All Good Things Must Come To An End

Several years ahead of time I knew what I was going to be doing on April 8th, 2024. My calendar had an entry that read “Eclipse!!!”. What was yet to be decided was where in the 3,000-mile-long path of totality we were going to be to experience it. After some research and deliberation, we settled for Texas. Not only it was the closest point from home, but also it had reasonably good chances, from historical weather data, to have clear skies in early spring.

So, nine days before the much-anticipated celestial event we boarded Ñu and started a road trip that, had we gone straight to Texas, would have taken a total of 50 hours of non-stop driving time, and 5,500 kilometers (3,400 miles) round trip. But us being us, we didn’t go straight. Nor to Texas.

The first mandatory stop was the Mojave Desert. The Kelso Dunes in the Mojave National Preserve were new to us, but they delighted us with the same magic and healing power that we’ve come to love of the Mojave.

Next up in our zig-zagging ways was the Petrified Forest National Park in Arizona, a desolate but mesmerizing place with its painted rocks and strangely sliced petrified trees, as if served in a charcuterie board.

Another state, another National Park: White Sands in New Mexico is called white sands for a good reason. It’s the largest gypsum dune field in the world. I wish I could have spent more time there, particularly not under the harsh and flat midday light.

As we were approaching Texas we kept an eye on the forecast for Monday, the eclipse day. It didn’t look good: seventy-something percent of cloud cover, more than twice the historical average. Even a significant chance of rain and thunderstorms. It was decision time: turn right to head to the area we originally chose in South Texas, or continue straight, across the Texas Panhandle for greener (or rather, cloudless) pastures. Since the eclipse was still more than three days away and cloud coverage forecast is notoriously difficult, it was all a gamble, but we chose not to bet on Texas. We decided to make our trip significantly longer and head to Arkansas instead, which had a better but still not ideal 30% cloud coverage forecast. We remained always ready to backtrack in case the forecast changed… but it didn’t. The round trip ended being a whopping 9,000 km (almost 6,000 miles).

Two nights before the eclipse we found ourselves a secluded spot on a forest road pullout in the beautiful Ozark-Saint Francis National Forest, with the required view to the South. We enjoyed the previous eclipse in an organized camp in Oregon, with a multitude of people, astronomy talks and live music. It was a wonderful experience, but this time we wanted to be by ourselves, and a National Forest was the best option because dispersed camping is allowed. The only problem was that our place had a little bit too much space: in a pinch another car could have parked beside us. The solution? Pile up a bunch of branches on that space to discourage those pesky eclipse chasers from ruining our experience. There was plenty of other spaces up and down the road, so we didn’t feel too bad about our unfriendly manners.

After setting up camp it was just a tense and expectant waiting game. Double checking our GPS coordinates after nightmares about traveling so far just to be on the wrong spot mere miles from totality. Checking the forecast too often and almost panicking when seeing that other places still reachable, such as Missouri, had better chances of clear skies — and making the hard decision to stay put because we had a great spot and didn’t want to get stuck in apocalyptic eclipse traffic. Making mental notes of everything that had to be ready for maximum enjoyment of those four minutes. Promising myself that this time I was not going to waste precious seconds taking pictures and instead would offer my self, mind, soul, body and spirit to the profound brevity of celestial alignment. (Spoiler: I broke that promise. And I partially regret it).

Until the long-awaited day arrived. The eerie midday calm was interrupted by the occasional car zipping by, jockeying for a place on a last-minute frantic effort. Then the moon playfully bit the sun, making us spectators of a teasing astral tango, while the clouds kept themselves at a respectful distance, like curtains that would only drop after the show is over. The in-crescendo foreplay continued until the two heavenly bodies became one, and everything changed. Darkness, silence, tears and awe came all at once. And then, just like that, after what felt like the shortest of cosmological instants, it came to an end, and it left me speechless, feeling both light and heavy, contracted and expansive, lonely and connected, overwhelmed by infinite joy and sadness.

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After eight years of travels by sea, air and land (and almost seven minutes worth of eclipses) this blog and other great things are coming to an end. I want to express my gratitude to the loyal followers that kept me going, as well as my deep and eternal love to the muse that inspired me: the best partner I could have had for a life of growth and adventures.