Archive for the ‘ECLIPSE CHASING’ Category


March 5, 2014

13 February 1988, West Anklam Road, Tucson, 6 a.m. I’m standing with an ICU nurse looking at Saturn and Uranus in conjunction, the same longitude in the sky, near the hospital where we worked.  “They’re in Sagittarius,” I pointed to the “handle of the teapot,” noting the bright star Nunki, guide star for the Voyager 2 spacecraft, to pass near Neptune a year later.

“No,” J. replied. “They’re in Capricorn (sic).”

“No, there are the two, and they are in the constellation Sagittarius.”

“But astrologically, they are in Capricorn (sic).” (It’s “Capricornus”)

“Well,” I sighed, “you can say they are in the Big Dipper, if you want.”  This was the last conjunction I would see of the two planets, unless I live to 83.

The Dartmouth Alumni Magazine recently profiled a man, a professional astrologer.  The astrologer  stated  his beliefs; the first thing I do in these “last page” articles is to check the “fine print.”  He left Dartmouth before completing his studies; no reason was given.  That colored my opinion.  Yes, Robert Frost left Dartmouth without finishing, but to paraphrase Lloyd Bentsen in his 1988 debate with Dan Quayle, “You’re no Robert Frost.”

7  December 1972 shot of the Earth.

I’ve posted the above picture before, and it’s worth re-posting.

What month is this?

What constellation is the Sun in?

What are constellations, anyway?

What can you learn from this picture?

Notice Antarctica illuminated by the Sun, so it must be near the Austral summer solstice.    The actual date was 7 December.  The Sun is in the constellation Ophiuchus on this date, meaning that if one could see the Sun from space, where the light isn’t scattered by air molecules, it would appear against the background stars in that constellation, an arbitrary grouping of stars with arbitrary boundaries, not in Scorpius (the proper spelling) or Sagittarius, the astrological constellation for this date.

Notice the white comma, a major anticyclone, or storm, off the southeastern coast of Africa, and the large clusters of thunderstorms in the southern equatorial region of Africa, consistent with migration of the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ) this time of year.

What predictions did the astrologer make?  In 1986, Bank of America was going to have problems.  He claimed he knew by looking at the rocks in the foundation; I would have looked at the internal books as a better foundation.  He said that the 50th degree of longitude, “that bisects the Persian Gulf,” would become a major factor in the world, and that the 35th parallel through the southern US would become very important.

Wow. The 51st meridian (or 27th parallel, another bisector, which was omitted) bisects the Persian Gulf better than the 50th.  Given the Gulf’s importance (he didn’t mention the Gulf of Oman and Somalian coastal waters), this prediction is not surprising.  All degrees of latitude in the US may be important; he omitted Kirtland and Edwards AFBs, near 35 N., but important Los Angeles is not.  What does “important” mean?  A chemical explosion, a nuclear weapon, or a great discovery?

50 E. longitude.  This might be considered important in the coming years.

50 E. longitude. This might be considered important in the coming years. This goes through oil-rich Baku, near Dagestan, through Iran, the Persian Gulf, the Gulf of Oman,  the Horn of Africa, and Somali waters.

I limit my issues about Astrology to four:  first, my “sign” of Sagittarius is defined by my birthday, not the Sun’s location when I was born. There are fourteen (not 12) constellations through the Sun may “travel.”  While it was in Sagittarius on my birthday 3000 years ago, it is now in Ophiuchus, north of Scorpius (the correct spelling).  I have no classical astrological sign.  Astrologers use celestial longitudes to try to deal with this fact, but they haven’t factored in precession; the Sun passes through 14 constellations during a 26,000 year cycle.  In 1991, $10,000 was offered to anybody’s showing the July 11 eclipse of the Sun against the background stars of then astrological Cancer, not the actual Gemini.  No takers.

Ophiuchus.  Scorpius is in the lower right; the curved red line with 255 on it is the Sun's path, 255 being the number of days after the vernal equinox.

Ophiuchus. Scorpius is in the lower right; the curved red line with 255 on it is the Sun’s path, 255 being the number of days after the vernal equinox.

Second, there is no proof why astrology works.  What happened before 1781, when Uranus was discovered?  How can a planet’s position affect us? It can’t be gravity, because I have more gravitational attraction with my car than I do with Saturn.  Gravitational force decreases with the square of distance.  I would like to know the reason using terms that a layman can understand. I practiced neurology, and it was my job to explain what I knew to people, not hide it to make money.

Third, lines of latitude and longitude are dimensionless, so there must be some “wiggle room,” or error.  How much?  Why?  We are 95% confident global warming is occurring.  If we ran 100 simulations, 95 of them would not contain zero.  Where is astrological uncertainty, required for any prediction?

Just after 3rd contact or totality, Uganda, 3 November 2013. We had to be in a path 18 km wide to view 19 seconds of totality.  This path was known decades in advance, because we understand orbital mechanics.

Just after 3rd contact or totality, Uganda, 3 November 2013. We had to be in a path 18 km wide to view 19 seconds of totality. This path was known decades in advance, because we understand orbital mechanics.

Finally, too many never learn the actual sky, far more beautiful and fascinating.  I can tell time, date, and latitude by looking at the sky, and I can teach it.  Why seasons? The poles point in the same direction as the Earth’s orbits the Sun; sometimes they point towards the Sun (summer, more direct Sun); sometimes they point away (winter, less direct Sun).  I can predict full Moons and eclipses of the Sun and Moon; so can anybody, should they wish to learn.  It is science, not vague words.  Science has allowed me to see 20 central eclipses from all over the world.

Contrast that to my horoscope today, “You may want to let go of plans and let your spontaneous personality take over.”   “May”?  Why?  What is “spontaneous personality”?  All “plans” or some?

I once showed a minister the sky.  I scuffed my feet in the desert that night, explaining where the silicon in the sand came from–a star.  The iron in our blood came from a large star that accumulated iron in its core, which cannot be fused.  The star first implodes, gravity taking over when fusion ceases.  The ensuing explosion, equal to the Sun’s energy output during its whole existence, produces heavier elements.  The gold in a ring came from a star.  The magnesium in the pyrrole ring of chlorophyll came from a star, the carbon, nitrogen and sulfur in our bodies came from a star. The calcium in our skull came from a star.

Now, if the contents of that skull could appreciate this beauty, direct efforts towards improving the world, rather than making a buck through magical thinking, our life would be improved on this once-part-of-a-star world.


