AUGUSTA, Maine – “Wear your boots!” Gov. Janet Mills said in a news conference with law enforcement, emergency management and tourism officials on April 1, one week before Monday’s total solar eclipse.
A little late to the game, it seems that it had just dawned on state officials that with the 115-mile wide path of totality cutting a 250-mile swath from west to east across Maine, there may be a problem. The state—the largest in New England but with the smallest highway presence—was looking at an influx of 10,000 to 40,000 visitors. It was April, with a major nor’easter forecast for Thursday, four days before the eclipse. Even if many of those visitors weren’t making their first trip to Maine, this wasn’t popping up to Wells in August for a week at the beach.
“Now is the time to make plans so that you can safely and enjoyably experience this historic event,” Mills said. “We recommend travelers arrive early and stay late, stick to paved roads, have a full tank of gas, pack a paper map, bring plenty of snacks and water, and, of course, wear appropriate eye protection. By taking these commonsense steps, you can ensure that you and family are able to safely enjoy this incredible event.”
Check, check and check.
I live in central Maine, about 30 miles from the edge of the path of totality. I’d been vaguely aware of the eclipse for a couple years. My plan up until March 8 had been to get some eclipse glasses, hang at home working, then go out in the front yard and take a look at the 98% partial that would be over my area.
Then I talked to David Baron, author of “American Eclipse,” for an Ink Link article a month before totality day. Baron had been told in the 1990s by astronomer Jay Pasachoff, “Before you die, you owe it to yourself, at least once, to experience totality.”
Baron had seen eight total solar eclipses by the time I talked to him and had become an evangelist for the cause.
“A total solar eclipse is the most awe-inspiring spectacle in all of nature,” Baron told me. “And it’s exceptionally rare for one to come where you are…It is unlike anything else. It is the closest thing to space travel that you can experience without leaving the surface of the earth.”
How could I miss that? Change of plans.
Destination Jackman, Maine
Inspired by Baron, I picked Jackman for my eclipse experience. Directly in the center of the path, the Somerset County town near the Quebec border would get three minutes, 26 seconds of totality, one of the longest in the state. It was a good eight seconds longer than Houlton, across Maine in Aroostook County, which was the focus of much of Maine’s growing eclipse frenzy.
Unlike Houlton, Jackman was not planning a highly publicized eclipse festival. The town WAS hosting a crew from the University of Maine Astronomy Center at the Town Office, which I knew from previous visits fronted a vast field that would be great for viewing.
Other than that, the town of about 800 residents was playing it low-key. That was another plus. Hopefully, it would be off everyone’s radar. Not that I’m anti-social. OK, I am, but Jackman and thousands of visitors wouldn’t mix well. It’s the last town on U.S. Route 201 before the border with Canada, and while it’s the main Quebec-to-Maine route, it’s a two-lane highway with no crossroads in the 50 miles between Bingham and Jackman. That means no shortcuts, no back routes, nowhere for thousands of cars to go but those two lanes.
I decided to leave between 5 and 5:30 a.m. Monday morning. If I got there ridiculously early, I’d be able to entertain myself with my laptop, iPad or a book. I’d enter the path of totality less than 40 miles from my house, so if I got stuck in traffic on the 95-mile drive from my town, just north of Augusta, I could pull over and enjoy the eclipse anyway.
I filled my gas tank the day before, knowing that gas stations are few and far beyond Skowhegan, 24 miles into the trip.
Journey to the path of totality
5:20 a.m. Monday, April 8. With dawn just beginning to break in the east, I scrape the frost from my windshield. It’s 29 degrees, not bad for an April morning in central Maine. The forecast is for highs in the 40s and total sun. I stow my gear in the car – laptop, iPad, a notebook for reporting notes and another one for the mystery novel I’m writing, a book, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a bag of Goldfish crackers, one bottle of water, one Diet Coke, a special lens for my iPhone that I’ve been told will help me take awesome photos of the eclipse and my eclipse glasses.
My iPhone is loaded up with six hours worth of podcasts.
