Most eclipse enthusiasts plan far ahead to catch brief moments of totality. I had a week. My wife considered me certifiable for even considering the option.

Jury Duty was to have obligated me to stay in Seattle the week prior to the eclipse. By the grace of a just and compassionate clerk, I received permission to be excused. ( I have been called several times and served once before but circumstances have changed. I did not use the Rapture at the end of the world as a zealous fanatic’s plea.)

Prices were reaching the dangerous blood letting stage. Airlines, rental agencies, hotels and AirB&b’s all wanted a piece of the action, and all were gouging clients into submission. My wife was skeptical that anything could be arranged…but I had the faith in miracles. Or just plain dumb luck.

By covering all the bases from airlines to B&B sites, I managed to plan a route via Albuquerque that had a reasonable cost basis…and most nights were booked along a route to Llano and Fredericksburg, Texas. I know, I know you are asking, “How can a woke liberal from a Northwest socialist redoubt compromise his code of honor to venture into the land of Christian Nationalists?” My answer- “When it comes to extraordinary celestial events on this blue marble, we can all marvel at the wonder without prejudice.” After all, that commie troubadour Woody Guthrie declared, “This land is your land, this land is My land, …this land was made for you and me.”

Well, at least that is my excuse and I am sticking to it!

To be prepared, I sent for eclipse glasses and invested in a new lens with sun filter for THE shot…without any clue on how to shoot the sun. I was hoping someone would help me navigate the cosmos and capture the moment.

I boxed up my Stetson hat (I didn’t want some asshole line jumpers crushing my brim in the overhead bin), pulled on my cowboy boots and told the limo driver to giddy-up.

We eased into the SW experience by acclimatizing to the heat in Albuquerque. Walking in the sun for two hours seeking petroglyphs may not have been the smartest strategy.

As a respite, we retreated to the Botanical garden. Food options were fatty starches topped with green sauce, with fatty starches as a side. Weighed down with the carbo load, we trudged into the garden…and were surprised at the extent of the place – indoor Mediterranean niche, indoor desert niche, Japanese garden with waterfall and large pond. Though the Heritage Farm was closed for a redesign, there was a large outdoor train set for kids. The butterfly garden was not all a flutter (nothing was emerging in this season) and the bug building was closed.

Our second night, Michele refused to give up on a reservation to the Antiquities restaurant. Since no one was answering the phone, she walked into the place and made her case. (Dropping the name of our B&B might have helped since the owners of our B&B were regulars at this establishment.) No enchiladas or nachos at this high end joint. Rare seared tuna landed on my plate.

Heading to Texas, we took a long detour via Amarillo so that we might finally walk in the shadows (unless we arrived at high noon) of Cadillac Ranch. I would not say this “art” piece was high on our bucket list, but since it was sort of on our way…why not park it.

Anyone can be a tagger at Cadillac Ranch. For a few dollars, you can buy spray cans at the trailer near the entrance, and leave your mark for posterity…or until someone else splatters a sign over yours. We avoided tagging and inhaling paint fumes at the windy site. A knock-off road side attraction offered up some small T-shirts for grand nephews and nieces. (We try our darnedest to help the kids develop artistic appreciation…even for Low art.)

Anyone can be a tagger at Cadillac Ranch. For a few dollars, you can buy spray cans at the trailer near the entrance, and leave your mark for posterity…or until someone else splatters a sign over yours. We avoided tagging and inhaling paint fumes at the windy site. A knock-off road side attraction offered up some small T-shirts for grand nephews and nieces. (We try our darnedest to help the kids develop artistic appreciation…even for Low art.)

We had arrived in Guns Are Us territory. Time to zip it, and keep our existential Woke opinions about personal freedoms to ourselves. I had my suitable camouflage spread out on the back seat with my hat and boots ready, just like firemens’ gear, for any emergency flare up of hot rhetoric coming our way. As a first line of defense, I wore my Zuni belt buckle to deter any initial onslaught of sarcastic slings and arrows of outrageous Trumpists.

OMG, the country around Amarillo is FLAT. A relative who lived in Fredericksburg , called it the armpit of Texas. What draws people to this land? Do they just want to be around other desperate folks, sharing their misery and fanning the flames of hatred towards the Others out beyond the horizon?

I pushed the pedal to the metal…literally since I am an “Obey the speed limit” sort of guy but here the limit is 75 with most drivers pushing the cruise control to 80+. And for good reason since the roads are straight to the perspective vanishing point, and who wants to hang around in a wasteland. Obviously some farmers love their acres and when they take a load off, they settle back with their 24/7 Fox News propagandists and survey the world from a Lazy Boy armchair with a jaundiced eye.

Perhaps I am too judgmental. Please forgive me for overgeneralizing. After all these are people of faith, followers of Jesus who preached love and compassion, and turning the other cheek.

Sarcasm hurts.

