I think these small moments live on due to the perception of the entirety of the occurrence. In addition to the physicality of the Teslin Bridge and the gravel, I also recall feeling almost in awe of the surroundings - how remote Teslin felt compared to anywhere else, how far I had come, how far I still had to go.
Closing in on two weeks after experiencing the total solar eclipse of 2017, the entire brief period of totality seems almost a blur. But what I can still clearly see is that first instant after taking off my solar glasses and seeing the blocked out sun, seeing the solar corona. On any normal day, I could use the thumb on my outstretched hand to dim the brightness of the sun or block the view of the moon, but during the eclipse, it seemed impossible to do this. And yet, I was struck by how small the actual eclipse looked in the darkened sky. All the pictures I had seen leading up to the eclipse were close-ups showing the amazement of the corona. My own pictures also show little else. What is missing is how small it looks. I still question how something so small can simultaneously be so grand.
After staring at the eclipse for a few moments, I looked over at my camera which was already pointed at the sun since I was taking pictures through the partial eclipse. I quickly grabbed a few photos and saw nothing in the images. For all my preparations, I had forgotten to remove my solar filter.
Removing the solar filter, I successfully bracketed a few images. I looked back at the eclipse, not wanting to spend too much time looking at it through an LCD camera screen. I looked around at the foreign horizon. Using practiced motion, I grabbed a few more images without looking at the camera - I could do this by touch since I knew exactly where the buttons were by that point.
It seemed irrational at the time, but I remember thinking that it was odd that something so visually divergent could happen without any noise. The sun was so stunningly different, but the abrupt change happened without any noise at all. It might have made more sense if it had come with a roar or a howl.
I glanced around again for a few moments, looking at the odd light and its effect on the objects immediately around me. Turning back to the eclipsed sun, it was over. The brightest, whitest sunlight I have ever seen instantly hurt my eyes. They call it the diamond ring, but it should really be called eclipse pain. In the shortest few minutes of my life, the eclipse was over.
The build-up to the eclipse was a big part of the event for me. When I went to bed the night before, I had come to peace with the fact that cloud conditions would likely prevent any viewing of it. I had rationalized that this was OK. But it wasn't. At least a year of planning had gone into this. I'm sure there would have been group catharsis, but I wanted nothing other than to see the total solar eclipse. I had to stretch out of my comfort zone a bit to make watching the eclipse under a perfectly cloudless sky surrounded by almost nothing a reality. And maybe that helps to create memories that persevere - allowing them to occur outside of the easy.
I desperately want to again ride my motorcycle to Alaska, but part of me is also terrified to do so. I don't want those brief vivid memories to be polluted by new ones that are less. I can recall stopping in Kremling, Colorado for the night on my first time in the Rockies. That also remains a very vivid memory. I went through Kremling a few years later and saw it only as another in a series of picturesque Western towns. I couldn't really see anything special about it on that second time through. I can't begin to describe how depressing that is.
When I ride the Alaska Highway again some day, I'm uncomfortable with the idea of crossing the Teslin Bridge again. The bridge might be the same, but the gravel will not be, and there is unlikely to be a conversation with a man pulling a large trailer. It is exceedingly unlikely that he has any idea of how that conversation played a role in my memory of Teslin and of the Alaska Highway. I sometimes wonder if I've ever been a part of other's snippets of memories. Almost certainly. We continue to pass unseen through small moments in other's lives.
In April of 2024, another total solar eclipse will cross the United states. A lot can happen in seven years, but barring anything catastrophically momentous, I anticipate doing what I can to see it as well. April is a less opportune time for an eclipse; nothing can be done about the weather. I guess I can start to rationalize now that not seeing it won't be the end of the world - and it won't.
I am not likely to become an eclipse chaser, spending considerable time and money to view them whenever and wherever they occur. But I understand now a little more why people pursue total solar eclipses with such vigor.
I'm not sure what will happen to my memories of the recent eclipse over time. The strongest memory I have now, almost immediately after it is how short it seemed. If it weren't for the time stamps on my images, I'm not sure I'd believe how long it actually lasted in the spot that I was standing.
And that first mental image of seeing the brilliant white solar eclipse against the deep, black sky is impossible to forget. At least I hope it is.
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