Totally Transfixed: A Rare Eclipse on a Bluebird Day Dazzled Crowds in Northern Vermont 

The total solar eclipse that passed over Vermont on Monday shrouded the upper half of the state in several minutes of otherworldly, midafternoon darkness as thousands of visitors from around the world looked skyward in wonder.

Vermonters had hoped for clear skies but braced for disappointment, given that the so-called "Great American Eclipse" was to take place during the state's notoriously cloudy mud season. In the end, the Green Mountains proved to be one of the best places in the country to watch the moon cross in front of the sun.

Just days earlier, a late-season nor'easter had dumped more than a foot of snow across much of the state. Yet eclipse viewers awoke on Monday morning to blue skies; temperatures would exceed 60 degrees in Burlington. Bands of wispy clouds did creep above Lake Champlain as the day wore on. But for most Vermont viewers, the high, thin cloud cover didn't obscure the sun's unforgettable appearance as a pearly, ethereal corona.

Communities as small as Alburgh and as large as Burlington staged days of celebrations designed to attract residents and tourists. While many viewers sought such communal experiences, others chose quieter settings — open fields, mountaintops and backyards — to witness the three-plus minutes of totality.

Hundreds of private planes descended on airports around the state. Nearly 100 touched down at the Patrick Leahy Burlington International Airport on Monday — the most in a single day in the airport's history. Hot-air balloons hovered in the skies, and four thrill seekers managed to book a precisely timed skydiving trip over Addison.

Vehicles from up and down the Eastern Seaboard clogged interstates and two-lane byways as people chased what's typically a once-in-a-lifetime event. Many came to Vermont just for the day, then endured bumper-to-bumper traffic to head home. Others took a mini-vacation, packing guest homes, hotels, parking lots and eateries over the preceding weekend.

Colleen Hill and her friend Sarah Monroe drove to Burlington from Connecticut on Sunday, paid $40 to park in a downtown lot and slept in the back of Hill's hatchback. At dawn, they carried a comforter, extra socks and a cooler with two Modelo beers over to Waterfront Park, where they claimed one of the eight swinging benches along the lakeshore. They ordered coffee to be delivered by DoorDash to ensure no one could steal their prime viewing spot.

Hill picked Burlington because it was relatively close to her home and she wanted to visit a new state. Her mother, a science teacher, encouraged her.

"She's been the one who is like, 'You gotta go, you gotta go!'" Hill said.

As the day drew near, weather forecasts identified New England as a likely location for unimpeded views. Committed eclipse chasers canceled plans to visit other states along the path of totality and instead scrambled to get to Vermont.

Brian Sniffen of Lexington, Mass., canceled reservations to Dallas that he'd made more than a year ago. Just four days before the eclipse, Sniffen managed to rent a home in Underhill that he planned to share with 14 people, many of whom came prepared with high-end cameras and telescopes. They spent about $7,000 for a three-night stay.

Self-described eclipse chaser Nor Montalbo flew halfway around the world from his home in the Philippines to Houston before deciding Burlington appeared to be the better bet. Montalbo and his wife had tried to see a total eclipse near Jakarta, Indonesia, in 2017, but cloudy skies blocked their view. Hoping to avoid another letdown, the pair booked a last-minute flight to New York City, then rented a car at 4 a.m. on Monday and drove to Burlington. They arrived at Perkins Pier before 3 p.m.

In the minutes leading up to the total eclipse, Montalbo looked skyward and sounded a note of relief. "I think we're lucking out," he said.

Burlington officials planned for the 45,000-person city to more than double in population on eclipse day. They set up viewing parties at many of the city's lakefront public parks, with activities, food trucks, live music and row after row of portable toilets. The preparations cost nearly a quarter-million dollars, but as of Monday afternoon, the city had reportedly sold $70,000 in commemorative Obscura BTV sweatshirts, posters and yo-yos.

Newly elected Mayor Emma Mulvaney-Stanak sported an Obscura BTV T-shirt and black blazer for a morning press briefing on the waterfront.

"I was on MSNBC after Bill Nye [the Science Guy]!" she said with nerdy delight. "I've made it now."

