When totality ended on August 21, 2017, Rob and I looked at each other knowingly.
“When’s the next one in North America?”
“April of 2024.”
“We’re going.”
Nearly 7 years in the making, and with precise travel
arrangements over one year old, Rob and I trekked to Texas a few days ago to
experience totality in a solar eclipse once again. Decidedly a bit further than the Oregon-Idaho state line
we staked out in 2017. But unquestionably worth every hotel point, travel
dollar, and moment of meteorological panic to see the world go bizarrely and breathtakingly dark
again for just a few minutes.
Our plan was to fly to Dallas and drive to a Totality Town
south of Waco to avoid crowds. We would stay in a hotel and enjoy the comforts
of their reserved parking lot and proximate facilities. No frantic scurrying
about trying to find The Right Spot, no dehydration concerns from not drinking
any water for fear of no potty, no traffic jam to head “home.” It was going to
be super civilized and worry-free.
When we checked into the hotel in Temple-Belton two days
before E-Day, our excitement was stoked with offers of Commemorative T-Shirts
and promises of snacks and fanfare during the Big Event. It sounded lovely.
With the option to fly just about anywhere within the Totality Path, Rob
and I picked Texas because we believed it had the best probability of clear
skies in early April. That and we didn’t want to go to Mexico. Probable: “supported
by evidence strong enough to establish presumption but not proof.” We were
about to learn a hard lesson in probability.
About 10 days before we left for Texas, Rob gently hinted that the weather forecast for Eclipse Viewing in our chosen spot was not ideal. Each day, the pit of disappointment in my stomach grew a little bigger. Clouds, lots of them. Maybe some rain. Maybe thunderstorms.
I pep-talked myself into being OK with experiencing that
strange darkness under cloud cover. Surely that would be a unique and memorable experience, right? Then
Rob floated the idea of perhaps driving a bit the morning of the eclipse, in
search of a better forecast. Totality would be at 1:44pm, so we would have time
to chase clear skies. Assuming there were any within several hundred miles of
Temple-Belton.
The night before the eclipse, Rob and I were propped on our
hotel bed, busily working our laptops. Between us we had a couple dozen tabs
open searching road maps, weather maps, radar maps, hotel room availability,
and UTC conversions. For a brief moment, after declaring Little Rock too far
away, we were going to pack up quickly and immediately drive to Oklahoma where
there was one smoky hotel room with double beds of questionable comfort available for
just under $200. Saner heads prevailed just in the nick of time.
Nevertheless, jetlagged but determined, we stocked our newly acquired Buc-ee’s Cooler Bag with provisions from H.E.B. (we did Texas, y’all) and set our alarm for 5:00am on Eclipse Day. We were on the road, in the dark, heading northeast at 6:05am. Destination: Idabel, Oklahoma.
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| We were also told to "Arrive Early, Stay Put, and Leave Late" It actually worked! |
We took highways, byways, country roads, and crawled through
tiny rural towns to avoid meeting their Buford T. Justice. The roads weren’t
very crowded, but we pretty easily spotted other Eclipse Chasers. Usually 2-4
people in the car, nerdish, at least one baseball hat, apps open (presumably on
weather sites), and driving cars with out-of-state plates. When viewed outside
the car, Eclipse Chasers were also noted for their sturdy footwear and safari vests and/or pants with multiple pockets. When later spotted at DFW
post-eclipse, they were also proudly wearing commemorative Totality in Texas
t-shirts (I brought home two different versions).
We started to see people gathering in yards and public open
spaces around 10:00am. We finally rolled into Idabel at about 11:00am. The
tiny, sleepy town was overrun with Eclipse Fever. We saw a TV news crew out of
Oklahoma City set up on a platform as if commentating on a parade. There were
crowds gathered in parks and parking lots, sitting in lawn chairs, picnicking,
playing frisbee and cornhole. Food vendors were set up, there were
porta-potties-a-plenty, and music was playing. T-shirts, eclipse glasses, and
parking spots were all advertised for sale on quickly fashioned cardboard
signs.
As we drove around town, the sporadic sunlight disappeared behind some thick clouds. We regrouped in the parking lot of a smoky, tribal casino (not quite the scariest restroom I used that day – I’m looking at you, 76 station in Malakoff). The schizophrenic clouds and the height-of-capitalism vibe of Idabel just didn’t feel right.
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| TV crew was to the right, multiple satellite trucks were in a parking lot across the street |
“I liked that baseball field back by Clarksville,” Rob
offered. Back to Texas we went. Thankfully, we had plenty of time.
We finally set up camp at a community baseball field. Rusty
bleachers, chain-link fencing, lots of grassy parking, about 30 eclipse
tailgaters already assembled, and one appropriately respected and appreciated porta-potty.
It was perfect.