Arriving in Post later one evening, we found our restored Garza hotel/B&B on the main drag . Owners had worked for over 15 years to restore it. Rooms were decorated from red Bordello style, to cozy Yellowstone vintage furnishings as well as a more modern room with clean lines…that we chose.

We had moved from one vanishing point on the horizon to another down the hall. As for dining spots, choices were limited. George’s was the only place in town so we walked. No one seems to walk in these towns. Truck drivers glance down at you, sizing you up as potential road kill.

George’s was busy. It turns out there was a regional T-ball championship that evening and families and friends were grabbing late meals. The saving grace of my meal was the side dish of yogurt, sliced tomatoes and onions to accompany my Greek gyro meat. On my plate placed next to the dry sliced lamb/beef, was rice, French fries, and pita bread…starch, starch and more starch. Michele swallowed down an unrecognizable chicken fried steak, beaten to a pulp and smothered with a pale, glutenous “gravy”. Now many other items were offered from burgers to enchiladas, so I am sure there were more delicacies to enjoy. I was hoping dessert would save the day but unfortunately the pecan pie could not rise to the occasion. Service was lovely, and before dinner one elder gentleman cleared tables slowly and methodically, giving our table an additional wipe down and leaving us with best wishes.

On the way back to our hotel, to avoid being mistaken for a speed bump by the cattle trucks rolling along route 84, we walked down dark and broad empty back streets.

Breakfast included fresh scramble eggs, fresh biscuits, bacon, fruit juice and yogurt plus dry cereal…but no decaf. And no coffee shop for a bone dry cappuccino. What’s a Seattleite to do? Suffer like the early pioneers.

On the recommendation of our neice’s husband (who along with our niece started a coffee shop and coffee roasting business in Fredericksburg before moving to Orcas Island in the San Juans), we stopped by the Jackson Brothers for beef jerky. From the scent, it seemed like they slaughtered on the premises. With some conditions, as seen below.

The Jackson Bros were not accepting wild game due to a contagious disease. So no venison for the road. We left with a bag of jerky and some frozen sausage. Big spenders.

San Angelo was our next destination, and Michele eventually located a route off the main highway , using two lane ranch roads. Landscapes of wind turbines spread to the horizon, then scrubland with the occasional pumpjack oil pumps lending the wind a pungent fuel depot aroma. Ravens and buzzards circled overhead or clustered around road kills. We veered off Business route 203 to check out Colorado City. Though on first impression the main business area seemed deserted, a coffee shop and small boutique were showing sparks of life along the street. Ah…but yet again No Decaf! I was beginning to feel a bit emasculated. I was not drinking the real stuff so I must be made of lesser stuff. (I am reminded of a trip to Death Valley, when I called from the Furnace Creek Motel to the fancy Furnace Creek Inn up the hill, as to their tea time. The pleasant clerk informed me that I would need to contact the golf course. I did not know whether to suffer the humiliation of having to make the distinction between the delicate perfumed sipping tea served with cookies in an air conditioned lounge or feign interest in the macho hard driving tee on a 110 degree, sun baked fairway .)

Fresh real squeezed lemonade quenched our thirst. We were parched, as they say out on the range.

The Music Garden B&B was nestled between a wide state highway 87 and the Concho River. Interior decoration was cutesy to the point of terrifying. Just as clowns can freak out even the sweetest souls, the kitsch collection was overwhelming, and breathtakingly creepy. Packed into every available space were ceramic figures, tea cups, tea pots, angels, artificial bouquets, pathetic abandoned dolls and so much more…and more. Like some portraits in galleries, many eyes appeared to watch your every move. You had to wonder if , at night, some scurried silently around at night like New York cockroaches, scheming to trip you up on the way to the bathroom and cover you with slimy sentiment.

Melody , the owner and retired music teacher, confessed to never saying no to a bargain kitsch object. Though we never met her, she seemed very nice. And to be fair, not all rooms were overstocked with adorable collectibles.

Michele researched a good place to eat, The Grill. But we had to drive out to the edge of town near a Kohl’s plaza to find the spot. This meant weaving between various models of monster pick-ups on the main avenue. The Baby Back ribs made up for the hazards on the route.

The San Angelo Art Museum with its swooping roof sits above the Concho. An artificial cascading waterway weaves down channels below to the river walk.

We were too late to see the exhibits so we walked for a mile or so along the River walk. Golfers to our right and to our left, across the river, the 1% resided with landscaped gardens leading down to the calm waters.

Apparently there is money in San Angelo. How does one accumulate wealth here? This is where they manufacture wind mills and wind turbines so the answer is blowin’ in the wind.

Back at our kitsch retreat, we walked down a block to the river walk at sunset…and it was moment from Hitchcock’s The Birds movie. Thousands of black birds were coming to roost along the river, calling and swirling and jostling for space. And then the Stillness.

Nothing haunted us during the night, as far as we are aware. Breakfast was delivered to our door in a basket. And what should our eyes behold – a pig in a blanket.

