Lost about a third of my route this morning. The main gate to the ranch was locked, and they've changed the combinations. And the manager's cell phone wouldn't answer. Not a big deal, as far as sample size goes, but I hate having to alter my routes.

So, a few miles down the highway, we pulled off onto the coral reef (if you read that file name, you'll notice we're one day ahead of last year's schedule, despite the Fair concessions) and headed east.

Lots of antelope spread all along south of the reef ridge as we headed towards the Divide. And the heeler sisters finally got their first, much needed (judging by the whines in my ear) run and break.

This is a desolate looking piece of country. Ridges of grey and black clay running down from the aspen-covered Divide. Poor soils, with vegetation only occurring in patches and islands in the grey. But enough runoff to support small aspens and mountain shrub communities, surrounded by the arid sage and greasewood.

My vision of how this world would look a few decades after a volcanic eruption.

As we crested one steep ridge, where you cannot see the road in front because of the hood of the truck, and dropped into a long grey valley, I was surprised to find a milling sea of surprised antelope on the road in front.

Bucks. A freakin' buck herd. The hardest herds to classify, since you need to sort them into adults and yearlings according to horn size.

Yes, most adult bucks are obvious, with long, curving horns and black faces. And most yearlings are also obvious, with horns shorter than their ears, almost no prong, and that stupid, na�ve look on their face. But there are always some small two-year old bucks with horns just barely past their ears. Or robust yearlings with longer horns and visible prongs.

Hard to sort those all out as they're shuffling back and forth. Or leaving at 50 mph.

So I slam on the breaks, putting the heelers into the dash as I grab the binocs from the seat (way too close for the scope). And start counting heads as they barrel off to the east, cresting the ridge and out of sight.

Seven adults and five yearlings.

Then I roll the rig down to where they were all gathered to get a GPS reading (why guess when you can park on the exact spot?). And look out to see what was attracting all these animals to this spot. One species of large forbs, standing 20-30 cm tall with bright yellow-green leaves, and roses.

Miniature wild roses, less than 15-20 cm tall, a few with tiny pink blossoms.

As I look out the window at the plants, I got that feeling. That I'm being watched.

Looking east again, I am greeted with the beautiful sight of 11 pronghorn bucks, silhouetted against the blue eastern sky, standing on the crest of the ridge. Watching us.

Seeing what I was doing to their breakfast, I guess.

They were perfectly spaced (and, yes, I know 7 + 5 = 12, but I don't know where the missing yearling ended up), and all perfectly in line to us. All those black horns rising up and curving inward above their ears.

No movement. No turning of heads, or twitching of ears. All intently watching this vehicle claim their rose patch.

Don't know how long I enjoyed the view (and wished I had a camera along) before they finally broke the trance and spurred to their right, out of sight. And we moved on.

Was a �-mile along, writing down another group of antelope before I realized I had forgotten to record the UTMs for the buck herd.

Too stunned, perhaps. Or too sleepy.

Could still make a good guess. But you know how anal I can be sometimes.

We drove back to the rose patch and got an accurate reading before turning around and moving on.