The entire day was spent on my usual check station. As in, the exact same check station I have been manning on the 1st of October for 27 of the past 28 years, now. The same spot as my first ever check station. Except the day I volunteered for a pheasant check station in Colorado... the one where the female warden of that state asked every hunter for a tail feather from each male bird, for "research". When I asked about her research, she replied she was researching how to get a new centerpiece for Thanksgiving.

Really.

As usual, despite my being in this exact same spot on the first day of October for 27 years (it would be 28, except one of those years I was on a Honeymoon, to the chagrin of some in the outfit), and despite she herself working this station with me at least two years, and stopping by to visit almost every other year, and despite the fact that we have never changed the opening date of this deer season, and despite the fact that at least 60 percent of the local population, and a few hundred people scattered across the continent, know exactly where I was going to be today, the wife asked this morning...

"Where are you going to be today?"

Had two of our fish guys down to help again this year, as we were again cutting out retropharyngeal lymph nodes from the deer to test for chronic wasting disease. A little before noon, my only remaining game warden called, from about 50 airline miles away.

An injured antelope, with a busted hind leg. On an access road, not three miles from my station. Can I check it out?

While I hate leaving station, 'cause I just know a truck with twenty deer will come through while I'm gone, I figure I've got two fellows to cover for me. And since we have the sampling gear spread out all over in my rig, I borrowed their Explorer. Taking my rifle, but leaving the masked heeler behind (her sister is still on restricted duty at home for another four or five weeks).

Found the antelope without any trouble, right where he was supposed to be. Had the rifle scope dead on him, and he certainly did favor the hind left leg. But it wasn't broken, just bloody at the hock. Like he had hung it up in a fence, and ripped the hide getting loose. So, maybe he'll be able to survive, and maybe he won't.

But I let him be, for now. If he starts failing, we'll be able to find him again.

When I got back to check station about 15 minutes after leaving, naturally I had missed a deer that came through. My friends covered for me easily, but had a little trouble with the hunter when he first pulled up. Them being from another town 100+ miles away, the hunter didn't know them.

But he knew the masked heeler.

"That's [Grouse]'s dog," he accused.

"What're you guys doing with [Grouse]'s dog?"

Guess they had to do some fast explaining why they had my heeler, and not me. Don't know who the hunter was, but it's nice to know folks are watching out for my heelers.

A couple other shots from the day:

Quite a few have seen the decals of Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbs fame) peeing on the logos of one truck brand or another. But this driver had a different, but similar, means of expressing his disapproval of Chevys.

And a shot of sunset. Not spectacular, but since it was taken whilst holding up the front end of a dead deer with the left arm, aiming over the shoulders of a fellow cutting glands out of said deer's throat, it ain't bad.

And finally, an image I took on our anniversary last month, our first real snow of the season.