The last time a total solar eclipse was visible in America, in 2017, I watched it from atop a small butte on BLM land west of Lander, Wyoming. The scene couldn’t have been more surreal: a handful of friends and strangers and I stood in the axis of the earth’s umbral shadow as the moon crossed the sun’s path, an event that lasted for less than two minutes from my vantage point. I stared at the corona—the wispy outer layer of the sun’s atmosphere, not visible at any other time.

The eclipse was a bewildering experience, because it incorporated elements I’d known my whole life— the sun, the moon, light on a landscape—and yet felt so entirely new that I imagined myself to be on another planet, or perhaps in another dimension.

No photo or video footage can do this phenomenon justice. Telescopic shots of the eclipsed sun look like digital art. Wide-angle images capture only one static moment of a dynamic progression that elicits new astonishment with each change, from the sunset light in every direction to the confusion of insects and wildlife as night descends in the middle of the day, to each singular phase: the , , and totality—that moment when the sun is fully obscured, the corona is visible and you can take in the sun’s prominences, or loops of plasma rising from the sun’s surface.

So find your most difficult-to-impress friend (or maybe ˛â´ÇłÜ’r±đ the skeptic) and place them beneath this show of shows come April 8—and start looking now for prime dark-sky viewing destinations, because, as we’ve seen with this fall’s annular eclipse, the best spots book up fast—and I guarantee they will involuntarily gasp in awe. I was so transfixed that I immediately identified as an eclipsophile, and made plans to watch the next total eclipse, which as fate would have it, fell on my 40th birthday. On July 2, 2019, I watched it from a Buddhist temple in Chile’s Valle de Elqui, and it was no less glorious the second time:

Why Is a Total Solar Eclipse in the U.S. So Special?

When the total solar eclipse crossed America from coast to coast in August 2017, touching 14 states during its 70-mile-long path of totality, it whet the appetite of a nation that hadn’t seen a total eclipse so widely viewed since one crossed the country in 1918. This spring, 32 million people living in the are poised to experience the event, which will be visible in North America beginning in the Mexican state of Sinaloa before continuing its spectacle all the way east to the Canadian province of Newfoundland and Labrador. The next one won’t happen until 2044.

Many who witnessed the phenomenon in 2017—as well as those who missed out—will be making pilgrimages to the path. Adding to the hype is the annular eclipse crossing the Southwest on October 14, the first since 2012. (In an annular eclipse, the moon passes directly between the earth and the sun but doesn’t fully cover the sun, a startling effect coined the “.”)

April’s total eclipse will also last longer—a maximum of 4 minutes 28 seconds—than the one in August 2017— a maximum of 2 minutes 41 seconds. (While a total solar eclipse is visible anywhere within the path of totality, the speed of the moon’s shadow varies depending on location; points along the very center of the path will enjoy the longest viewing times, .) Complicating matters, however, is the fact that weather in April is cloudier and rainier than August, making the selection of an ideal viewing location more challenging. But as it is the last eclipse to touch the lower 48 until 2044, many people, including me, will go to great lengths to make the effort.

Where Are the Best Places to See the Total Solar Eclipse?

indicates that Mexico will offer the clearest skies for the event, with Texas the likely runner-up. Pair historical cloudiness info with and you can stake out a sweet spot for successful viewing within the path of totality at many places along the route of the umbral shadow.

I personally wouldn’t make travel plans anywhere north of Missouri, based on the probability of cloud cover. (According to Weather Spark, for example, .) This means that as much as I would love to see an eclipse on my home turf in the Northeast, I’ll be heading to Mexico or Texas. Live up north and can’t travel far? Take a gamble on lodging reservations and hope for good weather, or day-trip to the path of totality if you live within a reasonable distance.

No matter where you decide to watch from, just know that you likely won’t be able to find affordable last-minute accommodations. In fact, lodging for April 6 through April 9 in most locations along the path of totality is already difficult to come by.

Here are my top seven picks to view the eclipse along its route.

Mazatlán, Mexico
Start Time of the Total Eclipse: 11:07 A.M. PST
Duration: 4 minutes 16 seconds

This Pacific coast resort town is arguably the best place to view the total eclipse of any location along the path of totality, based on median data over the past two decades, indicating only a 25 percent chance of cloudy skies. You can watch the event from the beach or while strolling the łľ˛ą±ôĂ©ł¦´Ç˛Ô, preferably in well-touristed areas like the Golden Zone and historic Old Town. The State Department has a “Do Not Travel” advisory in place for the state of Sinaloa, due to violent crime and threat of kidnapping (check back for updates ); however, it does permit government employees to visit the city as long as they stay in the aforementioned tourist areas. Securing accommodation in those quarters might not be cheap, especially considering that the total eclipse also falls during the height of spring break and this destination remains among Mexico’s most popular. Airbnbs in the greater Mazatlán area are priced around $400 per night from April 6 to 9; in comparison, a room at the Courtyard by Marriott Mazatlán Beach Resort currently runs for $1,800 during those dates.

