Bill reserved a hotel room for April 7 in Fort Smith, Arkansas almost a year ago. Eight hours away. Because it was on the edge of The Path of Totality.
I wondered if that was a famous rock band.
No. It’s the last full solar eclipse in the United States until 2045. Hotels closer to us in “The Path” had already sold out. As a photographer, Bill started buying special filters, borrowing cameras and tripods, and researching f-stops and time lapses.
I wondered what there was to do and eat in Fort Smith.
We don’t usually plan anything that far in advance. But when you reach our age, if you’re going to do something, you can’t wait until the “next time,” especially if it’s 21 years away. I was glad Bill researched so I could just go along for the ride wearing an awkward shoulder wedge sling after shattering my shoulder.
Would 16 hours on the road, wounded and weary, be worth it?
People tried to describe the difference between being in a partial and total eclipse. Annie Dillard wrote, “Seeing a partial eclipse bears about the same relation to seeing a total eclipse as kissing a man does to marrying him, or as flying in an airplane does to falling out of an airplane.”
I tried to stay open-minded.
On our way, we found a room in Little Rock. It cut off two hours of our drive. Other people on the hotel elevator whispered to us, “Are you here for the eclipse, too?”
So, maybe it really was a thing.
Bill figured out the best places in the area to see the eclipse. Two key factors: a wide view of the sky and access to bathrooms. The next morning, in a quiet park on the Arkansas River, Bill set up three cameras on tripods. At 9:30 a.m. there was one other car. The eclipse would begin about 12:30 p.m. and hit totality at 1:52 p.m.
By 1:30 p.m. it looked like a low-key SEC tailgate party.
Almost every parking space was filled. People set out camp chairs, cranked up music, and passed around snacks. Kids played tag. Parents scrolled on their phones.
Bill handed me mylar eclipse sunglasses (much better than the flimsy paper ones below). I put them on. The world went dark. I could see nothing except the sun. At 12:30 p.m. I noticed the slightest dent on the lower right side of the full circle of the sun. By 1 p.m. it looked like a pitted olive. At 1:30 p.m., a crescent moon. By 1:40, the sun looked like a thin toenail clipping.
But as I took off my glasses and looked around the park, everything appeared the same. The sun was that strong. If I didn’t know what was happening, I’d wonder why people were looking up at the sky in those weird glasses.
But then, at about 1:50, with more than 97 percent of the sun blocked, the light changed. It was like looking into a fish tank with an eerie green-gray thick algae glow. The street lamps popped on. The air cooled. The birds settled. The crickets chirped. The sky turned deep indigo blue. Cheers, gasps, and claps erupted in ripples up and down the riverbank. I took off my glasses, looked up, and nearly dropped to my knees.
My eyes welled with tears.
The moon won, sliding over the sun, and locking a lid on it. Then in a few seconds, I saw the perfect circle halo glow. Almost as quickly, the sun glinted out the other side, like a glittering diamond ring.
I looked around. Sunset glowed along the edges of every horizon. Burnt orange flames along the edges of the world with the rest of the sky a deepening cobalt blue bowl with a pulsating white ring at the top. (Here's a Facebook link to an image from Brandon Bodendorfer who recorded the 360-degree sunset.)
The drama only lasted 2.5 minutes.
Then the lights flipped back on. Street lamps turned off. Birds flew. Some people stood in a daze. Most started packing up. A woman next to us looked at her watch.
“We’d better go. The restaurants will be packed.”
All eclipse photos by Bill Carroll
We kept watching through our eclipse glasses as the moon slid off the sun for the next 45 minutes with the same half-moon shapes in the opposite direction. Then we packed the gear and drove home through hours of eclipse traffic all converging on the bridge over the Mississippi River in Memphis.
Had it been real?
We had the photos to prove it. If not, even though I had been there, I may have doubted it. My too-distracted life with its all-important to-do’s may have tried to check it off or box it in. I’m glad we made it an “event,” and we let ourselves pause and experience it.
It was worth it.
But it made me think. What other holy moments have I missed or dismissed? How can I let myself be awed by our supernatural universe? There’s not much time left to put myself in the path of wonder. Maybe I need to create an "awe-some" app to schedule and record those moments, especially the simple ones close by. Take wonder walks with my macro-lens camera. Clap at sunsets. Breathe in fresh basil. Relish every bite of warm chocolate chip cookies. Listen to baby giggles. Play with golden retrievers.
Don't wait until the next time.
When have you experienced a moment of awe or wonder that took your breath away or changed you? How will you put yourself in the path?