City officials shut down several thoroughfares, including Battery Street, so Green Mountain Transit and charter buses could shuttle visitors to and from downtown. The city converted Route 127, known as the Burlington Beltline, into a miles-long parking lot able to accommodate 1,000 vehicles.

At the airport, nearly 900 people squeezed onto a slice of the tarmac, noshing on tacos and playing cornhole. Tickets were $100 a head, but the million-dollar view went to the passengers on a commercial airliner that landed in the midst of totality.

The day amounted to a citywide festival in Burlington. Crowds wrapped around the sidewalk outside Handy's Lunch on Maple Street. One woman sold eclipse glasses from her bicycle for $3 apiece, while a Pittsford couple hawked them for $10 from a card table. Someone sold hot dogs from a sidewalk grill in the Old North End, and Girl Scouts offered Thin Mints near the bike path. A group of young people belted out the lyrics to Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart" as they walked along a downtown sidewalk.

As totality neared, visitors spilled out of tour buses toting lawn chairs. Families staked out spots with blankets, and sky watchers pointed telescopes to the heavens. Dogs wore eclipse glasses alongside their humans.

The moon overtook the sun until it was just a sliver. Gulls took flight over Lake Champlain, cawing against the backdrop of a surreal sunset. At 3:26 p.m., thousands of people whooped and hollered as a brilliant corona shone overhead.

"Wow, wow, wow," was all one man could manage. Others cried.

The low-income seniors and people with disabilities who live at Decker Towers, the city's tallest building, gathered in a glass-shielded observatory on the 11th floor that boasts one of the best lake views in Burlington.

Residents opened the windows as the city erupted with joy after totality ended. Hearing the crowds below, David Foss thought of the millions of people across the continent who had all shared in the sublime, uplifting experience.

"It felt like some weight was taken off my shoulders," Foss said.

Scores of locals still had jobs to do. For service industry, municipal and emergency workers, the experience was as fleeting as the few minutes of totality.

Out on the beltline, David Faske, a supervisor with Green Mountain Flagging, helped direct the crush of drivers into makeshift parking spaces. "It's just another normal workday for me," he said.

Still, he thought to tuck three pairs of eclipse glasses into the pocket of his fluorescent safety vest. He gave one pair to a bus driver and another to a forgetful tourist who'd arrived an hour before totality. Faske kept the third pair for himself.

The flow of traffic ended about 15 minutes before totality, but the flaggers held their solitary positions in case any more drivers came through.

Faske lit a cigarette and waited near a Porta-Potty. A few crumpled beer cans lay strewn in the shaggy grass. The Winooski River flowed silently behind him and, next to it, an open field was empty but for a few teenagers who practiced handstands. From across the road, over a hill, came the faint music from a New North End house party.

A shuttle bus pulled up, and its driver stepped out: There were no more tourists to chauffeur.

Faske and the driver waited together when, in an instant, day turned into dusk and the sun's warmth gave way to a slight chill.

Faske removed his eclipse glasses and watched as the sun turned from an orange disk to a desaturated ring. Its eerie light seemed to dance around the moon's rim, wild and alive.

"Whoa," Faske said.

He kept his eyes fixed upward, looking away only to snap a picture with his cellphone. He was still looking up when, after the 195th second passed, the period of perfect astronomical alignment ended. Human cheers erupted from the neighborhood beyond the hill. A few fireworks boomed. Birds clamored in their secret tongues.

Five minutes later, the first departing car buzzed by, and Faske went back to his work.

Seven Days reporters headed to mountaintops, a prison and public gatherings to watch the eclipse. Here's what they witnessed.

— Derek Brouwer & Courtney Lamdin

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Quintessentially 'Gorgeous' Setting

Mount Philo State Park, Charlotte

By the time Vermont State Parks regional operations manager Quentin McKinley arrived at 7 a.m., the parking lot at Charlotte's Mount Philo was half full. By 8 a.m., it had reached capacity. That didn't deter scores of hiking boot-clad visitors, eager to watch the eclipse play out over bucolic farm fields, Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks. More than 100 cars flanked the roads outside the park.

