Vermont: Once in a Lifetime

A little over a year ago, at the height of my sleep deprivation-induced delirium during parental leave, I went through a little phase (or rather, a little elaboration of myself) where I became quite interested in astronomy and astrophotography as another way of seeing and experiencing the natural world. I bought a pair of astronomy binoculars, downloaded a phone app for identifying features in the night sky, and spent a good part of the wee hours (in between baby’s stirrings, I would stay awake since I struggle to fall asleep at irregular intervals) observing the northwest sky from our second-story windows. Even in the heart of a metropolitan area, a few blocks away from the Longwood Medical Area, it’s quite possible to observe constellations and a number of bright features in the night sky. In the midst of this, we took baby Jordan (then not even two months old, and quite sleepy the entire time) to the hilltop at Larz Anderson Park to view a rare conjunction of planets (Venus and Jupiter appearing together) around dusk on March 1, 2023. While I haven’t done much more with astrophotography, owing to lack of time, living in the city, and unwillingness to invest resources for the right equipment, amateur astronomy has really enhanced my appreciation for the world around me, filling in detail and beauty in a realm where I formerly only saw darkness. Around this time, browsing astronomy forums and reading about celestial events, I learned that April 8, 2024, would be likely the last day in my foreseeable lifetime that a vast swath of North America would have the opportunity to witness a total solar eclipse. Short of globetrotting and hunting for eclipses around the planet, this would be the best and only chance for us to put young Jordan in the car and drive a few hours away from home, into the path of totality. So, almost a year ahead of time, we re-booked the same hilltop cabin in Westmore, overlooking Lake Willoughby, where Jane and I stayed for our fall foliage trip just a few months before Jordan was born. The three of us would make a long weekend pilgrimage for a chance to see what might be a once-in-a-lifetime astronomical event.

On Saturday, we make an easy drive up from Boston back to the Northeast Kingdom - thankfully ahead of any appreciable eclipse-related traffic, and a vast improvement from our Friday-night-before-Indigenous-Peoples-Day-disaster in 2022. It’s baby Jordan’s first time crossing state lines (Hello New Hampshire! Hello Vermont!) and he is an absolute champ during the three-hour ride, by far his longest car trip yet, taking a good two-hour nap and only barfing once at the very end (in the context of Jane simul-gavage-feeding him bananas and kefir and reading a book to him while I drive along Vermont’s winding back roads - poor kid!). After arriving, we leave the car at the top of the long dirt driveway leading to the house (the region got nearly 2 feet (!) of snow in a surprising April nor’easter this week) and get settled into our new home, giving Jordan the downstairs bedroom while Jane and I occupy the loft. While the two of them get settled in, I go out for additional supplies and snacks from the Willoughby Lake Store, where an assortment of eclipse-related souvenirs and stickers are on sale. The next day, we make some brief trips out to take family photos on the driveway, and on the south and north shores of Lake Willoughby. On the north shore, in the process of wildly flinging my arms in the air (to make Jordan laugh and smile) and sprinting from my tripod to join a family photo, I nearly lose my wedding ring when it flies off my hand and lands somewhere in the deep snow. Fortunately, the sun is out, and I am able to spot the ring after a harrowing few minutes of digging around aimlessly in the increasingly packed snow (along with some help from some Good Samaritans and their dog).

On Monday (Eclipse Day), the sky over most of the Northeast Kingdom is a crystal-clear blue (a genuine rarity for April in Vermont, we are told - perhaps as rare as the eclipse itself!). We stay home, resolved to not move the car an inch more than necessary; I watch on Apple Maps as the highways leading up to Vermont from the rest of the Atlantic seaboard become snarled-red with traffic all morning. In the afternoon, while Jordan finishes his second nap, I walk out to the driveway to set up my gear and watch the partial phase of the eclipse.

Truth be told, I debated for awhile whether I should try to photograph the eclipse (with all the attendant performance anxiety related to equipment, technique, and composition), or whether I should just sit back and enjoy the brief few minutes of totality. After much deliberation, I chose to approach this event no differently than I approach the rest of my life. As I have written before in my ramblings on this site throughout the years, I have found that photography - while it can be painstaking and labor-intensive - helps me experience and make meaning of the world around me. Far from being a distraction, photography encourages me to stay present and grounded; there is something about the act of attempting to capture beauty in the world that makes the world seem even more beautiful, not less. In the end, I chose to approach the three-minutes-or-so of totality (an event that I might never see again my lifetime) the same way I would approach a weeklong trip to some farflung corner of the globe (a place that I might never see again in my lifetime). I would photograph the damn thing.

