The best is yet to come, absolutely, in terms of being able to photograph it.
Once every several hundred thousand years, a traveler from the outermost reaches of the solar system passes close enough to be glimpsed by human eyes — and this week, that moment belongs to the Southern Hemisphere. Comet C/2025 R3 PanSTARRS, a body that has been falling toward the sun since before our species existed, is now briefly visible near the constellation Orion, requiring binoculars, dark skies, and a willingness to look carefully at something most people will never think to seek. Astronomers in New Zealand are racing clouds and a fading light to share this passage before it recedes into the dark for longer than civilization has endured.
- The comet is already dimming as it pulls away from the sun, and every night that passes narrows the window for observation.
- A waning full moon is finally clearing the sky, creating a brief, counterintuitive sweet spot where darkness compensates for the comet's growing faintness.
- Cloud forecasts threaten the next few nights, putting pressure on astronomers and amateur observers alike to act now or miss the opportunity entirely.
- Finding the comet demands effort — binoculars, low light pollution, a clear western horizon, and the patience to sweep carefully around the bright star Rigel in Orion for a small, fuzzy smudge.
- Astronomers at the Wellington Astronomical Society are collecting and sharing imaging data, hoping to pull more people into the practice of deliberate, skilled observation before the visitor disappears.
On a clear evening at the Wairarapa observatory, astronomer Matt Balkham trained a 16-inch reflecting telescope on a comet that won't return for hundreds of thousands of years. Comet C/2025 R3 PanSTARRS had swung around the sun and was now crossing Southern Hemisphere skies — fading, but not yet gone. The full moon that had been drowning it out was finally waning, and Balkham believed the next few nights would offer the best photography conditions yet. Distance was making the comet dimmer, but the darkening sky was making it easier to see. "The best is yet to come, absolutely," he said.
Capturing the comet required considerable technical precision. Using a mono camera with red, green, and blue filters, Balkham gathered roughly an hour of data each evening starting just after dusk. The telescope tracked both Earth's rotation and the comet's own drift across the star field. Back at the computer, the filtered images had to be carefully layered so that stars stayed sharp and the comet remained recognizable. "There's quite a lot of work after actually taking the image," he said, laughing.
For those without research-grade equipment, the challenge was more basic: simply finding it. John Drummond of the Royal Astronomical Society of New Zealand advised observers to locate the constellation Orion low in the western sky at dusk, find the bright bluish star Rigel, and sweep the surrounding area with binoculars. The comet would appear as a small, fuzzy blob — subtle, easy to miss, but unmistakably there.
The object's history dwarfs any human frame of reference. It has been orbiting in the icy cloud surrounding the solar system since its formation 4.6 billion years ago, and its journey to Earth's neighborhood took roughly 170,000 years. Now it is here for a moment, before swinging back into the dark for longer than our civilization has existed. Balkham and his colleagues were sharing their data widely, hoping to draw more people into the habit of looking carefully at what is actually in the sky — because this particular thing in the sky will not pass this way again.
Matt Balkham stood at the Wairarapa observatory on a clear evening, watching data stream in from a 16-inch reflecting telescope pointed at a visitor that won't return for hundreds of thousands of years. The comet C/2025 R3 PanSTARRS had swung around the sun and was now visible across the Southern Hemisphere—but only if you knew where to look, and only if conditions aligned just right.
For the past week, astronomers had been chasing a moving target. The comet was fading as it receded from the sun, growing smaller and dimmer with each passing night. But there was a silver lining: the full moon that had been washing out the sky was finally waning, and that shift meant something counterintuitive. "The best is yet to come, absolutely, in terms of being able to photograph it," Balkham, the Wellington Astronomical Society's curator of instruments, told 1News. The trade-off was real—distance meant dimness, but darkness meant clarity. Over the next few nights, he believed, observers would find the sweet spot between a fading comet and a darkening sky.
