The year 2024 was a particularly thrilling one to be a sky watcher in the United States. A solar eclipse in April, a rare comet in the autumn, and historic aurora displays in May and October provided one celestial extravaganza after another.

The total solar eclipse that passed over the U.S. on April 8 was the most anticipated event of the year—it was, after all, the only one that had been expected. Eclipses can be predicted thousands of years in advance, thanks to the consistent laws of celestial mechanics, which keep the Earth, Moon, and Sun in their respective orbits. Unlike the auroras and the comet, the eclipse was a long-awaited event. I missed the 2017 eclipse; I was in college, and instead of missing classes, I stayed in Morgantown, WV. As it turned out, all classes were canceled, and we sat on the grass, watching the 70% totality while eating hot dogs and drinking beer. The sun was blocked just enough that everything turned a faint yellow-gray, and it got noticeably cooler. That was neat, but I was peeved at myself for not going for totality. For 2024, I made it a point to be there. The 2017 eclipse was known as the Great American Eclipse; the 2024 eclipse was going to be the Second, Greater, American Eclipse.

This posed several logistical challenges. As the Moon passes in front of the Sun, it casts a very wide partial shadow, with a very small full shadow in the center. The path that this shadow traces across the ground is called the "path of totality." The path of totality is notoriously narrow for most eclipses—usually only about a hundred miles wide. The closer you are to the center of the path, the longer and more complete the eclipse experience. The shadow stays in one spot for rarely more than a few minutes, moving across the Earth's surface at several hundred miles an hour. There is almost no chance to make last-minute changes based on weather and cloud cover.

Unfortunately, April is also the worst time of the year for clear skies in the northern United States. This year was no different, and the weather forecast was horrifyingly uncertain for almost the entire path of totality. A frontal boundary was moving across the U.S. and was almost directly parallel to the path of totality. On the night of April 7, Hope and I sat in Perryopolis, PA, deciding where we wanted to drive. We had options ranging from Indiana to New York. Every hour, the forecast for cloud cover would change, and so would our plans.

On the morning of April 8, we made our final decision to drive to Cleveland, Ohio, which was right on the edge of the cloud front. We left Perryopolis at 4:30 a.m. in a driving rainstorm, putting more faith than ever in the weather forecasters. Forecasting the weather on an hour-by-hour basis during a stalled front is a crapshoot.

We ended up parking in a Cabela's parking lot in Avon, Ohio. We met up with a handful of folks from the Arundel Camera Club, who had driven in from Annapolis, Maryland. To our fantastic delight, by 10 a.m., the clouds had cleared, and blue skies greeted us.

We set up our cameras and began watching for the Moon. I was shooting with my digital camera and two black-and-white 35mm film cameras. John and Christine Milleker were shooting their digital cameras, and Christine was also preparing a cyanotype to expose during the eclipse. Fred Venecia was also there, shooting with his digital setup.

Yet, the Moon was hidden somewhere in the glare around the Sun. It was hard to convince myself the Moon was even there. I felt like, since I knew where it was, I should see something—a faint wisp of a crescent, or anything. It felt like blind faith to trust that the Moon was up there and about to move in front of the Sun. For now, the Sun was still just a blinding white circle. Through our cameras, protected by extremely dense solar filters, we watched sunspots work their way across the corona. Those sunspots would be very important later this year.

The eclipse began for us around 13:30. There was no fanfare, no trumpets to herald its arrival. One moment, I looked into my camera and saw a complete and circular Sun, and the next moment, there was a small piece missing. Within a few moments, the eclipse had undeniably begun, and a progressively larger chunk of the Sun disappeared with each passing minute.

Light haze had covered us. Our bluebird-clear skies had given way to the faintest high-level cirrus. Not that this was really noticeable yet; the Sun was still at more or less full power. I won’t lie and say I didn’t occasionally glance up without my protective glasses on. It was reflexive. Guess I’m a newbie at this.

Minute by minute, the Moon marched across the Sun: one moment it was at ¼ totality, then ½, then ¾. All of a sudden, our group collectively realized we were cold. The chills weren’t from adrenaline—it was literally getting cold. We all had to put on sweaters! Suddenly, it seemed to sink in for us that this was real, and it was happening fast.

Colors around us began to mute. The first colors to fade were the greens—everything seemed to be in shades of yellow, blue, and gray. This was what I saw in Morgantown a few years before. All of the shadows on the ground began to warp with the ever-decreasing crescent of the Sun, and still, it got colder.

