The forecast couldn’t have been gloomier.
December 12: rain.
December 13: rain.
The trail to Salto El León, a waterfall outside Pucón, Chile.Cristobal Palma
December 14, the day of thesolar eclipseI’d traveled 5,500 miles to see: more rain.
The idea of perfect conditions or a perfect experience had long since fallen off the menu.
Throughout history, eclipses have been interpreted as cosmic, spiritual resets.
From left: One of 12 guest tents at the VM Elite campsite; Irma Epulef, a member of the Mapuche Indigenous community.Cristobal Palma
Take nothing for granted.
That said, myambitions for the tripwere far from profound.
How bad a hit had my senses taken?
The VM Elite campsite on the banks of the Río Liucura, near Pucón, Chile.Cristobal Palma
Had the experience done away with my capacity for wonder?
We came within sight of Lake Villarrica, a popular tourist destination.
So much for high season.
Hiking in the El Cañi reserve, near Pucón, with the Rucapillán volcano in the distance.Cristobal Palma
Two snow-topped volcanoes, Rucapillan and Lanin, towered in the distance.
When the car finally stopped at our destination, I was taken aback.
Amid my tense travel preparations (face shield or goggles?
The Salto El León waterfall, outside Pucón, is one of the region’s biggest.Cristobal Palma
One mask or two?
), I hadn’t given much thought to the accommodations.
If anything, the wordcampinghad conjured a basic, small-scale setup.
From left: Watching the eclipse through solar observation glasses; December’s total solar eclipse, as seen from the VM Elite site.Cristobal Palma
It consists of a dozen or so large, round tents about 50 yards apart from one another.
From the woods surrounding the encampment, I could hear the distinctive chorus of black-throatedhuet-huetbirds.
The trees were covered with epiphytes, moss, and lichen, some fronds as thick as pasta.
Fragrant smoke from wood fires drifted our way, mixed with the scent of pine and the humid cold.
He’d seemed, understandably, at the end of his rope.
But in person, Buenaventura, a boyish fortysomething in preppy-chic trekking gear, seemed enthusiasticif somewhat sleep-deprived.
“After all the closures this year, I really had no expectations,” he said.
I knew it was going to be difficult."
As we arrived at my tent, I noted only the warmth, and the plush-looking bed.
At that moment, nothing else mattered.
I learned what the eclipse meant for my fellow campers, and what had motivated them to come.
Another man explained that, as the source of all life, the sun is basically God.
Therefore, a total eclipse is the only chance we get to look directly at the face of God.
I had my own idea of what the event might mean.
Sometime around mid-morning, the wind stilled.
The birds fell silent.
Darkness came over us like a steamroller.
Learn to be in the moment, of course.
But also, learn to observe.
Buenaventura had been coming to the Lake District since childhood, on biking, trekking, and whitewater-rafting trips.
He seemed to know every trail and river bend.
“I think she’ll have an interesting perspective on the eclipse,” he said.
We drove half an hour to a hamlet named Curarrehue, some 10 miles from the border with Argentina.
She invited us inside, and we sat down on benches lining the walls.
A smoky woodstove stood in the center of the earthen floor.
Epulef began to speak.
The conflict between light and darkness was thought to be too violent.
We talked about the meaning of the termslightanddarkness.
“Darkness is when we can’t advance in anything,” she said.
“Like this whole last year.”
If 2020 had been an annus horribilis for all of us, it had been especially horrible in Chile.
Epulef picked up a handmade drum marked with quadrants representing earth, wind, fire, and water.
“Humans have pushed the earth too far.
We’ve betrayed the earth.
We’ve betrayed the soil.”
“For us, these natural events are like news announcements.”
“We hope that humanity can learn humility, because we need a change.
Let’s hope this eclipse brings us back in a positive direction.”
I woke up to puddles outside my tent flap.
At the breakfast table, no one had much to say.
We’d felt adventurous, hopeful, brave.
But now, in the cold and wet, we mostly felt foolish.
Everything is verycuadradito," or chopped into little squares.
Heads around the circle seemed to nod.
Some of the speakers made more sense than others.
The wordalignmentcame up a lot, as did the cosmos, and life forces.
I was terrified to offer my opinion, especially in my imperfect Spanish.
Was I still able to observe nature with my full capacities, undistracted by adult responsibilities?
“I think it’s a real test,” I said.
A self-described eclipse hunter named Sebastian Gonzales from Vina del Mar offered to lead a meditation.
Then, suddenly, a ring.
Flickering but whole, the circle held and shone.
The crowd erupted in hesitant whoops.
The meditation ended, and for a beat or two, I felt adrift.
The rain had stopped, but the sky was implacably overcast.
Then, from a nearby meadow, I heard a shout.
(“The ring!
The ring!").
Some guests had set up cameras under umbrellas, on the off chance the eclipse might still become visible.
Yes, no, yes, no; light, dark, and then, suddenly, a ring.
Flickering but whole, the circle held and shone.
The crowd erupted in hesitant whoops.
“Mira mira mira mira!”
(“Look look look look!")
The temperature dropped, and I could feel my senses quicken.
Everyone around me seemed to shudder in unison.
The surrounding slopes were as blanketed by clouds as they’d been one, three, 15 minutes earlier.
The sun above had formed a triumphant, if ethereal, halo.
It felt like the opposite of terror.
Here was wonder and hope.
We had been desperate for a jolt.
If the eclipse meant the end of the world as we knew it, it felt like wonderful news.
When the two minutes and nine seconds of the totality passed, applause broke out.
We’d later learn that virtually no one else in Chile had seen the eclipse.
A group of astronomers had invited us to join them at a mountain pass near the Argentinean border.
They’d seen nothing.
At our final meal that evening, I sat next to a Chilean emigre from Germany.
“I think it was even better than if we’d had good weather,” she said.
“Because we were just expecting nothing.
And then suddenly, it was like, ‘Hellooo!’
And we didn’t even have to wear those silly goggles.”