Durango, Mexico
Start Time: 11:12 A.M. PST
Duration: 3 minutes 47 seconds

The dry air of this Mexican state’s high desert equates to an ideal climate for eclipse viewing—something eclipsophiles are well aware of, as many accommodations in this preserved colonial city are already nearing capacity. This is another destination where you should heed State Department advisories (currently suggesting “Reconsider Travel”). Stroll the Plaza de Armas, across from the iconic Catedral Basilica de Durango, which dates to 1695, enjoy dishes prepared with hyperlocal tornachiles, and seek out lodging in major tourist areas.

Kerrville, Texas
Start Time: 1:32 P.M. CT
Duration: 4 minutes 24 seconds

Hill Country arguably provides the best chance of clear skies in the U.S., and both the annular and solar eclipses will pass through this rolling ranchland. NASA has selected , 65 miles northwest of San Antonio, as one of three locations along the centerline of the eclipse path to set up shop. The free will feature scientist speakers, kids activities, a NASA live stream of the eclipse. Early April is also a great time to get outdoors in Kerrville: temperatures are in the seventies and the bluebonnets are beginning to bloom. Most Airbnbs in this area are currently running for more than $1,000 per night, so why not camp? The local KOA is already fully booked, but as of press time there were still tent and cabin sites available at the San Antonio KOA, starting at $70 and $160 per night, respectively.

Buffalo National River, Arkansas
Start Time: 1:34 P.M. CT
Duration: 4 minutes 2 seconds

The weather prospects in Arkansas are nearly as strong as those in Texas, so I’d make a beeline to Buffalo National River, an International Dark Sky Park in the heart of the Ozarks, to watch the eclipse. Campsites in the park range from $16 to $20 per site per night and reservations for most sites open six months in advance. There are first-come, first-served sites as well. Check out this page, which lists accommodations that still have availability. In the run-up to the event, enjoy top-notch biking trails and hikes to waterfalls, such as And plan to celebrate in the nearby town of Leslie, which is hosting from April 4 to 8 with folk music, food, and a quilt show called “Solar E Clips.”

Sandusky, Ohio
Start Time: 3:12 P.M. ET
Duration: 3 minutes 45 seconds

You might not expect a city on the Great Lakes to be a prime candidate for viewing the total eclipse at this time of year, but forecasters are bullish on Sandusky for the total eclipse, thanks to weather effects over Lakes Erie and Ontario that improve the clear-skies outlook by 15 percent compared to the surrounding area. Sandusky is an ideal , with many communities in the Shores and Islands region gearing up to host pre-eclipse festivities: gather with the masses at the Total Eclipse of Sundusky Festival on Jackson Pier; hop a ferry (unless the lake is frozen) from the village of Marblehead to for a quieter experience, hiking along its sandy beaches or on forested trails before the skies dim; or watch from the shore at Lakeside Chatauqua, a historic recreational community hosting a family-friendly eclipse event. Rooms at the Fountain Inn in Lakeside are booked, but cottages in town are expected to open soon. Camping will be quite chilly in Ohio in April, but the hardy can book cabins and tent sites at starting from $67 per night.

Lake Placid, New York
Start Time: 3:13 P.M. ET
Duration: 3 minutes 20 seconds

The Adirondacks will witness totality for the first time in recorded history, and the festive Olympic mountain town of Lake Placid will be ready with activities and amenities. I recommend watching the spectacle from one of the region’s 46 high peaks. Expect full-on winter conditions at elevation, though, so if this peak experience is on your list, enlist a local guide service like . For more laid-back (but crowded) viewing, gather by the lakefront Mid’s Park. Or venture west 30 miles to Tupper, whose is hosting an ellipse event, including a solar-powered silent disco, naturalist sessions, maple tasting and tours, and a community mural creation. The dog-friendly High Peaks Resort in downtown Lake Placid still has rooms available from $333 per night, or try the more economical for as low as $32 per night.

