My blog is usually about the practical implications of research on leadership, management, and the workplace. In my last blog I described my 1991 solar eclipse adventure. In this one I share my August 2017 total solar eclipse experience. 

We followed the North Platte River westward across the Great Plains of western Nebraska. Buttes of sand and clay stood like sentinels guarding passage west. Courthouse and Jail Rocks, Chimney Rock, Scotts Bluff. Home to the Arapaho for centuries. Transient passage for Easterners heading west in the mid-1800s: the Oregon Trail, the Mormon Trail. Riders of the Pony Express knew this land.
 
We came to experience a total eclipse of the sun. For over 25 years I had anticipated this day, August 21, 2017. Coast-to-coast the shadow of the moon would travel the United States. I studied charts, examined the probabilities for clear skies, and chose western Nebraska. With a detailed atlas of Nebraska, I plotted the eclipse centerline and its borders. I knew where the sun would disappear. Should clouds come, I knew my alternatives.
 
From the atlas I chose a location on the centerline north of Scottsbluff. I did not want to trespass on anyone’s property. The atlas identified several ranches scattered across that land. To learn who owned the land where I wanted to be, I called the nearest ranch. This was to be my introduction to “Nebraska nice,” something that I would experience repeatedly during our visit. The rancher graciously and warmly invited my wife and me to join her family and friends at their ranch for the eclipse.
 
In the days leading up to the eclipse, the weather forecast for Scottsbluff for that Monday changed daily: partly cloudy, clear, cloudy, rain. I awoke Monday morning and looked out the window of our hotel. We were encased in fog, dense fog. My mind went back to 1991 and the fog that enveloped Mauna Loa on the morning of that solar eclipse. It was threatening yet comforting. I knew it would probably burn off as the uncovered sun rose higher in the east. And it did.
 
My wife and I traveled north on Nebraska State Route 71. For 30 miles cars, trucks, vans, and RVs lined the highway, positioned at every conceivable space. We crossed the sandhills, left the highway, and found the ranch. Groves of trees framed the house and buildings. On the acre or so of short grass and fenced from the surrounding landscape, several families and friends were settling in for the day’s event.
 
The husband and wife who owned the ranch greeted us as if we were old friends. We felt welcome and at home. We chose a spot. I set up my solar telescope and within minutes shouted repeatedly, “First contact! First contact!”
 
As the eclipse progressed, I shared telescopic views with our new friends and others who joined us. I enjoyed sharing. The image of the sun was red in the Corona telescope. We watched as the moon eclipsed sunspots. Several people took photos through the telescope. With the eclipse to be high overhead, I spread a quilt and placed pillows so my wife and I could lie down and observe totality in comfort.
 
About 15 minutes before totality, we noticed the diminishing sunlight. My anticipation grew as we looked westward over the trees for the approaching umbra. About five minutes before totality, an area in the west seemed a darker blue, then it darkened, and grew wider. As the shadow approached, it appeared as the black wall of a massive thunderstorm raging across the plains. Quickly it grew higher in the sky. Venus appeared brightly in the shadow while the sun’s final crescent was still shining. Then sunlight was gone from the land and a beautiful diamond ring hung in the sky for an instant.
 
And there it was. The eclipsed sun. The corona. Venus, Mars. A hint of red from a small prominence. The landscape was silent. Words fail me. Nothing prepares you for the majesty of a total solar eclipse. Two and half minutes pass swiftly. I lay down beside my wife, held her hand, and gave myself to this moment.
 
All too quickly another diamond ring and sunlight returned to the land. I offered a short prayer of thanks to the Universe for that is what I felt in my heart. A precious gift. A most special gift. This was my birthday eclipse.

Image, "Total Solar Eclipse, August 21, 2017" by Shahrin Ahmad. Obtained from https://www.flickr.com/photos/shahgazer/35988271284/in/pool-nasa-eclipse2017/
Used with permission. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/
Image cropped for use on this page. 

© John Ballard, PhD, 2017. All rights reserved.
 
