It was there to find evidence of life.

After a dangerous descent through the Martian atmosphere, Phoenix finally came to rest in the Green Valley region of Vastitas Borealis near the Heimdall Crater on May 25th, 2008.

Heimdall, of course, is the Norse God who guards the bridge between Midgard (Earth) and Asgard (the home of the Gods). He will be the one who blows his horn to warn the Gods that Ragnarok has begun and their doom has come.

Heimdall is destined to be the last Aesir standing at the close of the final battle, when he and Loki will slay each other.

On May 31st, 2008, Phoenix reached out and first touched the soil of Mars with its robotic arm. It soon began analyzing samples from the surrounding surface using an ingenious series of on-board ovens and laboratories, sending data back to us here on its work.

It didn’t take long to confirm that, at some point in the past, Mars likely hosted an environment which would support the presence of liquid water. Later in its mission, NASA announced that Phoenix found evidence of perchlorate as well. While these salts are can occur naturally as well as in manufacturing, some believe they could preclude the possibility of life. There is also a chance that the presence of perchlorate is a by-product contamination from the Phoenix’s retro rockets.

Next to the American flag on the outer deck of the lander is a disc made of silica glass specially designed to last for thousands of years. On the disc are messages from Earth — including the works of H.G. Wells and Ray Bradbury as well as messages from Arthur C. Clarke, and Carl Sagan.

It is a remarkable achievement, to be sure. But you might well ask, why am I telling you all of this?

While Phoenix was still in transit, NASA began posting updates about the mission on the social networking site Twitter. The first of these appeared on May 7th, 2008: “Less than 20 days till I land on Mars!”

Note the usage of the first person — someone decided to personalize the voice of Phoenix and it was an inspired decision. It didn’t take long for @MarsPhoenix to amassing a following well over thirty-five thousand Twitter users.

I was one of them. I’d been on Twitter for a year or so and one of my friends there posted a message to @MarsPhoenix, which is how I first found out that it was on Twitter.

In the intervening months, I read @MarsPhoenix’s updates with growing enthusiasm and delight. It especially impressed me how it answered questions asked by other users, sharing in the ongoing dialogue and community of Twitter.

As odd as it sounds, it didn’t take long for me — for most of us on Twitter — to view @MarsPhoenix as one of us, just another person out there posting updates about their life. In the common parlance of the community, @MarsPhoenix was one of us. They were a friend.

And we were all shocked a few weeks ago when we got the news: Winter was coming. Without the solar power it needed to keep running, the Phoenix lander was going to shut down.

@MarsPhoenix, our friend, was going to die.

On October 30, 2008, @MarsPhoenix posted a few final words:

“In case we don’t get this chance again, thank you all so much for the questions, comments & good wishes over the mission. It’s been awesome.” [2:56 p.m.]


“Take care of that beautiful blue marble out there in space, our home planet. I’ll be keeping an eye from here. Space exploration FTW!” [3:55 p.m.]

I was at work when these messages came through and I managed not to cry at my desk. Driving home, though, I had to pull over because I just couldn’t see the road for the tears.

Later that night, with my wife holding me, I finally let loose the sadness that had been building inside since that afternoon.

Silly as it might sound, I was in mourning.

I suppose I still am.

But this is what we do, all of us. We live and make connections with each other, we reach out and try to make sense of things. We share who we are and what we have found. And, when winter comes, we grow cold and we fail. And then we die.

And the ones who are left, they mourn.

Apart from a few brief posts over the past few days, the account at @MarsPhoenix has gone silent. There is a slight possibility that NASA may be able to reawaken the lander once winter has passed — a “Lazarus Effect” built into the design — but it is a slim hope at best.

And yet, I’d like to believe that it’s possible — that this is not the end, that this winter will pass… that Demeter will be kind and reach out her warm hand to touch the face of Phoenix and bring it back to life once more.

@MarsPhoenix may be lost to us, but there are others: Cassini is cruising around Saturn and sharing what it sees with all of us. And Phoenix’s siblings, Spirit and Opportunity, are roving the surface of Mars even still.

Because this is what we do, even in mourning, we look to the life that has been left behind and we take hope in the future.

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Addendum — In researching a few things for this post, I ran across an interesting piece of information about Phoenix that I did not know before: After a preliminary planning process, the mission received full approval from NASA to proceed on June 2, 2005.

Which means we share a birthday, my friend and I.