Balkham's work illustrated the precision required to capture what most people would never see with their naked eyes. Using a mono camera fitted with red, green, and blue filters, he collected about an hour's worth of data each evening, starting just after dusk around 6:30 p.m. The telescope tracked the apparent movement of the sky, counteracting Earth's rotation while also following the comet's own drift relative to the stars. Back at the computer, the images from each colored filter were layered together, a process that demanded careful alignment so that stars remained sharp points of light and the comet looked like a comet, not a smeared artifact of the processing itself. "There's quite a lot of work after actually taking the image," Balkham said, laughing at the gap between the moment of observation and the finished photograph.
But for those without access to a research-grade telescope, the challenge was simpler and more fundamental: finding the thing at all. John Drummond from the comet department of the Royal Astronomical Society of New Zealand offered practical guidance. The comet was not the spectacular naked-eye object that media coverage sometimes suggested. You would need binoculars. You would need to find a location with minimal light pollution and a clear view toward the western horizon. Then you would look for the constellation Orion—specifically the asterism known as the pot, which sits low in the western sky at dusk. To the left of that pot hung Rigel, a bright bluish star. Around Rigel, if you swept your binoculars carefully, you might spot a small, fuzzy blob. That was it. That was the comet.
The object itself carried a history almost incomprehensible in its scale. It had been orbiting in the cloud of icy bodies surrounding the solar system since the system's formation 4.6 billion years ago. The journey to Earth's neighborhood had taken roughly 170,000 years. As it approached the sun, gravity had accelerated it, giving it a boost that sent it hurtling toward the inner solar system at tremendous speed. Now it was here, briefly visible, before it would swing back out into the dark and not return for hundreds of thousands of years.
Balkham and his colleagues at the Wellington Astronomical Society were racing against time and weather. Cloud forecasts threatened the next few nights, and with each passing day the comet would grow fainter and harder to detect. Yet there remained a window—narrow, but real. The data they collected would be shared among society members and partner organizations, part of a broader effort to draw people into the practice of looking through telescopes, of learning to see what was actually there rather than what they expected to see. For a brief moment in May 2026, the Southern Hemisphere had a rare visitor, and those who knew where to point their binoculars could witness something that would not pass this way again for longer than human civilization has existed.
Notable Quotes
It's only visible in our southern skies for a short period in the next hundreds of thousands of years. So when we have those sorts of events we obviously really wanted to try and capture it within the small window.— Matt Balkham, Wellington Astronomical Society
You'll need a pair of binoculars... it's not like people can walk outside and, hey presto, there's this massive comet with a big huge tail or anything like that.— John Drummond, Royal Astronomical Society of New Zealand
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does the comet actually look better as it gets fainter?
It's about the moon. When the full moon is bright, it floods the entire sky with light—it washes everything out, makes the darkness gray. As the moon wanes, the sky gets genuinely dark again, and that darkness makes even a faint comet easier to photograph and see.
So you're saying the comet isn't actually getting easier to see—the sky is?
Exactly. The comet is getting dimmer and smaller every night. But the conditions around it are improving. It's a race between two things moving in opposite directions.
What's the actual experience of looking for it? Is it disappointing?
It depends on what you expect. If you're imagining something like the comets in old paintings—a bright object with a sweeping tail—yes, you'll be disappointed. It's a small, fuzzy blob. But if you understand that, if you know what you're looking for, there's something profound about finding it. You're looking at something that's been traveling for 170,000 years to be in that exact spot.
Why does Balkham's work matter if most people can't see what he's photographing?
Because he's creating a record. This comet won't come back for hundreds of thousands of years. The data he's collecting now—the images, the measurements—that's the only chance we have to study it closely during this pass. It's not just about the pretty picture. It's about capturing evidence of something rare.
The cloud forecast—is that the real obstacle?
It's one of several. You need clear skies, a dark location, binoculars, and the knowledge of where to look. Most people have none of those things lined up at the same moment. The clouds might be the final barrier, but there are many before that.