I spotted their vehicle about a mile ahead, headed our way on this twisted segment of desert road, where the narrow dirt lane bends and winds through a shallow badland.

So we waited at a wide spot.

We were setting out six of my 17 wing barrels today. Three down, three to go. But probably only a third of the way through the miles we would have to cover. Roughly 85 miles behind us, 50 of those on dirt, and over 200 yet to go. Most of those would be highway, after we covered 40 more on the bladed ground.

Two men, in a newer pickup with matching camper shell. The only hunters I met today. From Central City. Driver was unusually talkative, and a name-dropper, while the hunter said little. But his paperwork was all okay, and it certainly was a good buck. Hunter guesses 15" horns, so I throw the tape up quick, and he's right. Within an eighth of an inch. With heavy bases and decent prongs.

As we prepared to part company, the driver kinda sorta happened to mention, he was a little turned round out here.

In other words, he's lost. And the hunter has no clue whatsoever.

Okay, they mentioned the oil field and old ranch, so I draw a rough map in the dust on his tailgate, showing where we are, and the best route out and home. But none of those roads or landmarks are familiar to him.

Well, if you just turn around and go the other way on the road you're on, you'll go out the way you came in.

Okay, that sounded good to them. And they're on my heels for the next six miles or so, until the junction. I stop and point the way home, and remind them to take the left at the next fork a few miles up.

As their dust fades, the heelers get a running break, and I check out a benchmark which just happens to be sitting by the junction.

One of several today.