NASHVILLE, Ind. — There’s nothing like a total solar eclipse to remind you of the unstoppability of nature — and the tenuousness of technology.
Not that we need much of a reminder: The challenges of climate change, ranging from floods to wildfires, and the problems caused by the coronavirus pandemic amply show the limits of humanity’s control over nature.
But chasing totality is a more benign example showing just how hard it is to predict which paths Mother Nature will take, and how technology may or may not catch up.
It was tricky to pinpoint the best place to see today’s total eclipse, because totality was visible only along a narrow track stretching from Mexico to Newfoundland, for no more than four and a half minutes over any location. If clouds roll in at 3:04 p.m., and totality begins at 3:05, there’s nothing OpenAI or SpaceX can do about it.
Based on historical precedent, a stretch of Texas around Austin was supposed to have the best chance of clear skies. Here in Nashville, a well-known tourist destination south of Indianapolis, the cloud-cover predictions varied from totally sunny to as much as 60% clouded over. Meanwhile, some air travelers hoped to catch sight of the blacked-out sun as they flew above the clouds.
How did it all turn out? Here are three tales from GeekWire’s eclipse team:
Goodbye, Texas — hello, Arkansas
The encouraging weather reports convinced photographer Kevin Lisota that Austin was the place to go. After his arrival on Friday, Lisota thought better of his decision.
“Each day, the forecast in Central Texas got worse and worse, with more potential cloud cover,” Lisota wrote in his dispatch. “After obsessing about the forecast, we decided to drive overnight on Sunday from Austin to Arkansas. We landed at Cossatot River State Park, a beautiful natural area, with an optimistic cloud forecast.”
The morning started well, with clear skies. Then low clouds began to roll in.
“The beginning part of the eclipse gave us occasional glimpses of the partial eclipse through the clouds, but we were worried. Then, about 15 minutes before totality, pockets of clear skies opened up, revealing an awesome total eclipse,” Lisota said.
During the total phase of the eclipse, Lisota could dispense with his solar filters. “There were still some high cirrus clouds obscuring the sun, but it put on quite a show, with one blazingly bright prominence that was easily visible with the naked eye,” he said.
Dark skies above the clouds
GeekWire reporter Kurt Schlosser was 35,000 feet above Buffalo, N.Y., during totality, on a cross-country flight from Seattle to New York City.
From his window seat on the left side of the aircraft, Schlosser witnessed the sky darken for about four minutes, starting at about 3:15 p.m. ET. Passengers on the right side of the plane had a better view of the actual sun.
The captain of the Delta flight warned passengers not to stare at the sun. “There were no cheers from the packed flight during the eclipse, and a large number of passengers couldn’t even be bothered to open their window shades or divert their attention from seatback screens,” Schlosser said in his dispatch.
Taking a chance in Indiana
As I sat in my $300-a-night yurt in the woods near Nashville, bundled up in my sleeping bag, I reflected on how things have changed — or haven’t — since ancient humans marveled over total solar eclipses.
There was no signal for my phone. I couldn’t get the hour-by-hour weather updates that I’d been checking ever since I decided to cancel my two-week road trip to Texas and instead make last-minute plans to fly to the Midwest. My brother Dave put me up at his home in the Cincinnati area for a couple of days, and then we headed over to Indiana — where he had reserved a hotel room months ago, and where I reserved a glorified tent.
Unlike ancient humans, I knew exactly when the sun would go dark: 3:05 p.m. ET. But when I went to sleep, without my internet, I couldn’t be sure whether the skies would be cloud-free. The waves of rain showers that passed through during the night dampened my outlook.
As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. The only clouds in the sky were high and thin — barely dimming the sun. Dave picked me up at my yurt and we drove to the Brown County Inn, where Dave and his partner, Nancy, were staying. At the appointed time, we set up our folding chairs just south of the inn’s miniature-golf course and shuffleboard court.
Next to where I was screwing my dinky Nikon camera onto a tripod, Steve Dubovich was adjusting his more impressive-looking camera with a giant lens. He said that he and his wife, Deb, had planned the trip just a couple of weeks earlier and were looking forward to a “once-in-a-lifetime” experience.
“I’m hoping I get my settings right,” Dubovich, who hails from Hebron, Ind., told me. “I’m trying different settings on the camera, just to get that nice halo on a total eclipse.”
Across the street, Jim Henderson — a retired astronomer from Atlanta — was setting up a spotting scope at the town’s Hoosier Fest celebration. He used the small telescope to project images of the partial eclipse onto a sheet of cardboard.
“It’s a lot safer to do it this way,” he explained.
Henderson said he’s particularly concerned about eye safety because a childhood accident blinded him in one eye. “I have only one eye, so I don’t want to take the chance of looking at the sun through the glasses — although they’re probably perfectly safe.”
Sam Bracken brought his “Celtic Pig” food truck to Hoosier Fest, and was waiting for business to pick up as totality approached. He planned to get out of the truck by 3:05 p.m. and take a look at the blacked-out sun for himself. “Nobody’s going to be ordering food when the eclipse starts,” Bracken said.
So what was he looking forward to the most? “Making money today, to be honest,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have traveled to see this if it wasn’t for the opportunity to make some money.”
There wasn’t exactly an overflow crowd of onlookers for the countdown to totality, but as the sun’s disk turned into a crescent — and then into a bright fingernail — the hubbub grew. At T-minus-2 minutes, the light faded rapidly to twilight. And then, in a flash, the sun turned black. Stars were visible in a night-like sky, and the hubbub turned into hoots of joy. Some of those hoots were mine.
After four minutes of looking and hooting, the light returned. I reviewed the photos I took. Frankly, they were embarrassing. But I had resolved to look on the bright side, and Steve Dubovich did as well.
“I’d say I’m pretty happy,” Dubovich told me. “Hey, we could have had clouds out there and all kinds of stuff.”
Kevin Lisota, Kurt Schlosser and I all witnessed something that would have struck ancient humans as terrible magic. Maybe all of our best-laid plans went somewhat astray, but that’s what you have to expect from Mother Nature — and from human nature as well.
