My desert blog from yesterday morning...

08:00 - I'm sitting in the bone bed, where we found the fossilized crocodile condyles so many years ago. It feels warmer than it is. The truck thermometer said 36^o when we started this walk, about ten minutes ago. I'm sitting in a low drainage in these red and grey-green badlands, my back to the light but cold wind, my face in the sun. My seat is dry, crumbly clay, surprisingly soft.

We hadn't gone more than 50 meters from the rig before I spotted the first piece of bone.

The heeler sisters are wandering close by, and stop to listen to a raven croaking to the west. I wonder if this will be a rare sound soon. They predict the West Nile virus will reach our state this summer. And warn us to expect up to an 80 percent loss of Corvids, the family of birds that includes crows, jays, and magpies.

And ravens.

I don't necessarily love ravens. They are an efficient predator on grouse nests and chicks. But I admire them. Smart and durable. I think of the few nesting pairs I know of in this desert, and try to imagine four out of five being gone. I would miss them.

The bottom of the little draw I'm in is mud, from last week's snow. There are pronghorn tracks in the dark clay, but the heelers step across without any marks.

Frozen solid.

When the raven quiets, the only sounds are the panting and whining of the bored heelers. They finally break into play, knocking dried mud down on me. My butt and feet are in grey-green soils from a wet period in the Eocene. The dirt they are knocking down upon me is red, from a dry period.

Time to move on.

My plan is to basically reverse the loop we made last year. Head south up the draws, then bear east to the high point. Uncharacteristically, the maskless heeler bounds ahead, enjoying this cactus-free place. She dips from sight, and then reappears on a point, looking to see why we are so far behind. And then repeats the process several times. Her coat nearly blends in with the red soil.

A mule deer has been through this badland, when the clay was wet. Not all of the erosion is on the surface. Much of the runoff goes down into the clay, forming small (and sometimes, large) funnels. I find where the deer slipped a hoof deep into these unseen holes several times. Treacherous travel when wet.

Also find a turtle shell fossil. Dozens of light tan pieces, dime-sized or smaller. And they are frozen in a slow motion dance down one of those sinkholes. Probably a few pieces lost with every rain. (Kim, sometime in the future you might ask Horner how they account for this verticle shift in these clay soils when aging their fossils. I've seen places where a fossil could drop through 2-4 meters of sediment without ever seeing the light of day.)

08:34 - I've stopped again, at the low crest of the badlands. There's vegetation here, scattered shrubs and cushion plants. I sit with my back to a stela of sandstone, my butt in grey-green clay, my boots in red. A rock wren scolds my presence.

I'm looking south now, into the true badlands, terraces of red and grey-green, deeply incised. It's been clear, but a storm cloud has formed to the southwest. Five Buttes are in shadow, but Bastard Butte, just beyond, is in sun.

I hear a sandhill crane croaking to the east. An incongruous sound in these hills, but the lakes are just a few miles away.

The far horizon appears to be a low, smooth wall. Delaney Rim. Fifty miles away and on the other side of the interstate. Far, far to the east I can see a faint blue silhouette, looking more like a mirage than mountains. The Ferrises.

The masked heeler has given up on my sanity, sitting here in the dirt, looking around and scribbling notes. She starts digging a bed besides my stone backrest, throwing dirt several meters.

Upwind.

Time to move on. But do we follow the crest of the hills to the high point, an easy stroll? Or drop into the badlands, following one steep and muddy gully down until we can find another that heads back up? The walls of these arroyos are 15 meters high in some places.

Down it is. We find mule deer tracks walking up the muddy gully bottom, following each and every bend and oxbow. Just like cowboys in the movies. Wherever possible, the heelers and I go over the intervening walls, shortening the hike.

Soon after reaching the bottom, I find a chip of flint. I'm not the first person to be here. The frozen mud is melting in the sun, with the heelers leaving little paw prints besides the deer's tracks. Don't want to be down here too long.

I had mentally charted our course from the ridge above, looking down into the maze to identify our turn uphill. 'Course, things look different from below. Missed our turn and ended up on the open flats, where the draws widen into a clay plain. While backtracking, I spot another turtle shell melting out of a clay bank. This is larger, with pieces several inches across, and a half-inch thick. Would have missed it if I'd followed the plan.

Our draw up is steeper than the one taken down, with half the bottom still frozen, still in shade. The maskless heeler is on my heels now, literally, her nose gently bumping my calf every two steps. I suspect her instincts are telling her this is a great place for an ambush.

But is she staying close for safety? Or just so that any predator might take the slow moving biped, leaving her to scamper off?

A small flat area in the gully bottom supports several greasewood plants. And in a matted space in the middle, the heelers find a leg bone. Still greasy, and pinkish-red. Somebody's lunch spot. The maskless heeler may have been right to be nervous. As we move on, she intentionally trots back to pee beside the bone. Adding insult to the trespass.

As we begin to climb out of our draw, I can look southwest to see Luncheon Point. And then Steamboat Mountain far to the west, thin banks of white snow still on its shoulders. We charge straight up the side, our feet sinking six inches into clay undisturbed for eons, sending grey avalanches down below.

As we charge the crest of the ridge, I spread my wings wide into the wind.

And startle an unseen kestrel roosting peacefully on the south side. As it soars over the badlands, I turn north to look at the white-capped Wind Rivers, their slopes dark with timber. Last week's blizzard certainly thickened their blanket of snow.

09:07 - We're on top of the high point, sitting in the same spot as we were 362 days ago. The masked heeler has bedded down on my right, her sister snooping through the eagle whitewash above us.

There is more coyote scat up here.

I enjoy the quiet for just a few minutes, and then a mountain bluebird goes by below us, circling the eastern face of our clay pyramid, chirping as he passes us with that dipping flight they have. I pocket my notes for the last time.

Time to go.