No lek surveys this morning. Got home from last night's Open House on our hunting season proposals, and I just crashed. Wife and eldest son were off to a movie, so I fell asleep without bothering to set the alarm.

And she didn't bother to wake me. Especially since it was snowing when they got home, and still snowing when morning came. Most has melted off, but any field trip this morning would have been a muddy mess.

Heeler sisters enjoyed sleeping in, as did I.

One of my wardens stopped by just before lunch. Among the many topics we discussed was plans for next week's public hearing in River Town. And whether we would truck-pool for the drive up.

Nope. I'm planning on my annual overnight stay on a lek in the desert.

'Course, not sure which strutting ground at this point. May be too muddy to get to any of them, except maybe Bill's lek.

Bill's lek is just a mile or so off the highway, accessible by a good gravel road. I've used it before when the rest of the country was too snow-bound to risk driving in at midnight.

And, of course, Bill's lek is not even in my area of responsibility. It's not my lek to check. But what does that matter?

A deputy found Bill's lek, and true to my tradition, I let him name it. Which he did, after a pioneer rancher in those parts who had died years before.

I remember Bill. Only had one good, long visit with him on his place on the north side of the mountain. And I wished I'd paid more attention.

You see, he knew who had started all the "wild" horse herds in these parts. These unlicensed equines weren't wild at all. Yes, they were unmarked, unbroken and untamed, but they all belonged to someone. They were just left loose on the open range so the owners would not have to pay grazing fees to the federal government for the grass they ate. But everyone knew whose horses were whose.

Except the feds, of course.

And Bill told me all that. Who had kept the greys near Crooks, and the blacks on Stewart Creek.

And the paints by Eagles Nest,

As you can see, they're still there now, even though all the ranchers who started their herds have since left the mortal coil. And the federal government goes out of their way, with their removal programs, to try to leave the colours that were originally there.

Like the roans and greys by Scotty Lake.

But as pretty as they all are, remember this.

I still hate 'em.