Eclisped

Eclipse chasers. This is what they call themselves. Men and women who plan and anticipate for months on end, traveling the globe to satisfy a unique cosmic interest. Every couple of years a total solar eclipse happens somewhere in the world. Eclipse chasers stalk the path of totality, to gaze up at the sky from boats, or beaches, or empty gravel roads and watch nature reveal an incredible beauty.

On August 21st 2017, the path of totality went across America for the first time in 90 years. My family and I chose to take advantage of this and chase down our first total eclipse at the Jackson Lake Lodge in Grand Tetons National Park, Wyoming.

When I arrive several days prior to the eclipse, I am struck by the different kind of beauty the area offers. The base of the Grand Tetons sits about 6,000 feet — over a vertical mile — higher than my home in Fridley. The air is thin and dry here, a strange sensation from the heavy dampness of Minnesota summers. The terrain has a lot of gentleness. The foothills appear to roll and curve, their edges diffused by tightly packed armies of pine trees, as stiff as bottlebrushes. The lowlands spread out in carpets of soft yellow-greens and patches of brown. Sage clings to the ground in silver clumps for miles, but does not perfume the air.

And the Grand Tetons rise high above it all. Grey and barren, they cut into the sky as sharp as paper, their rocky tops dotted in snow.

The first day we are here, I eat breakfast next to an unassuming dad and his young daughter. He is coaching her for her next spelling bee. They are sweet together; he in a plaid shirt and gold rimmed glasses, she in a blonde ponytail and a spattering of freckles. I strike up a conversation which quickly leads to the upcoming eclipse and fascinating inside information. He tells me he is Doug Beisecker*, a solar physicist formerly of NASA, now at the NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration). He was the chief program scientist overseeing the Deep Space Climate Observatory satellite (DSCOVR) that launched in 2015. But today he is simply a dad eating pancakes with his daughter, excited about the eclipse like the rest of us.

The day of the eclipse brings a clear day. In early morning, the lawn is set up with tents and chairs, telescopes and cameras. The crowd is giddy, chatter surrounds me in six different languages, all saying the same thing: I'm going to see a total eclipse! I walk up a neighboring hill with hundreds of others, we cover it like ants as we leave the trail to spread out among the dirt and prairie grasses. Here I wait, frequently peering at the sun with solar goggles to view a tiny moon inch across our star. I pluck the hardy stems of a nearby sagebrush, inhale deeply, and notice the land below looks dusky.

About half an hour before totality, it starts to get cold. I did not expect this. The continued disappearance of the sun leaves me shivering and my fingers icy. As we get closer, things speed up. The air is vibrating. As the dusk moves closer in, eerie and unknown, I am glued to the heavens as an unassuming moon reaches the center. A split second of Bailey’s beads**, then a collective roar engulfs the hill as a great shade is pulled shut.

Totality.

I look with naked eyes at a complete solar eclipse. There is a hush, save the rapid clicks of cameras. The moon, which looked minuscule only seconds before, is now a giant ball of blackness, stark and lone above, framed by brilliant swirls of light—thick white ribbons dance in slow rhythms on the outer most edges, and I see impressions of purples and reds flash along the inner rim in otherworldly magnificence. I feel small. And the smallness feels good and right. I am taking a sort of communion, more ancient and profound than religion—I am experiencing the incredible power of nature—as predicted by science.

I look out at the land. There is still light along the periphery, a rust colored smudge sits low in a valley to my left, light glows to my right, but the mountains in front are covered in shadow. I wonder what the animals must think.

Then— the diamond ring*** flashes— it is done.

In a few minutes, many people leave their pockets of grass and dirt to descend the hill towards lunches and trips back home and life as usual. I stay and watch the moon leave with the same patience as she had come. She deserves the same honor after this spectacular feat. Slowly, the sky and land return to normal proportions, the total eclipse is already in the past.

And now, I too understand. The irresistible call. The wondrous experience. The unbelievable thrill to call yourself—eclipse chaser.

See my time lapsed video of the eclipse over the Grand Tetons.

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*Doug Beisecker shared that the next total eclipse to come to America will be on April 8, 2024. But... in 28 years, 2045 will surely be known as the Great Americas Eclipse, touching North, Central and South America, with totality lasting approximately 6 minutes (vs the 2.5 minutes we experienced in 2017). You can find his work at NOAA and read about DSCOVR in the New York Times.

**Bailey’s beads are the last beams of sunlight that slip through the moon’s various craters and valleys seconds prior to totality.

***The diamond ring affect is the last beam of sunlight going through the last valley of the moon just before or after totality. This is a popular phase in many photographs.

Title (total eclipse) blog picture taken by an anonymous photographer at the Jackson Lake Lodge in Wyoming.