November 13, 2013

Saros 143, the name given to this particular eclipse family, was seen by my wife and me  on 24 October 1995, in Mandawa, India.  We saw it as a morning eclipse, with a brilliant purple chromosphere, the Sun’s inner atmosphere, and 42 seconds of totality.  It was short but exceedingly beautiful.

Total solar eclipses require 3 simultaneous occurrences: New Moon, the Moon’s passing directly in front of the Sun, and the Moon’s size viewed from Earth being larger than the Sun’s apparent size.  The Moon’s orbit is not coplanar with the Earth’s, and about every 13.6 days it crosses the plane of the Earth’s orbit.  This must occur with New Moon, for a Total Solar Eclipse to occur.  Finally, the Moon must be close enough to the Earth and the Sun further away, so the Moon will cover the Sun.  It is a remarkable cosmic coincidence that the Moon is about 1/400 th diameter of the Sun and the Sun is about 400 times further away.  Without going into the mathematics in great detail, these 3 events come into line every 18 years 10 or 11 days (depending upon a leap year) and a third of a day, which shifts each eclipse in the family about 1/3 of the way around the world and either northerly or southerly (in this case southerly).  This eclipse was 18 years and 10 days after the Indian eclipse and was shifted 1/3 of the way around the world.

This time around, the eclipse was further west, beginning near Bermuda and ending in Ethiopia.  We saw it in Uganda in late afternoon.

There are often problems getting to the eclipse track, and for me, it involved four flights, two of them 7 hours or longer, and arrival the following night after I left early in the morning.  The transatlantic flight was badly delayed, but I eventually got to Entebbe.

The next morning, three of us toured the Botanical gardens

Lake Victoria from the Botanical Gardens

Lake Victoria from the Botanical Gardens

and in the afternoon the sanctuary where Ugandans are trying to bring back endangered species.  We had our first meeting about the eclipse that evening.  I was one of only two non or partial German speakers, and the other was married to a fluent speaker.  Most of the group spoke good English.  The difficulty with my German and the softness and accent of the Ugandan English would make this a more difficult trip than I had expected.

We drove northwest to Murchison Falls the day before the eclipse.  We did not, however, scout for eclipse sites.  This would prove to be unfortunate on eclipse day, when the primary site, north of Pakwach, was scouted by us with nobody having their eclipse gear–cameras, telescopes, computers, and quite complex instruments that many take to an eclipse.  Had the site been optimal, we would have had to return to get the gear and tell others.

We returned to the hotel and left for a site east of where we were, where the road curved into the track, and set up in a field nearby.  The southeasterly flow brought cumulus clouds, and afternoon convection occurred, although it was capped at about 2500 meters.  We missed first contact by about five minutes, then had clear skies through about 60% partial phases.   Unfortunately, cirrus outflow from a distant thunderstorm had a northerly flow, and we had progressively thickening clouds as time passed.  At 10 minutes before totality, I lost the view in binoculars, because of clouds and dimming sunlight.

Approach of the Moon’s shadow.

Just after third contact, with the Moon’s moving away from the Sun.



The shadow appeared in the western sky as a huge black conical wall.  We were able to see the diamond ring, Bailey’s beads, the inner corona (not the outer) and a lovely eclipse through clouds.  I think while some were disappointed, they were only a few.  We were extremely lucky to see this eclipse.  The climatological predictions were against us, but we got to a good spot and had a good view.  I’ve seen better; I’ve seen a lot worse, and there are few things more depressing than being totally clouded out for a total eclipse.  

The next day, we toured the nearby national park and took an afternoon boat ride up to Albert Falls.

Albert Falls, Nile River

Albert Falls, Nile River

What struck me most was the beautiful green of the African bush.  The wildlife was good, especially from the Nile; the green was something I had not seen on my trips and safaris to Kenya, South Africa, Botswana, Zimbabwe, Zambia, and Namibia.

The following day we drove south to Kibale Primate Park, This turned out to be about a 12 hour slog along dirt roads that were so bumpy that my stomach hurt, a first.  Lunch was late, at Fort Portal, and we pulled in about 6.  Darkness comes early after sunset in the tropics; it comes relatively early in Tucson, at 32 degrees N., and it comes much later in the northern US (45-49 N).

Mousebird, Kibale National Park.

Mousebird, Kibale National Park.

Water Lilies, Kibale

Chimpanzee, Kibale

Chimpanzee, Kibale

After the primate tours, we went to Queen Elizabeth National Park, crossing the equator, and took game drives and a boat ride along the channel of Lake Edward.

The drive back to Entebbe took a day.

I don’t go into detail here about safaris, except to show pictures.  This was an eclipse trip with safaris being a big part of it.  Such a concept is foreign to many people, including the eclipse leader in this instance.  The primary purpose of the trip is to see the eclipse, and that has priority over everything else, including sanctuary visits, seeing wildlife, buying trinkets and newspapers.  Admittedly, that is my opinion, but had we avoided those mistakes, more options would have opened to us on eclipse day.  We were lucky; we saw the eclipse.  We could have easily had missed it.

Next total eclipse is 20 March 2015.  We will fly this eclipse, since ground viewing is low probability in difficult to reach places.  I do have concerns about the flight and frosted windows, which severely degraded the view my wife and I had on the 1 August 2008 eclipse.  The plane must have clean, dry windows.  Water gets in only through the doors and from cleaning; it does not affect the windows from the outside, only the inside of the outside window.  This concept has yet to be fully understood by tour operators, although one will use isopropyl alcohol to clean the windows, which has a lower vaporization temperature.

Interestingly, although my comments have not been completely believed, those who fly eclipses are now carrying hair dryers and long extension cords, suggesting that perhaps some of my rather heated past words are hitting home.

The other concern I have is the ability of some eclipse chasers to feel they are better than others and take views from windows to which they were not originally assigned.  This probably will not be changed.

In 2015, I hope to speak German much better.  I plan on commenting in both languages at the pre-flight briefing.  Those who disagree with me were not present during the time of the eclipse.  They had clear views through clear windows.

All of us who pay for one of the great experiences in the world deserve an equally good experience, assuming the weather cooperates on eclipse day.


November 22, 2012

This eclipse was not going to be a high probability one to see on the continent.  Saros 133, which is the name of this family member, last seen in South America 3 November 1994, would again visit the Earth 18 years and 11 1/3 days later, this time a third of the way around the world, beginning east of Darwin, crossing the Gulf of Carpentaria, then Queensland, near Cairns and Port Douglas, before heading out into the South Pacific Ocean north of New Zealand.  One per cent of the Earth would be covered by totality, but only a small part of that one per cent would be visible over land.