Out on the driveway, on the tripod, I set up my older Sony RX10 II (the camera of the Adirondacks, Moab, and most of the pandemic) with its medium-range lens to capture a timelapse of Lake Willoughby and the westward mountains, with the sun arcing above in the sky. As for my Sony RX10 III (originally purchased in 2022 for the Colorado Plateau, having since recorded my first year of parenthood and now recently my sole companion to Oregon and Arizona), I keep it in hand, practicing lying back on the hood of our car to stabilize the 600mm telephoto lens. I had considered buying or renting a second tripod, so that I could stabilize more effectively in the pitch-black of totality; however, something about that strategy did not sit right with me. I like (and have always liked) to move around with the camera, to read the scene and quickly shoot where there is interesting light, form, or colour. As a result, I have become a slight rebel (or idiot?) as far as landscape photographers are concerned - someone who mostly shoots handheld and risks motion blur for the tradeoff of speed and creative mobility. As far as I care to self-judge, I feel like my work has not suffered as a result. Yet. On Eclipse Day as with all days before, I choose to go with my instincts and keep the big camera in my hand.

Basic setup complete, I chat a bit with Phil, a local New England photographer that has joined me on the driveway with his own tripod and homemade solar filter. We swap back and forth between regular sunglasses and eclipse glasses, watching the eclipse unfold above; the glimmering snow on the hillside below us begins to glimmer less and less intensely. It is an eerie sight; unlike typical dawn or dusk, there is no change in hues in the landscape, no refraction of color throughout the sky. Only a subtle sense that the sun is fading; that someone is cutting power to the big generator in the sky.

With fifteen minutes to go before totality, Jane and Jordan come walking up the driveway from the house. Jordan, wearing his floppy baby hat, looks quite ruddy-cheeked (having just woken up from a warm nap), and he is quite bemused and confused about why we are all standing around staring at the sun. Then, the last crescent sliver of light disappears behind the encroaching moon, and we remove our eclipse glasses. Even though I’ve described a hundred sunrises and sunsets on this blog over the years, it’s hard for me to adequately describe what happens next. From the west, a curtain of dark sweeps over us, moving so quickly that it is upon us just as soon as we perceive it in the distance. Unlike typical nightfall, this darkfall does not move horizontally (from horizon to horizon); it just drops, like a dead weight crushing our local portion of the planet. Visually, the landscape transitions from pure daylight to thirty-minutes-after-sunset, in the span of less than ten seconds. A few wisps of cloud on the far horizon glow crimson and gold (photo above), but the colours do not have the fire and luminosity that one normally associates with golden hour and its low, refracted sunlight; rather there is a certain oppressiveness, a heaviness of darkness and shade. It feels as if the sky has fallen down entirely. In another moment, Venus appears, followed by a few other twinkling stars not normally seen in this hemisphere, in this season, at this time. You’re not supposed to be here, is the thought that hits my brain. Then, before I can say it, I see the sun and the moon. The brilliant corona flaring around a perfect sphere of black. It is a mind-boggling and awe-inspiring sight.

I work as quickly as I can with the long lens, trusting that the timelapse firing on the tripod will turn out (spoiler: it did not; it was way underexposed because I was shooting the damn sun and had no idea how dark it would get). In rapid sequence, I take long shots of the eclipse, grabbing a mix of slower shutter speeds to emphasize the corona and faster shutter speeds to reveal the pink flares (solar prominences) around the rim; some medium shots of the landscape together with the eclipse; and a few quick shots and videos with Jane and Jordan using my phone. Jordan for his part, stares up at the bizarre dark sun in confusion, but otherwise seems to have zero reaction to witnessing one of the most profound celestial sights of his young life. Then, as quickly as it disappeared, the slightest crescent of sunlight appears again, and daylight washes back over the land. Totality is over, having lasted less than three and a half minutes.

We stay in the cabin one more night, finishing the last of our food supplies and packing our bags to depart for home the next morning. It turns out to be a very smooth ride all the way until we reach Boston, where Red Sox opening day has snarled most routes to our home. Our three-and-a-half hours in the car, however, cannot compare with the legendary stories of 12-hour rides from northern Vermont and Canada back down south the preceding night; we are thankful that we had the foresight to stay an extra night, and not subjectJordan to bumper-to-bumper traffic across multiple state lines. So we end yet another long weekend family getaway, and one of the most remarkable natural experiences I could dream of seeing in my lifetime.

