On the day of the solar eclipse, I left at 6am and drove north from Boise up the 55 and past Cascade Lake, passing the huge crowds parking in any open fields. I headed east, taking a sleepy backroad into the Boise National Forest. I found a quiet turnout with no one around in either direction.
Pine trees, a lazy stream, forest and mountains in the distance.
Still sick, I curled up in the back of my Prius and napped for a few hours.
The sunlight grew dim and dark orange. I was surprised not to smell smoke, because the quality of light reminded me exactly how the sun looks during a forest fire in Angeles Crest. The moon covered the face of the sun. Totality.
I don’t know what I was expecting. I had been so sick, I had almost aborted my trip so many times and turned back. But then it happened. It looked exactly like eclipses do in textbooks, but there’s something visceral about seeing a black hole punched through the fucking sky. Something that has been a constant for your entire life suddenly gone. No wonder the ancients were terrified. A hush settles as nature notices the abrupt arrival of dusk.
And then, out from the hills in the distance, wolves began howling to each other.
Alone, just me and the wolves. I looked up at the sky and was able to spot the planet Venus and the star Regulus. Finally, after two minutes of cosmic weirdness, the sun began to peak out from behind the moon, growing brighter and brighter.
It was an intensely emotional experience which I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.
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