Rangeley, Maine
Start Time: 3:29 P.M. EST
Duration: 2 minutes 24 seconds

Rangeley is where I’d be if I could guarantee clear skies. Unfortunately, cloudiness here could be as high as 90 percent, but if the sun gods grace this popular skiing destination, even this late in the season you might be able to get some turns in at Sugarloaf or Saddleback Mountains before the sun and moon do their thing.  Or climb to one of the summits of the rugged, beautiful Bigelows–4,145-foot West Peak and 4,088-foot Avery Peak, overlooking Flagstaff Lake, are two of my favorites. The hiking in the Carrabassett Valley is excellent, with nine peaks above 4,000 feet on the Appalachian Trail. If ˛â´ÇłÜ’r±đ not an experienced winter hiker, go with a . Hostel of Maine is popular, with rooms starting at $59 per night.

Tips and Tools That Will Enhance Your Experience

Given the changing spring weather, you may want to have a car and the time to pivot and drive to another nearby location with better weather if need be. Expect unique traffic and congestion even in the most rural of places, and plan to get to your selected viewing site as early as possible.

Book now. Many accommodations in towns within the path of totality are already sold out. If ˛â´ÇłÜ’r±đ up for a few days of camping, check out the website Hipcamp for more options.

An important note on safety: Never stare directly into the sun, ever, including during the partial eclipse which precedes and follows the total eclipse.It’s only safe to look at the sun when it is completely eclipsed. I protect my eyes with which you can purchase .

Finally, if you’d like to take a deep dive, like I do, on this subject, there are several fantastic sites that will take you into the . To better help you plan where skies might be clearest in your area, for each day dating back a few years. NASA also has a trustworthy with fun facts, cool images and video footage, more safety information, and definitions of some of the many terms you’ll hear mentioned as the event draws close. And finally, this is the most functional such map out there; you’ll find yourself referring to it again and again.

Mardi Fuller has fanciful travel dreams for all the upcoming total solar eclipses worldwide, but she’s living one celestial event at a time and has a hotel room booked in Dallas for the April event.

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It’s not exactly right to say my family couldn’t afford to ski, as we were pretty solidly middle class when I was growing up in New York. But participating in the sport is expensive enough that it would’ve had to have been the one thing we did. And my parents couldn’t quite “take me” to the mountains. They were island people, and definitively not skiers. As a child, I went skiing two or three times, with church groups. Though I remember being intimidated by the masked, goggled faces zooming past me at close range, I found it compelling and downright fun.

But my family didn’t have the time or inclination to drive three-plus hours north of Westchester County with any kind of regularity. So, skiing lingered in the back of my mind for more than 30 years until the necessary alignment of time, resources, and support converged and I made the decision to really learn. I’ve always been a person who loves learning new sports. (I bought myself rollerblades with my babysitting money in the early ’90s and taught myself in the driveway.) My similar obsession with skiing came on fast. I immediately dove into touring, which combines everything I like about hiking—the exertion, the satisfaction, and the views—and eliminates what I dislike: hiking downhill. I was immediately drawn to the rhythm of turning, the potential for complete peace while floating down billows of snow. Finally, I was part of it.

Many years earlier, however, sometime in high school, when I was surrounded by skiing families, I encountered ski bum mythology. I remember being struck when considering the ski bum, with how easily wealthy white people could embrace voluntary poverty and its various motifs without facing the ramifications that I might face as a Black woman. The ski bum, the dirtbag, the trustafarian, these were personas to embody that could be easily shed when, and for whatever reason, the individual decided to move on.

Now that I’m personally invested in skiing, I’m of course thinking more about the challenges the industry is facing. I’ve observed that the ski bum lifestyle is becoming less and less viable, due to the diminishing annual snowpack, the lack of affordable housing in our mountain communities while lavish second homes go unused for much of the year, and the generally high cost of living in ski regions. The current generation of ski bums may be the very last.

This imminent shift has been mourned again and again in the ski industry, including in SKI magazine, and most notably, to me, in Paddy O’Connell’s episode of the şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř podcast, “Who Killed the Ski Bum?”

Many skiers have lamented this pending loss not just because of the impact on the actual people, but because of the decimation of a dream. To Hansman, the ski bum represents “the soul of the sport. ł§°­±ő’s Editor-in-Chief, Sierra Shafer, who assigned this article to me, called the ski bum “the North Star of our culture.” In the episode, O’Connell both evokes and employs all of the iconography adjacent to the ski bum in his shtick and jokes, glorifying the archetype over and over with no critical analysis, either of the archetype or of its centrality to the sport. These industry leaders believe they are mourning the loss of the idyllic life that any passionate skier might aspire to.

I, too, grieve for the future of our snowpack, am angered about rising costs of housing, and sympathize with any earnest individual who builds their life around skiing or riding and also contributes to their greater community as a thoughtful citizen. However, I feel little compassion for the plight of the ski bum in its archetypal form. In fact, I’d rather we stop celebrating it all together.