Cairns, on the northeast coast, is in the tropics, about 17 degrees South latitude.  The tropics have a good deal of convective rain showers, and Cairns had about a 50% probability of one’s seeing the eclipse.

We wanted to see Australia, and if I saw the eclipse, it would be the seventh continent I had seen an eclipse on and over.  But more importantly, it would be another chance–my thirteenth–to see one of the most spectacular shows in the world.  We eclipse chasers are addicted to the sight.

We flew to Melbourne, stayed there for 2 days, getting to know the city, and meeting up with two friends from Germany, one of whom I had met before at the last eclipse, over Patagonia, Argentina, 28 months earlier.  Every eclipse, I meet people from prior eclipses, and this one was no exception.

We then flew to Ayers Rock (Uluru) by way of Alice Springs, and visited the monolith at sunrise and sunset, along with a walking tour, so we could see the caves, the petroglyphs, the sandstone, appreciating that for 60,000 of the 350 million years, people have marveled at this place, making it a sacred spot.

We then left, and flew to Cairns by way of Alice Springs again, this time having time for a tour of the town that is virtually in the center of the continent.

The following morning, Cairns was cloudy, except for a nice hole in the sky, that would have been 15 minutes late, had the eclipse occurred that day.  We went out to Green Island, noting that it seemed to be clearer, although the locals said that it had a similar climate to Cairns.  But it didn’t.  Cairns is deeply recessed from the Coral Sea, with an eastern peninsula that was catching moisture from storms to the south and spilling over those of us in town.

We had decided not to get up at 1 a.m. to go out to Green Island for the eclipse, figuring we wouldn’t have mobility.  The problem was we didn’t have mobility in Cairns, either, to go inland or to Port Douglas, both of which might have been better spots to view the spectacle.

My wife suggested I e-mail meteorologist Jay Anderson, who has achieved fame as an eclipse climatologist and meteorologist.  I have been on several eclipses with Jay, knew he was on a cruise ship for this eclipse, but figured he wouldn’t have time to write me back.  Still, what did I have to lose?

As it turned out, it was the best decision I made during the trip.  Jay gave me a weather synopsis and said succinctly at the end of his e-mail:  “If you can, get offshore.”

In the meantime, I met two Russian friends.  Sergey and Tatiana were at the annular eclipse in Kenya in January 2010.  Sergey works for an oil company in Luanda, Angola, and Tatiana is a travel agent in Slovenia.  Sergey was also at the annular eclipse in the US last May, and we saw it together in Page, Arizona.  Sergey was doing automatic eclipse filming, using programs that were far beyond my comprehension.  He was going to stay on land and hope.  Tatiana would do the same, and she had to fly out of Cairns about 2 hours after totality.  Cairns was flooded with eclipse chasers for several days.

So, at 1 a.m. on 14 November, eclipse day, we awoke and caught the 2:30 a.m. boat to Green Island, setting up on the northeast beach at 3:30.  The sky above us was clear, and darker clouds were behind us, back towards Cairns.  It was easiest the clearest skies we had seen so far on the tirp.  We had great views of the Southern Cross, the Magallenic Clouds, alpha and beta-Centauri, and upside down Orion.

There were clouds on the horizon, but we could see sunrise, and first contact, where the Moon begins to cover the Sun.  As the Sun rose, the clouds increased, and so did the tide, which was due to rise 3 meters 2 hours after totality, at 6:38.  We figured we were safe from the tide, but it rapidly appeared that this would not be the case, so we moved well up on shore.

As the Sun rose further, the clouds began to become a little larger and darker–typical convection in the tropics.  We saw several clouds–one in particular–that were worrisome, when we were only 7 minutes from totality.  But then convection shut down due to atmospheric cooling of 3.5 C from the eclipse itself.

This eclipse had a wonderful diamond ring at both ends (do any not?), with a very delicate corona extending about two solar diameters to the east of the Sun.  It was not a dark eclipse, and there was little red along the horizon, but like the family member I saw in Bolivia, the shadow was visible in the morning sky.  Trees on Green Island prevented us from seeing the shadow arrive, but I had no difficulty seeing it depart.  And two minutes later, the eclipse was over, just like that.

Easily three hundred people saw this from the end of Green Island.  There were experienced chasers and many first timers.

Every eclipse is different, but it is difficult to say whether one is more special than another.  Each person sees something a little different, and each person who is fortunate enough to have seen more than one sees something different.  I try to go through a checklist of things to see with each eclipse, but like my camera and video plans, it usually is forgotten at the critical moment, which lasts on average of 2 minutes, but feels like 8 seconds.  We are left asking….”When is the next one?”  It will be 3 November 2013 in the South Atlantic, ending in Ethiopia.  Getting to that one will be difficult….but not impossible.  We have a connection in Africa–Sergey–who has been to Kampala three times and thinks Uganda is a decent possibility to see 24 seconds of totality–yes, 24 seconds–next year.  We discussed the trip, and several other eclipses coming up, including the long-awaited 2017 eclipse in the US, when we met at Sydney a few days later.

Fifteen seconds of fame:  I was interviewed by Australian TV after the eclipse, while on the boat back from Green Island.  I have no idea if anything appeared on TV.  And while lying in bed that night, I got a call on my cell phone beginning with “44” .  A journalist from CNN in London wanted to interview me about my experience, that I published on CNN iReport.  What is interesting–and discouraging to me–about iReport is that most of the featured pictures were of the crescent Sun.  Few showed the total eclipse itself, which is far more beautiful.  Indeed, the difference between totality and a partial eclipse (even 99%), is the difference between day and night.

Eclipse families:

Currently, there are 13 total eclipses in every 18 years 10 or 11 1/3 days, depending upon leap years and time zones.  Each one of the 13 total eclipses is a member of a family that begins at either the north or south poles and moves the opposite direction over nearly 1300 years or 70-75 eclipses.  Some of these start off as total; most begin as partial, become total or annular for many “visits” and then end as partial.

The reason for this repetition is the 3 requirements for a total eclipse:

Synodic period–New Moon–every 29.530589 days.  The Moon has to be in line with the Earth and Sun.                                                    223 New Moons = 6585.3213 days.

