We met underneath the Interstate. At one of those faceless interchanges out in the desert. And he jumped out of his truck to give me a handful of mint candies, and to say hello to the heeler sisters.

Always trust people who need to say hello to your dogs, not just you. I'm wary of folks who ignore the animals in a vehicle.

A local rancher, he and his friend had just been amusing themselves watching me herd his brother's yearling out of our guzzler and had swung down to the highway to catch me to visit.

We ended up discussing some of the ranchettes in the desert, particularly the one with rolls and rolls of woven wire fence piled around the trailer.

The last thing this desert, and its antelope, need is another woven-wire fence. Even if it does enclose just 160 acres. But the wire is used, no longer in tight pristine rolls from a factory. And my rancher friend is afraid he knows where it came from.

From his pile of woven-wire fence. On our unit.

Yes, I know about that pile. I recommended burying that damn fencing after the Supreme Court was done with it (yes, the U.S. Supreme Court). And was promptly ignored. But how did that become his rolls of fence?

Yes, I saw the request for bids to have the wire hauled away last year. Along with the nearby abandoned horse barn and associated out-buildings. But there weren't any takers on the bids. (Which was fine by me, since this was yet another case of the powers that be in the Capitol making decisions about my country without even taking the courtesy of asking for local opinions).

True enough, there were no bids received, but my friend here had volunteered to do the job for free. And for salvage. Hoped to get the job done in the next few days. And he was at this minute heading off to see if his rolls of wire fence had disappeared from our unit onto a ranchette.

My heart sank. I understand the liability issue for getting rid of the old structure, and the fear that someone will some day just torch the place. But it was probably built in the thirties. Even if unsafe and useless, I like old buildings.

So the sisters and I followed. Sucking on soft mints as I drove.

With another brief visit along the way, this time with the rancher's brother and his wife, letting them know about their high-jumping yearling. And learning a few things about the signature wall that I did not know before.

When we got to the old ranch, we could see the rolls of woven wire were right where we had left them over a decade ago. So I grabbed the camera, and he and I took a last look at the old horse barn. One last snoop before it became a pile of rubble.

I'd been here only a few times before, just a quarter-mile or so from the signature sheering pens. Last time there was still an old wood-burning store in the barracks room, all shot up and broken. Even it was gone now, but the detritus in the rooms still had broken pieces of tackle, smashed enamelware plates, and more recent trash. Tons of dirt and dust, probably hoarding millions of hantavirus.

The salvager was hoping to get useful rafters out of the building, so we headed up the steep, narrow steps through the open trap door into the hayloft. There, the sun played tricks on your eyes with shadows, as all the west side roofing had been ripped off by the wind.

But despite the wind, the floor was still covered with old straw, left from when folks hauled it up here to store until it was used to feed their horses.

And we found this.

I didn't know what it was, other than a wooden box, about a yard square and at least two yards high. With a serial number "2031" stenciled on one side, and a matching number on the lid against the wall. Labeled "Sheep & Cattlemen's Supply & MFG. CO., Builders, Salt Lake City, UT". We later found the bottom of the box, with its reinforced steel bars, leaning against the opposite wall.

My friend knew immediately what it was.

A wool packer.

The box would be lined with a sack and set on end, and then freshly shorn wool thrown in. And packed. And then more fleeces, more packing.

He remembers it well. Started, he said, when he was about five years old. They would throw in three or four fleeces to get started, then they threw him in. And he would stomp the wool down, like crushing grapes, and keep stomping as they threw more wool in around his feet. Eventually he would find himself stomping on top, and the box would be filled. The sack was sealed and removed, and the process started all over again.

This back when they still used hand shears to shear the sheep.

As for the wool stomping, they called it "dancing with the ticks."

Which brought memories that still made him shake his head.

His arrangement with our outfit also calls for him removing the outbuildings near the barn. Including an old two-hole outhouse, with a boardwalk and enclosed porch.

Really.