When we finished our classification route this morning, I was in great shape. Only four routes left to do, and three and a half days to do them in. Running routes in mornings and evenings, it actually looked like I might get to slack off on Friday.

Just in time for another weekend of long check station days.

But this evening, a couple miles and just two antelope in to our route, that all changed. I guess the dead, rotted rattlesnake hanging from the highway post should have been an omen.

We had just dropped off of the well-graveled coalbed methane road (new last year) onto the bladed, dirt natural gas well road when I started hearing this strange sound from the back end of the truck.

Like we had run over and were now dragging a tin bucket.

But it was no bucket.

A shock.

As in, shock absorber. A piece of the bloody truck was hanging loose, bouncing in the dirt as we sailed along on this smooth, dirt road.

No way I could have hit anything hard enough to break a shock on these gas field superhighways.

And I hadn't. Somewhere along the change from the coalbed methane road to the natural gas road, the pin holding the right rear shock had fallen out. And the compressed gas shock, no longer compressed by the mass of the truck, had expanded to its full length and was trying to plow a third furrow down the road.

Craaap.

The shock had destroyed itself against the exhaust pipe and ground. No way to get it compressed again. And I had the right sized socket to take it off, but the socket wasn't deep enough. And it took a 3/4" wrench, and the largest I have is a 11/16ths.

Craaap.

And no room for the lock-grip pliers.

Craaap.

Call the mechanic. It's twenty minutes to closing, and I'm 25 minutes from town. But he'll get me in first thing tomorrow morning. So, I wire the long steel tube up the best I can, getting it only a couple inches off the ground, and turn around for town.

'Course, if this repair holds, I can get this route done, and maybe only lose tomorrow morning's classifying time...

Which is critical now, since these are "prehunt" classifications, and the hunt in this area starts Saturday. The four routes have to be finished by Friday dark.

Non-negotiable.

So, turn around again I do, gingerly to protect the gerry-rigged repair, and into the hills we go.

For only a couple miles. Then the bucket sounds are back.

Craaap.

I wire it up again, with my last piece of long wire. This time, I've got the shock twisted right behind the tire. Not too safe backing up, but it's higher off the ground.

And we turn around for town again.

A half-mile from the highway, insanity overwhelms me and my instincts tell me, "If we made it this far back with no trouble, maybe we can get most of the route done."

So I turn around. Again. Back into the hills.

By this time, the heeler sisters are looking at me just a little strange, but accept their fate.

"Ooookay, boss. Hope you know what you're doing."

A quarter-mile back in on the gravel road, and common sense comes back.

If this wire breaks, I'm screwed. Most likely tear out the shock bracket if I drive on rocky roads with that thing dangling, and then I'm out of commission for days, not just this evening and tomorrow morning.

And we turn around yet again.

Little maskless heeler crawls onto the sleeping bag in the back seat and curls up.

"I'm not with him."