This was our chopper for the day:

But it was a good day.

"Good," as in I didn't have to fly. Much of the snow we acquired in November has been melted by the strong chinook winds that prevented us from flying earlier in the month. So, the folks flying before me found their deer up high, and scattered.

What they anticipated taking three hours of flying actually took six. That left me with a measly hour or so on my side of the highway before darkness. Which the other observers kindly offered to fly for me.

An offer that I was maybe too eager to accept.

So, my function today, after driving fifty miles up and fifty miles back when they decided to keep the bird a little longer, was to drive back up again, at dark, to ferry the observers back to their trucks. At $650 per hour, it doesn't make much sense to use the helicopter just to ferry people back and forth. So the bird headed south, and should be resting peacefully in a hangar, now, waiting to greet me around sunrise tomorrow.

The warden and other biologist were quite pleased at their sneak peek into my country. Found 69 of "my" elk whilst looking for "my" deer.

Sixty-seven of those 69 were bulls. Branch-antlered bulls. The other two elk were a spike (yearling) bull, and a male calf. They had found less than a dozen bulls amongst "their" elk on their mountain on their side of the highway.

Nyah, nyah nyah, nyah, nyah.

'Course, they also claimed to have discovered the reason for the poor calf production on my side of the highway in recent years.

I sat and waited for the chopper to deposit my riders where the Continental Divide crosses the highway. The day was mostly cloudy, but there were gaps that allowed rays of sunlight to come through, highlighting small pieces of the Ferrises, and the bottoms of the clouds overhead. As I stood outside with camera in hand, ear close to the radio, I just knew my fares would arrive just as the sunset turned pretty.

And they did. So no pictures.

But 12 or 13 miles up the road, on the other side of the mountains, I puzzled my riders by quickly pulling over onto the shoulder. My warden knew almost immediately what I was after.

My camera.

For there, to the south of us, stood Whiskey peak, supporting a huge mass of orange clouds, rapidly darkening into red. And in the midst of those clouds, appearing almost as a second sun, was a large sundog.

The biologist in the passenger seat is another avid photographer, and handed me his massive, bulky, expensive, awkward, 6 megapixel camera for a few shots, as well. His toes too cold to step outside the truck.

So, if some time in the future you see an image like this one I took, bear in mind...

It may be his picture, but I pressed the shutter.