At the 11th hour (actually it was 10pm), God answered all our eclipse prayers in a tiny town called Unity, via a man named David. Naturally.
After loads of internet research, Chris and I decided that heading towards Unity, Oregon might be the perfect place to watch the eclipse.
For one thing, it wasn’t Madras, the “official” NASA viewing site. But it boasted historic cloud coverage records that were very nearly as low as Madras. Plus, it was right outside the Umatilla National Forest, so we could boondock for free if there weren’t any camping sites available in town. And it was out in the country — one of the things I wanted was to be far enough away from a city that we could observe how wildlife reacted to the eclipse.
I’d also read that during a total solar eclipse you will see a 360° “sunset” if the horizon is visible. But there was no way for us to know how high a spot we would find in Unity (or if other mountains would block our view) until we got there.
Unfortunately, we got there late. So trying to find a place to camp on a forest service road in the pitch black was out of the question. We stopped at the local fire station as soon as we got into town and were told that NASA had taken almost all the in-town sites, but there was a campground 4 miles outside of town for non astronauts, and they might have room.
When we arrived at the non astronaut camp, we were met with a very festival vibe — music, generators roaring, food trucks, t-shirt sales. The dude at check in calmly told us that at this hour, he could cut us a deal on a small tent site for $279. Chris and I looked at each other. The look communicated “the only way we’re paying 300 bucks to sleep in our own tent in a field is if Gwyneth Paltrow brings us coffee in the morning.” We thanked him and left.
But on the drive back into town we noticed a makeshift sign on a fence post that read “eclipse parking” with an arrow pointing across the road. The sign had been made last minute by a man named David. David used to transport million dollar race horses across the country, but now he was retired to a small house and a bit of land in the middle of nowhere. His wife still lived in California, but she would visit him on the farm frequently. She had come for the eclipse as well. He laughed when we told him how much the other camp was charging and told us that for 25 bucks we could set up in his field across the street. He reached for a flashlight in his waistband to show us the field, and pulled out a gun instead, which he handed to his wife while continuing to search for the flashlight.
If General Custer and Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) had had a baby, and that baby grew up into a kind, generous, but kind of grumpy, kind of loner old man, that would be David. He looked EXACTLY like them. It was AWESOME.
Not only did David offer us a safe (and level!) place to stay, but he mentioned that once day broke, we would see a huge hillside rising behind his house. He owned that hillside, and it was the tallest thing for miles and miles. Being on top of it would give us the coveted 360° views we had been hoping for.
David showed us to his field, and we parked under a tree that looked like an enormous olive tree, but there was no fruit. Did I mention how small Unity is? In the 2010 census, there were only 71 residents. Small population = very little light pollution. Once we took the rain fly off the tent, we could see the band of the Milky Way galaxy through the screen panels in the roof. It was magic.
We woke at dawn and made tea and bacon and eggs while the sun climbed through the branches of the not-olive tree we had parked beneath. David rode over on his four wheeler for a chat, and then left us to pack up and head uphill. We took: 2 eclipse glasses that cost more than twice what it cost to park there overnight, my journal, my watercolors, my sketch pencils, two sketchbooks, a mug of tea, a 12 pack of La Croix sparkling water, 2 camp chairs. We climbed through a rising field of desert sage, which is one of my absolute favorite scents on earth. And then the trail got rocky and rose much further still. It reminded me of the lava fields we hiked across in Iceland last summer. We were warned to be on the lookout for rattlesnakes and foxes. We saw one fox, a lovely streak of red and white through the sage at the foot of the hill.
We found a little alcove in the rock that was big enough for two small camp chairs. I played Ray Charles’s “America the Beautiful” off Spotify, we drank La Croix, and drank it in. I didn’t end up sketching or painting or journaling. It was too pretty to do anything but look around and marvel.
The whole event felt surreal, existing in a time outside of and right beside our time. We experienced 2 min and 7 seconds of totality and it was unlike anything I have ever known. It turned cold and silvery and quiet. We saw Venus. We turned in circles and saw the 360° “sunset” I’d read about, and above us, the empty black of the moon’s shadow, and the sparkling, crackling, brilliant corona. It was one of the prettiest and strangest things I have ever seen. It’s hard to put language around the experience.
Before this week I didn’t know there was such a thing as eclipse chasing. Now, I get it. To be on a mountain top with a loved one, feeling very small and in awe. What a powerful thing.
Thank you, David, for loaning us your hill. Thank you, Unity, for being the perfect host. Thank you, Chris, for delighting in the world with me. Thank you, God, for bringing all of us Americans together for a few moments of shared wonder.