Some visitors, including Cat Bryars, opted to set up at the base of the modest mountain. Bryars, her husband, 1-year-old and 4-year-old — the latter wearing a glow-in-the-dark moon shirt — had left their Bennington home at 5 a.m. They'd hiked up and down the mountain before noon, then nabbed a picnic table. It brimmed with provisions and gear: clementines, water bottles, infant formula, binoculars. When you travel with a baby, Bryars said, you come prepared. They planned to hang out all day, cook dinner on a camp stove and head south once the crowds had thinned.

At 12:30 p.m., six teenage boys — members of Boy Scout Troop 252 from Springfield — walked briskly up the paved road, accompanied by several adults. They carried camp chairs and lunches and dinners, anticipating a long drive home. At the summit, they convened an impromptu football game with students from Otter Valley Union High School in Brandon.

Otter Valley science teacher Rachel Valcour said she and several colleagues started discussing an eclipse field trip a year ago; 35 students signed up. Many wore eclipse-themed T-shirts they'd made by laying a plate in the center and spraying bleach around the edges. One student baked sugar cookies shaped like sunglasses and the sun.

Eleventh grader Brendan McLoughlin said he'd missed out on the partial eclipse in 2017. Further, he noted, he only had a half day of school on Monday. "So what else would I do?" he asked.

Alain Baburam, a graphic designer from New Jersey, had a clearer sense of purpose. An avid landscape photographer, Baburam had been planning his eclipse trip for six years. He chose Mount Philo because of the quintessentially "gorgeous" setting.

Baburam arrived in Charlotte at 6:30 a.m. after driving all night from Brooklyn. He'd slept in his car for a few hours, hiked up to scout an ideal spot to set up his Hasselblad camera, then hiked back down, grabbed his equipment and ascended again.

His diligence was rewarded with a striking photograph captured during the three and a half minutes of totality: an inky circle surrounded by a glowing halo. As the crowd dispersed, a small group of admirers clustered around Baburam's camera. They oohed and aahed at the image — a fleeting event rendered permanent.

— Alison Novak

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Cows Chewed, Chickens Foraged

Killeen Crossroads Farm, Shelburne

It was hard to judge who on Shelburne's Killeen Crossroads Farm was less impressed by the eclipse: the 200 chickens, the small herd of beef cows or the 3-year-old human twins, who had to be woken from an afternoon nap to witness the historic event.

The 20-acre vegetable and livestock farm at Dorset Street and Cheesefactory Road belongs to the twins' parents, Breana Lai Killeen and her husband, Kieran. The Killeens also have off-farm jobs as a national food magazine editor and associate dean at the University of Vermont, respectively. They employ a small crew led by farm manager Kara Winslow.

Before the eclipse, the Killeens and Winslow speculated about how the livestock might react to a gradual darkening of the skies and temperature drop in the middle of a sunny spring afternoon. The laying hens normally retreat into their mobile coop or barn around sunset, seeking safety from predators. "The chickens have the most to lose," Kieran said.

The beef cattle were still in a winter paddock near the barn to protect muddy fields. "If the cows were on pasture and it got very dark, they might herd up for protection," Kieran said.

The toddlers' response was more unpredictable — especially their willingness to wear safety glasses. Post-nap grouchiness was a wild card.

As the moon advanced on the sun, the animals did not seem to notice. Cows chewed their cud, and chickens foraged for seeds and insects.

Breana emerged from the farmhouse with the twins. Abram would have none of it, but Maeve gradually warmed to the idea of putting on eclipse glasses with her dad's help.

"Did you see the sun?" Kieran asked her.

"No, I see the moon," she replied.

When a fellow farmer texted Kieran to ask how the animals were doing, he dictated his response: "The cows are totally unimpressed." Many of the chickens did eventually cluster under the mobile coop, appearing confused.

The sky glowed pink and gold to the southeast and north, but both kids, feeling the chill in the air, begged persistently to go back into the house.

"You are eclipse wreckers," their dad joked.

— Melissa Pasanen

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Captive Audience

Northwest State Correctional Facility, St. Albans

"Science is like God's signature," Jimmy said as the last fingernail of the sun slipped away. "Some things are just beyond explanation."

