The Great American Eclipse

If you ask the desk clerk at the Hampton Inn why people move to and live in Casper, Wyoming, she’ll say, “Oil.” Perhaps it was fitting, then, that the Sun, which had nourished the organisms that had created that oil over billions of years, should draw the multitudes to Casper on August 21, 2017, the day of what was dubbed (and not necessarily in a jingoistic way) the Great American Eclipse.

According to estimates, one million people visited Wyoming, a state where the population is less than 600,000, for the celestial spectacle. My cousin Susan Hawkins and I were two of them. The previous day we had arrived within an hour of each other at Denver International Airport, rented a car and glided off into the stream of traffic, talking as we slid under an electronic sign warning of eclipse traffic. (When was the last time you saw one of those?) Even though we were hours away from the event, I furtively checked the cloud cover every 10 miles or so, hoping for an unobstructed view of the Sun’s seeming minuet with the Moon the following day. The traffic actually lightened as we moved into Wyoming. We theorized that cars had exited off to claim squatter’s rights to some of the last remaining turf in a state that is almost a metaphor for wide open spaces.

I needn’t have worried about the view. Monday, the day of the eclipse, dawned sunny, and the atmosphere was redolent with great expectations. The chatter at the Hampton Inn’s free breakfast was upbeat, and the waffle iron was working. The day was well launched.

Our search for an optimal viewing spot was uncomplicated. Because the spectacle was in the sky, there was no need to fret over whether someone’s head or hat would spoil the view. We could have opted for the parking lot, but Susan suggested that we climb a nearby hill that was checkered with lawn chairs, blankets, cameras and telescopes. Strangers became fast friends in this ad hoc community. We made friends with Craig, a software engineer who told us what we might see on the ground as the eclipse progressed. He said a visible shadow would quickly cover the entire city, and he encouraged us to stake out a vantage point that would allow us to see this amazing phenomenon. As the partial phase of the eclipse proceeded, Craig amused himself and others by projecting multiple images of the Sun onto the ground. Vendors hawked eclipse glasses and food, and solar spectators glanced up at the shrinking star while minding the kids.  

The air got chillier as the sunlight dimmed. It was very subtle, the way a well-written symphony goes smoothly from forte to piano. But totality arrived in a flourish. In an almost palpable whoosh, it was as if a curtain had been drawn over Casper and the mountains that framed it. People gasped and yelled as the black disc turned daylight into twilight. The most surreal science fiction painting pales in comparison to the sight of the most familiar star in the sky hanging overhead like a gleaming opal. The yells and cheers came from a deep emotional realm. It was one of the happiest sounds I have ever heard, happy to the core.

The sky reddened at 18 minutes before noon. Lights twinkled in the city like a panoply of stars, and the hum of traffic was gone. The Great American Eclipse had become a Great American Sabbath as people paused in awe and wonder.

And then came a roar from the crowd as the first shaft of sunlight speared through at the edge of the Moon, transforming it into the image of a diamond ring. This was the beginning of the end of what so many thousands of people had come to Wyoming to see, but the euphoria of the moment did not dim even as the sky brightened. In the distance, the familiar whir of rubber-to-pavement could be heard. Life was in session again, but there was a palpable sense that something fundamental had changed for everyone who had 

experienced this rare phenomenon.

For us, the euphoria lasted well into trip back to Colorado. We had plenty of time to contemplate it as we became embroiled in a newsworthy traffic jam that left Interstate 25 pedestrian-friendly. It took us more than 13 hours to make what is normally a less-than-five-hour trip. But, to paraphrase the song, our smiles never dimmed.

How ironic that such a transitory event, lasting less than three minutes, could be so enduring. Then again, life may come and go, but memories can never be eclipsed.