After each weekend of the sage grouse season, I run the route to collect the wings that hunters have deposited in each of my 17 wing barrels. This takes all day and, if I take the short cuts across the desert, puts about 335 miles on the truck (and us).

Without the short cuts it is close to 400 miles to drive to all 17 barrels. Something I have to do in rainy weather when the roads are wet.

But today they are dry (Close to 90 degrees again. Remember, we had snow on the ground a couple weeks ago.) So the heeler sisters and I take the short cuts. Roughly 110 miles of non-stop dirt road.

Didn't run into any hunters about, which isn't surprising on a Monday.

Did spot a trailer a few hundred meters off the main road, but the large white dogs gathered around it told me it was a sheep herder's camp.

That's a fairly recent thing. Up until just a few years ago, they were all still using the gypsy-style sheep herder wagons. But now they use the less durable but more convenient camper trailers.

The sheep herder was just around the bend and over the rise, walking back towards his sheep with his horse and border collies. Don't know why he was afoot and walking the horse, and didn't ask.

As soon as he sees the truck, he starts waving and dragging the horse towards the road.

I've been through this before. I think I know what is coming next.

I struggle to keep the heelers in the cab and away from his collies as he ties his horse to a tiny sage plant. Once I get out and shut the door, we shake hands.

He's young, but weather worn and deeply tanned. I would guess South American, large amount of Indian heritage.

He asks if I speak Espanole.

Nope, sorry (Yes, I really am sorry. In this country, Spanish would have been a much better choice than the French I did take.)

Using sign language and one word, "postale," I get his message. Just as I thought, he would like me to mail a letter for him. I nod my understanding and agreement, and he hustles to his horse, extracting a thin package from his saddle.

Neatly wrapped in a paper towel is a simple envelope. He points to the stamp, letting me know it has postage on it.

Little does he know I would take it anyway, and make sure it has the postage it needs. Sheepherding is a lonely life, and they are never paid enough.

He watches as I tuck the bundle safely in the pocket in my planner, and then hies back to his horse and his sheep.

As I get back in the truck, I wish I could at least offer him some coffee. But all I have is the cocoa/decaf mix. I've had real sheepherder coffee. This would be an insult. Rooting through the cooler I find a large, unbruised plum.

Senor! I call him back.

We meet in the sage. The face smiles at the sight of fresh fruit. Probably doesn't get a lot of that with his weekly or bi-weekly supplies.

Then we head off for the next barrel, threading our way through his charges.

So if by some miracle you're reading this, Lilder in California, your letter from Aurelio goes out in tomorrow's mail.