The narrative around the ski bum romanticizes a life characterized by forgoing economic ladder-climbing to achieve the joy of skiing 100-plus days a year. It celebrates opting into basic, substandard, or crowded housing and collaborating with peers to share access and benefits. (She works at the mountain and may sneak you onto a chairlift, you pass her some free food while bartending that night.) To further stick a finger to the man, you poach a hot tub at the resort or flirt with tourists in exchange for free drinks. The ski bum cares only about skiing and they institutionalize a culture of rule-breaking, or at least bending, to do so, all because they can. Therein lies the problem. This garish flaunting of social capital and privilege in the face of the barriers that most people, with comparatively less socioeconomic mobility, face, is offensive. There is only one subset of the population who can safely, comfortably, and consistently pull off this lifestyle: white, cis-gendered skiers, usually middle class or wealthier, usually men.

Based on data from the National Ski Areas Association about who participates in downhill skiing in the U.S., we know that 88 percent of skiers are white, and more than half earn a salary of more than $100,000. Even if the ski bum doesn’t have family cash on hand now, perhaps they have no student loans to repay or they know they’ll someday inherit money from parents or grandparents. But even if the individual doesn’t fall somewhere along this wealth spectrum, their whiteness and their social location at the top of our racialized economic system act as a buffer that allow them to ease in and out of downward mobility as they please.

Ski bum or “dirt bag” life is not feasible or attractive to me as a Black person for several reasons.

Like me, many Black folks don’t want to live in a majority-white town. In those spaces, we receive a barrage of implicit messages that reinforce white supremacy, and we suffer when disconnected from the cultural context that uplifts our identity and intrinsic value. The spatial racial isolation of living in these towns means that we lack access to the affirmation that comes from being around other Black people and BIPOC. And it should go without saying that a Black person might experience all sorts of interpersonal racism and difficulty navigating the entrenched, insider culture of a mountain town. ()

Most nonwhite people need to pursue a well-paying career if they have the opportunity. Even middle-class BIPOC families are unlikely to have generational wealth allowing for career risk-taking, especially if it’s not the kind of risk that might lead to a high-income job, such as entrepreneurship. We may have family members outside our nuclear family to support or we may feel compelled to use whatever socioeconomic power we’ve gained to assist others suffering from the impacts of marginalization. We may simply desire a conventional career for the financial stability that our parents and grandparents did not have due to the obstacles that white systems of power have historically placed in front of them.

And it follows that spending the money that one would have, while living hand-to-mouth as a ski bum, on fancy ski equipment, would feel incongruous at best to many Black folks, who likely are observing loved ones’ financial struggles on a regular basis.

When Breonna Taylor was killed in March 2020, I joined a march instead of going on a ski trip. When an acquaintance was arrested on false charges by police, the $1,000 I’d earmarked for new ski equipment got diverted to a bail fund.

Each time I made a move to purchase this new pair of skis, a family need came up: an incarcerated cousin was reentering; another cousin needed help with first, last, and security for their apartment. When I finally thought I was ready, my mom began collecting major funds from family members with disposable income to build a house for relatives in Jamaica.

Additionally, the celebrated ski bum lifestyle is physically dangerous for Black people. While a white person might get a slap on the wrist if caught sneaking onto a resort or breaking any other rule, a Black person could be arrested or worse. Data on bias shows that the worst is usually assumed of Black people and we only need to point to Ahmaud Arbery, Christian Cooper, as examples of how we might be treated in the presence of White property owners or law enforcement. This reality truly stings when considering that the ski and snowboard bum archetype appropriates and performs selected aspects of hip-hop culture like swagger; Black urban aesthetics; and AAVE-influenced slang, all without facing the actual consequences levied on Black people for any kind of non-conforming behavior.

Then there’s the relative lack of social capital. Here’s one simple data point: White job applicants receive 36 percent more callbacks than Black applicants with identical résumés. To have to explain a years-long ski bumming gap in career-oriented employment adds an additional level of risk. Many White ski bums coming from wealthy or even middle-class backgrounds have professional networks they can activate if they wish to move on from the service industry, gig economy, or cash-for-hire jobs.

The lifestyle is also unattractive—and I do mean literally. Unwashed bodies, unkempt facial hair, and patched-up outerwear on a White skier may demonstrate that they are not capitulating to consumerism, but data shows that Black and Latinx people are perceived to be actual bums if they look disheveled. For this reason, if I choose a shaggy appearance in a ski venue, a purposefully near-homogenous and historically exclusionary white culture which already implicitly tells me I don’t belong, I risk being treated as less than human.

