"Oooh! Hold on... there's an elk!"

And silence.

After the cow elk had completed her trot across the bare and open Continental Divide, not more than 200 meters in front of my rig, I turned my attention back to the cellular phone, and my boss at the other end.

"Must be hard, sitting there in an office, listening to somebody out on an elk hunt," I asked.

He let out a small, pained laugh, letting me know it was more true than I suspected, and insisted we get back to talking business. About this federal document that arrived in the mail, with an incredibly short deadline for comments. Of a document hundreds of pages long, so thick they sent it out on two cds, rather than by paper.

I was following the fenceline road, on the two-track that sticks with this portion of the Continental Divide for about five miles or so, when the phone rang. Working the opening morning of our elk area south of town. Had just left a truck of local elk hunters, after five to ten minutes of chit-chat and paperwork.

Ran into them later. They had seen my brakelights come on when I stopped for the elk in the early dawn hour, across the aspen and sage-filled valley from where they were parked on a point, but they never saw the cow elk headed straight towards them. And they had cow licenses.

Yes, I'm sure it was hard to have to worry about office work while others were out enjoying the clear air and cold, fall weather. But I forgot all about the document and the boss as soon as the call ended. Back to checking hunters, watching heelers dragrace, and enjoying the fall day.

The Divide is almost perfectly flat here, a long, thin mesa maybe 200-800 meters wide, covered with low, thin sage and a crooked fenceline that runs the length. The edges drop off steeply, too steeply to drive, into large aspen stands with about half their leaves gone. Their colors are nowhere near as pretty as up north, having endured a week of cold, wet rains and heavy snow.

But all of that moisture is gone now, sucked up by the winds. Vehicles raise dust on every road and trail, where mud was almost a foot deep a week ago.

Met my first truck of hunters within a half-mile of leaving the main road. Three young men, from River Town, far to the north. First time in this country. They had the boundaries of their area well worked out, and needed advice on where to find elk.

Also ran into them later. My advice was good. Had their first elk ten minutes after they left me, right where I said there might be some. Had all three elk, a spike and two small bulls, by the end of the morning.

This far south, and this high, you're in a different world. A land of flattop hills (covered with the white, chalky remains of the Yellowstone caldera) shrouded with aspen and serviceberry, guarding valleys of deep sage. The radio is full of traffic, but it's the dogcatchers in the city to the south in the other state, which happen to use the same frequency. We listen to them and their dog-at-large calls, and they get to listen to our discussions about hunters and wanted vehicles.

I wonder who is the more amused.

And from the higher places, you can look south and see

parts of Herworship's, and The Finn and Hooligan's state.

The truck of local hunters with cow permits had been sitting with a darker truck, which bailed off the Divide down a steep two-track into the sage-filled basin to the east. Down a road I have never dared drive, but I guess I will have to, now, since I've seen it done.

The rig had its headlights on.

How and the heck do you propose to sneak into a valley with your headlights on?

So I asked the driver of the second vehicle if their buddy's truck was new.

Yep. One of the modern models, where the headlights are always on when the vehicle is running. Until its sensors say there is enough daylight.

Guess that will be something else I will have to learn to disconnect a few years down the road, with the next rig.

Hustled out of the country around 11:00, after checking a dozen vehicles or so. And set up my check station south of town, by the gravel piles, for the afternoon.

Much more productive, biologically. Checked eight or nine elk, and quite a few deer and antelope, as those seasons were still running. Two bull elk will probably make the record books.

One of these seven-points was taken by a friend, who had another bull alongside it in the back. A respectable five point, but it looked small next to the big one. Small bull was his son's, on his first elk hunt (probably 12-13 years old). Who was pleased, but a little perturbed. They both shot at the large bull first, and he's certain he got it, not his dad. Teasingly said that dad "stole" his elk.

Offered to ask a warden to run ballistics on the bullet, but they declined.

They had spent the entire day getting their elk out of the hills, and had left the ATV back in the country because the truck was full. Of elk. But the dad said it twice, if not more often.

"The best day of my life."

A truck came out with a neighbor and some of his friends. Out bird hunting. Now the wind was whipping, as it is wont to do along the divide. I was visiting with my neighbor, seated in the front passenger seat, when the driver decided this was a good time to get out and get something out of the back of the truck.

And everything on their dash was quickly whisked out the passenger's window as soon as the driver opened his door.

And my neighbor and I looked at each other, after gathering all the papers and trash, and commented that the driver was obviously new to this state.

When the wind blows, you never ever have both sides of a vehicle open at the same time.

And the wind always blows.

A lot of folks use the field and tracks across the highway from the station to run their dogs. Most just kick out the hounds and drive away, letting the dogs give chase. A few pace alongside their pets, something I consider risky. One of the latter was a young gal in a Cherokee, who booted out a brindle and black Boston terrier (Hi Tasha, how's yours adjusting to the new arrival?). Which did its best to get under the wheels before it finally got the hang of racing down the road.

And then detoured off to face off three cows that were feeding peaceably, right where they belonged. Two were actually deterred by this fierce little bundle, but the third put the head down and considered a quick charge. It was a standoff until a fourth cow came running over to attack the wee beastie, who had to be pulled back by his owner.

It was a relatively slow afternoon and evening (although productive... anytime you can check more than four elk in one day, it is a good day). So I had hopes of getting pictures of the sunset uninterrupted. There were only a few clouds to the west, just starting to get color, and I was up on top of the gravel piles, for the best angles.

And headlights came around the hill. And pulled in.

Not hunters. Just a couple guys with questions.

Now, I don't think I have ever actually met a hick before, but I have now.

He was overweight, with a southern drawl, and his bottom teeth and gums dark, packed with chew.

And full of stupid questions.

Like, "My grandpa's old muzzleloader has a nine-inch barrel, and it says in the orders that the barrel has to be at least 10" long to be used in a muzzleloading rifle season. So could I use his gun?"

Uh, nine inches is less than 10 inches, so no, it wouldn't be legal.

Duh.

"Well what about the "whatever" black powder gun, the one that you load through the breech?"

Do you load it through the muzzle?

He looks at me like I'm the idiot.

"It's a breech loader!"

So I repeat my question. Do you load it through the muzzle?

"No."

Then it ain't a "muzzleloading rifle." So, no, you can't use it in a "muzzleloading rifle" season.

Double duh.

The western sky was grey and dark by the time they left. Another sunset wasted.