Then an audible gasp bridged disbelief and wonder as the world went dark.

"Fucking epic," someone said.

These men, after all, are usually deprived of lengthy observation of the sun and the moon — much less the two together, stacked like hotcakes. A dozen or so residents of the Northwest State Correctional Facility watched as a burst of light and warmth returned to a small field near Unit J, the education building and the inmates' garden at this minimum-security detention facility, located in a swath of lakeside farmland between St. Albans and Swanton.

Thanks to superintendent Greg Hale and Corrections Commissioner Nick Deml, the inmate population was invited to view the once-in-a-generation event. Seven Days was allowed in as well but had to agree not to fully identify inmates.

"I'm very fortunate to have a chance to see this," said Jamie, 40, from Milton. "Total eclipses are hard to see anyway, much less when you're locked up."

For once, these men, deprived of freedom of movement, had seats on the 50-yard-line of the Solar Super Bowl. The centerline of the path of totality ran right through the prison, resulting in the state's longest blackout period — just over three minutes, 32 seconds.

Hale posted a sign-up sheet for the nearly 200 inmates. Jimmy, 32, of Burlington, had been a starstruck astronomy geek as a child and feared he'd miss out on the eclipse because he's locked up. "I couldn't believe it when I saw the sign-up sheet," he said.

A 36-year veteran of the Department of Corrections, Hale turned the occasion into a kind of party. There were eclipse cookies and other snacks, a relaxed vibe, and a keen focus on a celestial show most detainees said they never imagined witnessing. As the moon took its first bite out of the sun, the awe quotient grew exponentially.

"That is wild."

"So cool."

"Total badass!"

"I read when it gets dark, turtles start mating."

The sudden curtain drop into darkness, accompanied by a sharp plunge in temperature, seemed almost shocking to the men. They were fascinated as well by a flock of birds that swooped frenetically and then treed themselves, calling it a night.

Hale takes pride in the institution he's run for almost 15 years. There's an active education program, and the inmates' garden is large and bountiful. He noted in an interview weeks ago that he was worried about a shortfall of eclipse glasses. "I don't want anyone to go blind," he explained.

Seven Days arranged for the Charlotte and Shelburne libraries to donate 40 pairs to the prison.

As the afternoon wound down and guards escorted inmates back to their units, 29-year-old Forrest from Bellows Falls stopped to chat with this reporter. "It was beautiful," he said, and added, with a shake of his head: "If I wasn't in jail, I wouldn't have seen it."

— Steve Goldstein

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Top of the World

Jay Peak Resort

Ted Ehrlich of Denver had planned to view the eclipse in Houston. But he changed his mind when forecasters predicted that the weather would be clearer over northern Vermont. On Monday, he hiked for an hour and a half to Jay Peak's snowy summit, where he enjoyed a 360-degree view.

About 150 people had trekked to the mountaintop, he said, including a few wearing sneakers. They were talking as darkness gathered and Jupiter appeared in the sky. "Then it kind of got quiet midway as people were just trying to absorb it," Ehrlich said.

"You could see Lake Champlain disappear into the darkness," he recounted. "And then it got dark here, and then you could start seeing sunset colors. And then you could see the Adirondacks getting brighter and brighter and brighter. That's why I hiked to the peak."

Ehrlich was one of dozens of people who camped the night before on the side of the road near the trailhead. Hundreds more converged on Jay Peak Resort's Tram Haus Lodge for a more raucous viewing experience.

Chris Newell, also from Denver, snagged one of the prized deck chairs on the lodge patio. He stayed put for hours, rubbing sunscreen on his bare head as the patio filled up.

Newell, who was staying at a Jay Peak condo, traveled to Wyoming to see a total eclipse in 2017. That viewing, he said, was quiet and low-key. This one, with a cover band blaring Pink Floyd's 1973 album The Dark Side of the Moon, was loud, sociable and good-natured. Strangers made room for more and more people on the patio. Revelers swapped tales of past eclipses and long, early-morning drives to Vermont.

The smell of grilling hamburgers mixed with the aroma of cannabis. Children splashed in puddles at the patio's edge.

