Our route this morning takes us past an old abandoned homestead. It was once a fine old ranch-house style ranch house. Long, on a single level. Two bedrooms at the west end, a large living room in the middle, with another bedroom and dining room to the east of it. Framed by these three segments was a walled in porch. To the east of the dining room was the kitchen, with wood-burning stove. And sharing its east wall, the large storage/cooler/meat room, with a small cupola.

Probably built in the 1920s-30s. And abandoned well before the 70s.

It's all in great disrepair now, been falling apart longer than I've been in the country.

I walked up to the door into the meat room, ducking below two old huge spider webs in each corner, and the new shiny, perfect web in the middle.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see who was making the shuffling noises.

A great-horned owl, up on the ledge.

They nest and roost here often. I once surprised three owls in this room, each swooping out only inches over my head.

But now I am blocking the only exit. Too late to make a dash out the door, it looks up to eye the small cupola and rejects that option. I'm staring into those bright yellow orbs, with the dark centers.

There is a narrow, loose board hanging from the ceiling between us, and the owl makes some subtle, comical sidesteps to try to hide behind the thin wood. Pretending to be invisible as it shuffled.

But a simple cock of my head puts us eye to eye again.

So it glares back. A little fear, but mostly alarm and caution. None of the aggression you would expect from an adult.

So. I'm tormenting a teenager here.

I back out slowly, leaving it to the dark again. As I enter the kitchen, another owl leaps off the tipped stove and tries squeezing out a narrow crack in the back wall. That failing, it turns and flies out the window beside my door. I feel the breeze of its passing on my face.

The whole east end of the house smells of skunk, so I don't snoop too long.

The door from the dining room to the living room is closed, and lined with bright orange foam. Like something from Poltergeist.

Some nonresident hunters have been using this house for a hunting shack for years, sealing off some rooms with plastic sheeting to keep vermin and the elements out from one fall to the next. Now they have graduated to using the spray-can foam insulation to seal the cracks and doorways.

I check the hunters' habitat, and find it intact. But the mattresses are dusty and the dishes covered with rodent turds.

Perfect environment for hantavirus.

It would have to be terribly miserable outside before I slept in this place. A truck seat would be better.

I return to my rig and the panting heelers, and head out. Past the two old wagon boxes, with metal wagon wheels still attached. Past the skinny current bush, surviving only within its protective wire cage.