Draconic Period–every 27.21222 days.  The Moon’s orbit is inclined 5.1 degrees to the plane of the Earth’s orbit, and the nodes, where it crosses the Earth’s orbit, are constantly moving.  The Moon has to be near a node when it is new.  This particular eclipse was near the ascending node, where the Moon was near crossing the plane of the Earth’s orbit.                                                  242 Draconic periods=6585.3572 days.

Anomalistic period–every 27.554550 days.  The Moon and Sun are nearly the same angular size in the size, but the Moon’s size can change 12% from our view depending upon whether it is near the Earth or far from it.  The Sun-Earth distance changes about 3% every year.  The Moon has to be close enough to the Earth to appear larger than the Sun.                                                                    239 Draconic periods=6585.5376 days.

The first two determine a central eclipse, where the long axis of the Moon’s conic shadow reaches the Earth.  They occur every 6585.3213 days.  Eighteen years are 6570 days, and 4 leap years, or 5, make the period between successive eclipses in a family 18 years and 10.32 or 11.32 days.  The third of a day is important, because it shifts the path of the eclipse about a third of the way west around the world. This eclipse was seen in South America in 1994 and Australia in 2012.  It will be seen in the South Atlantic and Africa in 2030.

While the periods are almost alike, they are not exact.  There is a 0.03 day difference.  This seems minor, but over time, the Moon arrives at the node 2 hours later each cycle.  The Moon doesn’t have to be exactly at the node for a total eclipse to take place, but eventually, the Moon will arrive too late and the eclipse will not happen.

This particular Saros, 133, is an ascending node eclipse that began in 1219 and had its first total eclipse near Prague in 1544.  In the 19th century, it generated eclipses greater than 6 minutes, long for an eclipse.  In 1850, an eclipse was 6m50s, the longest this particular Saros would generate, and it occurred in the eastern tropical Pacific Ocean, north of the equator.  The last total eclipse of this family will be in 2373, and the last eclipse of the Saros will be in 2499.    Because these cycles are not perfect in their lining up, eventually the Moon will miss the node when new, and the eclipse family will die.  But at the same time, one new one will reach the node at the right time, and a new Saros will be born.  I find the workings of the Saros cycle as beautiful as the sight I saw from the Great Barrier Reef last 14 November.


November 19, 2012

From 20 km, I finally saw the monolith, Uluru (Ayers Rock), that for years had been at the top of “The List,” of things I have wanted to see or do ever since I saw a wolf on Isle Royale, six and a half years previously.


The day after we flew in, we took a sunrise tour, where we saw the low rays of the Sun, in a few days to be briefly eclipsed by the Moon, strike the sandstone.  Then we approached it.


Uluru has been around for 350 million years.  What we see is the tip of a large uplifting, with rock extending about 2 km below the surface.  I didn’t know that, and that was only the beginning of discovering what I did not know.


For example, we visited numerous caves and inlets to the rock.  Uluru is not simply a rock with vertical faces; there are many places where water can collect, places where people can–and have–hidden, lived, and practiced their faith.  The aborigines, who were once shot on sight by the first white men on the continent, have been present in this area for 60,000 years.  That is roughly thirty times the existence of any other major religion on the Earth.  To them, Uluru is sacred.  There are places along the trail where one is not allowed to photograph, just as it is considered insulting and wrong to photograph an aborigine without their permission.  The visitor’s center is off limits to photography as well.

As one leaves the visitor’s center, there is a request–not a requirement, since there are no requirements at Uluru, only requests–not to climb what is considered sacred to the aborigine people, who never climb the rock.  There is a chain that allows people to climb the monolith, but the day I was there, the rock was closed because of high winds.  It didn’t matter to me, since I had not planned to climb it anyway, knowing it was sacred and ought not to be climbed.


Thirty-six people have died on Uluru from climbing, and for each the natives have required a ceremony to help those who died into the afterlife.  There are several memorial plaques that were placed on Uluru as well, although there are no new ones, because that affects the monolith, too.


Frankly, I found it good to go to a place where there were no extreme sports allowed.  There were no races up Uluru, no helicopter rides or hot air balloon rides to the top.  Indeed, the airspace over Uluru is also off limits.  There were no people BASE jumping, or using other conveniences to fly off the mountain.  Other than the chain fence, and the worn path into the Sandstone, there were no marks on Uluru other than a few paintings in the lower caves.

I can only imagine what Uluru would be if left to the white people.  There would be multiple routes to the top, the sandstone would be pockmarked with pitons, there would be ropes hanging off it, old campfires, tents, mountain biking, tours to the top, marathons ending at the top, races around the monolith, human waste and other litter.


I don’t have a problem with any of the above races, so long as they take place where it is appropriate, not one sacred to people who have existed in an incredibly harsh environment for sixty thousand years and have not destroyed it.

Theodore Roosevelt once said about the Grand Canyon, “You cannot improve on it.  Leave it as it is.”  We have not done that.  South Rim Village is large, although it is a relatively small area on the Rim.  There are trails, although they are limited as well, and they require a great deal of effort to walk.  We have, however, filled the airspace with fixed and rotary wing aircraft, creating a great deal of unnecessary noise.  By Uluru, one hears the wind, the birds, and very little else.

That evening, we took a sunset tour, again watching the change of colors that were a function of the Sun, the sandstone, the caves, and the black stripes where water drained off the monolith with each rain.  It was spectacular.  A group of Austrian tourists were nearby, and I practiced my German with them.  I lent them my binoculars so they could see parts of the monolith that I now knew something about.  It was the first time I had taught about nature while speaking only German.  I explained the pools along the rock that collected water and then overflowed to pools below.  I found words that I knew as I needed them.  It wasn’t great, but they understood what I was saying.  In two roles that I was comfortable in, teaching and nature, I was able to relax and speak.  It made the view even more magical.  How many different languages had been spoken at this site during the past six hundred centuries, I cannot imagine.  But one man spoke two that night, and for him, and that was special.


It’s nice for once to see something truly unique, virtually unspoiled, and will stay that way, except for the path to the top, which may some day be closed.  I hope it will be.


I went to Uluru to see the largest monolith in the world.  I came away thinking how nice it was that Australians, most specifically the most maligned ones–the aborigines–have not allowed the large numbers of people who have to show they are the best at whatever sport they decide they must do.  World class is to me an overused term, but at Uluru, the term is deeply appropriate.

What a blessing.