Not entirely nourished we headed southeast to Fredericksburg, past a few more aromatic jackpumps and then into hill country. Scrub transitioned to low trees and rolling hills. Wild flowers carpeted the sides of the highway and beyond where there was undisturbed land.

Our relative in Fredericksburg is a sourdough bread maker in high demand. Folks will wait in line for 30 minutes to buy a loaf. Josh never used to travel much since he was worried about abandoning his starter. Last time we saw him in Washington, he had entrusted his wife with feeding the finicky eating sourdough bacteria. He had come up to learn about those bakers working with local farmers to cultivate rare local wheat varieties. Now for production, he has agreements with local Texas growers. After talking on local history and present water rights issues, we helped carry bags of bread to the Caliche Coffee house started by his brother and his brother’s wife (Michele’s niece) under the name Ranch Road Roasters. Definitely a tourist town, but the numbers were low for the day before a major celestial event. Some media may just have overhyped the eclipse or the weather reports encouraged cancellations.

Given my last minute planning, our next night in Llano was a fine example of Texas hospitality. The Sandstone B&B only had one night available so recommended we contact a local resident about a guest room. Well, Darlene offered, not her guest room, but the whole house. She was gone visiting her daughter and said the door is never locked so walk on in. She left bacon and eggs for us in the refrigerator and homemade cinnamon rolls were beckoning on the kitchen table. Sweet!

The Llano River was just a couple of blocks away and the day of the eclipse we settled in the shade on a sand bar. Clouds threatened to ruin our view…but just twenty minutes before the event, the sky cleared. It was a Miracle, though no Rapture followed when the moon closed in on the sun.

Since I failed miserably capturing the eclipse with my camera, the neurosurgeon nearby provided this shot. The four minutes plus of totality were worth the trek. The shift in light, temperature and sounds on the Llano River sand bar were phenomenal. Even a sliver of sunlight before totality provided a fare amount of light. Only the full eclipse, with glasses and filters off, changed the world around you. Though the event did not bring us to tears like some NPR reporters, Michele and I did hug and hold hands watching in awe. The crepuscular light tinged all the clouds around the horizon…and then it was done.

We celebrated by going to Coopers BBQ, standing in line with a crowd of voracious carnivores, selecting our cuts viewed through a cloud of savory smoke. Having avoided the End of the WOrld as we know it, everyone wanted to get back to their Neanderthal roots and have a feast. Since no cave was available, we headed back to the sand bar. We had the Llano River setting to ourselves now (though only about 15 people were up and down the sand bar during the eclipse) and devoured the meat with gusto.

We rested that night at the Sandstone B&B, with smirks on our faces for managing to chase an eclipse and rope it in. Morning breakfast was waffles with fruit and whipped crème something plus bacon…and DeCAf! Yahoo! The wide porch with white rocking chairs provided a quiet retreat as thunderheads were gilded by the morning sunlight. Doves cooed in a chorus around the property.

On our way west, Colorado City lured us back to the Cactus Coffee shop. Teriyaki Chicken and loose leaf English Breakfast made the day. And then in walked a Real Cowboy…with spurs on. His jacket showcasing a championship rodeo ride on his back. The restaurant owner had been serving him coffee for years..and he always wore his spurs. I just couldn’t figure out how you drive a truck with spurs on. The floorboards must have holes from driving all that horsepower.

And then back to Post to a full Garza hotel of returning eclipse chasers. At breakfast, a couple chatted us up and asked where we had viewed the eclipse. Michele said Llano…”Oh, you mean Yano. In Spanish you don’t pronounce the L in a double l word.” Michele responded that in Llano it is pronounce Llano with an L sound, so who were we to quibble. Especially since Texas whites took over Llano after the Comanches left, killing a few German Fredericksburg residents on the way .[ The Germans did not believe in slavery so had a few issues with the auslanders (foreigner types.]. According to our relatives, some German descendants are still a little sensitive about the issue, so when meeting strangers, they ask for the stranger’s last name to verify their heritage.

After a few hours on the road, driving 75+ all the way, we took a break in Fort Sumner to visit the Billy The Kid museum. This warren of rooms was crammed with memorabilia and some odd miscellaneous collectibles…like Barbie Dolls. But they offered fake arrowheads for the grand nephews. We passed on the ceramic crosses.

That’s Billy playing croquet…sometime before he was shot down and buried nearby.

With some extra time on arrival in Albuquerque, we visited the Albuquerque Art museum.

And they had a special exhibit on the development of the atomic bomb. Never realized that uranium is found throughout the region…and probably a little residual fallout too.

And to cap it off, a tableau of How The West Was Won:

I am so surprised some rabid Christian Nationalist Texan has not splashed this oh so Woke image by now. More power to New Mexico for exhibiting all views of the Wild West.

Well that about wraps it up. Happy Trails, until we meet again.