Labels like “bum” or “dirtbag” sting for Black people who have spent over 400 years at the bottom of the social hierarchy. We have spent generations fighting oppressive systems that have blocked our economic advancement at every conceivable turn. There is a reason why we are always referring to ourselves as kings and queens. Queen especially, has become a mainstream term women use to bolster each other, but it stems from Black people reminding ourselves, on the daily, that we are equally human, equally worthy, and that our histories, heritage, and royalty were stolen from us in an attempt at erasure.

To lift up, as iconography, the ski bum, an alienating symbol which holds limited appeal and viability, does nothing to make skiing more equitable. The ski bum, with its fanciful composition, looms over the ski imagination in a way that leaves little room for new archetypes to form.

Let’s expand ski culture to include aspirational figures who embody a diverse range of backgrounds, styles, and talents. This might include professional Black, and Indigenous skiers,y, skiers of varying body types, the leadership of, skiers with disabilities, moms teaching their kids, and skiers showcasing mental health benefits. We can say that skiing is for all, but the words are hollow if we chase a North Star that centers on White men. Instead, let’s embrace and center a more inclusive constellation of stars. 

advocates for racial equity through writing, speaking, and community building.  A lifelong backcountry adventurer, in January 2021 she became the first Black person to hike all 48 of New Hampshire’s high peaks in winter.  She lives in Boston where she works as a nonprofit communications director and volunteers with the local . Fuller is on Instagram as @wherelocsflyfree.

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My palms slice through dark, clear water as I remind myself to swim slowly and evenly. I breathe after every third stroke, and I can feel, like always, that it’s slightly less natural for me to turn my head to the left. Those neck muscles aren’t quite as developed, thanks to years of breathing only to the right, before a coach told me to do both.

I’m at Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts—one of the closest public bodies of fresh water to Boston—for a good, long open-water swim. This is the land of the Massa-adchu-es-et, the Nipmuc, and the Pawtucket, a place known in American history as , though he moved to Walden after a community of free Black people had already been homesteading there for decades.

Jumping into deep water has been my favorite sensation for as long as I can remember. In tension with this, setting off into a lake or the ocean also gives me a feeling of stress, a bit more than the healthy, natural fear I get in other dangerous situations. This is my reality, even though I was on the swim team for most of my childhood, even though I was a lifeguard and a swim instructor for six years, through high school and college.

As I experience the familiar weightlessness and cooling effect, I’m filled with joy and relief. But when I choose a direction and move farther from the safety of the shoreline, most of my senses dull. Sight, smell, sound, taste offer no consistent stream of information or grounding. Touch provides an overwhelming amount of feedback to the body, as my extremities stretch through the water, as the temperature, current, and any life within caresses, pushes, and pulls.

Relaxing into this mystery, this enveloping ambiguity, is always a challenge for me. Though I can’t quite sort it out, I wonder if my low-level anxiety is generational, in my bones, as old as the Middle Passage. It’s as though I’m somehow linked to my ancestors who jumped off slave ships to drown rather than give in to a captive existence. But perhaps my fear is more recent than that. Perhaps it’s related to what happened to my uncle 15 years before I was born.

My mother, Phyllis, the fourth of six children, grew up in Linstead, Jamaica, a landlocked hamlet 12 miles north of , a large “second city” to Kingston. My uncle Easter Oliver Jones was the second oldest. My grandfather was a skilled tailor and for a time ran his own shop in town. At some point, looking for better opportunities, he left to work abroad for lengthy stretches of time, first in England and then in the United States.

Easter became the man of the house as an early teen. He was a great support to his mother; he watched over the family and property. His older sister, who suffered from mental illness, would often wander off and disappear. Easter would always find her and bring her home. He was strong, athletic, smart, ambitious. In Jamaica in the 1950s, only students who showed academic promise had the opportunity to attend high school, which cost families a substantial amount of money. Easter went to the prestigious Saint Jago high school in Spanish Town and was often featured in the local paper for his talent in track and field, especially the high jump. He was the pride of the family, and he appeared to be his mother’s favorite child.

The Jones family emigrated from Jamaica to the Bronx over a period of several years. My grandfather came first, followed by my mother, in 1960, at age 13. My grandmother, two aunts, a younger uncle, and Easter followed in 1962. He was 20. He attended the City College of New York for one semester and then learned that college grants were available to people serving in the armed forces, including immigrants. Just like that, he enlisted in the Air Force and was off to basic training in Waco, Texas. The day he left home, after the goodbyes and the final hugs, he played a record of the classic hymn “God Be with You Till We Meet Again.” And then he was gone. That was the last time my family saw him alive.

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