Co-Author, Miracle at Red Hill: A Total Solar Eclipse Adventure.
 
Author, Decoding the Workplace, BEST CAREER BOOK Next Generation Indie Book Awards 2016.
Please visit www.decodingtheworkplace.com.

On Monday August 21 workers across the United States will take vacation days, mental health days, “sick” days, or long lunches to witness one of the greatest spectacles to be seen from Earth, a total eclipse of the sun. Many will be disappointed as clouds obscure the event, but those unobscured by clouds in the 60-mile wide path of the moon's shadow will experience an event unlike any other.

In my blogs I share practical implications of academic research on leadership, management, and the workplace and add a few take-aways of my own. This blog is different. 
 
In 1991 my friend Richard Bilodeau and I backpacked up Mauna Loa on the Big Island of Hawaii to see a total eclipse of the sun. The beginning of our adventure is told here at this website. Our adventure continues in our Kindle e-story, Miracle at Red Hill: A Solar Eclipse Adventure. It is the story of our climb up the volcano and Richard's experience of the eclipse. It is Richard’s story. He was at Red Hill; I was farther up the trail at Fire Hill. 
 
On the morning of the 1991 eclipse I sat on the ledge of a 1984 lava flow just off the Mauna Loa trail. The sky at 12,000 feet was clear with just a few high cirrus clouds. In the distance far beyond, a layer of clouds was stealing the eclipse from the lower altitudes. It was a little after 6:00 a.m. I fired up my Peak 1 backpacking stove, made a pot of coffee, and settled in. Everything was perfect. I had expected to watch the eclipse in solitude in a volcanic wilderness.
 
Around 6:15 I heard a voice calling “John, John, is that you?”
 
Fifty yards or so in front of me standing in the middle of the lava flow was a park ranger, then another. They figured I’d have a great place from which to view the eclipse and wanted to join me. In the hour leading up to totality, I shared my welder’s glass #14 with the park rangers. We watched as the moon slowly devoured the sun. By 7:15 the mountain air was much cooler; the sky, much darker. Five minutes to totality I began searching the sky earnestly for any sign of the umbra, the moon’s shadow.
 
I was terribly excited, even anxious. I had never seen a total eclipse of the sun. My heart pounded. About a minute before totality I could see a deep blue shadow stretched across the dim sky. The umbra was falling from the sky! As it fell, it got darker and wider and fell faster and faster. I knew what I was seeing and I was still fearful. On the western horizon toward the summit, framed by indigo tinted with a deep green, a wall of darkness, like a massive black curtain, was racing toward us faster than the mind can comprehend. In an instant we were in the shadow. Turning toward the sun, we saw Baily’s Beads, then the Diamond Ring. There was a hole in the sky with a dancing, shimmering corona. The park ranger of Japanese ancestry yelled, "Yattaaaaaa!"  We were full of pure joy.
 
I later explained to my friend Richard, “Strangely I felt a connection to people through the ages who have stood in the shadow of the moon. I don’t know why. It was as if I were participating in a sacred ritual that had been passed down for millennia.”
 
I became totally absorbed by everything I could see, and not see. The universe seemed to flow through me. I was so happy I cried. I had to wipe away tears to see the eclipse. It may have been the longest yet shortest four minutes of my life. The eclipse was majestic, absolutely majestic. I completely forgot I had binoculars, such was the moment.
 
Best wishes for Monday, August 21. When the eclipse is partial, you MUST protect your eyes with solar filters, solar glasses, or welder’s glass. But should you be so fortunate as to stand in the shadow of the moon during totality, bask in the glory above. 
 
Image, “1991 Solar Eclipse,” from my collection of photos.
 
Both image and this blog © John Ballard, PhD, 2017. All rights reserved.
 
Co-Author, Miracle at Red Hill: A Total Solar Eclipse Adventure.
 
Author, Decoding the Workplace, BEST CAREER BOOK Next Generation Indie Book Awards 2016.
Please visit www.decodingtheworkplace.com.