We had expected that seeing a total solar eclipse in the path of totality would be the highlight of our trip. In hindsight, it was also the perfect excuse to be together, three generations on a simple road trip through five states.
On April 6, three of us set out from Lakewood — me, my 23-year-old son Ryan and 85-year-old mother, Mary — toward Oklahoma, near the Texas and Arkansas borders. We hoped to be in the path of totality, but were fully aware that the weather could thwart our goal. We were willing to risk it. We had other reasons for the trip.
Mom grew up in Healdton, Okla., a small town just west of the path that, incidentally, is the birthplace of the late “Golden Girls” TV star Rue McClanahan (who, also incidentally, lost a baby beauty contest to my Aunt Susie in the 1930s). Mom hadn’t been to this part of her home state in 60 years or so and has fond memories of Girl Scout camp near the Red River as a young tomboy nicknamed Missy.
Who knew if we’d ever have this chance again?
En route to the eclipse, we were chasing nostalgia, looking to experience Oklahoma through mom’s eyes, prompting her to reminisce, and determined to have our fill of Arbuckle Mountain’s Original Fried Pies. (They can now be found in Arkansas, Kansas and Texas as well, but we were aiming for the flagship shop in Davis, Okla.)
We were keeping the itinerary “loose,” travel-speak for “we didn’t plan the specifics of our trip well enough in advance.” The only hotel room we had booked was 96 miles west of our eclipse-watching destination of Idabel, Okla. We couldn’t find anything closer, but didn’t much care.
After all, committing to a five-day, 1,900-mile round-trip through Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas and New Mexico for a four-minute experience that won’t happen again within the United States for another 20 years is an act of optimism, and perhaps faith. Especially if the clouds refused to cooperate on April 8.
Let the adventure begin.
High hopes from the get-go
My car — a bright yellow Kia with license plates that by chance begin with the letters ECLP — was stocked with snacks (including four flavors of Moon Pies), our eclipse-viewing sunglasses, and a pack of toilet paper. (I had seen all the doomsday predictions about limited port-o-potties and local restaurants and gas stations running out as the roving millions invaded the path of totality like so many locusts.)
We weren’t even out of Colorado before we stopped, finding a charming coffee shop in Ordway, The Sand Cherry, along Main Street. I went a little tourist crazy, buying pastries, coffee, locally made jars of jam and homemade salsa, and some earrings.
It was starting to feel like a vacation.
Not long after, billboards began to sprout up along US 50 in Kansas: large, hand-written messages with “Jesus” and “God Is Real” on them. Here, the eclipse felt more like a wink from the Creator than an event scientifically studied and brought live to a television audience by NASA cameras and commentators.
Traveling Gen Z-style
Eschewing the finicky Google maps, Ryan brought an oversized Rand McNally road atlas to chart our journey and find routes other than the interstates we feared would be packed with eclipse-chasers and semi-trucks. This throwback approach rewarded us with well-paved but sparsely populated country roads from town to town showcasing gorgeous agricultural vistas and flocks of starlings moving in murmuration.
He also provided the soundtrack of eclectic music from the 1940s to the 1980s, contemporary alt, and upbeat Mexican pop music. Mom and I approved.
The occasional remains of an armadillo or raccoon that failed to make it across the road alive made us sad but also reassured us that those wild creatures are still out there. Ryan longed to see a pronghorn and I hoped to spot a fox or two.
When we reached Dodge City, Kan., we decided to stay at the Best Western North Edge Inn, where metal palm trees adorned a small swimming pool out front. We were delighted to discover the real trees surrounding the parking lot were a bird haven. Ryan’s Merlin Bird ID app recorded the chorus singing outside our room and came up with a list of nine: American goldfinch, blue jay, Eurasian collared-dove, European starling, great-tailed grackle, house finch, Mississippi kite, mourning dove and Western meadowlark.
We later spotted bright red cardinals whistling their distinctive calls, circling vultures, and white cattle-egrets living the dream near a fetching pond in a wildflower-speckled meadow that was spotted with cows.
The next morning, we headed for Oklahoma City and arrived just in time for burgers, beers and big screens streaming the NCAA Women’s College Basketball Finals. Watching Caitlin Clark’s dream of leading Iowa to a win over undefeated South Carolina slip away somehow seemed a bad omen for our hopes of a win over April showers. So irrational.