Day 1: Arriving at the Lake

To cap off a few adventurous weeks of October, I take a few days away from home to head up to the Lakes Region of New Hampshire. Although I’ve been on a few short trips to or through Franconia Notch and the White Mountains, I have always bypassed the Lakes Region, a vast area of forests, mountain ranges, and crystal-clear waters both large and small. I am especially glad for the chance to disconnect for a few days from the familiar rhythms of daily life, re-connect with my expressive self through exploration and photography, and get back outdoors in a more substantial way (sans baby gear and nap schedule). I invite my old friend Lindsey to join me on a brief foliage and hiking trip, and we agree to meet up midweek after she spends time with family in Massachusetts. Retracing my drive from three autumns ago, I leave Boston on a Tuesday morning, stopping by Indian Lake in Worcester to photograph the colors along the lakeshore before meeting up with Lindsey.

After a pleasant two-hour drive east and then north along 93N, we cross over the New Hampshire state line, pass Manchester and Concord on the highway, and make our way toward the town of Laconia, NH, on the shores of massive Lake Winnipesaukee. Here, we stop for a delicious plant-based lunch at Trillium Farm to Table (soup and grilled cheese, an autumnal quinoa bowl, blueberry soda, and a baklava treat courtesy of Lindsey). Laconia is delightfully empty on this random Tuesday afternoon in the middle of October, its Main Street seemingly abandoned despite a fairly full public parking lot one block over, its old grist mills and lumberyards underscoring the feeling of nostalgia and bygone days. Reminiscing about Bar Harbor (2015), Rehoboth (2016), and Rock Hall (2017-2018), I tell Lindsey how much I enjoy visiting dead, off-season towns because of their ambience, and the ability, in a quiet place, to break away from the sightseeing mindset and feel more connected with one’s surroundings. Lindsey introduces me to Raffi as we discuss Jordan’s musical tastes in the car. Continuing a few minutes north across the channel to Paugus Bay, we arrive at Weirs Beach, where the atmosphere of quiet and lonesomeness is even more accentuated by the lakeside’s completely deserted boardwalk, shuttered arcades, and a pier lined with pizzerias, bars, and stores that are all closed for the season. Lindsey and I stroll on the beach (where a pair of dogs are playing in the sand and in the lake water), and walk back and forth along the boardwalk. The Winnipesaukee Scenic Rail, followed shortly by the M/S Mount Washington cruise ferry, arrive at the dock and disgorge their (elderly-leaning) passengers. As the season’s few remaining cruises are fully booked, we resolve to return and ride the railroad in the distant future - whenever whichever one of us suffers our first hip fracture.

Up a steep hill from the beach, we check into our condo for the next two nights, a perfectly cromulent little place two hundred feet down the road and around the corner from a large chocolate and dessert shop. After throwing down our belongings, we head back out to take two afternoon walks exploring the woods around the southern lake.

To get a feel for the northern deciduous woods, we head first to the Prescott Farm Environmental Education Center - a farm, summer camp, and wildlife center located a few minutes away, in the woodlands at the foot of the Belknap Mountain Range. The farm is inactive for the season, but Lindsey and I pick out a short, one-mile loop through the woods. After poking around the children’s camp in the woods (including one of the more elaborate treehouses I’ve been in), we finally locate the (rather well-hidden behind a dumpster) trailhead and go for a ramble along the Pond Loop Trail. The walk is a casual one, winding along pine-covered dirt paths through upland deciduous stands, which are colorful at this time of year with beautiful yellow birch leaves, rusty oaks, and occasional flashes of iridescent maple. There are a number of stately, old, gnarled trees that I photograph in portraiture; we walk along downhill to Alan’s Overlook (a somewhat underwhelming little view of a boggy pond in the clearing below - thanks, Alan) before circling back uphill past the modern-looking farm building, shedding layers as we go.

Back in the car, we head a few minutes east along Lake Shore Road to reach the trailhead for Lockes Hill, a north-facing prominence on the south shore of Lake Winnipesaukee. Although the skies remain socked in (as they have since our arrival at the lake), conditions are still lovely for a short hillwalk and sunset views, and I am surprised (though not upset) that there are hardly any other cars at the trailhead. Lindsey and I climb through the forest along a well-maintained dirt path (switchbacks - a luxury in the East), arriving at a panoramic overlook that opens from the west to the east across the lake. After continuing to the true summit of the hill (where there is another overlook, albeit a less open and photogenic one), we return to the first overlook to watch sunset colors develop. To the north, a rainstorm envelopes and then dissipates over the mountains across the lake; to the east, the clouds begin to take on mauve and lavender hues as the sun falls lower, imperceptible behind the curtain of high cloud. A family of three comes along and joins us at the overlook before sunset; we trade pictures of each other, and I take a few portraits of Lindsey and telephoto shots of the distant islands in the lake.