I’m a good Mainer, so my handy, weathered copy of the Maine Atlas and Gazetteer is in the car, but I know I won’t need it – once I get on Route 201 in Skowhegan there’s nowhere else to go.
I’m wearing my boots, dust off my rarely used sense of wonder, and start up the car.
5:50 a.m. I stop at the McDonald’s in Skowhegan. Traffic has been light, but as I head north on Route 201 out of town, I find myself behind a car with Florida plates, agonizingly traveling just at or below the speed limit. Soon there is a line of six cars behind me. The car directly behind me also has out-of-state plates. There’s no doubt, we’re all heading north to the eclipse.
6:50 a.m. Traffic is not a problem as our caravan of 10 or so cars, with Florida still in the lead, makes its way through The Forks, at the confluence of the Kennebec and Dead rivers. The 10 cars would normally be considered heavy traffic for Route 201, even in summer. Today it’s a relief – things could’ve been much worse. But as we travel through West Forks there’s a troubling sign of things to come. The Moxie Road rest area in the center of town is full of cars. Full. They are parked, their drivers setting up lawn chairs and taking out coolers, like they’re in it for the long haul.
7:10 a.m. Florida still leads, and the caravan has grown. During the morning I’ve toyed with the idea of stopping at the Attean Lake scenic view, about 10 miles south of Jackman, to take a photo. It’s one of the state’s most spectacular highway views, and I usually stop there, but am also thinking that I just want to get to Jackman. As it comes into view, the decision is made for me. The view parking area, up a rise next to the road, is packed with dozens of cars. Cars are double-parked on the drive to get up to it the area, and down the drive leading away from it. Dozens more are parked on the shoulder. Inexplicably, Florida pulls over, looking like they’re going to attempt to enter the parking area. So long, sucker. With Florida gone after nearly 70 miles of slowing me down, I hit the gas. I’m apprehensive now about what I’m going to find in Jackman and just want to get there.
7:20 a.m. I enter Jackman, where, about half a mile from the town office, I see a sign that says “parking,” with an arrow. I follow it down a side road to an expansive and empty parking lot. A sign at the entrance says “$50 to park.” No [expletive] way. Even if I had $50, there has to be better options. I go back up to Main Street and head north.
7:22 a.m. I pull into an on-street parking at the town office. No charge, of course. My trip only took two hours, despite the Skowhegan McDonald’s stop and the cautious driving of Florida person. I am ridiculously early, as I’d feared when I first decided to leave so early. But I don’t feel as dumb about it as I thought I would. On-street spaces are already filling up.
The town had made preparations, despite the publicity, too. A hand-written sign at the entrance to the field that fronts the Town Office announces the town’s eclipse festival. “Wear your boots,” it advises.
A couple vendors set up tents in the snow. In the distance, beyond a muddy parking lot reserved for TV vans and other officials, I see a bank of porta-potties. Good for Jackman!
7:30 a.m.-10:30 a.m. The eclipse buzz starts early. Beneath the flags at the large armed forces memorial, people with imposing telescopes and fancy cameras are setting up, with the area full by 9 a.m. WCSH-TV, out of Portland, is the first TV crew on the scene. At least four more news crews show up by noon. There are a dozen vendor booths selling hot food, coffee, eclipse T-shirts and more.
By 10:30, there aren’t any parking spaces left on the street. A steady stream of cars, both north and south-bound, pass by my spot.
A little after 10:30 a.m., Florida car drives by, easy to recognize after staring at it for 70 miles. I feel a little sad. After that early start, they’re going to have trouble finding a parking spot.
Nashua couple and a spur-of-the moment plan
10:45 a.m. In the porta-potty line, I meet two Nashua-area residents. When I tell them I’ll be writing an article for Ink Link, they agree to talk, but ask me not to use their names since one of them called in sick to work. I’m gratified that they are afraid their employer will read Ink Link. They are a man and woman in their mid-20s, which is all I’m authorized to say. I’m going to call them Bill and Sue for the purposes of this article.
