Yesterday was spent here.

The exact same spot that I spent 11 September of last year. While most of the world was glued to television sets, I was here.

All day.

I wasn't the only one who looked at yesterday as an anniversary. One of the wardens remarked about what we were doing here one year (and six days) ago. Another of us who marks the years by annular events, rather than calendars.

The opening day of antelope area 63. I suspect that will always be a sad or sober day for me, from now on. Maybe even more so than the 9-11 that everyone else remembers.

Look at the picture. Those are the skies that were emptied a year ago. Along the paths of our pioneer ancestors.

The opening day of this area is fairly unique, always being on a Tuesday. A remnant of decisions made a quarter century ago, when there were literally over a thousand antelope licenses issued in this area. And a means had to be found to spread the hunting pressure out, to reduce the crowding on opening day.

"How about opening on Tuesday? Some will hunt opening day, but most will wait until the weekend to come out to hunt."

And so it has been ever since, even though, with drought, poor fawn production and vastly reduced antelope numbers, we only have a couple hundred hunters a year now.

Several things happen because of a mid-week opener. First off, you get a lot of help from other folks in the outfit, since they don't have any areas opening, and all love an excuse to not be in an office. Probably only had 80-100 hunters out that morning, and had seven of us keeping tabs on them. Unusually good ratio for this country.

Gives wardens a better opportunity to keep track of folks. To sit and watch for violations (know at least one who caught one that day). One truck load of hunters complained that I was the third to check their papers. Well, you only have four more to go, was my response.

And you get an preponderance of:

- nonresidents, since they probably took vacation time to get here anyway, what difference does the day of the week make? Quite a few repeaters. And several expressing gratitude for advice given earlier during winter phone calls. The camp with a mixture of Coloradans, Texans, and another state I don't remember who drove all their antelope out to the station to be checked, one by one, rather than making one of us stop by their camp down by the river.

- retirees, who have seven days a week to go out and enjoy themselves. The elderly couple who have been coming to this area for decades longer than I have been here were out again this year. Only one antelope taken, though. Usually they would have both bucks in their rig by ten o'clock. Only one today. Old age (I guess in their 80s) must finally be slowing them down.

- head hunters, those who just have to have one of the largest bucks to be taken, and take time off from work because they are afraid someone else will get him before they do. (It happens... had trophy-class bucks scouted out in this area twice, when I was lucky enough to draw the permit, only to have wardens radio in to let me know my selected bucks had been taken by hunters while I was sitting here on my station.) Didn't have anyone using night-vision goggles to spot their hotly-contested bucks this year, but it has happened in the past. Tried not to laugh when the one headhunter groused about chasing his trophy into the lap of another hunter. I'm hoping the lucky one was just out for a good day, and delighted to have any clean kill on a buck at all.

- folks who are willing to let their kids play hooky from school in order to hunt. Like the mother who flinched when I asked her two young boys why they weren't in school. And then relaxed when I remarked how lucky we are to be in a state where school administrators still understand the importance of "opening day." One of the hunters of the day was a teacher, also playing hooky.

Also, because of the location of this site near the northern extreme of my area, most of the hunters are from Central City, not our local community. Folks who I generally only see this once a year. Or folks who assume I'm from their city, and ask questions about taxidermists and meat processor businesses that I do not know.

And look at me like I'm an idiot, for not knowing.

A truck came out with a few rockhounds from our community. Visibly and vocally stunned to find me "way out here." Had to explain this is my country (but that across the highway is not). Get the impression almost nobody in the community has any idea how much country I have to cover (>5,000 square miles, if you're wondering).

With only a hundred hunters or so, and plenty of supervision, it wasn't long before I had wardens dropping by check station. Which was fortuitous the time I had five rigs backed up in the road. But I had pleasurable company straight through from ~11:00 until almost 17:00. Didn't get any office work done (and the boss was one of those stopping by, politely reminding me my sage grouse reports are long overdue again). It was 6 in the evening before I even finished the day's paper. Or the morning coffee. Or lunch, for that matter.

Did get to see a moose:

Didn't get to write him down, as he had already been checked near where he was killed. Hunter was unusually quiet about his hunt. Most are bubbling over with stories of their toil (moose are nefarious for dying in remote, difficult places). Especially when you're lucky enough to get an entire bull moose loaded in one piece. (And you notice he loaded it so the rack was showing, as most hunters do.) But I got enough of the hunter's story to know he was dead tired, and only an hour from home now.

Also had a bighorn sheep hunter come through with his trophy, but it was already measured and plugged, so again nothing for me to write down. But still a nice change. Masked heeler would not rest until she had sniffed every inch of my hands and arms after checking that critter. New smells for her, I guess.

With this check station, you are literally in the middle of the hunt. Had hunters hunting to the left of me, and to the right. Have even witnessed a blatant violation from this station in the past. Got to watch this fellow make his stalk (and miss the first two times) from the truck.

He had to pursue his quarry over the rise, out of sight, but he and his brother brought the buck by an hour later.

Heeler sisters had been getting nervous over the thunderstorms in the distance, but with this hunter's first shot, the masked heeler was on the floor on top of my feet. Instantly. Probably a good survival instinct, but not something I want to encourage.

Got the usual plethora of comments about the cute heelers. Especially since they were, as usual, dressed for the season.

One of the new wardens thoroughly enjoyed knowing where he was. The local warden and I tried to outdo each other with fun facts about the history of our work place today.

Just to the south of the station are the Oregon and Mormon Trails. If you stand on top of your rig's cab, you have a good view

of Independence Rock, two miles away. And just to the west,

Devil's Gate.

Just three miles behind him (and the pronghorn hunter above) is the rockpile where they hung Ellen Watson ("Cattle Kate") and James Averill. (Although not where the official records say. A local ranch family claims it was a different tree, on the other side of the hill. Since they have Ellen's shoes, retrieved by an ancestor (a friend, not a murderer) from below her body, I believe them.) Their graves are just four and a half miles east of us, just to the left of frame of the check station pic above.

The day ended in rain. It had started cool, with mists on the mountains. But with strong winds, all day, bringing in the storm front. Midday was pleasant and sunny, but still cool.

I took a few moments in the morning, when the sun first came out, to try some shots of the dove pea growing across the road. Trying to time my clicks with lulls in the wind.

Have no idea what the real name for this plant is, but the mourning doves seem to love it in the late summer.

The last warden left a half hour before sunset, and radioed back ten minutes later letting me know the rain was coming, headed my way. And heavy.

'Course I already knew that. Could see the clouds behind Devil's Gate.

Pulled the signs 20 minutes later, just as the first sprinkles were hitting. A good, cleansing rain.