"It's different to be in a party atmosphere," said Newell, who owns a bar in Denver. "You definitely feed off the energy of the group of people."

Thanks to two recent snowstorms, Jay was still open for business. The resort halted its ski lifts at lunchtime, and the crowd at the base of the mountain swelled with skiers and snowboarders. A few wispy clouds drifted high above the mountaintops, and a drone buzzed overhead. As the air cooled and the sky darkened, people whistled and cheered. One skier stood on a hill with his arms outstretched, back to the sun.

Benedetto Ferrandi, who had come from Newton, N.H., described the event as "magical."

"It almost seemed like the Earth stopped for a moment," he said.

— Anne Wallace Allen

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The Immolation of Evil

Bread and Puppet Theater, Glover

The stated intention behind Bread and Puppet's eclipse gathering was simple: Banish all evil. The iconic Vermont theater group, known for larger-than-life papier-mâché puppets and conceptual anti-war skits, had barely advertised the ceremony. Yet hundreds of Bread and Puppet devotees sporting flower crowns, metallic overalls and eclipse glasses descended on the troupe's Glover property.

At the center of it all was Peter Schumann, the troupe's iconoclastic founder and director, who is nearing 90.

Atop a snow-capped hill, rehearsal began for hymns to the sun, a series of simple songs to be chanted in a circle before the eclipse. Schumann's daughter, Maria, taught participants a simple Polish hymn, which translated to: "The sun is rising early over the mountain."

Eager ritualgoers joined the circle to sing. Some squinted against the glare of the sun. Children sat on sleds.

Six middle-aged Boston artists talked together, a number of whom had only just met. They agreed to reconnect back in the city.

"We're really clicking," Danielle Hanrahan, a curator at the Harvard Art Museums, said excitedly. "We're all lefties, if you can't tell."

Two volunteers — Vasilios and Emily Gletsos — were dressed as the moon and the sun. Emily wore a cardboard crown, symbolizing the moon, while Vasilios donned a halo of yellow caution tape to become the sun. Both had helped Schumann organize the event.

"We're not sure what Peter is going to do during the ceremony," Vasilios admitted. "We know it's an exorcism, but that's all."

A dozen or so performers wearing white lined up in front of the crowd of roughly 300. Schumann, in a thick German accent, explained what was in store: incantations, magical rites, a purification orchestra, a snowball fight and lastly, the burning of all evil. Phones were not allowed, he explained, and the eclipse should be viewed in total silence. Cheers erupted.

The performers launched into an incantation, which included a chant about evil, punctuated by Schumann blowing a large horn. For magical rites, the crowd screamed "Abracadabra!" in every direction. Participants were instructed to make snowballs and target two large signs that read "freedom" and "democracy," symbolizing the wars fought in their names. Finally, attendees plastered three cardboard effigies of military-like figures with notes describing the evils of the world — then burned the shapes. The 50 or so people who had practiced the hymns chanted in a circle leading up to totality.

Excitement grew as the sky darkened. The crowd fell silent, except for a few who cried out in joy.

As with all Bread and Puppet performances, this one concluded with free rye bread and garlic aioli.

Holding an IPA in one hand and a hand-rolled cigar in the other, Schumann stood near the bread line.

"This is our everyday experience," he said to no one in particular. "The eclipse is our everyday experience, except it is collapsed into a very short period of time today."

— Rachel Hellman

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'We've Got Contact!'

Vermont Astronomical Society, Hinesburg

On a day widely celebrated with bacchanalian-like revelry, the Vermont Astronomical Society's invite-only eclipse party wasn't all business. Someone was grilling Italian sausages on a smoky barbecue, and a few folks enjoyed soft drinks and sandwiches. Mostly, though, the two dozen or so amateur astronomers were doing what they normally do in their spare time — gazing at the sky through impressive optical equipment, albeit at a strange time of day.

Pat Nealy, who has dabbled in stargazing for 20 years, admitted that he was "never much impressed by the sun." He used to think "astronomy happens at night."

