I WAS DRAGGED to the path of totality. I’ll just admit that up front. When Juliane first started talking about wanting to go, at least a full year in advance, I readily agreed to it, but certainly wasn’t looking forward to it. “The path” was a full three hour drive away.
My lack of enthusiasm was based on many memories of partial eclipses throughout the years, including one I remember distinctly in 1970 when I was a small kid in New York City. I’ll be honest, they made little impact on me. I never quite understood the big deal. But this was different, Juliane insisted. She of course informed me that none of the previous ones I saw were in totality, and therefore they “basically didn’t count,” and that I “just didn’t get it.” “Trust me,” she said. “We’ll regret it if we don’t go.”
Monday, April 8, 2024 arrived, a date that had previously seemed so abstract and far in the future. I did not feel like driving all day. I had stuff to do. But the eclipse was on the news, and online, on billboards, and on roadside signs. Everyone had been talking about it in the days leading up. I had started to believe it might be worth the effort.
Juliane had of course done alot of research and had charted out the Plattsburgh City Beach on Lake Champlain as our destination. Her instinct was that this was something to experience in a large crowd, something to share with others. In the end, she was 100% right. Had I missed this, it would have been a real shame. Seeing the total eclipse is something I’ll never forget.
As you might recall, on that day, it was uncertain in New England where there would be cloud cover and not. There was also a concern about the sheer numbers of people that would be commuting to see it, and that highways might become blocked up. We were originally planning to leave at about noon, but while we were having coffee, we started reading things online and seriously doing the math, and realized we better rethink that. I actually skipped my swim (those of you who swim daily understand this is a big deal.) We hopped in the car and left at about 9:30.
Somewhere between the Mass Pike and Albany, and then certainly once we hit the Adirondack Northway, it started to look like the stories I had always heard about people driving to Woodstock: A sea of cars ahead of us as far as the horizon — going only in one direction. Even the metrics of Google Maps seemed scrambled by the sheer incalculable volume of traffic; the algorithms incrementally adding time to our drive like a broken clock. We were moving forward but getting further away. Our phones were alive with alerts, telling us not to park on the edges of the highway to view the eclipse, and that we’d be towed if we did. There was an intensity about reaching our destination, finding parking, and getting to a good viewing spot in time.
Had we left even an hour later, we wouldn’t have made it. But, we did. Thousands of people were gathered. Upon arrival, a live band was playing Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd. Then the light began dimming, getting stranger and more gray over the course of an hour, shadows growing more and more surreal. The band stopped at some point, seagulls were circling, seeming lost, or agitated, like they behave in the early evening at the ocean, though the sun was nowhere close to the horizon. It was twilight, but … not; the very definition of the uncanny.
Then, a minute before totality, a hush started to blanket the crowd, as everyone waited. And then, after a slow and gradual fade, it was like someone cranked down a dimmer switch on a light fixture, abruptly, to total darkness. The sun was now shrouded. And in primal response, everyone cheered in unison, with joy, and awe. We all felt something together.
Glasses came off, and we all gazed. It’s an unreal sight, and feeling. A palpable chill was suddenly in the air, a sobering moment of frigidity in the absence of the sun’s warmth; and an almost indescribable heavy feeling in the chest, as you look up and take it in; a halo around a perfect dark circle, with little wisps of bright pink at the edges. Further afield, planets were alight, streetlamps were visible in the distance, and a sunset glowed in every direction. A rare opportunity for something cosmic and profound.
Editor’s note: The band that played the day of the eclipse at the Plattsburgh City Beach was Ursa and the Major Key. The Crewdson Trail Log is co-written and edited by Juliane Hiam.
In the Path of the Totality