arrival, it was those waiting periods that began to take on importance, as they afforded me the time to slowly develop a relationship with the stars. Over the next few years I learned the "real" constellations, built my first telescope, and set my own path through the evening sky. It was a wonderful time of innocence and hope that would last for decades.

    Back on the Starfest field, I couldn't help but smile as I contemplated the fact that of all the celestial wonders I have observed over the years, it was a manmade spacecraft that first got me to look up. And it was those three-person "starparties" that provided the intimacy with the stars that would develop into a lifelong pursuit. Now some forty years later, the experience repeats itself and this time I'm sharing it with my daughter and a few hundred friends.