Then we all saw it. The sky, which had been getting dimmer and more muted, was a deep, dark gray to our southwest. Totality was barreling in as a wall of darkness. With every passing minute, that wall grew bigger, closer, and more ominous. It sent goosebumps racing up my skin. My brain couldn’t quite process it. I wanted to stop time to understand it, but I couldn’t, and that stirred a deep, primal fear.

The sky grew darker, and the Sun grew smaller. In my camera, the Sun was now just a faint sliver. In the drainage ponds behind us, the crickets came out, and the evening bugs began their song. Everyone was speaking in hushed tones. The sky at the horizon was turning pink, while the sky above us was a slate bluish-gray.

Then, like a light switch, everything went dark. I wasn’t expecting the transition from 99.9% totality to 100% to be so sudden, so complete, and so disorienting. It wasn’t like the Sun had set and evening arrived. It was like going from sunset to twilight in an instant. For a few seconds, I couldn’t see as my eyes adjusted—I looked upwards and felt my brain start to jam. The mental clutch was slipping.

The Sun was replaced by something simultaneously spectacular, beautiful, and terrifying. I can describe it technically as a ring of brilliant white light, from which streamers of the solar corona shot out several times the size of the Sun itself. But there’s nothing that really describes it. Visible to the naked eye were bright magenta flames shooting off the Sun—solar flares several times larger than Earth. It made me think of some of the eastern Asian religions with gods who have multiple arms. Brilliant white tentacles of fire reached out at us from a ring that looked like a giant all-seeing eye staring us down. It was spectacular as hell and utterly horrifying at the same time.

The sky was now a deep indigo-violet color, and stars appeared one by one. On the horizon was a 360-degree sunset, with the sky grading from black to purple and straight into rusty orange. In one glance, we were able to look directly from the Earth, through the atmosphere, and into space in the middle of the daylight.

The southwestern sky, which had announced the oncoming totality, now signaled the arrival of daylight once more. A wall of light was chasing the darkness. My animal brain wanted it back—wanted normalcy back. My human brain wanted this moment to stay, to understand, to appreciate, and hated the part of my brain that wanted it to end.

The corona around the Sun grew brighter on one side, and then brighter still. In total silence, the intensity of the corona increased—so bright that it was almost unbelievable. The Sun wanted out, and the Moon was holding it back. When the Sun’s disk finally emerged, it was an explosion of light. The 'Diamond Ring Effect' when the Sun peeks out from behind the Moon lasted only an instant. It felt like the fabric of reality had been ripped apart, and the shining glory of the Universe, every god, and everything good and wonderful came rushing back at us.

Then, it was over. In minutes, daylight felt normal again, and the wall of darkness that had raced toward us from the southwest was now moving away toward the northeast.

Around me was stunned pandemonium. John and Christine lit up cigars. Fred danced around his camera. I felt… nothing. Not a thing. Everything I had experienced in the last three and a half minutes seemed entirely superficial, and all I could think about was getting in the car to go home and prepare for work the next day. Soon, I felt anger. I felt cheated. Did I do this wrong? What the hell? Everyone around me was losing their minds, and here I was, feeling like nothing had happened.

This, my friends, is the mental response to an overwhelming experience. I didn’t realize it yet, but I was just numb. We were about two hours down the road, sitting in the post-eclipse traffic, when it all hit—the otherworldly spectacularness of it all. The indescribable beauty mixed with core-level fear. That is awe—true awe. Not the simple appreciation you feel for a beautiful sunset or a good movie. This was a body and mind in conflict. One half was terrified and confused, wanting to run away—away to the safety of the light, to normalcy. The other half was unable to move, locked in place, totally enveloped in divine beauty.

And then, I felt a different kind of fear. All at once, I understood that, with the simple covering of the Sun, we were exposed directly to space. The atmosphere, which gives us a protective sky and hides us from the stark reality beyond, was just gone. What lay beyond was pretty, but it was also death. Death to everything we know and love. I internalized just how thin and fragile our little protective blanket is. It’s the only thing that saves us from a horrific end at the hands of that blazing white monster with the beautiful silver tentacles.

Then, I felt grief. Grief that we don’t appreciate and protect what we have here. Grief that so many of us could experience this together, only to be laying on car horns and giving each other the finger in road rage within an hour.

It took several months for the grief to subside, replaced by joy and wonder as the Universe continued to remind us how amazing a place we have to call home.