Capturing the Northern Lights: A Photographer's Guide to Nome, Alaska

Let me be straight with you—photographing the Northern Lights in Nome isn't like snapping sunset pics in Fiji. It's the photographic equivalent of cooking a 12-course tasting menu solo during a holiday rush. Challenging, exhausting, but ultimately transcendent when you nail it.

I learned this lesson the hard way my first night out. Despite twenty years of working in high-pressure environments, nothing prepared me for the bone-deep cold that seeps into your fingers when you're adjusting camera settings at 1AM in February. After just 30 minutes, my hands were nearly useless.

The game-changer? My heated gloves that allowed me to operate my camera while keeping circulation flowing. They're pricey but absolutely essential—think of them as the high-end chef's knife of arctic photography.

Equally important is proper layering. Under my motorcycle touring gear (which works surprisingly well for stationary cold-weather photography), I wore merino base layers that kept me warm without the bulk. Like a perfect mise en place, having your gear organized and accessible means you won't fumble in the dark when the aurora suddenly appears.

Nome's remoteness is both its challenge and its greatest asset for aurora hunters. With minimal light pollution and vast open landscapes, you'll find spectacular viewing opportunities within a short drive from town.

My favorite spot became Anvil Mountain, about 5 miles north of Nome. The abandoned White Alice Communication System—four massive Cold War-era antennas—creates an otherworldly foreground against the dancing lights. It's like finding the perfect garnish for a signature dish; it elevates the entire composition.

For coastal drama, I spent two unforgettable nights at Safety Sound Bridge (about 22 miles east on the Nome-Council Road). When the aurora reflects off the partially frozen water, it creates a doubling effect that's absolutely mesmerizing. Just be aware that this road can be challenging in winter conditions.

The most important tool in my location scouting wasn't my GPS but my aurora forecast app. This digital assistant helped me predict not just when the lights would appear but their intensity and movement patterns. Paired with my weather radio, I could make informed decisions about when to brave the elements and when to stay put.

Photographing the aurora is like preparing a delicate soufflé—timing and technique are everything. After numerous trial-and-error sessions (and some spectacularly failed shots), I developed a reliable formula for capturing Nome's light show.

Start with these base settings: aperture as wide as possible (I use f/2.8), ISO between 1600-3200, and shutter speed between 5-15 seconds depending on aurora activity. The more active the lights, the shorter your exposure should be to capture crisp movement rather than a green blur.

Focusing in the dark was my biggest challenge until I invested in a focusing aid. This ingenious tool helped me achieve perfect infinity focus even on moonless nights. For composition, I found that my ultra-wide lens captured the grand scale of the aurora better than standard lenses.

One technique I developed from my chef days: prepare everything in advance. Pre-set your camera while still warm indoors, attach your remote shutter release, and have your compositions planned. When the lights appear, you'll be ready to 'plate' your masterpiece without scrambling.

Twenty years in commercial kitchens taught me that preparation prevents disasters. In Nome's winter wilderness, that lesson becomes potentially life-saving.

Never—and I mean never—venture out alone without telling someone your plans. Cell service is spotty at best, and temperatures can plummet rapidly. My standard kit includes a satellite messenger which allows two-way text communication and emergency signaling anywhere. It's the safety net I won't leave without.

Vehicle preparedness is equally crucial. I learned this lesson when my rental car's heater couldn't keep pace with -30°F temperatures. Now I always pack a emergency car kit plus extra supplies including candles (which provide surprising warmth in a stranded vehicle), high-calorie snacks, and additional layers.

While photographing near Council Road, I met a local Inupiaq elder who shared wisdom I'll never forget: 'The cold here doesn't care about your photos.' He was right. No aurora shot is worth frostbite or worse. I now set timers on my phone to force regular warming breaks, and I've learned to recognize the early warning signs of cold exposure.

Between aurora sessions, Nome offers unexpected cultural richness that enhances the photography journey. As a chef, I was particularly drawn to the local food scene, which blends Native Alaskan traditions with frontier practicality.

At Airport Pizza (yes, they actually fly pizzas to surrounding villages), I struck up a conversation with a local photographer who directed me to spots I'd never have found in guidebooks. The Polar Café became my morning ritual—their sourdough pancakes provided the sustenance needed for long nights in the cold.

Don't miss the Carrie M. McLain Memorial Museum to understand Nome's gold rush history and indigenous heritage. The context deepened my appreciation for the landscapes I was photographing.

While accommodations are limited, I recommend the compact travel humidifier as an essential room addition. Nome's heated indoor air is brutally dry, and waking up with a parched throat before a night of photography is miserable. This tiny device saved my sinuses and helped me sleep soundly between aurora expeditions.

My most memorable Nome moment wasn't even photographed: sharing hot vacuum insulated thermos coffee with two local mushers as we all watched a spectacular aurora display in companionable silence. Some experiences are better captured by memory than sensors.