After a 350-mile day I'm crashing in a motel (not hotel) in Ozona, Texas. The scenery looks a little less like desert. It's not as flat and there are mesquite and juniper trees instead of just rabbit brush and creosote.
I could probably reach the Gulf in another long slog, but my saner, more tired self wants me to do it in two parts. It depends on what stopping places I can find. My brain says to stop writing. It wants to shut down for the night.