Rain.

We got rain. Which means I probably won't go out to classify this evening. And I'm glad. Love the field work, but mornings and evenings get tiresome after a while.

Only three antelope routes left to go. Then back to the sage grouse annual reports and more office work until 7 September, when hunting seasons really begin.

So, backtracking on this busy week:

Monday evening found the heeler sisters and I along Muddy Creek, on the west end of the Ferrises.

The route basically works up the creek bottom, jogging in and out where bridges have disappeared. Almost all of the antelope were on the irrigated hayfields, which is no surprise considering how dry the rest of the country is.

Hay fields are dry and no longer irrigated, either. Hay, what there was, has long been cut and baled, and there will be no extra cuttings this summer. The antelope are just there for the forbs and weeds that are coming up in the empty fields, and the regrowth alfalfa.

While giving the heelers a drag race and pee break, we got buzzed by one of those mysterious "black helicopters."

Saw the old blue truck high on the fields by the highway, but didn't want to miss the 50+ antelope below, so we parked by the highway gravel piles and started glassing. Waiting those interminable minutes for one stupid antelope to lift its head up so I could identify it. And heard the pickup coming up the hill behind me.

The irrigator, coming to see who was on their place, I correctly presumed.

Hurried and tried to get the herd classified before the rancher pulled up.

And failed.

Had a pleasant visit, mostly about sage grouse and the elk that have been raiding the fields at night. And as he went up creek to dinner, I started over on the antelope on the field.

I followed his route, classifying as I went. Hoping I wouldn't be interrupting dinner by the time I passed through their headquarters.

As I pull up along the main houses, I see the same rancher out front at their fusebox.

"You didn't shoot out our powerline, did you?" he asks.

I plead innocent. Seems their power went out as we pulled up.

Fortunately, my work took long enough that we're not interrupting dinner. Go in to visit with the World Champion Horseshoe Pitcher (Really. Literally. Several times over.), who is in the other half of the log house, visiting with his sister-in-law in her window-lit sitting room.

Now, I have been stopping in at this ranch for a quarter century now, and have never met this woman, the mother of the irrigator checking on power. Kind of incredible, when you think about it. But she is physically house-ridden, and most of my visits have been in the front half of the house. She's old, of course, since there are two generations after hers on the ranch now, with large glasses and thin hair. But while her body may not function as well as she would like, her mind is sharp. A really enjoyable person to visit with.

And well up on current events. She asked about our fire on Crooks Mountain, and it turns out her info is more up-to-date than mine. (It was probably a lightning strike.)

So, I stayed and visited much too long.

Then off to visit with the next generation two log houses up, and the newest addition to the family.

He's already seven months old, named after his grandfather, and a real cutie. Last time I saw him, he was still in the oven. After getting my share of googly eyes, he and his sister got wheeled up the road, past the corrals, while I go to see the bison skull my friend found this summer.

A gorgeous old skull, more complete than mine, a solid mahogany brown from being buried in a creek for a century or more. They still find old bison horn sheaths while riding out in the dunes, and have got two placed on the skull.

So we stand out in front of the bunkhouse-turned-office, me scratching and petting their 16-year old blue heeler who is thrilled to find a soft touch, well past dark. My friend is apologetic. He knows I have miles of route yet to cover, and this isn't the first time I had to break this route off at the ranch, and come back to finish another day.

He doesn't seem to understand that I don't mind.

As he heads back into the house for an errand, I visit with his dad about pitchin' shoes. Been on a hiatus for three years, but he's on his way to reclaiming his titles. I'm no good at all at this sport, but I tell him why I enjoy it so much.

Almost two dozen deer have come out onto the fields to feed just 100 meters away while we talk.

It's well past dark when the heelers and I head out the main road, towards the highway and the 3/4-hour drive home. Classifying two more does, two fawns and a buck in our headlights as we near the asphalt.