Nearly there
We arrived in Choctaw Nation on the eve of the eclipse just after sunset, content from a stop for a dozen fried pies with sweet fillings like cherry and pumpkin. A casino lit our way to a rather dismal hotel in Durant, but we toughed it out. We planned to check out early anyway, fearing a traffic jam of eclipse watchers would prevent us from reaching our goal.
The increase in humidity was noticeable the next morning as we rolled onto US-70 East. The slowdown we expected never developed, and we were treated to a lovely sunrise. Ninety minutes later, we found ourselves in Idabel, ahead of schedule and with six hours to kill before the eclipse. Clouds were building; we were willing them to take their time.
To my disappointment, the Museum of the Red River was closed. (I had hoped to see the Acrocanthosaurus exhibit and learn about Oklahoma’s state dinosaur.) We stopped at Accent Coffee Company, where baristas said they had served visitors from as far away as Hawaii in recent days. At a nearby T-shirt stand selling eclipse-themed merchandise, the excited proprietors mentioned meeting a guy from Germany who was a global eclipse chaser.
We looked up at the gray skies and hoped the German knew something we didn’t.
A nature hike seemed a good way to pass the time so off we went to Beavers Bend, a state park that skirts the shores of nearby Broken Bow Lake. I saw my first loblolly pine with its shingled bark; Ryan spotted a dead crayfish in a clear brook, which caused him to slip on a mossy rock into the water; and Mom took a minor tumble on the trail but luckily got back up unscathed.
By 11:30, about an hour before the eclipse would begin, we were feeling antsy so headed back toward Idabel and stopped for a quick lunch at The Oaks Steakhouse in Broken Bow. Several tables were filled with uniformed state police and local sheriffs’ officers. They were in good humor but wearing bulletproof jackets and checking their watches.
With the celestial event near, we decided the field behind the restaurant seemed an ideal place for viewing. As the minutes passed, the clouds thinned and thickened, teasing us with momentary glimpses of blue sky.
Family members in Colorado and Washington state began texting updates from their televised views starting in Mexico and moving up through Texas. We were about three minutes behind Dallas by this measure and the few clusters of people who had also parked and pulled out picnic blankets and unfolded camping chairs nearby began to settle down, don protective glasses and look up.
The big event
I fidgeted with my iPhone and attempted to use a device made to simultaneously look through one lens and take photos and videos through another side-by-side. I couldn’t get it to work and soon abandoned the clumsy thing.
Mercifully, the clouds continued to blow by. Car traffic stopped, a few airplanes buzzed overhead, and all birds but one obnoxious blue jay stopped singing. The temperature dropped and the sunlight dimmed, street lights came on, and we oohed and aahed and felt fortunate and amazed and suddenly so clearly aware of sitting atop the crust of a spinning planet with an orbiting moon that miraculously appears to be the same size as the much larger star beaming at us from 93 million miles away.
Unlike partial solar eclipses where the moon scoops a semicircle out of the sun’s shape like two flat plates, it became visible as a dark, three-dimensional sphere. As it traveled right to left, we marveled at the “diamond ring effect” before the last piece of sunlight beamed outward, and then — BLINK! — a solitary speck of bright light burning at the bottom, possibly a solar flare, was visible. The rest was the sun’s radiant corona framing the dark moon.
Spontaneous applause and shouts went up around us, with one woman repeating “Oh my God!” over and over. We removed our glasses (it was now safe to do so) and observed two tiny red lights race past, one after the other: satellites in Earth’s orbit. We could see Jupiter and Venus glowing in the middle of the afternoon. It was astonishing how dark it became in the moon’s shadow.
We stared at that moon until the diamond ring reappeared, and rather than replacing our glasses and watching the rest of the eclipse, strangely felt that that was enough. We noted the return of the sun’s heat and saw the dimness lift, the street lights blink off, the birds start up again. Car engines signaled our collective pause had passed.
We three looked at each other with mutual awe and happiness and agreed the effect had been better than expected. That full solar eclipse, despite all the anticipation and explanation, was a sight that will live on in our memories.
It also left us with gratitude for each other, and the willingness we each had to give in to the adventure of it all.
