The eclipse on April 8 garnered quite a bit of press. My emotional ties to the event were bland this time around. I don’t really know why, but it just didn’t draw my mental faculties into a keen point of focus. Back on Aug. 21, 2017, I was enamored with the total eclipse of the sun that occurred here. My most pressing memory of that event was when the stars began to twinkle over midday downtown Jellico. There was a substantial population of town pigeons at that time. Here they came from parts all over swooping in to roost for the perceived night that had suddenly fallen. I’m sure it was a confusing day for them, because in about an hour, they experienced another “dawn” and flew back off to do whatever pigeons do during daylight.
Contrary to 2017’s perfect viewing conditions, 2024’s partial eclipse was mostly obscured by cloud cover. There were a few breaks overhead that allowed viewers to put those eclipse glasses to use. After 3 p.m, the sky got pretty blue. One could view the last moments of the crescent sun quite readily as the moon passed between us and our golden yellow orb of heat and light. There were scattered small groups of citizens gathered on sidewalks with their necks craned back and chins pointed toward the heavens. Overall though, the hoopla of the 2017 event was not replicated this time around.
I will say, whether influenced by the eclipse or not, I did see a lot going on out in nature. I went fishing in the evening following the moon’s blotting of the sun. The first thing I heard, after I descended a boulder field and reached the riverbed, was a rowdy bunch of crows in a mad frenzy. When I looked up, here came a huge eagle swooping downstream with several onyx black crows making “combat” passes at it. The large raptor seemed unfazed by the onslaught and sailed out of sight. The crows broke off pursuit and made low-level, high-speed passes over my head, signaling an evening’s victory in the bird world.
I fished the deeper pools along a significant stretch of river. Nary a bite did I get. What had the eclipse done to the mood of the finned critters? As a last resort, I ventured up into a section of rapids and made a cast. Shazam! My rod bent and the fight was on, with a smallmouth bass eventually breaking the swirling surface of the water and getting some air. Eclipse induced or not, I caught 6 more smallmouth bass and a larger walleye on the same lure. Then, I hung that luck-laced jewel up in the rocks below the turbulent water’s surface, broke my line, and the frenzy ended as soon as it began. I tried several more lures, had a little more success, but the spell of river magic was over.
Driving home just before dark, deer seemed to be out and about just about everywhere I looked. I pulled over and photographed a half-dozen standing in a vivid green clover field, in front of an old abandoned homestead, sitting on the lip of the river’s bank. They all looked intently at the intruder in his Jeep, ears cupping in my direction to perhaps catch the tune better of the country song playing on my radio. As doe deer do, they started stamping those front hooves at me. I drove off and left them to their evening’s activities before they spooked and ran.
After dark, as it was a pleasant evening, I noted while sitting on the porch the first cheerful yellow blinks of fireflies up in the tree canopy. When one lightning bug zoomed in close to the house, I rushed out and captured it just like I was a kid again. I let the critter crawl over my arm and hand, marveling at the insect that can produce its own light. It finally ascended to the tip of my left index finger, spread its wings, gave a blink in salute to spring, and then it was off to do whatever an early emerging lightning bug does. That is about one full week earlier than I generally see lightning bugs in Highcliff. For me, the early blinking of a lightning bug eclipsed the solar eclipse of 2024. To each their own and their interpretation of light in life.