But Nealy's outlook changed in August 2017 when he and his wife, Bernadine, experienced a total eclipse in Tennessee. That's what led them to the Vermont Astronomical Society's hilltop observatory in Hinesburg, a quarter-acre, town-owned property adjacent to an industrial solar farm and a capped landfill. There, he joined members of the group who set up telescopes, binoculars, tripods and cameras for enhanced viewing.

This was the first total eclipse for most. Geoff Lay, a 60-year-old retired Brit, was already heading to the U.S. so he could run in next week's Boston Marathon. Someone at the UK's Guildford Astronomical Society put Lay in touch with Paul Walker, the Vermont Astronomical Society's secretary for the past 29 years. Lay scored an invite.

None of the attendees seemed fussy about who looked through, or even fiddled with, their telescopes. Of the 10 aimed skyward, two were Walker's. He also had two tripod-mounted cameras shooting images automatically.

"We've got contact!" Nealy announced at 2:14 p.m., when the moon first began obscuring the sun's face.

"If you look closely, you can see the mountains of the moon," said Russ Jolly, 74, of Jacksonville, Vt. His five-inch refracting telescope provided views of lunar summits and a smattering of sunspots behind them. "That's why we bring out the big toys," he added with a grin.

But it wasn't all high-tech optics and gadgetry. Yvette Feig of Middlebury brought along a decidedly low-tech viewing device: a spaghetti colander. Based on the same principle as a pinhole viewer, the colander's multiple holes cast Pac-Man-like crescents on a sheet spread on the ground.

At precisely 3:26 p.m., Walker announced that totality had begun. Through Nealy's scope, a pinkish bulge was visible. It was a prominence, or solar filament, ordinarily invisible with the naked eye, Walker said.

Later, Nealy explained that this telescope was neither his biggest nor priciest. Back home in Maryland, he has a 20-inch scope that requires a stepladder to look through it. Once, while tracking a nebula, he fell off it. He was unfazed.

"I'm not sure that I want to be involved in a hobby where I don't get so mesmerized that I fall off a ladder," Nealy said.

— Ken Picard

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'Needed to See This'

Sunset Drive-In Theatre, Colchester

Early Monday, the sounds of R.E.M.'s "It's the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine)" echoed off the massive screens at the Sunset Drive-In Theatre.

For five bucks per vehicle, the Colchester establishment — a large, open field with four screens — welcomed carloads of people who parked, set up camp chairs and broke out snacks. Throw in some mini golf, a playground, yard games and a DJ, and the drive-in had strong music-festival energy.

As the parking spots began to fill up hours before the eclipse, the DJ, Rob Jones from Top Hat Entertainment, was clearly enjoying himself. He welcomed people over the PA system to "the 2024 apocalypse," before queueing up "Black Hole Sun" by Soundgarden.

"I had to lighten the playlist up the closer it got to the eclipse," Jones said. "I wasn't sure if this was going to be sort of a big-party kind of a situation or more a kid-friendly kind of thing."

It was the latter, as Jones discovered when a group of children implored him to play Taylor Swift. He obliged with a smile, interrupting his meticulously planned eclipse playlist to bump "Shake It Off."

Cars sported plates from states as distant as Utah.

"We left New Jersey at around 3 a.m.," Millie Miller said. She was eager to see her second eclipse after witnessing one in 2017. "It's impossible to describe it until you really see it," she said. "The way the light comes back ... There's just nothing like it."

Miller, her daughter Dawn Cassimore and great-granddaughter Lily Cassimore wore matching black T-shirts that read "Hello Darkness My Old Friend."

A nearby family snacked on cheese, meticulously placed on plates to represent the phases of the moon.

As the sky began to darken, the music stopped and the field took on an anxious silence, though a few dogs howled and barked. The movie screens lit up with live feeds from NASA of eclipse footage around the world. But nothing could top the sight above.

Once the eclipse was over, Miller and her family members planned to head straight back home.

"It's a bit of a drive, but Lily has to be back in school tomorrow," Miller explained. "It's worth it; she needed to see this."

— Chris Farnsworth

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Cruising Through Totality

Aboard the Spirit of Ethan Allen, Lake Champlain

As throngs of people crowded along Burlington's shoreline, about 300 passengers boarded a ship to watch the eclipse from the middle of Lake Champlain.

