Months of eclipse planning nixed, West Palm family pivots in 24-hour dash for totality view

We were supposed to be in the sun-baked Texas scrubland and taking leisurely strolls to the Alamo. Instead, we found ourselves 2,000 miles away next to a frozen lake and sleeping in a car littered with snack bags and apple cores, asking ourselves, What just happened?    Our family — four kids, four parents and a grandmother — was determined to see the “Great American Eclipse,” hell-bent on accepting this gift from the heavens. We began to wonder whether we would lose our sanity in the process.     Our chaos started as chaos often does — with a can’t-miss plan.    Our kids’ grandmother has always marveled at wonders that transcend the human realm, whether it’s the flowing of the jet stream, the positioning of the stars or God’s plan for the world. Seven years ago, she and my father-in-law ventured to South Carolina for an eclipse, but cruelly timed clouds blocked their view. Missing out on totality was a bitter disappointment.

But her mind leapt to 2024 and the next eclipse in the lower 48 — and the last one here for 20 years. She lost my father-in-law in 2022. She’s in her 70s and not getting younger.    She tried to secure flights and hotel rooms in southern Texas — clearly our best shot at ideal weather. Who knew you couldn't book more than year in advance?

Finally, in mid-May of 2023, we were set: We would fly to San Antonio on April 6. Two days later, grandma, our two boys, 13 and 10, my wife's sister, husband, and their two kids, a girl, 12 and a boy, 9, would head west into the dry heat and squat shrubbery of Texas Hill Country, under clear blue skies.

Of course, all that really mattered were the clear blue skies. And as the date drew near and we checked weather apps, dread seized us. The Hill Country might be — likely would be … no definitely would be — gray and dreary.

Irony had carried the day — sunny Texas would be cloudy and cloudy New England would be sunny — and our Texas trip was nixed 96 hours before totality.

An eclipse-driven last-minute Plan B

But the germ of adventure couldn't be squelched. Did we dare try to go to New England, with just days to plan it?

The kids began to grumble about the possibility of having their promised days off stolen from them. On computers and smartphones, the adults checked this airline, that airline, totality duration times, driving times and forecasts, and then re-checked and re-re-checked. Bags were thrown onto the dining room table for packing. Instead of shorts and T-shirts, we pulled out hoodies and winter coats.

Affordable airfare was still available to Pittsburgh or New York City, and upstate New York or Burlington, Vermont, seemed like great options. Until they didn’t — forecasts of sunshine became forecasts of increasing afternoon clouds.

It became impossible to book nine seats to Pittsburgh on a single flight. And by then, New York City — and Boston, and Portland, Maine — were too pricey or sold-out.    “Are we going anywhere?” my 13-year-old asked.    “Maybe,” was all I could pathetically offer.    Feeling as though we’d won a contest, we found a deal on plane tickets to Hartford, Connecticut, and, 24 hours before totality was set to begin, the Nutty Nine took flight. We booked our two rental cars, and, with only two checked suitcases for the nine of us to keep the bill down, we squeezed most of what we’d need into backpacks.

We’d barely landed when we were off to Portland, arriving near midnight and rising at 5 a.m.

After a last glimpse at the forecast, we began our ascent into the White Mountains of New Hampshire, past red barns and yellow "moose crossing" signs. At home in West Palm Beach, temps were pushing 80 degrees, but here, the roadside snow grew deeper as the mountain heights grew more striking.

A scramble to find a good spot for eclipse viewing

Somehow, traffic was light. But as we crossed into the path of totality, it was clear we had been expected. Orange plastic fencing blocked driveways and fields to keep out eclipse-gazers. Some viewing spots were up for sale. Cars and tents staked their claim.    We settled on the New Hampshire town of Pittsburg, no H. At first we’d been worried we wouldn’t have a place to park. Now, we had too many choices, forcing us to decide where, exactly, we wanted to be for what might be one of the most memorable moments of our lives.

A random driveway? Next to a gorgeous lake but illegally parked? In a boring field but at least near a gas station bathroom?

Then we saw a sign offering parking and a “Great View.”

The lane sloped down to a lakehouse, where a hillside led to a rocky beach next to a tree-lined frozen lake. We’d have outdoor privileges only, and the fee was $20. But otherwise, we thought it was perfect.

With four hours to go, the kids passed the time climbing on boulders, hopping on stones and trying in vain to build dams to stop the flow of a stream. They threw rocks as if to skip them, but they only slid across the ice.    We kept taking glimpses skyward through our special glasses — purchased, of course, by grandma more than a year before — until finally the smallest morsel went missing from the edge of the buttery sun, as the moon at last made its move.

A few minutes filled with wonder

The afternoon brightness softened, and then gently dimmed, briefly leaving us with the perfect amount of pale, clean sunlight. The air cooled as our souls warmed in anticipation.      “Now it’s a crescent moon!” “Now it’s a banana!” “Now it’s a fingernail clipping!”    Then a thread and a bead and then no sun at all.    We all, of course, have seen countless pictures of the corona — the normally obscured gases around the sun that are somehow hotter than the sun itself.

Yet, I was not prepared. When I took off my glasses, I gasped in surprise. Description is futile — too weird and wonderful for words, although we keep trying to find them.    Maybe it was the dancing, angelic white of the ring. Or the perfect geometry of the black moon. Or the sharpness of their contrast that made them, together, seem more dazzling than any shade in the color wheel.    Maybe it was all that, plus the astonishment that it was real, that we had made it there at all, and that maybe, until that moment, I hadn’t fully believed we would.

Even the kids sat in rapt silence at the sight of it. Albeit briefly.    My mother-in-law soaked in the splendor alone on her chosen rock, intent on making the most of her overdue appointment with the cosmos.    And then, with heart-breaking brevity, it was over.

Feeling drunk, we hugged, kissed, high-fived.  

A mass exodus-slash-nightmare

Still, earthly reality had to be negotiated. We had to get back for a pre-9 a.m. flight. In a daze, we got in the car at 4:30 p.m. expecting minor slow downs.

What we got was a traffic apocalypse.    Re-directed by the smartphone map to avoid delays, we found ourselves on a dirt road passing snowy pastures and then stopped behind an endless serpent of red taillights, eventually marooned with no map data. Night fell as we oozed along a remote lane in the New Hampshire woods. Still two states away from the airport, we began to fear that we’d miss our morning flight.    When at last we reached the interstate, traffic crawled. As we hit 1 a.m. then 2 a.m., driving took on the tinge of torture. Rest areas overflowed with exhausted drivers. How did we end up here again? What were we thinking?

But on we went. At 4 a.m., we reached Hartford and pulled into a Cracker Barrel parking lot near the airport, and slept in cars that were still pungent with the smell of our 11 p.m. pizza.    In a blink, we stirred again. The first morning light brought a sense of renewal. The despair and exhaustion gave way to relief and triumph. Mischievous thoughts even crept in about Eclipse 2026 in Europe.

Spain, undoubtedly, would have the best weather.

Editor's note: Tom Collins is freelance writer and former Palm Beach Post reporter.

This article originally appeared on Palm Beach Post: Florida family pursued solar eclipse totality viewing