I turned away from the path of the eclipse onto a route that would take me to deeper and darker skies.  There are a number of dark sky areas in Texas, and one of them hosts a famous observatory-  McDonald Observatory, home of the Hobby-Eberly Telescope (10m aperture, tied for 2^nd largest in the world).  The nearest town is Fort Davis (population ~1000), a 45-minute drive away. 

Just outside of Fort Davis is Davis Mountains State Park, where, earlier in the day, before leaving the wifi and phone services of Leakey, I was able to reserve a campsite.  I learned by calling that there was a lodge at the state park, but it was full (and had been and would be for quite a while).  Similarly, I learned that the campground was nearly full—six sites remained!  So I provided my credit credentials and reserved one. 

I am still adjusting to the new way of getting away, through the use of smart phones and websites to make camping arrangements.  I understand this can make the process of accommodating an ever-growing set of camping clients more efficient, but it removes some of the spontaneity of life on the open road– exploring without fixed destinations, and deciding at whim the right place to stop for the night.

On my way to claim my reserved campsite, I was diverted from the highway to a Border Patrol checkpoint.  Two uniformed officers, one with a dog, questioned every vehicle.  I asked what they were looking for.  “Narcotics and human trafficking” was the response.  I replied I had neither, eliciting a harsh look.  After noting my Minnesota license plates, they gave me a pass and I continued on.

This was on US-90, at a location a hundred miles or more from the border.  It seemed odd to me that there would be a large permanent checkpoint here.  But I don’t know the patterns of drug and human smuggling.

The times of traveling all day and then stopping and finding a place to spend the night are becoming rare.  Places fill up, and it is now necessary to make reservations ahead of time, even for campgrounds, maybe especially for campgrounds during the travel season.  On this day however I was lucky.  Of the few hotels in Leakey TX, “The Historic Leakey Inn” still had a room available as I pulled up at around 6:00.

The reception desk was empty when I found it and so I waited, anticipating that someone would eventually notice me.  While I was there, the rustic fireplace lobby was filling with people, locals who greeted each other by name and seemed to be looking forward to some sort of event or activity.  A number of the women were wearing the same style sweatshirt, decorated with a yellow ribbon and declaring “Prayer is the Answer”.

Eventually the manager/owner/wife found me at the check in counter.  Her past training as a flight attendant probably contributed to her natural style, being very friendly and helpful as she located a room for me.  I learned that there was a large patio and dining room that was offering their nightly specials—drinks and a few food items.  This was what had attracted the locals to this time and place.  The host told me that they had hatched this idea a few years ago, but it had now become this popular “monster” that they had to keep up with.  Oh, the burden of a successful business!

After settling into my rustic but clean room with stone walls and too few outlets for my collection of digital gadgets, I went back to the patio lounge and ordered a margarita.  The young bartender had to check my ID.  Not for my birth date, but for membership.  Seeing my confusion, a man next to me explained that the Texas rules for small town liquor licenses required I join a private “club”, before they could serve me.  The man turned out to be the manager/owner/husband, and he went on to explain that this was one of several defects in the state’s liquor laws, which for some reason the governor had not seen fit to correct in a recent update to those laws.  The last thing I wanted to do was discuss politics in Texas, so I said (aware of my Yankee accent) “That’s interesting.” 

I am now a full-fledged member of the “Leakey Inn Club”.

I also ordered one of the food items offered that evening: “Tacos Tapatio” a descriptor I had to look up, which meant “tacos from the city of Guadalajara”.  Maybe the two cooks working furiously in the small kitchen were from there.  The tacos were unique rolled up tortilla tubes of carnitas, deep fried, then covered with lettuce and veggies in a white sauce like coleslaw, with sliced tomatoes on top.  Delicious!

In fact the Mexican food has gotten even better the farther south I go!  The previous night, in Llano, I enjoyed a burrito with beef, jalapenos, and other goodies.  This just kept proving there was more to discover.

The Texans in this rural area are hard to describe—they seem like ranchers, mechanics and laborers, often wearing seed caps, usually with short-cropped hair but many with extensive beards of various forms—full beard, chin beard, mustache, each trying to be distinctive if not distinguished.  They are boisterous, in a way that is both polite and rebellious, which, to my surprise, I found endearing.

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I spent the day driving southwest along the eclipse path visiting candidate viewing sites that I had researched prior to the trip. I found them with the help of Google Maps of course, and with the wonderful customization of it for the eclipse by Xavier Jubier. I also bought the most recent version of the DeLorme road atlas for Texas. I actively looked for the places closest to the center line with the longest totality duration. At the time I thought I was two years ahead of schedule, not two years behind! Here are the notes I made.

There is a direct route from Minneapolis to the eclipse path in Texas—just take I35 to Austin and turn right.  It is not a terribly interesting route, and you’ll be sharing it with the trucking industry, but it is fast—at least where there isn’t construction. 

The cool rainy weather of early May in Minneapolis gradually became warmer as I drove south.  By Iowa, my jacket was no longer needed, and wouldn’t be again.  By the time I got to Texas, the temperature would be 100 degrees, and reached or exceeded that temperature every day I was there.

I was trying to cover the miles quickly, so I did not take on the overhead of overnight camping, instead staying at traveler’s hotels, where I still struggled to get a good sleep—perhaps the combination of too much coffee and caffeinated non-alcoholic drinks.  But I did get “free” breakfast and recharged my cooler with hotel ice and continued on, not quite reaching my destination goal each day.  I stayed at Emporia instead of Wichita, Waco instead of Austin.

As I drove along the interstate, I noticed that the roadside rest areas, which are reliably spaced every 50 miles or so in Minnesota, became infrequent, and then completely absent after Iowa.  Missouri and Kansas had none, and Kansas Interstate 35 was a tollway!  It had “service islands” for gas and snacks, but I didn’t find them very appealing and did not stop at any.  I saw one rest area in Texas, but by the time I saw the sign, it was too late to exit.

Near the Oklahoma border with Texas, I stopped for a ham sandwich at a local stop.  Outside was a sign listing mileage to cities in TX and OK.  No entry was there for Austin.  I asked the two women running the shop “Why no Austin?”  In her distinctive (and pleasant) Oklahoma accent, one replied, “Maybe no one wants to go there.”