The pair said a month or so ago they had discussed going somewhere to view the eclipse, but decided not to, since Sue had to work and they couldn’t afford to stay overnight, even if there was any place available. On top of it, there was the weather.
“What are the odds it’s going to be a nice day? About zero,” Bill, who is originally from Maine, said. “We weren’t going to drive all day just to see nothing.”
But then they got swept up in the hype. Despite the fact Jackman played it low-key, Sue saw an article online about Jackman having one of the longest stretches of totality in Maine. They decided Sunday night that they’d come.
They left on the 275-mile trip at 5 a.m., around the same time I was getting ready to leave my house.
“We had no idea what traffic would be, but it wasn’t bad,” Sue said.
Traffic was light on Route 101 through New Hampshire. It was heavier on Interstate 95, but not enough to slow them down. Route 201 was the biggest wild card, but they were happy when they got on it just north of Waterville and found that it was virtually empty. Like me, they even stopped at the Skowhegan McDonald’s, as well as gassed up in the town.
Why make the trip, call in sick, drive for hours to Jackman, Maine, to see a total solar eclipse? I ask. They both shrug.
“On the news they made it sound pretty cool,” Bill says.
“We have maybe a little FOMO [fear of missing out],” Sue adds.
“No, that’s not it,” Bill says.
“Um. Yeah. It is,” Sue says. She turns to me. “We definitely had FOMO.”
They both agree that the day is beautiful. The snow and mud, though thick, isn’t bad. They are both wearing boots.
“We live in New Hampshire, so it’s nothing new,” Sue says.
They’re glad there’s food for sale. They know the ride home will be worse than the one coming up, but they say it will “probably” be worth it.
“All we need is totality and we’re all set,” Sue says.
Enjoy the eclipse. Don’t get hit by a car’
11 a.m.-2 p.m. There are now thousands of people in Jackman, most of them either driving, or walking, up and down Main Street. [Official estimates Tuesday are that around 10,000 people visited the area]. The traffic stream is bumper-to-bumper, people looking for a place to park competing with lumber trucks and other large haulers out of, or heading to, Canada. If license plates are any indication, many New Hampshire residents made the same trek that Bill and Sue did. There are lots of other states represented. I counted plates from 12 states before I stopped counting.
While some brave the snowy, muddy field, most of the crowd just keeps walking, or finds other places to hang out. TV crews interview the UMaine astronomy group and other science-looking people set up in front of the Town Office, as the public takes pictures of the news crews.
There are a lot of dogs. Many, many dogs. But they’re all very good dogs.
The sun shines with a vengeance, probably to assert itself before the moon’s big moment, and the temperature is in the high 40s by early afternoon without a cloud in the sky.
The crowd is divided into three basic types:
Serious eclipse watchers, who spend hours fiddling with telescopes and cameras and hob-nobbing with each other. For the most part, they’re a friendly, congenial group and I saw many who allowed curious onlookers, particularly kids, take a look through their scopes.
People who came prepared for the weather and to have a good time. They eat, they buy stuff from the vendors. Many seem to be making new friends. They settle their lawn chairs into the snow without complaint. Their kids make snowmen with the mushy, melting snow or splash in mud puddles. Adults and kids alike, they all remembered their boots.
People who seem as though they’ve been beamed to northern Maine from another planet, one apparently without Google, which would’ve come in handy before they made the trip. They gripe about the snow and mud as though someone put it there on purpose. They hate the porta-potties. They’re offended there’s no indoor space to “warm up” and by the spotty-to-nonexistent cell and Wi-Fi service. Many seem to have forgotten their boots.
2 p.m. With the eclipse due to begin at 2:18 p.m., people settle in, some setting up chairs in the snow and mud, others leaning against their cars or finding other spots to sit or stand. Cruisers from the Somerset County Sheriff’s Department and the U.S. Border Patrol pass by more frequently on narrow Main Street. A deputy announces from his cruiser with a microphone, “Stay out of the street. Enjoy the eclipse, don’t get hit by a car.”
