Today started like so many others.

With a sunrise:

The heeler sisters slept as I drove the thirty-some miles to the start of our antelope route. We were scolded by the raspy voice of a loggerhead shrike as I made my notes at the start of the route.

Cloudy again. Had to use binocs all the time to spot for antelope. At least to eight o'clock. And few antelope to spot. Just as dry here as everywhere else. Even most of the lakes and puddles in the dunes were dry.

As we pull up to the abandoned McCarger place, I spot a pair of yellow eyes glaring at us from the front room. By the time I sneak up to the window, the great-horned owl flies most of the length of the house (indoors) into the kitchen. And from there to the roof:

I leave this owl in the sun, and head around the east side of the house, expecting to find more owls in the meat cooler. But no, no one there except a huge spider web, shining in the sun. The owl has returned to the front bedroom, and flies out the west window as I check the room hermetically sealed by hunters.

Their orange spray-on foam insulation is still sealing the cracks, but the door is ajar.

Check to make sure the room is empty of life, and then I wire it shut. Who knows, they may be here this fall.

The owl has disappeared again. I circle back to the meat cooler, and find it hiding on the back ledge. I block the doorway with my body, just inches from the spiderweb, and start fumbling with the camera. Only to look up to see a determined owl in full flight headed for the gap of those few inches.

I ducked, of course. And the owl took out the spiderweb as it headed out to hide in the sage.

From there we loop out of the Great Divide Basin briefly, then follow a ridgeline up to the Ferrises. Where we meet a ranch truck heading down the ridge. The young manager for this ranch.

"Good morning, Sir."

Our first conversation several years ago, he must have called me "Sir" a half dozen times. I finally raised the point, explaining I don't get called that more than once or twice a year, by anybody. But he was raised to "respect his elders," he says, like that will make me feel any better. Yes, there's some years between us, and I certainly have more grey hair, but his sons are only a few years younger than ours.

To his credit, he only called me "Sir" once today.

Sat there on the mountainside for more than an hour, getting caught up on ranch news, his hunts last fall, and how terribly dry we are. His grandpa says we're worse off than the dustbowl days in the '30s.

Happens that NOAA agrees.

All the talk of drought, and the hours spent in the dusty sage below, leads to a short diversion in the route. Up to the head of Sand Creek:

The little maskless heeler is thrilled at the opportunity to rip branches off of trees as we squeeze our rig up to the limestone cliffs, and they both enjoy a drag race and hide-and-seek game in the trees. After too short a break in the Douglas-firs, we drop out into the sage again, to complete our route.

Normally it would be too hot to do anything, this late in the day, but the clouds are building:

and the temps don't get above the low 80s. The end of the route takes us through the dunes themselves, on roads that have to be shifted every few years because of the moving sands.

Have I mentioned how much I like the automatic transmission in this rig? Or how glad I am I kept the standard tread tires that came with it, instead of trading them in for something with more aggressive tread? Would not have been able to drive where I drove today with the old rig, with the deep-lugged tires that dig down in dry sand.

Finished the route around one o'clock. Only one thing left to do.

Wanted to try out the new toy on a horny toad. Had a rough idea where we might find one. And find one we did, before walking even 10 meters: