Eclipse April 2024

It was a long, gray winter in New Hampshire. We seldom saw the sun, and even more seldom got off the ground. In the past three weeks, in what you might call early spring, we had two major snow storms. So the likelihood of clear skies for the eclipse seemed remote. April in New England is, after all, April. Then, a minor miracle occurred. Last week, the seven day forecast called for snow and rain and clouds and one perfectly clear day -- Monday, April 8. Eclipse day! 

Many of the small airports in the path of totality were taking reservations and would not accept anyone who did not make arrangements in advance. Instead of making reservations, Yorke and I decided to select several airports that had a "whoever gets here first until we're full" policy. Our strategy was to decide where to go the night before, and then get a very early start in the morning. We selected three airports in the path, ranging from 45 minutes to two and a half hours from our home base at Parlin Field. Sunday night, with the weather still looking good, we settled on Greenville, Maine -- the farthest away of our choices, but in an isolated area away from major towns and highways. 

On Monday morning, we got up at 5:30, left the house at 6:15, arrived at the airport just before 7:00, and were in the air by 7:35. The sky was perfectly clear and there was no wind. When we reached 5,000 feet, far off to the east a bright gold line of ocean appeared on the horizon, and straight ahead, to the northeast, Mt. Washington's white summit shone in the morning light. I realized at that moment that even if something went wrong and we didn't see the total eclipse, it was going to be a great day. It was a beautiful flight, with lots of shimmering lakes below, and a nice close-up view of the White Mountains.

We had requested "flight following" from ATC, and as we began to fly over Maine, we could hear the controllers talking to people heading to Holton and other places we had decided against. They were also notifying every one of these small planes that later in the day (when everyone would be leaving at once), they would not be able to provide flight following services for VFR flights. Finally, as we approached Greenville, ATC alerted us to two other planes heading there as well. It is remarkably difficult to see little tiny airplanes from several miles away, and we never did see them; but ATC kept us informed about where everyone was right up until final descent for the pattern, and then the pilots all began talking to each other over the local radio channel (unicom). Everyone kept out of everyone else's way, and we came in one after another. Within minutes, a couple more planes arrived as well.

The airport has two runways, and they had closed one to use it for parking. Our early start had served us well. When we pulled in at about 9:45, there were twelve others planes parked on the closed runway. By noon there were altogether about forty; by 1:00 just over fifty. The planes on the field were mostly small, single engine planes carrying two people. Others were larger twins that could carry five or six, and there were a couple of prop jets and biz jets with six or eight well-heeled clients on board. There were also two helicopters.

Everyone had folding camp chairs and food and good cheer. Some kids played frisbee, but most people just hung around and talked for a couple of hours. Pilots, of course, walked up and down the flight line admiring each other's airplanes. The couple in the plane to our left, who had landed just ahead of us, had flown in from Poughkeepsie, and they were quite friendly. Very few people had any equipment other than eclipse glasses, but there were a few fancy cameras and telescopes. 

Yorke and I had decided to leave fancy photos of the total eclipse to people with real cameras, and to focus our attention on enjoying the day. But we did take photos with our cell phones, just to have a record of the experience. 

For observing, Yorke set up two tripods, each holding a very small telescope. On one, he mounted a piece of #14 welders' glass. The other he set up for projecting of the image onto a piece of cardboard. I had eclipse glasses, and Yorke also had more welders' glass for hand-held use. The wind had picked up during the mid-morning hours, and we had to weight down the tripods by hanging our backpacks on them.

We had plenty of time to set it all up, and then exactly on time, the shadow of the moon began to carve a tiny curved section out of the face of the sun.

As the partial phase progressed, we shared views and chattered a bit with the couple in the plane on our left, who had flown in from Poughkeepsie.

Very gradually, the daylight began to dim to a kind of eerie, flat light, the air temperature began to drop, and the breeze died down a bit. It was a long, slow build-up, but as the last crescent of the sun began to disappear, you could hear conversation stop and feel everyone concentrating on the sky. I was beginning to get quite cold, as the temperature dropped about 10 degrees; but I didn't want to take my eyes away from the sun to go and grab more clothes out of the plane. As the diamond ring was disappearing, I pulled off my eclipse glasses and looked up at the corona. There are few beautiful things in life that happen so suddenly that they literally make me gasp out loud, but this was one of them.

All around us there were other -- mostly hushed -- responses, as well, as more than 300 people, spread out along an entire airport runway, all saw the same spectacular sight at the same time. I heard a few cheers, but mostly it was an awe-struck silence, almost a reverence, it seemed to me. Then as a bright crescent began to return, there were a few cheers and some applause. 

We did get a couple of good snapshots. This one shows the corona, Venus, and the sunrise-like glow on the horizon. Jupiter was out as well, but higher in the sky outside the frame of my picture. And the yellow glow went all the way around the horizon. 

The sky quickly began to brighten, and the temperature lagged behind but gradually came back to what it had been. And then, long before the eclipse was really over, many people began to pack up and start leaving. We felt a bit like we do in a movie theater, when the final credits start to roll and everyone else stands up and starts heading for the doors, while Yorke and I sit in our seats and try to watch the film run to its end. 

During the partial phases, we were also hearing from family in other places -- Erica in Ohio, Matt in Texas, Renate in Maryland, Galen in Austin, and Gavin on the streets of New York City. Of course we went silent during our own three minutes of totality. What fun to be able to share this experience in real time, over such distances. 

Yorke and I were pretty much the last ones out at Greenville. We saw no need to be in line for take-off or to navigate the crowded skies as everyone else headed home. When we finally did pack up and take off, the wind was still pretty brisk. Yorke decided to take a slightly longer route home, to avoid the extra bumpy air that we would find in the lee of the White Mountains. So we headed a little bit east, and then once south of the mountains made a right turn and flew over Lake Winnepesaukee. Clouds were coming in from the west, across Vermont and the Connecticut River Valley of home, and as the sun got low in the sky, it put on another show -- first sun dogs on either side, and then a lovely orange sunset over the big lake.

As we continued west, the sun seemed to just hang there for about a half hour, and then just as we were circling Parlin Field for our landing, the orange disk dropped behind Mount Ascutney. We were back on the ground at Parlin at 7:15.

We put the airplane to bed and took our picnic supper into the operations building, and then once we had eaten, we got in the car and headed for home. Part of our drive back to Enfield takes us up Interstate 89. We found ourselves nearly alone in the north-bound lane, while across the divide, there was a long line of closely-spaced headlights streaming southward. It seemed like half of the population of Boston was heading home from Vermont -- experiencing Boston rush-hour traffic in central New Hampshire at nine o'clock on a Monday evening. We were really happy to be so close to home and heading the other direction. 

This morning our old friend Steve Carney, from our days at McLean High School in the 1960s, stopped by with his wife on their way back from viewing the eclipse in Montpelier. We hadn't seen Steve since 1970, and it was rather amazing to see him now as a retired attorney and law professor, with his wife of forty-some years. We all got along swimmingly, and we have promised to get together again soon. 

Next up is our 50th wedding anniversary trip, delayed from 2020 because of Covid. We leave on Thursday for Iceland and Scotland. No Travels with Lucky: Iceland Air will be doing the honors. I hope the Boeing 737 does as well for us as Lucky did yesterday. 

Retirement certainly is worth waiting for. 

Bonus track: Here's a television news report on the events at the airport. You'll get a glimpse of Yorke and me on the front porch of the operations building about one minute in.