The day was off to a rough start. Up past 0100 with the last entry, then painful indigestion that had me up past 0230 (bulimics have nothing on me with technique). And a pissful heeler Mom that wanted out at 0330. And an alarm that went off at 0530 so I could get water started on the stove for coffee.

Best sleep was probably from then to 0630.

'Course, by then I'd burned the water.

Literally.

Nothing left in the tea pot but the blackened crust of rime on the bottom. Which meant the next potful of water would taste metallic and charred.

And it did.

We hit the road at 0653, a good half hour later than I'd wished. It was 43^o outside. First day of the fall that I'd worn a t-shirt.

Yes, despite what the calendar or orbit of the planet may say, it is fall now. Cool nights, hot days. Saw some leaves that had changed colour on a gooseberry in our backyard yesterday. And I'm in the fall field season.

Heeler sisters were eager to go, heads on the dash against the windshield, tails in synchronized wag mode.

Don't you just hate those drivers that wait until you start to pass, and then they speed up?

Me, too.

Today that driver was me, trying to get the damn cruise control set right on 75 mph as we passed through Shark's Tooth Ridge. Forcing the tourists (minivan piled high with gear and a cartop carrier, on the road at 0700... what else could they be?) to pull left to pass, and then dropping back as I finally got the GPS to settle between 74.8 and 75.2 mph.

Don't you just hate drivers that pass you, only to quickly pull off at the next exit?

Me, too.

'Course, today that driver was me, whipping past the half asleep local in the blue pickup on my cruise control set precisely at 74.8-75.2 mph, only to reach the exit to the south highway as soon as I'd passed.

My morning entertainment was the gal on dispatch talking to one of the wardens to the east, letting him know he could disregard the message they put on his phone late last night. Another warden went out and took care of the call for an animal hit on the Interstate in his district.

Confusion. There was no message on his machine. He asks "Was that around milepost 249 or 250?"

Yep.

There is more confusion. Seems yet another warden passing through off duty had stopped and taken care of a bull elk hit at that location. And reported it to the local warden.

Yes, that's the call that warden #2 had responded to. But if the elk was already taken care of by the out-of-towner, what did that second warden have to put down?

Of course, we also had a report of a deer hit at that same location, according to dispatch. Assumed it was a mistaken ID of the elk. There is more discussion about who did what, to whom, where.

A fourth warden, out classifying antelope like the rest of us, chimes in that, whatever it was, at least you know it's taken care of.

All I know, next time I'm driving that Interstate at night, I'm going to keep my eyes open at MP 249 and 250. Sounds like a dangerous place for roadkills.

This morning's route takes us past a local fishing hole, drying up rapidly, and across greasewood flats to Bridger's Pass. Then across the Divide into the Colorado River basin, then a turn back up towards the Divide, into the sage and aspen country.

As we come up to a gate, I see two antelope bail across a low rise, leaving behind a large herd feeding in an old burn. Most of these are to the left of a small aspen clump, and I get them sorted quickly. And swing right to find an adult antelope half hidden behind the trees.

The front half. The half I need to see to tell if it is doe, buck or yearling buck. I stare and stare at that goat, waiting for it to pass through a gap in the leaves, as the rest of the herd panics and starts trotting left to join the others. Have to get this one ID'd, but if I wait, the two halves will mix and run, and I'll lose them all.

Precious seconds tick by until she lifts her head into a clear gap, and I see it's a doe. And snap off IDs of the others as they file past.

Thirteen does, 7 fawns and a buck. They run over the rise, after the first two. So I'll have at least 23 antelope to reclassify when I get over the hill.

Heeler sisters drag race down the road as I open the gate, despite the little maskless one's broken toenail, and then we head up the hill.

Come over the crest, expecting to have to do a running tally of 23 antelope just to find out what the first two were.

And find lots of antelope. A lot more than 23, all milling and mixing about. Try to get a classification, but they're mixing too much. At least 26 does, 15 fawns and the one buck. They head southeast, parallel to our road, and we follow.

At the next rise, they've split. One herd below a large aspen stand, above the canyon below, the others above the aspens to the right, by the road.

Leaving.

Head up the hill quickly, pacing the dust cloud of the herd that I cannot see to my left. When we reach the top, I stop and throw up the scope. Just in time to catch the herd filing by, cooperating nicely by going single file as they cross the road. Ten does, 11 fawns and the buck. Soon joined by the single doe who tried to sneak across uncounted behind us.

Now for the other half.