June 6, 2012

I took my telescope, camcorder, and camera to the Pima County Medical Society, where I hosted about 100 people, maybe 30 or 40 at one time.  The first part was hectic, because ingress is what I really wanted to see, and that required getting the video camera set up and running on its own.  I filtered the lens with a solar filter from a pair of eclipse glasses.  That worked reasonably well. Then I had to use a solar filter over my camera and increase the optical to 35x.  I did a little push with the digital, and the camera focused on the Sun, not the Mylar, which happens if the Mylar is not taught.

In the meantime, I wanted to see ingress under high power in the telescope.

While all of this was going on, I was trying to answer questions, deal with people, make sure nobody looked at the Sun unfiltered, and showed them how to look at the Sun with binoculars filtered, since it is a new experience to see nothing through binoculars unless they are pointed at the Sun.

Just inside the Sun!

What was special was that many office workers stopped by, which is exactly what I hoped would happen.  A baby, probably about 9 months old, had his head put to the eyepiece.  I loved that.  His children will never see a transit, and his grandchildren will, only if they live to a very old age!!  This isn’t as spectacular as a total solar eclipse, but the rarity, and the chance to be alive when one of these occurred made it a very special experience.

I have about eight minutes of the ingress video, with comments of all sorts in the background.  I end the video with Venus in mid-transit.  This is also on CNN iReports (the picture, anyway).


May 29, 2012

Here are the central eclipses (total and annular, where the axis of the Moon’s shadow touches the Earth) through 2025.

2013:  9-10 May:  Annular from northern Australia through the Solomons crossing the Equator well south of Hawaii.

2013: 3 November:  Total (hyrbid, actually, with annular at both ends) from western Atlantic south of the Azores, into Africa.  While the eclipse is not far from the East Coast of the US, it is a few seconds of totality and an extremely narrow (<5 km wide) path.  Ships will be seeing this one; I hope somebody decides to fly it from the Azores, where it is fewer than 700 km and 1m20s total.

2014:  29 April:  Annular touching the southern tips of both ends of the Australian continent.

(2014:  23 October:  Partial eclipse of US and Canada, about 40-65%, more to the north.)

2015:  20 March.  Total beginning SW of Iceland, passing south of the island, passing north of England and west of Scandinavia, over Svalbard, and ending at the North Pole.

2016:   9 March:  Total beginning over Sumatra, Borneo, misses New Guinea, ends about 700 km NW of Oahu, 2m15s, nearly a two minute penalty from the maximum over the open ocean.

2016:  1 September:  Annular crossing Africa north of Kinshasha, northern Mozambique, and Madagascar.

2017:  26 February.  Annular, extremely narrow, from Patagonia to Angola.

2017:  21 August.  Total, long-awaited, in US, from Oregon to South Carolina.  It is maximum (2m40s) in the Evansville, Indiana region (bordering states), still 2m38s in Nebraska, 2m8s in Oregon, and 2m35s as it exits the US.

2019:  2 July:  Total, Open ocean eclipse ending in northern Chile and Buenos Aires at sunset.

2019:  26 December.  Annular from Saudi Arabia, southern India, Sumatra, and Borneo.

2020:  21 June:  Annular from Congo, Saudi Arabia, Kashmir, China, and Taiwan.

2020:  14 December:  Total, crossing southern Chile and south central Argentina, well north of where the 2010 eclipse occurred.  This will have its maximum of 2m9s over land.

2021:  10 June.  Annular, from Canada to Siberia.  The Canadian portion begins at the northern tip of Lake Superior on a line to about Winnipeg and then heads due north.

2021:  4 December.  Total, over Argentina, but unlike the previous one in the series, the path will be within about 2000 km from Buenos Aires, rather than 4000 km from Punta Arenas during the last visit of  this Saros.

2023:  20 April.  Hybrid, touching the northwestern tip of Australia and going through the neck of Irian Jaya.  The Australian portion is about 1 minute in length.

2023:  14 October.  Annular, from Oregon to South America, passing through Texas, the Yucatan, Costa Rica, Colombia, and Brazil.

2024:  8 April.  Total, from south Texas (Del Rio area, Dallas, Little Rock, through Indianapolis, Cleveland, Rochester NY and Maine).  Toronto and Montreal are also included.

2024:  2 October:  Annular from open ocean south of Hawaii to Patagonia.

Honorable Mention:

2026:  12 August.  Total, with Reykjavik and northern Spain and Mallorca on the path.

2027:  2  August:  Total, Saros 136, at 6m22s maximum, from Gibraltar (both sides of the strait, through northern Libya, central Egypt, and Djibouti.

2033:  Total in northern Alaska.

2034:  Total crossing Honshu.


May 21, 2012

Finally!  An eclipse we could drive to, for the first time since the previous member of this family of eclipses 10 May 1994!  Saros 128, the member of this family, returns to the Earth every 18 years 10.3 days.  Last time around, it was a morning eclipse.  This time, it was a late afternoon eclipse, further north.

We spent 2 days at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon and then drove north to Page on eclipse day.  The distance is about 230 km (140 miles).  We found a place at the back of a motel which had a perfect view of the western horizon, including the Kaibab Plateau, the Vermillion Cliffs, and Lake Powell.  This time, I set up the C* telescope I was able to bring, attached the solar filter, and used that for views.  The sunspots were striking!

I then set up a video camera at about 25 x and a filter, so it would run during annularity with minimal effort on my part to adjust it.  I had a camera with 35x optical, and I put a solar filter over the lens and took pictures periodically.  Annular solar eclipses do darken the sky a little, there is an “eclipse wind,” and the temperature cooled 5.8 C, or about 10.5 F.  The sun was starting to set, but obviously the eclipse had an effect on the temperature, since 5 p.m to 6:30 p.m.temperature drops are usually less than half that.

We had a nice group with us, with two men from the UK next to us, many German tourists, so I could practice my German, a motel, where they did not mind our using their cold water and toilet facilities, and a place to park right next to our gear!  My wife helped rescue two Swiss women who were on the balcony of their room and were locked out.  For that, she got some Swiss chocolate!!

We left page at 7:30 p.m.,, drove past the unbelievable crowd of cars at the site overlooking Horseshoe Bend in the Colorado River, and returned to the South Rim at 2200!  Video of the eclipse is here.  All pictures of the eclipse and the Grand Canyon are here.


