Total Eclipse with a Loon
At 2:00 PM on April 8, 2024, I packed my twelve-foot canoe with gear and cameras and paddled out onto Paradox Lake to witness the total eclipse of the sun. I hoped to observe how the wildlife and especially the loons, which had just returned to the iced-out lake, would react to the sudden, premature darkening of the sky. I had a camera with a 400 mm lens equipped with a home-made solar filter to photograph the sun itself, a camera with an 18-55mm lens for scenery, my cell phone camera, and of course, eclipse glasses. I was very excited.
I took a photo of the full sun for practice, and I could see two darker spots, probably sunspots, on the surface of the sun. The high, thin clouds made the image just a little fuzzy at times but were not a major problem. I waited a few minutes and looked through the big lens again and was thrilled to see a tiny flat spot at the lower right edge of the sun. The eclipse was starting!
My neighbors were sitting on their deck overlooking the lake and we waved to each other. People were scattered around the shore at private camps, beaches, and the state campground to enjoy this rare experience. One other kayak was out near the campground, but my canoe was the only other craft on the upper lake. The winds were light, the water fairly calm, and the warm, sunny afternoon was quiet except for the call of a merlin. Now I had to find a loon.
I searched with binoculars and located Scruffy, a new male loon who was trying to establish a territory in the inlet cove. I had watched him interact with the eastern loon pair the previous day when these loons had just arrived from migration. Scruffy earned his name because he had not yet molted into full breeding plumage and had a slightly patchy appearance.
Every few minutes I looked at the sun through the camera lens and photographed. The moon seemed to be moving in front of the sun faster than I expected. I paddled down to the inlet cove to watch Scruffy, who was busy fishing. He was not nervous with my presence, and I watched him catch two small food items and then a fish that may have been a five-inch sunfish. Meanwhile, I photographed the sun and listened for birds and wildlife. It was rather quiet, and soon the moon was about halfway across the sun.
Then leopard frogs started calling from the inlet marsh. Scruffy stopped fishing and began to swim west toward the middle of the lake. I thought I could tell that daylight was diminishing ever so slightly. I followed Scruffy and when he reached the middle, he began to preen his feathers. Now I could tell that the sky was a bit darker, and apparently Scruffy could, too. He tucked his head under the feathers on his back and started to snooze. I drifted close to him, photographing with the regular lens. The south shoreline where my home is located, and the trees on Crawford Island, began to look darker.
Scruffy picked up his head, and slowly swam northwest toward Crawford Island. The sky looked strange, the blue becoming a darker dusky blue everywhere. I followed Scruffy from a distance, not wanting to influence where he went. Fish started rising and jumping. The air chilled, and I put on a hat and jacket. The wind died completely, and the lake went flat calm. The sky began to look blackish, yet there was still light around the horizon.
Scruffy let out a wail. I suddenly felt a wave of uneasiness, feeling small and vulnerable in a little canoe in the middle of a big lake that was maybe 34 degrees and about to be dark as night. I took a photo of the very thin sliver of the sun that was not yet blocked by the moon and started to paddle fast toward Crawford Island for the security of a shoreline. As I neared the northwest shore of Crawford, a chorus of cheers erupted from a group of folks watching the eclipse from Glen Reay’s Beach. I set the paddle down fast, and looked at the sun, now a small white ring of totality in a black night sky.
I tried to photograph the sun with my telephoto lens, but the solar filter blocked out what little light could edge around the moon. I picked up my regular camera and tried to capture the incredible scene: black sky with a white ring for a sun up high, then deep blue shading to medium blue with some thin clouds, with white and gold light near the horizon. It was not quite as dark as full night due to the lighter horizon sky that reflected off the water. The landscape was surreal, unlike any sunset or sunrise I had ever witnessed.
I gawked with my eyes alone and took as many photos of the sun and the landscape with my regular camera as I could. Suddenly a speck of intense light, the “diamond ring” appeared at the edge of the sun. In seconds the speck grew, light shone back down onto the earth like a spotlight, and the sun became too bright to look at without eclipse glasses. Dawn came faster than a peregrine falcon.
The birds responded immediately, just as if the sun had risen at 6:20 AM. Robins sang, and pine siskins, goldfinches, and purple finches started up their chatter. The eastern loon pair swam into view, heading east, patrolling their territory. They hooted, most likely looking for Scruffy to drive him away. Scruffy dove and swam underwater a long way and kept his distance.
I took off my hat and jacket as the air temperature warmed. The wind picked up, and a slight chop developed on the water. Paddling along the island’s shore, I continued to photograph the moon moving upward across the surface of the sun. I noticed the silhouettes of white pine and cedar branches against the orange glow of the sun and photographed them. By now the loon pair had turned back west, and I noticed Scruffy way down in the inlet cove where I had first found him when the eclipse began.
Continuing to photograph every few minutes until the moon was once again just a tiny flat spot at the top of the sun, I paddled toward our shore. What an unforgettable experience! It was surreal, moving, and profound, and I felt connected to the earth, the moon, and the sun as never before. I have always felt bonded to the animals and plants of the earth, but now I feel like a child of the universe.
E. George, ACLC Field Staff & Loon Naturalist