I love an extraordinary celestial event, especially if there’s potential chaos involved. So, it’s not surprising that I plotted to be in the path of totality for this month's eclipse.
During the solar eclipse seven years ago, I was invited to a party at a friend’s house in the path of totality. I remember standing in her backyard when a cool stillness drifted in and settled over us. There was something magical about experiencing that rare phenomenon involving objects so massive and far away. The sun and moon -- routine parts of our daily lives -- converged and mesmerized us, compelling us to stare at the sky and see them in a completely different way.
I wanted to experience that spectacle again, to relive those fleeting moments of jumping from light to dark to light again in quick succession. It felt like being part of something supernatural.
I wisely asked my colleague, who has been covering the logistics and details of the eclipse, which spot in the path of totality would be nearest to me. He suggested Park Hills, a small town in southeast Missouri. When I plugged it into my GPS, it showed a 70-minute route to cover the 70-mile distance.
This seemed very doable.
I planned to give myself a couple of hours to get to the Missouri Mines State Historic Site in Park Hills, where visitors were invited to view the event. I enticed a friend to join me.
A few days prior to this adventure, my spring allergies kicked into high gear. It felt like the outside air was trying to murder my sinuses. I started wearing a mask to walk my dog to limit pollen exposure. The morning of the drive, I wondered if wearing a mask to avoid pollen in a deep-red part of the state could trigger any negative attention from my fellow Missourians.
I posed the question on social media, and writer Sarah Kendzior, who frequents that area, said I should be more concerned about the traffic. Several hours before the eclipse, stories about massive traffic jams on Interstate 55 were already pouring in. The "time to destination" on my GPS jumped to more than two hours.
Would we even make it there in time?
I asked my friend if she could leave an hour earlier than planned. She agreed.
I quickly packed a survival bag in case we ended up stuck on the highway -- or at the old mining site -- for hours. My supplies consisted of wet wipes, a large bottle of Aleve, bandages, allergy medicine and all the leftover Easter candy. It seemed appropriate for those who might be awaiting the Rapture.
My friend also brought an emergency bag, largely filled with cookies, chocolate and honey roasted peanuts.
We left 2 1/2 hours before the estimated start time for totality in Park Hills. The GPS took us on a circuitous route through neighborhoods and long stretches of deserted country roads. About an hour into the trip, we hit a logjam: Lots of other visitors were following the same path. I kept looking at the time, worrying that we'd have to pull over and watch the eclipse from the side of the road.
We pulled into the historic site less than 15 minutes before totality. I threw my mask and protective glasses on my face and went out to explore the environs. A small crowd had gathered in a field across from the mine, which looked like a deserted Hollywood set from an old Western.
An amateur photographer showed us the special lens he had ordered for his fancy camera to be able to shoot the moon passing over the sun. We all stared at the sliver of a red crescent as it grew slimmer.
Then, it was like a light switch flipped.
The temperature dropped. The sky went dark. We could see a star in the clear sky. The sun’s corona burned behind a dark moon, creating a glowing red crown. Even though I had seen this show before, I felt a surge of awe and wonder.
I imagine that the people gathered around me held a diverse array of political and religious beliefs. I bet I chatted with some people who wouldn’t believe a word printed by journalists in the mainstream press.
But for a minute and 38 seconds, we shared a collective moment of reverence for something far bigger than ourselves.
Outside, in the dark, our differences seemed quite small.
No one even looked sideways at my mask.