Just after “First Contact”



November 13, 2011

I never knew Jamalee Fenimore or Stephne Staples.  Nobody who reads this knew them, either.  Both of them loved the Sandhill Cranes, as do I.  Both have a viewing blind named for them at Rowe Sanctuary in Gibbon, Nebraska, at the southern bend of the Platte River.

Every spring, the Sandhill and the Whooping Cranes, the most and least common of the 15 worldwide crane species, begin their 5000-7000 mile migration to the subarctic in North America and Siberia.  Their final staging area is on the Platte River.  They go to the Platte because there is food nearby–formerly small animals, but now mostly corn–and because of the safety that one of the largest braided rivers in North America affords.  They feed in the adjacent fields by day and roost in the river at night, where the shallow water allows them to hear predators approach.  Before the Platte was dammed and water used for irrigation, recreation and drinking, it was a mile wide and an inch deep, “too thick to drink, too thin to plow.”

Now, the Platte in many areas contains less water, has invasive species and many trees nearby, limiting the suitable habitat to 50 miles from the former 200.  Rowe Sanctuary manages 4 miles of river and owns 1900 adjacent acres, preserved as habitat.  Every night, for 6 weeks in March and April, up to 600,000 Sandhill cranes, 90% of the world’s population, roost in the river.  Every morning, they leave.  It is a spectacle that Jane Goodall has called one of the world’s best.  I’ve been fortunate to have seen many great sights in nature.  This one is in my top three; seeing a solar eclipse and a wolf in the wild are the other two.  I love the cranes so much that I volunteer at the Sanctuary, along with dozens of others, helping the full time staff of four–that’s right, four–show visitors the cranes from viewing blinds, for cranes are shy birds and will not let people near them.

Many talk about the cranes that migrate to Arizona.  I simply reply, “You don’t understand.”  And you can’t, until you witness the a flock of fifty thousand cranes, darkening the sky.

Stevie Staples mentored one of the Rowe Staff and lived 74 years, dying in 2006 from cancer.  She was a former canoe racer and a real character.  I once raced canoes, and I would have loved to have discussed racing with her.  She touched the staff at Rowe.  She knew it, for she did live to see a beautiful picture of a Sandhill Crane in flight with her volunteer tag with “9 years of service” on it.  The picture hangs on the wall in the hallway of Rowe.  A picture of Stevie’s receiving the picture from the Rowe staff hangs in Keanna Leonard’s office.  Keanna is the dynamic educational director at Rowe.

Jamalee Fenimore grew up in Nebraska and practiced veterinary surgery in Washington State.  She died of cancer far too young at 49, donating her estate to Rowe.  Nobody at Rowe knew or remembered her being there.  But obviously, she was touched by the river, the cranes and the sanctuary.  We volunteers learn that we may touch visitors in ways we never know at the time.

When I volunteer at Rowe, I work 17 hour days, sleeping on the floor in the sanctuary so I can hear the cranes on the river in the middle of the night.  I guide people to the viewing blinds, and I teach them everything I know about cranes.  Mostly, however, I let people look at the sight, staying silent, so they can hear the birds.  I clean toilets, paint, greet people, make a noonmark, build a sundial, do whatever needs to be done.

On one tour, I took a disabled person to Stevie’s blind in an electric golf cart.  Had he been able to walk, all of the group would have gone to Strawbale blind, which had better views at that time.  But we still saw many cranes, American white pelicans, and unusual crane behavior.  My rider loved the view and tried to tip me, which I of course refused, asking him to put the money in the container at the sanctuary.  I planned to talk to other clients, because as the lead guide, I hadn’t spent time with them.  But I spent time with this man.  He was originally from Singapore; when I told him I had been there twice, his first comment was “Thank you for saving my country.”  I’ve never heard that before, and it did me good.  I hope I and Rowe did him good.

We touch each other in ways we may never know.  Good people spread kindness throughout their world.  The lucky ones receive that kindness or are those who live long enough to discover that their kindness was deeply appreciated and honored.  But all who spread kindness are fortunate that they have the ability to do so.  Stevie knew in her final days that her kindness was appreciated.  I hope Jamalee Fenimore did, too.  But if not, I know she knew she was doing the right thing.  I deeply appreciate what she did.  And every time I guide people to either of the two blinds, I tell them the story. Both women deserve to be remembered.  To have a viewing blind named for you on a river where a half million cranes visit every March is a wonderful honor.  I really can’t imagine a better one, frankly.


September 1, 2010

On an early March afternoon this past year, I was on my hands and knees building a large sundial at Rowe Sanctuary in central Nebraska, where people stand on the date and their shadow tells the time.  From the second week in March through the second week in April, Rowe is busy as visitors arrive from all states and a few dozen countries to witness the Lesser Sandhill Crane migration, one of the three greatest natural sights I’ve seen  and one of Jane Goodall’s top ten.  I was working pre-season and decided a nature center like Rowe needed a sundial.

I was using markers, T-squares, a calculator and duct tape when a good looking young man stopped by.  He was friendly,  and I knew him as the Great Plains photographer Michael Forsberg.  Mike was interested in what I was doing with trigonometry and ellipses and then asked if I could find him information for the full Moon azimuth as it rose. He wanted to know exactly where in the eastern sky he would see it rise.

Fulfilling a request from Mike Forsberg suddenly became my top priority, so that evening I sent him the information.  He later e-mailed me pictures he had taken out in the viewing blinds, including an incredible shot of 4 different species of geese flying together.  Imagine, the premier wildlife photographer in the American midwest e-mailing me pictures he took!  Later that week, when I saw Mike again, I had him sign one of his books for me.  I just happened to be making a sundial when he walked by.  He just happened to stop.  And that changed my life. I just didn’t know it at the time.

When I left Nebraska in early March, I felt I had unfinished business.  I had not been there when the migration was in full swing, nor had I led tours to the viewing blinds, which had been a goal–a dream–of mine.  Four weeks later, I flew back to Nebraska, to volunteer at the height of the crane season, when 600,000 birds are on a short stretch of the Platte River, flying in at night to the safety of the braided channels and flying out to the fields in the morning to eat waste corn.  That week, I worked 17 hour days, sleeping on the floor in the visitor center, because local housing was full, listening to the cranes call on the nearby Platte.  The first night I shared a floor with– Mike Forsberg– who now knew me.  We didn’t talk much but I soon learned Mike is modest as he is good.  He deeply respects Rowe volunteers, because we help make some of his photography possible.  His nature photography is the best I’ve ever seen.

