There is nothing like sitting on the Continental Divide. Whether you hiked up to it or drove there, like I did this morning, the view is almost always special and unique.

That isn't really true. There are parts of the Divide that are unremarkable, and almost boring. Three miles north of where we were this morning the Divide is flat as flat can be. A low sage-covered gentle rise, where the northern water and snow melt is trapped in the Great Divide Basin, and the southern flows head to the Gulf of Mexico. The Department of Transportation refuses to acknowledge this flat as the Divide. They have their signs on a low ridge 1.1 miles to the south, because that looks like a divide. It's not like they don't know. I know the guys who put up and maintain the signs, and have shown them where the real Divide is. But they do not care. The current site looks good, and who would believe a sagebrush flat is the Divide? They would look like idiots.

And so every summer you can see the tourists stop to take their photos by the Continental Divide sign. But nobody notices that both sides of that little ridge drain into the same draw, just 1/4-mile away. Both sides drain to the Gulf. But everyone is happy except me. Apparently appearances are everything.

This morning we took one of my "Sunday" lek routes, checking leks close to town. We get to sleep in, and get home early. This route takes us onto the top of one of the highest points on the Divide, near here anyway, where everybody and their uncle has a radio or microwave repeater. I park the truck on the Divide, literally, and can glass two strutting grounds about two miles to the southwest. With a simple turn of the truck, I can get a third lek four miles to the northwest. The heelers are thrilled, because they get to run and snoop while I glass and count.

As usual, the wind is horrible. A great mass of Pacific air is trying to flow over the Divide into the Platte. The truck is shaking too much to get good counts, but I see grouse strutting on all three leks.

It was a bitter cold morning, with a skiff of fresh snow from last night. I have to use gloves to hold the scope.

When we got to the peak, the sun was shining brightly. You could see mountains 35 miles to the east, 45 miles to the north, and probably as far south. And all the hills in between, glowing pink with sunrise. But nothing to the west. Normally you could see the Wind Rivers, over 100 miles to the northwest, but this morning there was a huge, black cloud bank spanning the northwest sky.

And you could see it moving, fast. A solid black wall, headed towards us.

I had less than 15 minutes of counting time before the cloud bank hit and blanketed the grouse in dark. Data collection is done. I look to the west under the cloud bank and can see bright sunlight shining on Ruby Knolls, 25 miles away. And then another cloud bank beyond that. Waves of storm and sun.

Time to leave. The heeler sisters played their usual game of spinning circles and barking in the road behind the truck, daring me to try to drive away. Every time I let off the brakes or rev the engine, they come tearing up and pass, and then cut across in front of the rig. Occassionally the smaller maskless heeler darts under the truck. Needless to say I am barely crawling, and it takes 10 minutes to cover a tenth-mile. Why can't I have normal truck dogs that trot down the road in front of the truck?

Now the storm front has hit us, and I load the sisters. We pull out of the snow and head for the highway. By the time we reach asphalt, only two miles away, the peak is shrouded in snow flurries and invisible. We race the storm home, and I'm getting ready to crawl in bed with the wife and the Sunday paper by the time the snow hits. Prince Valiant with coffee, a warm bed and snow outside. Nice.

By the time they headed to Mass, the sun was back. And then another wave of cloud and snow, and then more sun. You never know in this country. A few mornings ago I gambled the clouds were local and short-term, and they weren't. Rain everywhere. Today, each cloud bank was a just brief reminder of winter, with spring bursting through. One of the tricks of life: learning to distinguish the brief cloud banks from the major storms. And I still haven't gotten the hang of it.