It was "the thing to do," said Wendy Pierro, a San Diego resident aboard the Spirit of Ethan Allen with her sister Nancy, who is from Connecticut. "To be on the water, away from all these people."

Priced at $149.99 per person, the four-hour cruise promised unobstructed, panoramic views of the sky and included hors d'oeuvres, soft drinks and eclipse glasses, plus a cash bar. The ship headed out of Burlington Bay toward Grand Isle — the centerline of the eclipse, where totality would last the longest.

Passengers munched on cheese and crackers and danced to Ryan Broshear's "Mama Shoulda Named You Moonshine" and other celestial-adjacent tunes. One group of friends passed the time with a game of cards.

As the sun slowly disappeared, passengers crowded onto the south-facing side of the ship to watch the eclipse. People stood shoulder to shoulder on deck, angling to get a glimpse of the partially covered sun.

Spike McClure, a 64-year-old from Brooklyn, peered through a pair of Minolta binoculars with eclipse glasses that he had taped onto the lenses. "You get a much bigger view of it," he said with pride. "It's gorgeous."

Around 3:20 p.m., the captain announced over the loudspeaker that totality was nigh. The DJ paused the music, and the engines quieted. Passengers grabbed extra layers as the temperature began to drop.

When the moment arrived, people cheered and removed their eclipse glasses, revealing the sun's corona and what looked like a sunset on the horizon. Oohs and aahs filled the crowd as passengers looked around in wide-eyed wonder and couples put their arms around one another. When the sun poked through again, a DJ played the Beatles' "Here Comes the Sun."

Karl Lindström made the trip from Stockholm, Sweden. He said the journey was worth it. "It's just so visceral," Lindström said. "There's no way to capture it in pictures ... You've got to be there."

Marie Roy left Utica, N.Y., at 1:30 a.m. on Monday to avoid traffic and guarantee herself a parking spot. The sleep deprivation was worth it, she said.

"That moment where you really realize how small you are in the universe and yet a part of all the forces around you," she said, "it's not an everyday feeling."

— Hannah Feuer

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'See With Their Ears'

Vermont Statehouse, Montpelier

Thousands of people gathered under the golden dome of the Vermont Statehouse in Montpelier to witness Monday's historic eclipse. Food trucks lined State Street, a block of which was closed to traffic.

Behind the DJ on the building's marble steps was a device designed by a team at Harvard University that translates a visual event into a soundscape.

As the sunlight faded, the piercing notes of a piccolo emanating from a small pink box and speaker were replaced by the softer tones of something like a clarinet. With the darkness of totality came the deep, almost guttural sound of a bassoon.

"Wow. It's actually getting kind of creepy, like 'The Twilight Zone,'" said Sam Gougher, a development assistant with the Vermont Association for the Blind and Visually Impaired. Her organization, which serves hundreds of state residents, deployed the LightSound devices at four Vermont locations on Monday as a public service and to raise awareness of those with different abilities.

"We're making space for people to enjoy things that sighted people can," Gougher said as Bonnie Tyler's hit "Total Eclipse of the Heart" blared.

"That's pretty cool," said Montpelier resident Cedar Eldridge, 10. He and his brother, Wyatt, 8, can see just fine, but curiosity drew them in. When the moon's shadow fully cloaked Montpelier in darkness, the speaker lit up and issued faint insect sounds.

No visually impaired residents used the device in Montpelier on Monday. But sighted visitors peppered Gougher with questions.

Rodney DuPlessis, an artist from Worcester, Mass., said that just as data can be presented visually, the auditory equivalent, "data sonification," is gaining traction.

"It allows people to see with their ears," DuPlessis explained.

Sen. Dick McCormack (D-Windsor) drove to Montpelier from his home in Bethel to experience the eclipse on the steps of the Statehouse. To witness the sun and the moon, which he called "old friends," come together in such a stunning way was deeply moving, the longtime lawmaker said.

"It was a spiritual moment," McCormack said.

— Kevin McCallum

Cathy Resmer, Colin Flanders and Sasha Goldstein contributed reporting to this package.