Read Part I here
When I stepped out of my tent Monday morning, I did the same thing everyone else at the campground was doing: I peered anxiously at the sky. The forecast called for partly sunny in the morning, turning to overcast by late afternoon. If the cloud cover rolled in too soon, the eclipse would be hidden. My first look was promising: a few wispy clouds, otherwise blue skies, not much wind.
I don’t know what that blurry thing in the foreground is, but it photobombed an otherwise great pic. 🙁
My plan was to get on the road home as soon as the eclipse was over, to avoid getting stuck in traffic. So first thing that morning I broke camp and loaded up my car. I had to evict a bunch of harvestman spiders that had taken up residence in the nooks and crannies of my tent.
Then I walked up to Emerald Vista to see if it was filling up yet. I had the option of watching the eclipse from my campsite, but I liked the overlook setting better.
The viewing area was nowhere near full, but people had begun to trickle in: several couples, some long-haired hippies, a family with children, a biker group blasting iconic 1960s-era anthems of the open road. Again I felt like I’d just stepped out of a time machine, but this time the vibe was five or six decades back in time. It was pretty great.
I had a few hours to kill before the eclipse started, so when I noticed a trailhead leading down from the overlook, I decided to check it out. Alltrails said it was a ~7 mile out-and back. I didn’t want to hike the whole thing, just stretch my legs a little.
The trail was so pretty that I absolutely would have ended up hiking the whole thing if I weren’t afraid of missing the eclipse.
In my deepest heart, I am a forest creature.
I feel most alive in the woods. That soul-nourishing greenery, the birdsong, the earthy fragrance of soil and bark and blossom.
I love Colorado, and I’m learning to love the austere prairie beauty of the eastern plains. But it does my heart good to get back into the woods every now and then.
The Vista was full enough when I got back up to it that it seemed like a good time to claim a viewing spot. I went back to my campsite to grab my camp chair and a backpack full of whatever I thought I might need before and during the event. I set up in the ten feet of space between a family with kids on one side and the biker group on the other.
These particular bikers seemed like they were probably, like, doctors and accountants in their regular lives, rather than the disreputable hoodlum sort. But they fully understood the responsibility they had undertaken in providing the soundtrack for our eclipse experience. While we waited for the main event, they played “Born to be Wild,” and “There Ain’t no Good Chain Gang,” and made it all feel like a party. I asked one of them if I could take a photo of his Indian for my blog, and he readily agreed.
I had brought a book to read, but I got more enjoyment from listening to the conversations going on around me (“Mom, did you know there’s a state named George?”). The weather was perfect, and there were just enough clouds in the sky to provide a little thrill of uncertainty.
When the leading edge of the moon first became visible against the sun, the bikers changed over to an eclipse playlist: “Moonshadow,” “Moondance,” “Bad Moon Rising,” “Blinded by the Light,” and so on. The clouds mostly stayed out of the way, but when they did occasionally drift in front of the sun, it just created an eerie flowy effect that was very cool in its own way. The sun was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.*
I recently bought a cheap camera with a decent zoom. I wasn’t expecting much from it in capturing the eclipse, and it lived down to my low expectations. This is about the clearest shot I got of the crescent sun:
When the eclipse first began, I realized that I had left my little tripod back at my campsite, and that I would need it if I was going to have any chance of getting a clear photo. But for once I didn’t really care about getting the perfect shot. I was very much in the moment, and I didn’t want to break the spell. I felt like I was part of something historic, like we’d all come together to create this unforgettable moment in time on the side of that mountain. I never seriously considered leaving for even just the few minutes it would have taken to grab my tripod.
So most of my pics look like this:
But I am fascinated by these jittery photos. Not because of the sun — because of the stars!
When I put on my eclipse glasses and looked at the crescent sun, I could not see the stars. But my cheap camera could, and it captured them clear and sharp in their colors and constellations.
Totality was incredible. Day became night, and the solar corona became a ring of fire around a black sun. I made one unsuccessful attempt to photograph it…
…then set aside my camera and just experienced it. The bikers broke out champagne.
Totality lasted a little over three minutes where we were. Then the light returned, and the birds resumed their songs, and the bikers played “Here Comes the Sun.”
I left Emerald Vista with a light heart. None of my problems are insurmountable. And hadn’t I just seen with my own eyes proof that the universe is spinning reliably along on its appointed course, in its proper timeline?
Instead of going back to the freeway, I turned the other way and stayed on the Talimena Scenic Byway.
I tuned my radio to a country station out of Fort Smith, Arkansas, and in between songs I listened to ads for local feed stores and wild horse auctions. I pulled out at every scenic overlook to take in the views…
…and on every one of them there were fellow travelers who had just experienced the same eclipse I had. It all imparted a warm sense of shared humanity that I haven’t felt in a very long time.
The drive home was nothing like the drive out. I avoided freeways for as long as I could, opting for a slower but more scenic route through cattle country and old historic small towns. One old town still had the original cobblestones on its main street. Another town had a giant billboard that said THOU SHALT NOT KILL in huge letters. I was wondering what sort of murduring problem that town had and how effective a billboard might be when I drove past one of the biggest damn cemeteries I’ve ever seen. So I guess the billboard wasn’t doing the trick.
In a little town in Oklahoma, near the Kansas border, I passed a Sheriff’s truck idling next to an intersection. I was feeling good about the fact that I wasn’t speeding when his flashers lit up my rear-view mirror. I pulled over, wondering what sort of small-town nefariousness I was about to be dealing with. He kept me waiting for a while, probably running my plates, and then eventually came up the the window. I rolled it down.
“Good evening,” he said in a friendly tone. “Did you know you have a taillight out?”
“I…did not know that.” I said.
“You can get out and look if you like.”
I got out and looked. I did in fact have a taillight out.
“Just get it fixed as soon as possible,” he said cheerfully. “Have a good night!”
I got back behind the wheel, trying to remember if I still had that box of taillight bulbs in my trunk. I thought I remembered taking it out and putting it in the garage the last time I’d cleaned out my car.
When I messaged Luke about the incident, he replied, “Pull over and check your trunk. See if the bulbs are still in there.”
“Meh. I’ll check when I get home.”
“What will you do if a Kansas cop pulls you over and tickets you?”
“Pay it, I reckon.”
“Sloth tax,” he grumbled. That’s my boy, I raised him to be responsible.
I had no more run-ins with the law. By now it was dark, so I didn’t have to look at that flat and desolate Kansas landscape. The winding farm roads led me back to I-70, and I drove uneventfully back into the dry chill of a Colorado April.
*With apologies to Alfred Noyes
An Invincible Summer 