For the April 8 total solar eclipse, photographer Levi Mandel traveled to Buffalo, New York, to observe the celestial event—and the many others who journeyed for it. Below, he shares the experience through text and photos.
In August of 2017, I left New York City for Washington state to see my first solar eclipse. Dubbed “The Great American Eclipse” by savvy social media users, this was going to be the first such event since smartphones and Instagram became the staples that they are today. Millions of Americans traveled to witness the event, which had a narrow ‘path of totality’ corridor of 70 miles stretching from Oregon to South Carolina. Being a Pacific Northwest local, and a lover of all things celestial, I made the voyage out west.
I naively underestimated the traffic, so I never made it to Oregon, instead ending up on the south side of Mount Rainier in an area appropriately called Paradise. It wasn’t in the path of totality, but we were still promised partial coverage. Witnessing that eclipse, even without totality, was bewitching.
That evening I wrote in my journal, “Watched our moon slowly cover the sun from 5,400 feet on Rainier this afternoon. I feel electrified like never before. Critical to find a way to experience totality in 2024.” Fortunately for me, the 2024 eclipse was set to cover several areas adjacent to my home, including Buffalo, NY, home to Niagara Falls, which harnesses a natural power of her own. In 2023 I secured the cheapest hotel I could find, committing to a rate three times what it would typically cost; 13 months later the car was packed, my podcasts were downloaded, and I was on the road making the seven-hour drive, trying to beat the traffic (some states had preemptively declared states of emergency).
I arrived on Sunday. Though I’ve been to Niagara Falls several times before, I have never seen it so packed in my life. I paid $25 to park in an unmarked lot, then made my way toward The Falls, past vendors selling eclipse t-shirts with slogans like “I SURVIVED THE 2024 ECLIPSE” and “TOTAL ECLIPSE OF MY HEART, BUFFALO 2024.” The scene felt a lot like a concert tailgate with a camaraderie among the eclectic crowd. Children and adults, hipsters and nature-nerds, all brought together by something bigger than us all.
While on the Maid of the Mist, an electric boat that takes you some 200 feet under the waterfall, I asked a mother and her two children what brought them. They told me they had watched the 2017 eclipse from South Carolina. It was akin to a spiritual experience. They’re already looking into 2027, the next total solar eclipse, and are torn between traveling to Spain or Morocco.
On Monday, the big day, I woke up early for breakfast in the lobby of my hotel. The woman at the front desk, remembering I was the photographer who had been lugging around two oversized cameras, said what everyone had been thinking but didn't want to admit: “Looking like cloud coverage all day, hun.” I hoped she was wrong; all three of my weather apps said she was right.
I had reserved a space at a local drive-in theater which had converted its grounds for an eclipse viewing party. Almost everyone was ecstatic to be there, aside from a local man who told me he was off work and just looking for a new place to day-drink. One woman had traveled across the country in an RV with her Pomeranian to watch the event. She put the sun-safety glasses on the dog’s head as it barked at the sky, causing everyone around to break into laughter. Safety first.
As predicted, the entire day was overcast. It became apparent our dutifully acquired and much coveted glasses would be staying in their boxes. But we were still in the center of the moon’s path, and we were still prepared for mid-day nightfall. With or without a clear view of the sun, people were going to celebrate this event.
A solar eclipse doesn’t happen all at once. In fact, it creeps up on you like a slow-moving predator. You notice your eyes are having trouble adjusting. “Is it getting darker or is it just me?” I asked a group of goth teens sitting in the back of a pickup truck. “It’s definitely getting darker,” they responded. The air turns cold and seemingly out of nowhere, the birds that have been singing all afternoon go silent. Before you know it, the moon is completely in front of the sun. We couldn't see this, thanks to the thick cloud-coverage that had been building all morning. But I'd argue the clouds made the sky feel that much darker.
Soon, the entire area was covered in night, aside from the five screens that were cleverly screening the official NASA feed from a telescope. A woman wearing a ball cap with an illustration of the moon began to cheer, followed by the three people that she was with. Like The Wave at a baseball game, more and more people begin to clap and hoot. The little kids who, just earlier, were participating in a chaotic game of putt-putt golf began to weave in and out of the crowd, necks craned. A woman sitting on a lawn chair in the front row of the theater wiped a tear from her eye. And slowly, delicately, like a room with high-end LED lighting, night faded back to day and the sun was lighting the ground around us once again.
That evening, everyone in town had the same topic of conversation: “The eclipse was amazing, but what a bummer that it was covered by clouds.”
Sure, I kept replying, “but it didn’t really matter, right?” Perhaps it’s the optimist in me, or maybe I’m just protecting myself from feeling let down—but I stood in the middle of a parking lot at 3p.m. in the afternoon, in what felt like the middle of the night, surrounded by hundreds of people who had all come to watch the sky. I can’t think of many other places I’d rather have been.
As I scrolled through my feed that evening, past a post from my wife who ironically saw the partial eclipse from midtown New York City clear as could be, I opened a tab on my browser: “travel for Spain eclipse 2027.”