I finished my training and became a lead guide, meaning I could take visitors to the viewing blinds.  I got to talk about Lesser Sandhill Cranes; I watched people smile and heard them cry when they saw the cranes land, “dance,” and call before them.  Sandhills are large and loud, their voice primitive and deeply primal, echoing across 3 million years of time.  My enthusiasm outweighed my shyness, and I thoroughly enjoyed guiding.  We volunteers were a cohesive group, all of us working together to do whatever needed to be done, even if it wasn’t our “job.”  That week, I felt alive in a way I seldom have experienced.  So often, I told visitors, “I work 17 hour days, make coffee at 5 a.m., clean toilets, sweep the walk, give “Crane 101 talks,” do odd jobs, get dinner, sleep on the floor and see the cranes morning and night.  Am I lucky or what?”  When I called home, my wife commented my voice sounded different.

Mike stayed in the visitor center a second night:  two Mikes, two nights, too cool, two of his books I bought.  Mike signed the second one, too, adding a stunning phrase, calling me “a man of great spirit,” for he had quickly recognized something in me that I had not fully appreciated:  I have a deep spiritual connection to nature, the outdoors and wilderness. Mike is a man of faith and told me he felt closest to God when he was in the photography blinds, where people are taken in late afternoon and cannot leave for any reason until mid-morning the following day.  He said the experience was beyond comparison.  I’m going to do it next spring.  It has become one of my dreams, and while I, a scientist and a statistician, consider myself a practical person, not far below the surface lies a deeply spiritual, emotional dreamer.  Somehow, Mike knew that and how to help me understand myself better.

Last July, after the eclipse in El Calafate, Argentina, I sent Mike a picture.  I was a bit embarrassed to be sending a handheld shot to a famous photographer.  Mike, however, immediately replied “very, very cool,” saying I must be the only guy in the world who was going to Patagonia in July and to northern Alaska in August.  I wrote him after I returned from the Brooks Range, 118 degrees north of where I was in South America, telling him I would be ordering one of his pictures as a gift.  I am becoming friends with a special man, because we share a spiritual bond with the outdoors, especially Sandhill Cranes.  If he hadn’t stopped when I was making the sundial, this never would have happened, and my perception of myself and indeed my life wouldn’t have changed.

*                                *                                 *

July 9 is a holiday in Argentina, independence day.  I was in Buenos Aires, appropriately staying on Avenida 9 Julio, the largest street in the world.  That day reminded me of Christmas, for it was a winter holiday at a similar latitude south of the equator as I live north.

I went to a restaurant as part of a tour, going up a narrow set of stairs to a table with other people on the tour.  One of the guides asked me to sit in the middle of the table next to a young German woman.  And that changed my life and hers, especially hers. She and I will never be quite the same again.

The woman, Maria, was a young German scientist on her first trip out of Europe.  She, like me, was in Argentina for the solar eclipse.  Both of us had expected to take a plane to fly over the clouds to see the eclipse, but the flight had been cancelled.  My trip down to Buenos Aires involved barely making a connection; had I missed it, I might have gone home, since the probability of seeing an eclipse in Patagonia in winter is poor.  What kept me going was the idea if I didn’t go, and people saw the eclipse from the ground, I would never forgive myself. I didn’t know at the time the details of Maria’s trip, but it seemed clear we would be “clouded out.”  I later learned she had been at a conference in California, had a car accident on a freeway, and brought no winter clothes with her, since she was also planning to see the eclipse from the air.  To say we were both depressed and having an awful trip was an understatement.

Maria was completely fluent in English.  I asked her what she did, learning of her work in preparing an X-Ray satellite for launch to the LaGrangian point furthest from the Sun.  Fortunately, I knew something about LaGrangian points, where the Earth and Sun’s gravitational pulls are equal, leading to stable orbits for bodies located there.  Because I had studied physics, I was able to ask intelligent questions, soon learning about the LaGrangian point 1.5 million km beyond the Earth where the satellite was going.  Because I knew about conics, the concept of parabolic and hyperbolic mirrors was understandable, and the major and minor axis of the elliptical orbit clear to me.  I listened to Maria for a good 30 minutes.  When she asked me what I did, there wasn’t much to say except I chased eclipses, taught math as a substitute, once practiced neurology, liked cats and was a vegetarian.  She taught math, liked cats and was also a vegetarian.  Naturally, she was most interested about my eclipse experiences.

On the afternoon tour of the city, we spent some time together, Maria convinced she wouldn’t see the eclipse.  This being my 20th eclipse trip, I told her many times:  “Maria, it isn’t over until it is over and we didn’t see it.”  Indeed, a year earlier, in China, a small window opened up through thick clouds right at totality.  We went absolutely nuts.  It was the only eclipse I ever saw while I held an umbrella.

I didn’t see Maria again until the next afternoon in Patagonia, when she was an invited speaker at an eclipse conference.  I asked a question, later going up and telling her she gave a good talk.  She looked like she needed to hear that.  That night, at the hotel, I invited myself to Maria’s table of 4, since I was otherwise going to eat alone.  I was the de facto trip weatherman; I was following several South American weather models, knew the barometer was rising, the streaming moisture into the “cone” of the continent was cutting off, and high pressure was building over the eastern South Pacific.  Maria wanted to know my forecast; I was cautiously more optimistic, telling her to ask me about the barometric pressure the next morning.

That night, the barometer rocketed upward, the sky cleared, and we awoke to a beautiful sight:  the southern hemisphere stars were visible.  Maria had never seen the southern sky before.  I didn’t sit on the bus with her but with Anita, a senior colleague.  When Anita pointed out the Southern Cross on the bus ride to Perito Moreno glacier, I did something quite uncharacteristic for me:  I went to the front of the bus and asked how many wanted to see the Magellanic Clouds under a dark sky.  A lot of sleepy faces raised hands.  Nobody objected.  We stopped for 5 minutes so everybody, including Maria, could view our companion galaxies.

That afternoon, I worried about clouds interfering with the eclipse, but Anita fortunately kept Maria far from me.  When totality was imminent, Maria and Anita joined me, and Maria cried as the Moon completely covered the Sun.  I shouted, as did others, and I stared in awe of the shadow cone of the Moon, which I had never seen so clearly.  But my greatest memory is hearing Maria cry.  It was one of the most moving experiences of my life, and I’ve seen totality 12 times.

The next morning, I said goodby to Maria, and I haven’t seen her since.