As the light fades, we make the quick return downhill, taking a joke-selfie next to a sign that warns hikers to “Wear Blaze Orange for Safety” (Lindsey is wearing all black and I am literally camo green from head to toe) before getting back in the car. After scouting out dinner locations, we drive a few minutes to The Breeze, a restaurant beside the town docks in Glendale. We have a nice dinner (grilled fish, mocktails, some tasty apple pie à la mode) before returning to the condo. We watch a mild amount of TV before I (still on baby schedule) pass out with an early morning ahead of us.

Day 2: Around Winnipesaukee

As part of our deal in undertaking this trip together, Lindsey agreed to accompany me for at least one sunrise in exchange for coffee and brunch afterward. I believe my exact words were, “Nothing too intense.” I lied. What I did not tell my very forgiving and tolerant friend was that I hoped to be on or near the summit of Mt. Major, overlooking the lower reaches and islands of Lake Winnipesaukee during or shortly after the sunrise on Wednesday morning. What’s the saying that comes to mind here — “the devil’s in the details”? Or is it “God is in the details”? “The proof is in the pudding”? “Stupid is as stupid does”? Yes, that last one. That’s the one I’m looking for. Lindsey being an amazing, kind, and caring soul (and also one who humors more than her deserved share of stupidity), she allows me to set a 6 AM alarm time, which she cheerlessly points out is earlier than both of our usual on-service workweek alarm times (“And on vacatiooooon,” she groans. “Thank youuuuuu,” I reply chirpily). She is neither impressed nor reassured (is, in fact, horrified) when I point out that the fall sunrise is fairly late in comparison to my 10 PM sunset / 3 AM sunrise alarm times on the Faroe Islands in 2018.

Stupid being what stupid does, we head out from our Weirs Beach condo around 6:30 AM, arriving at the Mt. Major trailhead as the sky is beginning to lighten. Obviously we are not going to be anywhere near the summit at daybreak (in fact, we are treated to a landscape photography classic - a glorious sunrise spectacle from the parking lot, just as we are about the embark up the mountain), but as additional evidence of my dumbness, 1) the sky remains completely blanketed in high clouds this morning, and the light looks to be as flat as it gets, and 2) we soon discover that the Mt. Major main trail is a real hell of a trail. Nothing like the previous day’s athleisurely jaunt up Lockes Hill, Mt. Major is a true eastern seaboard climb. After a deceptive stretch northbound along pleasant forest paths, the trail curves westward up the north flank of the mountain, proceeding straight up boulderfall and then eventually across granite faces. Despite being well-marked with blazes, there are a good few sections that require handholds, careful step placement, and occasionally scouting for routes around dicey wet ledges. I quickly shed my outer layers and fingerless gloves (stupid), then my sweat-soaked cotton flannel (really stupid), until I am eventually going up the mountain in just my base tights (pinnacle of stupidity). Lindsey can’t help but poke a bit of fun at me for my idea of sunrise, though honestly she is remarkably good-natured about the entire thing (“Thank youuuuuu,” I keep chirping anyways - when I can catch my breath). We snap photos of each other going up the rockfall, though the pictures don’t do the verticality justice. On our way up the granite ledges, we pass by a descending couple who did manage to catch sunrise at the top, though it’s hard to imagine how much sketchier the route must have been in the dark.

After a good hour-plus of non-stop climbing and scrambling (and well after sunrise), we arrive at the summit, where we have marvelous 360-degree panoramic views all to ourselves (again not what I expected during foliage season - though again, it is a Wednesday). I set up the tripod and we shoot a few portraits on the summit with foliage, lakes, and mountain ranges in the distance. After a brief snack and water break, we descend the same way we came up (namely, carefully), stopping for photos in the forest below.

Back at the car, Lindsey cheerfully announces that according to her fitness app, she has exceeded 350% of her daily workout goal before 9 AM. Keeping my end of the bargain, we drive back north to the town of Meredith to make up this entire caloric deficit with a glorious post-hike meal at George’s Diner, an old-fashioned small-town diner serving up breakfast staples and hot coffee. We grapple with different menu options for a few minutes before deciding to just order everything under consideration, including an omelette with “the works” (I am literally too brain-dead to pick specific fillings), a breakfast burrito sans sausage for Lindsey, and a pile of French toast to share, with extra fixings like fresh fruit and real maple syrup (Lindsey insists) instead of the high fructose corn stuff on the countertop. The waitress gives us the slightest smirk as she brings the food out, but this only fills us with greater confidence and determination. We utterly demolish the meal without pausing. A six-egg omelette, massive burrito, and roughly five (by my count) massive pieces of butter- and syrup-drenched toast later, we lumber back to the car and mutually agree to return to the condo to get out of our dirty hiking clothes and take a mid-day break. It may not be our first time traveling together, but Lindsey is doing remarkably well hewing to the photographer’s schedule (i.e. sunrise, food, die).