Leave the rig where it is, and the sisters and I get out on foot to backtrack these 23 antelope to their buddies. Nice day for a walk, but getting warm. Don't need the t-shirt anymore. As we crest the rise and peek around the aspen clone, we find....

Nothing.

Nobody.

We can see the valley north of us. No antelope. Their only means of following the other half without being seen is to go up the road, which we can no longer see. But no dust. To our right is only the steep drop down into the canyon.

And there, clear on the other side of the canyon, is the herd of 20-some antelope, boogying east. Having run down the steep slope and across the thin ribbon of water. They run up on a slope to look behind, as antelope are oft to do, and I count 17 does and 5 fawns using the binocs. And we wait. At this distance, would like to double check that. The lead doe has had enough, and leads them east again. Single file again. Seventeen does and five fawns.

As we weave through the sage back to the truck, stopping to check an arrowhead shaped rock (it wasn't), I do the math in my head. A total of 28 does, 16 fawns and the one buck. So the second of the original two herds was 15 does and nine fawns.

Across the state, dozens of us are doing this, all month.

And we have the nerve to call this work.

As we crest out of the valley, we head north onto a ranch cooperatively managed by our outfit. And down through the horse pasture, stopping by the abandoned stationwagon. Rusted and full of bullet holes.

If you lost your Chevy Impala station wagon, circa 1960s, with Idaho plates I/P-11 684, it is here. Not much left of it that doesn't have holes.

As I inspect this derelict yet again, I suddenly become aware of company.

Big company. Eight horses, curious to see who I am. And if I have treats. Three that ignore the heelers, who apparently believe I am surrounded and about to die, to check my pockets and hair as I kneel down to read the Idaho plate.

While petting these three brave souls, I notice a band of white markings along the black's neck, just below the main. Hairs a little longer and stiffer than the rest of his coat, in modern hieroglyphics.

A freeze brand.

I am in the presence of a reformed feral horse. And he gets an extra dose of attention. As he and his two buds go to check out the back of my rig (driving the masked heeler into the back seat as they go by her window), another horse comes up for attention, also bearing a white freeze brand.

This once wild animal follows me as I get in the truck, and briefly touches noses with the little maskless heeler.

And we get back to "work".

After spooking a nice bull elk out of a small aspen grove, we head down into Littlefield Canyon, leaving the truck near the crest of the draw. This small pasture has been ungrazed for quite a few years, and I like to stop by and watch the changes.

We flush a couple mule deer does out of the sage near the bottom of the washed out road, near the old dry well.

Texota company drilled this gas well decades ago, and fortunately didn't find anything worth their while. And they left the usual dry hole marker, a large rusted steel pipe sticking two meters out of the ground. The beaded scription welded on the side tells me this was their Federal Well #1. And exactly where we are.

At the creek itself, we find the grass and reeds thick. As are the grasshoppers. The old willows still have their mushroom shape, a sign of overgrazing, but there are new, young willows coming up all along the stream channel now. Surviving each summer ungrazed. In years to come, this should become a normal willow-choked bottom, full of beaver ponds and trout.

Right now, the channel is sterile. Nothing larger than a water bug living in it. And it feels desolate. In years past I used to cruise this little stream as it wandered down this red-rocked canyon, sneaking up on unsuspecting brook trout. Even fished it once, with one of my wardens. But the brookies were all small, most too small to take the grasshopper bait.

Won't be fishing it again, for a long while. The stream is poisoned.

Poisoned last summer, and the summer before. To exterminate all those exotic brookies I used to stalk.

If all goes well, and the brookies are truly gone, this little stream should soon be supporting a healthy population of our native cutthroat trout. The banks have healed, narrowed, and provide the pools, shadows and cooler waters that our little native requires. I miss our old brookies, but look forward to seeing the natives reclaim a little piece of their old range.

With our route for the day done, we head north to the crest of Miller Hill, and the Continental Divide. The slope is flat and nearly level on our side, but as soon as we crest the hill we're in low gear on the transfer case, dropping almost 1,000 feet in less than a mile.

And there, in the green meadow on the right side of the road, running up to the brand new fence along the road is...

a bear.

A small black bear, probably just recently kicked off his mama.

Only the second bear I have ever seen in my district. And the first was in town. His bones are resting only a few miles from this little bruin.

Immediately grab the radio. And call the the warden for this area.

Guess what I'm doing right now?

Looking at a black bear. In your district.

He is duly unimpressed. Yes, I agree, we knew bears were here on this hill. But out on a road at midday?

I found that remarkable.

As did the heelers, as they watched that black thing amble across the road and disappear into the aspens.

As did another warden, who soon called on the phone.