Abstract

It is common practice among eclipse chasers to recount the intricacies of eclipse-travel planning, and the proverbial trials and tribulations of the expedition itself.  Indeed, this kind of narrative is a basic element to human storytelling. However, such a historiography skews the historical record.  Moreover, well-meaning emphasis on careful planning might alienate some non-umbraphiles who have a different cost/benefit ratio than we do.

Anti-planning

In the circle of umbraphiles, it is common practice to recount the intricacies of eclipse-travel planning, and the proverbial trials and tribulations of the expedition itself.  Indeed, this kind of narrative is a basic element to human storytelling.

However, such a historiography skews the historical record.  An example of what I choose to call “anti-planning” follows.

The University of Northern Iowa [UNI] offered a for-credit course (graded) in the Spring of 2024, which included lectures about the Sun, Moon, and eclipses.  It was intended for all liberal-arts majors, not just for those undergraduates on a science track.  The influence of these topics in culture was part of the syllabus. 

Sky-viewing opportunities were provided.  Homework was assigned.  Student projects were undertaken.  Term papers were written.

The raison d’etre of the class, though, was a field trip to the path of totality for the 8 April Total Solar Eclipse.  This was the third time that this particular course had been offered.   By enormous coincidence, UNI was situated within reasonable driving distance of both 2024 total eclipse and that of 21 August 2017.

Given that the 2024 class was made up of students at a comprehensive, tuition- and state- supported university, four planning criteria surmounted any others:  1) safety, 2) no institution-supplied budget, 3) a low trip fee per student, and 4) a brief time away from campus for this mid-week, mid-semester event.  None of these involved the conventional eclipse-trip planning factors such as weather, accessibility, and availability of local resources.

Anti-planning consisted of drawing a pencil line segment on a map.  It went from the home of UNI, Cedar Falls, Iowa, orthogonally to the eclipse centerline. Then a highlighter was applied to trace a driving route on no less than county-level quality roads in order to get an (aged) passenger van there. 

The end point turned out to be Vincennes, Indiana.  Travel time (and correlated student expenses), plus fuel cost, were minimized.

Every effort was made to lower expectations beforehand.  However, the result was a visit to a lovely, small, midwestern city (that happened to be staging an eclipse festival) and a viewing site on its edge at the Clark National Monument. On the ground, we overlooked the scenic Wabash River.  The sky was cloudless. Accommodations were not a problem.  Parking was not a problem.  Food and facilities were not a problem.  Road congestion was not a problem. 

Some great eclipse photographs were taken.  One student used a digital recording thermometer to measure the significant change of temperature before, during, and after mid-eclipse.  Another was able to monitor the change in radio reception over the same time span.  A third, on the lookout for shadow bands, was successful.

The odds were against our positive experience; they were higher for those who undertook intricate pre-eclipse planning.  Yet my concern about the astronomical community’s well-meant emphasis on traditional planning is this:  Might it have discouraged even consideration of making an eclipse-destination trip by those whose time and interest level precludes such planning, and/or are psychologically prepared to handle a potentially negative experience?  I do not know.

I applaud our profession’s response to the recent total eclipse of the Sun, the last to span the North American continent for a score of years.  Yet I am haunted by Clint Eastwood’s line, “Do ya feel lucky?”