An hour later in the early afternoon (passed out on the couch in a food coma after showering and getting back into PJs), we step out again to spend the afternoon casually poking around (as Lindsey describes it) the periphery of Lake Winnipesaukee. I had marked out various other spots and walks, but it is clear that neither of us is in the mood for much exertion beyond exploring and seeing pretty places from the roadside. We make quick stops at the waterfront in Meredith and further northeast at the Center Harbor Beach, where I photograph a variety of lakeside trees turning brilliant colors. Our next stop is a totally spontaneous one - a promising spot that I saw and dropped a pin on while browsing the map in our condo. It turns out to be one of our loveliest photographic stops of the trip. We park the car at Long Island Beach (thank goodness for free parking and completely deserted shorelines after Labor Day), on a narrow strip of land connecting Moultonborough Neck and Long Island. From here, a small dirt path runs through the nearby trees and out onto a peninsula. I photograph Lindsey as she walks ahead of me through the golden foliage, and we take a few (spontaneous and gorgeous) portraits of her framed by pines and maples. We also walk back out along the road bridge to see across the water to our east and west; I photograph a bird on the lake which Lindsey tries to gaslight me into believing is not a loon (but does in fact turn out to be a northern loon with juvenile plumage). Back in the car, Lindsey navigates us as we continue poking around to the ends of Long Island and Moultonborough Neck, turning around when we reach signs for private lakefront resorts and yacht clubs. We see a lovely pine plantation (and beautiful water views) on Long Island, and muse about what it would feel like to live in such a peaceful and isolated place during the winter months.

There is a light drizzle falling as we retrace our route and continue north into Moultonborough, but the rain swiftly passes, portending lovely shooting conditions and dramatic skies for the rest of the afternoon. Lindsey continues to point me toward potentially scenic places by the water as we circle the north shore of Winnipesaukee, planning to conclude the driving loop in Alton Bay for sunset. We first visit the town boat launch in Melvin Village, where we take a selfie together and catch a glimpse of clearing storm clouds to the north and the west. We next stop on a whim at 19-Mile Bay near Mirror Lake, after a scene catches my eye from the road: more dramatic clouds and golden afternoon sunbeams, coming down across an inlet between the mainland and Farm Island, an anchored boat in the bay backlit by this beautiful light. After perusing the scene and taking some telephoto shots, I decide to break out the reflector and tripod adapter to set up some (much less spontaneous but still really pretty) portraits of Lindsey, who again is remarkably good-humored and tolerant about the whole situation - namely, I am still not a portrait photographer and still have no idea what I’m doing when my subject isn’t a landform or wildlife (overheard at the scene: “Do something with your hands. Yeah, perfect.” “Just going to take one more. One, and one, and one, and one….” “You can relax, this one’s just a test shot. And this one. And this one...” “It’s not you, it’s definitely me.”). Lindsey returns the favor with a candid shot of me looking like a very happy, very dumb person carrying my reflector kit on the beach.

Further along the road, we take a few more foliage shots at Carry Beach in Wolfeboro before proceeding into town proper and stopping briefly to visit a souvenir shop (trip magnet acquired) and walk down the dock. Finally, several miles to the south, located at the head of a long cove of the lake, we reach Alton Bay close to sunset. Here, I leave Lindsey for a few minutes and jog up the road to a very traditional landscape composition (i.e. one that I spotted while browsing maps weeks before this trip, and knew instantly I would go through hell or high water or any degree of ridiculousness to grab): a row of colorful lakefront houses surrounded by foliage and backlit by the light of dusk. Regrouping with Lindsey back at the car, we head north along the highway to Mt. Major, completing a full loop around Lake Winnipesaukee. We close the day at a roadside overlook, where we are treated not only to colorful clouds, but also to a magnificent double rainbow generated by the setting sun against the clearing rain over Alton Bay. Afterward, we drive back to Laconia for dinner. My first pick is a total bust (a rustic but very outdoors and totally-not-weather-appropriate tapas bar at the edge of a farm field), so we backtrack into town and find a great meal of risotto and grilled pear salad at Laconia Local Eatery. After returning to the condo, we settle in for a movie and an early, restful night of sleep.