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The sky was not clear by any stretch, but at least there
were frequent pockets of bright sun and dark shadows. Many people had camp
chairs; one family had a picnic blanket. There were several campers and RVs,
and most cars had their trunks open for food access. Strangers chatted, sharing
stories of the 2017 eclipse and eerily similar decision-trees to have ended up
at the Red River County ballfield that morning.
And then it started.
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| It's hard to take a selfie when you have exceptionally dark sunglasses on |
Donning the eclipse glasses, the ballfield murmured with
excitement as we all saw the tiniest chunk of the sun disappear. Then more.
Then more.
At about half-way to totality, I recognized that strange
golden light emerge. Almost like Golden Hour light, but somehow more subtle
and a bit muted. Sort of the Golden Hour at 60% saturation.
As we inched towards totality, the clouds came and went.
None lasted for more than a minute or two, giving us hope that if a cloud did cavalierly pass in front of the total eclipse, it would not be there the entire 4 minutes and
20 seconds of totality. Spoiler alert: we were right. HALLELUJAH!
With about 5 minutes to go, Rob and I decided to walk over
to some lonely bleachers, hoping to be on the other side of some suddenly
appearing clouds. Nobody was within a hundred yards of us.
The sun was behind clouds just as totality was to begin. And
then, as if by answered prayer, the clouds parted just enough. A perfect hole
in the clouds broke through to reveal the dazzlingly white diamond of light on the
ring of light around the moon. The white intensity sparkled as a cloud passed
in front of it. Then the clouds parted again, allowing me to stare in awe at
the bright corona of flames dancing mesmerizingly behind the moon.
Cheers filled the baseball field. Awe-filled, “OH MY GOD!”s
and repeated proclamations of the ethereal beauty we were witnessing. There was also some
gleeful applause. I absolutely loved being alone with Rob on the bleachers
while at the same time having a shared experience with equally enthralled
strangers.
I felt a surge of gratitude – for nature, for creation, for
God, for science, for retirement, for an able-enough body, for radar and
weather maps, for time with my best friend, for moments of clear skies, for
these minutes. These incredible, mind-bending, touched-by-God minutes. And
that’s when I started to cry. Good tears. Such very good tears.
As the clouds passed in front of the astronomical show yet again,
I looked around and tried to take in the darkness. It wasn’t dark like at
night. Our sun is incredibly bright. Just a sliver of it is enough to cause
photocells to turn off. A ring of it leaves enough light to be dusk-like, but
not. The darkness of a total eclipse is like no other. It is filtered darkness,
it is partial darkness. It is sunset without the oranges and reds. It is still
and eerie and quiet, but with the sudden confused noise of birds and bugs and
awe-struck humans. It is otherworldly and surreal and addicting.
Totality lasted over 4 minutes. We probably saw half of it
in bits and pieces. It was not nearly enough but honestly, I’m not sure even hours
would be enough to gaze at a total eclipse and try to comprehend its beauty.
It felt like it had been about 30 seconds when the 4 minutes were over and the sky started to brighten. I was both exhilarated and incredibly disappointed. I truly wanted it to never end.
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| The best I could do with a 2020 iPhone And honestly, I didn't want to spend much time taking inadequate photos for fear of missing the experience of being there. |
We were back on the road at 2:10pm. We collapsed on the
hotel’s bed at 8:25pm. Rob drove 611 miles to experience 4 minutes of wonder. It
was worth every mile and minute.
Over the course of our 4 days of Texas, we visited a childhood home (mine) and commiserated with the current owner about the clearly memorable 53-year-old wood paneling. We deemed Texas-made wine unique unto itself. We got indigestion from surprisingly good brisket at a Texas-sized truck stop featuring a beaver wearing a baseball hat. We pulled over on the side of the road to wait out rain that proved too fast for the windshield wipers. We survived the panic of repeated and unnerving weather alerts of heavy rain, severe thunderstorms, flash floods, lightning strikes, and tornadoes (GRATEFULLY after the eclipse!). We welcomed a new nephew into the world (can’t wait to meet him!) and will forever look at him with awe that he got to come home from the hospital during an eclipse.
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| I had my 4th birthday in that house! And remember being afraid of the backyard because there was NOTHING around -- not even the trees. |
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| The best part about the winery was the view. Out of frame: cows. |
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| If the eclipse had happened one day later, we would have been stuck in our hotel room watching it on TV live from some non-Texas location. Visibility could have been much better...and MUCH MUCH worse. So grateful we got to see what we saw. |
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| My Portland TV station app proved both handy and terrifying by knowing my exact location |
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| Lightning strike map. We drove through that.... |
The next total eclipse in North America is in 20 years –
August 23, 2044 – viewable in Montana and Canada. It’s already on our calendar.
I’m hoping our new nephew will be willing to drive his late-70s aunt and uncle
to experience the incredible wonder of totality once again.
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| Taken just after totality ended and high-fiving that we actually got to see it |
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