The new project — working title: Pantheon — is still coming along slowly, due more to some genuinely frustrating time and schedule constraints than any creative issues. The lack of time to write is becoming an increasing annoyance — and not just for this project. It’s been this way for a long time. I cannot help but feel envious of the writers who manage to make the shift to full-time. One day…

For almost twenty years I’ve tracked my time during the day in fifteen minute increments which standard when you work at any kind of advertising or marketing agency. It’s also an interesting place to keep your head on a regular basis. Once that mindset becomes routine, it’s difficult to turn it off. During the day, that time is time spent (usually) in support of a client. It is productive time and (usually) profitable time. Meaning, we will invoice someone for it. Which is why it is tracked so closely.

Off-hours, however, the mechanism remains the same but I’ve found the mental tracking inverts. Instead of tracking productive time, I unconsciously note unproductive time. Even your normal (e.g. real life) activities are measured in those terms: Making the kids’ lunches, emptying the dishwasher, a phone call from a friend, watching television, writing this blog post . . . those fifteen minutes add up to a lot of time.

Which is rough when you live in a world where time not spent writing is time not writing. It’s lost and whatever might have been written is lost as well.

Early on in DC Comics Kingdom Come by Mark Waid and Alex Ross, we get a glimpse inside the life of The Flash — who has become so fast that he lives between the ticks of the clock. This has, in essence, removed him from reality. When I first read that, I couldn’t help but think “Yeah, I get that…” Or perhaps it’s just the Mercury helmet I relate to.

Possibly I’m just another whiny writer blogging about not having enough time — at least, some of the time.

Speaking of unproductive time, had a very nice weekend. Got a little bit of work done on Pantheon and the new podcast, as well as a considerable amount of noodling on the October Surprise (which has now grown into two separate and rather different surprises, so I’m trying to decide which one I want to do more).

Spent Saturday afternoon wandering through one of an antique mall in one of the dilapidated warehouses near my house. Approximately ninety-eight percent of the merchandise was there during my last visit six months ago, most of it junk. I did spend some time marveling over a remarkably well preserved Steiff Hitler. Toys and dolls of political figures are nothing new, apparently, but it was still odd to think of a child in their crib cuddling with little Adolph.

“There’s a story in that somewhere,” I thought to myself.

“Yes,” I replied. “And Rod Serling wrote it like fifty years ago.”

I did manage to turn up a couple of vintage fountain pens. They sounded like maracas when shaken, a sure sign that the ink and reservoir sacs within had disintegrated. But they were beautiful and quite inexpensive (likely due to their frozen levels and the crumbled mess inside), so I decided it was time I learned how to restore vintage pens.

Back home, Keeley took a nap and I spent a happy hour or so gently disassembling the pens — a Parker and a Welch — and cleaning out the petrified muck from inside the barrels. A few quick searches online, and I had an order in for replacement sacs and some shellac. Updates on my progress to (hopefully) follow soon.


Sunday we spent the afternoon with my wife’s grandparents out at Aurohn Lake — rapidly becoming my favorite place on the planet. Typically, I don’t get nostalgic for places but there’s something very special about this spot. Maybe it’s the determination of the beavers, doggedly blocking the spillway on the dam despite our efforts to keep it clear every few weeks. Keeley did the honors this time around, while I watched and took pictures.

Or maybe it’s the hill, just beyond Six Bar Gate at the edge of the forest. At the summit, there are spots where the waist-high grass has been matted down in gentle depressions by sleeping deer, like snow angels. And to one side there’s a large, wide hole that leads (I’m sure) deep into the hill where a badger in a waistcoat sits by a fire, checking his pocketwatch and ignoring the little showers of soil that fall into his teacup from my pacing overhead.

A card table and a folding chair, a few fresh pens and my notebook . . . sounds like the perfect place to spend an afternoon, writing and looking out at the view.

Then again, it’s probably just the milkweed pods — caught in the midst of their annual, slow motion explosion. We each did our part to ensure that they continue their dominion over the eastern edge of the lake.

Regardless, it’s a wonderful place and it was a good day. I spent much of it talking about writing with Keeley’s grandfather and digging through his old radio scripts from the forties.

Rounding the corner into Halloween, I though it might be appropriate to share this little papercraft Poe. I’m considering the logistics of making hundreds of them and setting up an invasion on the lawn and porch for trick-or-treaters. Perhaps not.

After that, it’ll be time to vote. Here’s my official endorsement.


Winter will be upon us then. Much as I am looking forward to its return, this story has made me very sad. Here’s hoping Phoenix lives up to its name.