As we gain elevation, the fog starts to thin, the redwoods are below us, and the vegetation changes — becomes California oak, madrone, poison oak, and brown, dry grass. The jeep climbs over a ridge, out into brilliant sunshine. Below, the coastline is covered with an endless layer of fog. “Here, take this,” says my friend and hands me a piece of broken glass. He takes out a candle and lights it. “Hold the glass over the flame, like this.” He tilts the candle, causing it to smoke, and the glass darkens with the smudge.
“Now look at the sun.”
The smoked glass becomes an even darker, improvised sunglass.
“There’s a solar eclipse in an hour,” he says, smiling.
On top of the hill, it is utterly quiet. Periodically hawks swoop out from the trees and arc below us, drifting down toward the fog. In an hour, we are all peering through smoked glass, our necks craned, as the moon passes slowly in front of the sun. When the eclipse becomes total, it is suddenly darker and cooler, but then warms again quickly after the moon passes by. California Dreaming. There really is nothing like it.
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