We're at least seven miles from any kind of abode. And at least 18 miles from the nearest town.

Yet here they are.

Pieces of a ceramic bowl.

No real surprise, actually. The entire north bank of the two-track is an old dump. Being next to a windmill on a sheep ranch, I assume it's a spot that was used regularly by sheepherders. Back before the range was fenced, somewhen in the 1950s or 60s. Out here in their conestoga wagons, tending their flocks, pitching their detritus over the side of the hill.

For some reason, I like this bowl. The inside was diner-green of the 1950s. With bright, cheerful blue and pink flowers on the white outside.

Unfortunately, only half of it is here, on this sandy bank. Along with a shattered platter, the rusted, crushed base of an old lantern, and dozens of cans and broken bottles.

These pieces are only together because I put them together. Gathered up years ago, on another break on another antelope survey. I've got the base of the bowl and five pieces of the side in this spot, all of which fit together. I'm assuming the rest of the bowl is buried here in the sand somewhere.

I may be wrong.

But if I ever find the entire bowl, the pieces are going home, to be glued together.

I briefly wander the embankment. Looking for shards of bright white, or diner green. For anything uncovered by the shifting sands.

And find none.

Maybe better luck next year.