I love how, in the last decade or so, social media has allowed people to share their excitement over astronomical phenomena in real time. The first eclipse I recall becoming a big deal was back in August 2017, when the path of totality crossed large parts of the US. It was the start of my sophomore year at LSU, and while we weren't in the path of totality, it felt like the university really leaned into the excitement of it all. We all met up on the parade grounds with blankets and snacks and insufficient eclipse glasses to go around, and we had a grand ol' time creating the crescent shaped shadows as the light got dimmer, but never fully black. The environment was so cheerful and excited, and people were generous with their eclipse glasses.
While it was cool, being only a partial eclipse where we were, it wasn't very impressive. In 2019 though, while visiting Luis in Argentina, we learned that there would be solar eclipse with the path of totality just crossing over his parents' house in Villa General Belgrano. We made sure to be there for the day, but honestly, we weren't expecting much. I think my expectations had been tempered by the 2017 eclipse, and I think Luis was still visualizing a lunar eclipse, which, while still cool, can't compete.
But as we stood on top of the hill behind his parents' house, with his parents and brothers, as the sky grew darker, and darker, and darker than it had ever gotten in Baton Rouge in 2017, the anticipation built. The temperature dropped. The wind changed. The birds fell silent.
And then the sun was gone. A black hole in the sky rimmed with light, and we were plunged into night time. My mother-in-law and I literally screamed in surprise.
The experience of seeing a partial eclipse doesn't prepare you for seeing a total one, because in the partial, you can tell there's less light, you can look through a lens to see that the sun is kind of covered, but you never reach that peak. With the total solar eclipse, you experience the same process, but the sliver gets smaller and smaller, and when you think it can't get any smaller, it still does, and then, suddenly, the sun is gone.
Eventually, it comes back. Where we were, I think we had less than 2 minutes of totality. And slowly, light filters back in, like dawn. The birds come alive with noise. It slowly grows warmer. After, Luis's family and I discussed how, if you didn't know about the sun and the moon and the orbit of planets, experiencing an event such as that without warning could fundamentally change your perception of everything - be it your gods, your king, or your own personal morals.
I found myself reflecting a lot on that experience in April, when the US experienced another eclipse and my fellow Fulbrighters found themselves experiencing some FOMO for not being there for it. I also listened to a "field trip" episode of one of my favorite podcasts, "Ologies", where the host, who had missed the 2017 eclipse, ended up wildly changing her travel plans to try to catch the 2024 one with good weather, and she recorded audio during the whole experience. She included conversations with other folks observing the eclipse in the same park as her, some of whom had never seen one before, others who really enjoyed traveling specifically to view them (called umbraphiles). And even days after the eclipse, which I hadn't even seen, the excitement of all of these folks was so palpable and so contagious, that I found myself googling "when is the next eclipse" because I wanted to see one again.
I didn't expect to find myself, just a couple weeks later, chasing a much less predictable astronomical phenomena.
Auroras are somewhat predictable, but not the way eclipses are. When astronomers see solar flares heading the right direction, they can make some predictions about the timing, duration, and location of auroras, but they're not predicting them years in advance down to the exact mile and minute. Because the sun is currently at a peak of magnetic and other activity in an 11-year solar cycle or sunspot cycle, I had heard a lot of news about how this year was a good year to travel to see the aurora borealis, because there would be lots of "space weather" contributing to make them very visible and spectacular. There were even a couple of times last year when Wyoming was predicted to be within the range of visible auroras.
One of those times, in April 2023, when they were predicted to be visible in Laramie, Luis and I drove 40 minutes out of town to get away from the city lights at 10pm to see if we would be so lucky. We pulled off the highway in the middle of nowhere, pulled out camp chairs and our camera, sat down, and waited. At first, we saw nothing. But then, we noticed that there was a faint glow in the sky, as if there was a large city in the distance - in a direction where there is no city. Luis got the camera set up, set the exposure time high, and snapped a pic.
In the photo, the sky was a shade of lime green that we couldn't see with our eyes.
We waited, hoping it woudl get stronger, but to our eyes we could only tell that the faint, city-like light undulated a little bit, becoming stronger in one spot while fading in others. Occasionally, we could almost make out a vertical line of light, but it had no impressive color.
But if you pointed the camera at it - you might get lucky and get a little glimpse of pink:
While the pictures were cool, the real-life experience was honestly a bit underwhelming. It was cold, and dark, and if you weren't the person taking pictures, it was honestly kind of miserable. But the pictures are so pretty, it left Luis and I wanting to go see the aurora borealis somewhere in the northern part of the world in the future, somewhere it would be stronger, more visible to the naked eye.
We didn't expect that just over a year later, we would be seeing the aurora australis, clear as can be.
Well, maybe not clear as can be, but so much more impressively than the aurora in Laramie.
On May 10th, 2024, large parts of the world were lucky enough to see auroras - I've heard of pictures from as far south as Florida! And while maybe some folks were on top of the aurora forecast that week, I hadn't paid attention to them since one point last summer when auroras were predicted in Wyoming again and then the forecast was backtracked to say "ehhhh actually they're not going to be visible that far south."
Luis and I were at someone else's house, chatting, when one of the other researchers who works in the same building as me (which is on top of a hill) texted him a picture of an aurora. We immediately leapt up, put our jackets and shoes on, and ran out of the house we were at (with the folks we were with too) and started hustling the 6 blocks it takes to get to CADIC, where I work. As we got closer to the bottom of the hill, we noticed that the sky was a weird red. It could have been streetlight-glow, but the streetlights didn't usually shine in that much of the sky. As we got up the hill, above most of the city lights, we were greeted with a pink sky. A truly pink sky, no need for a camera, no need to squint and say "maybe there's something over there?" There could be no doubt that there was an aurora above us.
Pictures still make it even more impressive than it was in person, increasing the hue until it's almost red, but amazingly this time we could see the lines and colors of the aurora. Maybe still not as clear as the image we all have in our heads of photos taken by professional photographers, but absolutely breathtaking.
We stood outside (once again freezing) for a long time, just watching it. Seeing the subtle shifts in the intensity of the color, until it slowly seemed to fade. It wasn't gone, but the brilliance of the initial pink was washed out.
For the next few days, I couldn't stop thinking about the parallels between my eclipse and aurora experiences - the underwhelming first one, the impressive second one. The way they inspired awe and people couldn't stop talking about them for days, in person or on-line. The way they leave you thinking "wow, what a planet we live on" - reflecting on how if it wasn't for the exact size and position of our moon, or our exact distance from the sun and the thickness of our atmosphere - we wouldn't have these experiences. And how, in today's day and age, we know so much more about these phenomena, and we share them as they happen, and we all have amazing cameras in our pockets capable of capturing them (my aurora australis photos are all from my phone).
It is such a wonderful experience, to be brought to a halt by nature, and I love that these events have become incredible opportunities for people to stop, and watch, and be amazed.
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