It’s not clear if the steady stream of people walking up and down the street, which doesn’t have sidewalks and is packed with parked cars on both sides, is paying attention.
Countdown to totality
2:18-3:15 p.m. The eclipse begins. While many seem oblivious, and the stream of walkers, many tired and griping, continues to parade past my car, others don their eclipse glasses and start to watch. I try to take a photo with my special lens and, of course, it just looks like a very bright sun with a lot of what looks like reflections on the lens. So much for photos.
3:16 p.m. As totality nears, I move from leaning against my car along Main Street to the hub of eclipse frenzy and information in front of Town Office.
“Last chance for public viewing,” calls out a guy with a large telescope, who it turns out has been letting anyone who wants take a look through it to watch the moon move in front of the sun.
3:19.55-3:28.55 p.m. “Ten minutes until totality,” someone shouts. The crowd gives a small cheer. Each successive shouted minute brings another cheer. The day darkens, but not significantly.
The real show is in the sky. A small sliver of sun that had been yellow turns increasingly orange as it gets smaller. As it does, the crowd’s excitement ramps up. That small and disappearing bright light feels very big. As the moon passes in front of the sun, we’re all awed by a magnificent sight that we didn’t invent or cause and is beyond any human control. It’s not AI. It’s not CG. It’s real and it feels like it.
‘The most dazzling sight in the heavens’
3:29.30 p.m. As the bright orange light turns to a pinprick, the crowd rumbles. It grows to a shout. It disappears and the crowd cheers.
David Baron’s words had been in my head for the last hour [finally drowning out Carly Simon singing “You flew your Lear jet up to Nova Scotia to see a total eclipse of the sun”]:
“As soon as the moon covers the last bit of the sun and if you end up in a total eclipse, you plunge into twilight. It’s as if the lights get turned off. And at that moment, if you’re in the path of totality, at the moment of totality, you can and should take off those eclipse glasses and you then can look with the naked eye at the sun, which is the most dazzling sight in the heavens.”
I take off my eclipse glasses.
Many experts on TV leading up to the eclipse advised, especially if it was your first, to not try to take a photo of totality, but just take it in.
I try anyway, because that’s what people with iPhones do. Of course, when I look later, it looks nothing like what I was looking at.
That takes up about five seconds of totality. I put the phone in my pocket and just look at the sky.
I’ve seen photos of total solar eclipses taken by professional photographers who knew what they were doing. They don’t come close to what I see as I look up at the moon and sun.
The moon, a rich, thick black, is huge. The sun’s corona bursting out from behind it, is different shades of yellow and orange, with a little green mixed in.
Mercury, a bright red dot, hovers at the bottom, having its own moment of glory.
Other planets – I’m not sure which ones – brightly shine like stars.
The sky behind it all is a shade of dark purple.
The crowd isn’t quiet, but the excited chatter of before totality is hushed and reverent, full of wonder.
So am I. Ever since talking to Baron, I’d been prepared to be wowed. The eclipse doesn’t let me down.
3:32.56 p.m. Much brighter than when it disappeared, the sun reasserts itself with a blinding flash along a small edge of the moon. The crowd cheers – for the moon, at least I was – louder than it had three minutes and 26 seconds earlier.
“Put your glasses back on,” several people yell.
4 p.m.-8:20 p.m. The drive home takes more than four hours, most of it in a long snake of vehicles traveling less than 10 mph down Route 201. As we inch south, it’s obvious that thousands of cars had pulled over on the shoulder to watch, or parked in every available spot along the 50 miles of road between Jackman and Bingham. Some still watch through cameras with long lenses or telescopes as the moon disappears. Others wait out traffic in lawn chairs on the road’s shoulder, or hang out around coolers, waving to the slow line of cars. “Eclipse! Wooo!” more than one yells at the passing cars. Cars honk back.
Baron told me that a total solar eclipse is a unifying moment. It didn’t matter who people were, what their political views were, where they were from, he said – they bond in that eclipse moment. In front of the Jackman Town Office, I could feel it. Even if it only lasted three minutes and 26 seconds, it felt good.
