It was just another beautiful morning in the high desert. I put on the solar glasses and tracked the moon’s collision course with the sun. I nommed on an energy bar, chatted with my neighbors, and looking up again, I saw the sun then half-obscured, but everything else seemed normal. Only at 80-percent coverage did things begin to subtly change, the normal view of our surroundings was slightly dimmed, though slightly crisper, sharper. We were all craning skyward then. Ninety percent. Ninety-five. My solar glasses displayed a crescent moon, only it’s really a crescent sun.
And then someone flicked the cosmic light switch and morning became dusk in the blink of an eye. A collective gasp escaped everyone’s lips. I took the solar glasses off and witnessed tendrils of light curling into the cosmos from an inky black hole. And the air suddenly cooled my skin. Nearly noon and it’s night. My rational mind knew exactly what was happening but I was speechless. The total eclipse of 2017 in the highlands of Mackay, ID, was one of the most spectacular things I have ever seen. And I’ve seen things.
And just as quickly as it started, it ended. Two-thousand miles for two minutes and 17 seconds. Oh well. It was worth every single mile and nanosecond.