But unlike every other eclipse trip I’ve been on, we’ve corresponded.  First it was by Facebook then e-mail and frequent Skype chats.  That has never happened before.  Maria told me that she almost had a panic attack in the restaurant, and my listening to her calmed her down.  Just my listening.  She got so excited from the eclipse that she has cast off shackles that led her from living a full life.  My wife and I invited both Maria and Anita to the May 2012 annular eclipse in northern Arizona, so they can see the Grand Canyon and the eclipse.  Maria will cry at both. I know she will.   Recently, she went skydiving for the first time.  She is learning C++ programming so she can become indispensable on the Australia eclipse in 2012 and get a free trip there.  Maria has been the best correspondent I’ve encountered in my life and we’ve become good friends.  Because of her, I’m learning German, and I plan to visit her next year.  Maybe every year.  And that has changed my life.

Had we not had such bad starts to our trips…Had we not been seated next to each other in Buenos Aires…Had I not known something about LaGrangian points and infrared radiation…Had I not been an amateur meteorologist and in demand…Had I not stopped the bus so people could see the Magellanic Clouds…Had we not seen the eclipse, none of this would have happened. Maria would still be wanting to see her first eclipse, and I would  not be learning the four German cases.  In August, when I returned from northern Alaska, I had a four hour layover from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. in Anchorage.  Had I not met Maria, I would have been bored, tired and cranky.  Instead, I chatted with her on Skype, passing the time quickly.

The older I get, the more unpredictable my life has become.  If I hadn’t been making a sundial, if Mike Forsberg hadn’t stopped by, if I hadn’t been seated where I was, and if I hadn’t known about LaGrangian points....


August 2, 2010

My 20th eclipse expedition was to the Argentinian Patagonia in austral winter.  We were at the end of the eclipse track, at sunset, when scattered clouds will more easily block the eclipse view.  Worse, the eclipsed Sun would be over the frequently cloudy Andes, increasing the likelihood of blocking clouds.

But we had no worries.  We would be flying through the eclipse track over the South Pacific, having clear skies and an extra minute of totality. But two days before I left, the plane we were to use was taken out of service for major unscheduled maintenance.  There were no other planes available.  We would be ground based.  I thought that we had a small likelihood of seeing it–well under 5%.  On the way down, I almost missed my connection because of thunderstorms and decided if I missed the plane, I would go home.  Two things kept me going:  (1) I don’t like to give up and (2) If I didn’t go and they saw the eclipse, I would never forgive myself.  I made the plane to Buenos Aires with 10 minutes to spare and was in Argentina 10 hours later.

At lunch on the holiday, two days before the eclipse,  I sat next to Maria, a young German astrophysicist.  She discussed her research so clearly that for once I said little, just listened, and learned a great deal.  She was involved in sending a satellite to the L2 LaGrangian point, one of the places where the Earth and Sun’s gravity balance each other.  I thought there were only 2 such points; there are 5.  I learned a lot of other things, too, since I just stayed quiet.  Turned out that my allowing Maria to talk was exactly what she needed.

When we started discussing eclipses, I learned that Maria got under the wrong cloud and missed the 1999 Munich eclipse that went over her home.  To put it mildly, Maria was primed to see this one from the air.  But now there was no plane and she had limited winter gear, because she hadn’t expected to see it from the ground.   Like all of us, she was was emotionally devastated, and 2 days prior to the eclipse, the predictions were not good.

I told her my many close calls and said, “Maria, it isn’t over until the eclipse is over and we didn’t see it.” That afternoon, I talked with her on the tour about eclipses, trips, physics and travel.  She was smart, curious and articulate.

Prior to leaving Buenos Aires, I was online alternately looking at South American weather models and flight delays, since the air traffic controllers had a slowdown.  But, the controllers behaved, we got on the plane and flew to El Calafate the day before the eclipse, for InterSoles, an eclipse conference where Maria and Anita, astrophysical colleagues, were speakers.

During the conference, several noted my constant looking at my watch, which has a barometer.  It was rising, which it had been predicted to do, even though the sky was completely overcast by evening.  Every free moment, I was on the computer, willing the weather models to improve.

The barometer continued to rise.  It remained overcast.  After dinner, I was in my room,  now learning the IR model for South America showed the moisture fetch that had slammed Chile had stopped and shifted north. I was cautiously optimistic.  I don’t sleep well during the night before an eclipse and was up at 4, looking out at a sea of stars.  The barometer had risen a whopping 13 mb overnight.  My optimism increased.

After breakfast, we went outside where Maria saw the Southern Cross for the first time.  The ISS flew over as well.  This was a good start to the day.  On the ride to Perito Moreno glacier,  I got the idea of stopping, since we were well out of town, and allowing the riders to view the Magellanic Clouds under a dark sky, since we couldn’t see them at the hotel.  It is highly out of character for me to stand in front of a bus of many strangers, and ask if they minded if we stopped.  Nobody objected, and everybody got a great look.  I was relieved.  Now Maria had seen the Magellanic Clouds for the first time.

We spent 2 hours at the glacier, listening to icebergs calve, watching sunrise on the mountains.  On the return, I was now in full worry mode.  Still clear skies,  I worried about mountain convection and orographic lifting that comes in the afternoon.  The eclipsed Sun would be a degree above the horizon, so any significant mountain cloudiness would be a problem.

On the way up the single track to a high plateau, over El Calafate and Lago Argentino.  I saw a cloud.  My worry increased.  At the site, I saw a large lenticular cloud sitting on a mountain to the southwest, spewing clouds to the north, but for at least an hour, they dissipated.

Then I noticed more lenticular clouds further north, and the clouds no longer dissipated.  The eclipse was 2 hours away, and I didn’t like the weather.  I willed the Moon to move faster.  The eclipse began, and as the Moon moved during the 65 minutes it would take to cover the Sun, I realized that sunset would be much further north than I had been told.  There were no clouds in that area, and 30 minutes before totality, I knew we were safe.

Maria joined me, used my binoculars, and did what many do during an eclipse–cried.  It WAS beautiful.  She had gotten the perfect end to her day–a dream came true, a total solar eclipse visible in a clear sky.  Had we been on the plane, the view wouldn’t have been nearly as good.

This was one of the most difficult eclipses I’ve gone to.  It was one of the most beautiful ones.  And the reaction from Maria was the strongest emotion I’ve ever witnessed.  All eclipses are memorable; this one is at the top.

It isn’t over until it is over. And sometimes, good things come out of what seems to be bad luck.