ALBUQUERQUE — Every solar eclipse has a different flavor, and takes a different adventure to get to the right spot at the right time. After chasing three total solar eclipses in the past six years, I decided to try my hand at a new challenge: hunting down a “ring of fire” eclipse from beneath the wide-open skies of New Mexico.
Seeing an “annular” eclipse had been on my bucket list since childhood. But chasing this eclipse would afford the opportunity to knock something else off the list: experience the magic of Balloon Fiesta, the world’s largest hot air balloon festival. It happens each October in Albuquerque.
The fiesta was born in 1972, when only 13 balloons were featured. Nowadays between 500 and 1,000 hot air balloons take to the skies each morning of the nine-day festival, which occurs the first full week of October.
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In a fortuitous twist of fate, Albuquerque was to be directly on the centerline of Saturday’s eclipse, which would also coincide with the penultimate day of Balloon Fiesta — on a weekend, moreover! Upward of 1.2 million visitors have entered Balloon Fiesta Park over the past week and a half, setting a record.
I had been planning to fly to Albuquerque with my adventure buddy, Tess. I mentioned it in passing to my boss, Andy Green, the chief executive of MyRadar, a weather app based in Orlando. Before I knew it, MyRadar had offered to cover the travel and send a cameraman, Jack. The three of us rendezvoused in New Mexico on Friday, and then met up with a meteorologist friend of mine, Andrew.
My alarm buzzed at 1:18 a.m. Saturday. I had to charge our electric rental car, iron a shirt and gather my team. We planned to be at Balloon Fiesta Park early to score a flight aboard a balloon. A limited number of slots were available for the media.
My not-so-secret goal? Soar in the skies overhead during annularity, or the 4-minute, 48-second window during which the moon would intercede directly between the Earth and the sun. If all went well, we’d manage a once-in-a-lifetime shot from a vantage point that nobody else would have.
Hot air balloon pilots take advantage of the “Albuquerque box,” a weather pattern that typically sets up each October. On crisp autumn mornings, cool air over the higher terrain sinks and slides southward, causing light winds from the north near the ground. Just above, however, warm winds blow in from the south. Skilled pilots can surf the overturning circulation or linger in the calmer zone between the two layers.
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Unfortunately, winds were just a bit too strong Saturday morning and, about 9 a.m., our pilot scrubbed our launch. We didn’t have much time to be sad, however — the partial phase of the eclipse would begin at 9:13 a.m. as the moon just barely nicked the outer edge of the solar disk. Fortunately, high, wispy cirrus clouds that had lingered overnight were largely dissipating. With a cobalt-blue sky overhead, the stage was set for the spectacle of the eclipse.
Andrew, Jack and Tess and I decided to watch the eclipse from the town of Rio Rancho, about 30 minutes northwest of the balloon park. None had ever seen an eclipse before, but I knew how visceral of an experience it would be; I wanted them to take in the sights, sounds and environmental oddities that accompany the sun’s occultation.
We hoped to escape the congestion of the city and find a wide open space. My GPS had us reaching the outskirts of the Albuquerque at 9:57 a.m., some 36 minutes before annularity would begin. About eight minutes out, though, I spontaneously turned onto an unpaved sandy road, accelerated and mischievously barked “hang on” to my intrepid passengers.
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We tumbled along for roughly a minute, virtually every piece of camera equipment and luggage in the cabin rattling as the vehicle protested in a series of dull thuds and groans. We skidded over a hill, at which point I abruptly chirped “here.” My friends were suspicious, but trustingly followed me as I lugged my camera gear up a sand dune.
“Wow!” I exclaimed upon reaching the crest, able to see for miles in all directions. Aside from distant city dwellings, the only thing on the horizon was the Sandia mountain range, which forms a spine through Bernalillo and Sandoval counties in New Mexico.
Around 10:20 a.m., things began getting weird. The shadows sharpened; sickle-shaped patches appeared on the ground where slits of sunlight shone between leaves in the shrubbery and scrub brush. The light breeze felt cooler. And, like with previous eclipses I’d witnessed, the landscape transformed.
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This is the fourth time I’ve tried to explain in writing how, and yet I still can’t suitably describe it — it’s like the world is on a dimmer and is being viewed trough the sepia filter on an iPhone. An angst hangs in the air, like an ancient presence lurks nearby.
In the past, I’d only seen total eclipses. At totality, night-like darkness would fall, and the sun’s corona — the outermost part of its atmosphere — would poke out from behind the moon. But that didn’t happen this time. We kept our glasses on during annularity, in awe of the razor-thin ring of gold that appeared in our jet-black lenses. The sun, moon and Earth were all lined up together — albeit only for a few fleeting minutes.
Of the multiple total eclipses I have experienced, none have ever delivered more than 2 ½ minutes of totality — allowing little time to take pictures. It feels like an instant. But with annularity persisting nearly twice as long in this eclipse, I was able to snap some dream photographs — and then sink into the sand and gawk upward.
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The moment passed as quickly as it came. Andrew, Tess and Jack were impressed, but I knew it was nothing compared to a total solar eclipse. If an annular eclipse is like winning a gift certificate to your favorite restaurant, then a total eclipse is akin to winning the Powerball.
Fortunately, a total solar eclipse is coming next year. In the United States, it will be visible from Texas to northern Maine on April 8, 2024. The moon’s shadow will trace a path covering much of the central and eastern United States. (I’ve already told my family in Massachusetts that they’re required to go, it’s not optional.) The eclipse will also be “deeper” than its predecessor in 2017, meaning the sky will be darker, the path wider and totality longer.
Back atop our random sand dune in New Mexico, however, Tess needed no convincing — she’d had 2024 in her calendar for years.
“I’ll book the tickets tonight,” she joked. Jack and Andrew nodded in agreement.
And later that evening, as the four of us celebrated Tess’s birthday, she did.
Matthew Cappucci, who contributes regularly to The Washington Post, is a meteorologist for MyRadar, which provided the funding for this trip.
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