Thanks for all the nice comments on yesterday's hurried entry. Yes, I panicked, but that doesn't change the worst case scenario. The good news is there have been no more hits from that IP address. So presumably whoever it was hasn't blasted out an email to all the other folks on that system about their 'discovery'. So, on with life.

Long day yesterday.

Started early. Early enough to elicit moans of complaint from the wife when the alarm went off (Okay, that doesn't mean anything. She would complain if an alarm went off at noon...), but also looks of disbelief from the heeler sisters. "We're getting up? Now?

Now, I have a well deserved reputation for almost always being late. So I went out of my way to be ready early, and to get to the warden's house by the agreed time of 06:30. At 06:20 I was in the truck, sans heelers, ready to roll.

Truck no go.

Dead battery. Worked just fine yesterday, way too new to be shot already. Cell phone is off, so that wasn't the drain. But quickly hurried to drive the Explorer out into the street, and jump the battery. On the road by 06:30. Arrived ten minutes late.

Exactly on time for me.

We loaded Bill and Buddy into the trailer, and were off. Not really too far from schedule.

Got passed by a black Dodge on the mine road. Corky, who waved as he whizzed by.

Warden promptly red-lighted him.

So Cork pulls over, and we come alongside. Heard he took a tumble at 50 mph on a motorcycle out here yesterday, by his lonesome, and messed his shoulder up. Turns out the story is true. But cows gotta be watered, especially in this drought, so he's back out to check pumps this morning.

With the offending motorcycle in back. The one his bosses purchased from the guy driving the truck I'm in.

He comments on the horse trailer, asking if we're headed out to look for grouse chicks again. And, seeing as how we are still in a Ford, he promises to keep an eye out for us later, to come to the rescue when our rig breaks down.

He also mentions that the creek we had ridden last year, and were considering riding this year, is dry. No water.

No water means no grouse. Time for plan B, even though plan B is another 40 miles out.

Halfway there, the warden goes into a panic. He forgot the canteens. Wanted to be kind and give us fresh water for the day's work, so he took the saddle canteens into his house, emptied and refilled them.

The canteens that are still sitting on his kitchen counter.

So I pick up the liter bottle (from this trip, by the way) that I put on the floor by my pack. And open the pack to reveal two more.

We're okay. And continue on.

Saddling the two horses went a little quicker this time, since I now have a rough idea of what goes where, and when. Remembered to put fresh batteries in my GPS unit this am (which, as expected, erased all 100+ waypoints in memory), and even remembered to bring it along. Although I couldn't find the case. So it rode in a fanny pack, along with sunscreen.

As soon as I got on, Buddy was off on a trot, jarring my butt and groin. He is small (and old) compared to Bill, who is a hand higher or so, and a Tennessee walker. Buddy, on the other hand, is a retired cattle pony, most likely of feral horse stock from the desert. The entire ride was us lagging behind the other horse and rider, then trotting to catch up, then lagging behind, then trotting again.

Pain in butt.

Literally.

Finally figured out to nearly stand in the stirrups when he was trotting, with my butt resting on the edge of the back of the saddle. That was oddly comfortable.

We had barely gotten across the road and down onto the meadow along the creek before the warden turned back.

He had noticed the deer flies swarming in on the only fresh meat they have seen for some time, and headed back for the bug spray.

Killed four flies on Buddy's neck while he sprayed Bill. As I inhaled the fine mist that whafted over the two of us.

"Not supposed to get this stuff on you," he says.

Thanks for the warning. How about internally?

Riding horseback is actually a fairly good way of finding sage grouse. Can spot them a considerable distance ahead, because you are up so high. But most flush before you can get a good look, which means the data aren't really the best. When the chicks get large, I have spent dozens of minutes sitting in a truck, staring at the feathers on the sides of the birds to figure out who is a hen, and who is a chick. Can't do that horseback.

This early in the summer, however, most chicks have noticeably short tails, which you can usually spot as they flush.

Usually.

Riding horseback is also a wonderful way to look at rocks. Specifically the anthropomorphically modified rocks. No arrowheads on this trip, but I spotted six or seven chips in one white, eroding bank. Someone had sat here to make a tool out of some gorgeous moss agate.

Put Buddy into tight spins around little rocks three or four times so I could lean way over and get a better look..

He must have thought I was drunk.

Now, I'va heard you're always supposed to mount a horse from the left side. I was careful to do that. Until, one time when we were walking to give our legs a stretch, and the path we were on suddenly ended in a steep bank. It was either wade into the creek to get on the left side, or... try to back Buddy up from the ground, or... mount from the right side.

So up I went. Easy as pi. He seemed to prefer it as well. So I mounted up from the right side from then on.

Wife later confirmed the "left only" rule. And suggested Buddy may have arthritis on the left shoulder.

Should mention Buddy prefers to walk with his face in Bill's butt. Literally.

Got us some half-hearted kicks several times.

So on one of the walking spells, I found myself in the unenviable position of following Bill's rear end through sagebrush as high as my shoulders, with Buddy bearing down on my neck. All I could envision was either getting kicked by Bill, or having my heel stepped on by Buddy.

Or both, simultaneously.

Neither was a pleasant thought.

Warden took this opportunity to mention the horses know better than to step on people's feet. Although Buddy did just that, to the warden's wife, on their last outing. Crippled her up pretty good.

So I tried walking alongside Buddy.

And kept getting these strange looks from this wizened old horse, him trying to figure out just what the heck is wrong with this biped. Doesn't it even know where to walk?

So I kept life simple, and got back on.

Got pissed at Buddy several times, and always for the same thing.

Everytime we spotted some note worthy critter, I had to fumble the GPS out of the fanny pack, and then wait for it to gain enough satellite signals for a fix on our location.

All the while, Buddy is trying to get us moving again. So I am constantly reining him in.

Okay, he's a horse. Used to spending his life chasing and herding cows. I can understand his need to move, and even tolerate it.

But then, after marking the new waypoint, I need to get the notepad out to record what it was we saw. How many hens, how many chicks. And each and every time, Buddy would behave until the pen first touched paper, and then jerk his head, and thereby the reins under the notepad.

Every time.

After circling and dismounting to check a suspicious rock (just a rock), we found our selves fairly far behind. And I goaded Buddy into a gallop to catch up. Certainly smoother than his trots.

And I couldn't resist, even though the warden was watching now, and would see how foolish I was.

I held my hands out wide, keeping the reins almost straight to each side.

Just like the North Men (your ancestors, Finn) did in The 13^th Warrior.

Silly, I know, but I had to try.

Worked just fine.