Gwenna McKee takes in totality at Corvallis, Ore. on Aug. 21, 2017.

How I was turned into an eclipse chaser

I recently made an eight hour drive to Oregon with my family and a few friends to see the total eclipse of the sun. I knew that by positioning ourselves in the 70 mile wide path of “totality” we were going to get the full cosmic effect – no dark glasses needed – at least for the two minutes of totality. It would be just us looking on with naked eyes at the most definitive singular cosmic event you can experience on Earth. (Apologies to the aurora borealis.)
Was it worth the 16-hour roundtrip for two minutes of awesomeness? We all thought so. This was once-in-a-lifetime stuff here. In our case, we added in a four day backpack trip in the Trinity Alps of northern California on the way up. But that’s another story.
A month before we left, I had the really good idea to buy two high-powered binoculars mounted on tripods so we could all enjoy close-up views of the eclipse. When the moon is totally blocking the sun, the surrounding solar corona is visible, and that’s supposed to be about as bright as a full moon. Not only do you not need eclipse glasses, you can look at it with telescopes and binoculars. I knew I had to get those binoculars.
Thanks to our backpack trip, we were already most of the way to the band of totality in Oregon, but we were still wary of the dire predictions of traffic armageddon created by thousands of Californians driving up for the event, so we played it safe and arose at 4:30 a.m in our Roseburg Oregon hotel to allow for a safe buffer of time. Traffic was flowing fine. We arrived with a couple hours to spare at the Corvallis home of my boyhood buddy Bob who had a breakfast spread waiting for us. Best of all, the early morning sky in Corvallis was a lovely blue. Ahh, clear skies – such a relief after our days of backpacking in northern California under a sky made beige by some inland forest fires.
Lots of enthusiastic socializing ensued between our two families while we waited for the totality that was to arrive in Corvallis at 10:18 a.m. Groups of us would drift outside to put on our dark eclipse glasses to see how the moon was slowly taking over the sun. Wesley and I set up our two large binoculars onto the tripods and practiced aiming at various things in the distance. There would be no aiming at the sun for now – not unless we wanted to burn laser-beam holes in our eyes.
With twenty minutes to go, we all decided to head out for the hill behind Bob’s house, so Wesley and I slung our tripods over our shoulders and followed our group up the trail to a big open hillside where groups of people waited. We chose a spot for ourselves, assembled our binoculars and then stood about, watching the sky grow slowly darker. Through our eclipse glasses we could see that the remaining crescent of the sun was becoming thinner and thinner. I felt a strange nervousness. The air temperature was cooling. Stars were starting to show in the sky.
Then, just like that, it happened. The remaining sliver of sun disappeared and a deep twilight took over the land while an ethereal halo erupted around the dark disk of the moon. With my eclipse glasses off I stood on the side of that hill and simply stared, rapt in awe. Cheers went up from everyone.
I quickly moved to my binoculars to align them with the sun/moon. After a few wobbles the image settled in. Filling my view was a dark disk shining on all sides with a delicate white diaphanous light that streamed outwards. In three or four places along the edge were clumps of fiery orange. I was witnessing solar flares. Unreal. I committed the image to memory and then, too soon, pulled myself away to allow others their turn and then stood there to take it all in.
I felt an impulse to cry – something others would also mention later. I’m not sure why. Probably having to do with the universe briefly revealing something exquisitely beautiful. A rare glimpse behind the curtain at the wonder of the cosmos. This ballet is billions of years old, and we get to have a very fleeting moment with it. That turns out to be a powerful thing to experience.
I suppose others were taking turns on the two sets of big binoculars. I don’t know, because I was busy looking through a smaller handheld set. The orange solar flares could still be seen. Amazing.
Too soon, a bright edge of the sun peaked out on the top edge of the dark disk and brightness returned and totality was over. Cheers of gratitude broke out all over the hillside. No more direct looking.
They tell me that towards the end, Bob’s niece bumped my set of big binoculars, ruining the aim at the moon. I’m glad I didn’t see it happen or it may have been upsetting to me. As it is, I had my own little flub when I forgot to look for the constellation of Orion, said to become visible in the daytime sky during eclipses. So even the best laid plans of mice and eclipse watchers oft go awry – especially given the brief time we have for this. Those two minutes come and go pretty fast.
The hillside continued to brighten, returning us to normal life back on Earth. We stood about, smiling and taking commemorative photos of each other next to the binoculars and then we all trailed off down the hill back to Bob’s house. I encouraged quick goodbyes so we could hit the road south before it filled up with Californians all heading home at the same time. Indeed, my cell phone displayed a traffic map with I-5 already developing red sections. The dreaded “carmageddon” was beginning. Hugs and farewells followed, as well as vows to share future adventures with each other, and then we were off on our long drive home. Siri suggested alternate country roads to save time, so we zigged this way and that, continuing our sense of adventure and delighting us by the fact that we were missing the traffic snarl on the freeway.
Already we were talking about getting together for the next eclipse in 2024. That one starts at Mazatlan on the Mexican coast and ends in Maine. All we need to do is find a place along that route that we would want to visit anyway and then go there and take in a beautiful cosmic event as one of our activities.
This eclipse watching thing is not going to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. Not for me, anyway.
Steve McKee is a Benicia architect. He can be reached on the web at: www.smckee.com or at (707) 746-6788. All rights reserved.

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