I almost titled this “Sin papas,” which is Spanish for without potatoes, which is how I ordered my breakfast—in English—and actually what the order-taker told the cook. Delightful veggie scramble bowl, I had. Sin papas.
More mundanity: traffic light being fixed. Under solid overcast.
Sky is clearing as we pass below Buchanan Dam, holding back the Colorado. Which today looks blue not colorado, Spanish for reddish, dark rusty brown, I think.
We needed to stretch our legs and stopped in San Angelo. Immediately when we opened the doors, we heard a band playing across the lake, another dammed up section of the Colorado. We walked toward the band shell and found this lady posed with her own shell.
Band was playing piece after piece of band standards, mostly several together in medleys. Is this what bands typically do? The musicians were separated into two groups, each with its own conductor. The upper conductor was leading the whole thing, I’m pretty sure. There were active duty folk in the audience, several dignitaries on stage (one in uni), and I think the event was to honor a group that works with wounded warriors.
We are standing as requested for the final song, “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
On the road again, and the scrub oaks we had seen most of the morning disappeared and we saw wind plants on the horizon.
Continuing westward, the skies became almost clear and we got into irrigated cotton lands. However, they have had some rain, and we saw puddles here and there, and water in the creeks/dry washes. For a time.
Cotton harvest. Round bales and large rectangular stacks. I think the four-digit numbers may designate which farmer is to be paid for the cotton.
Another gorgeous sunset, this one with a line of peaks in the far distance across a valley. We lost another hour and I’m rather discombobulated. And tired. G’night.