"New ducks".

That's what he called them. The fellow from the railroad, who called to report seven orphaned "new ducks" walking down the tracks in the railroad yard.

Now, this isn't any old, quiet railroad yard.

This is the Transcontinental Railroad.

Really. That one. Certainly not the same rails anymore, nor the same ties, but there's a good chance the railroad bed is the same one laid down by Chinese workers over a century ago.

This is a busy place. Probably not conducive to the survival of a brood of unattended "new ducks".

Now, the surgeon advised me "light duty" for at least two weeks. Minimal bending over, no lifting anything over ten pounds.

So far, I'm still finding it to be a major chore to bend down and pick a piece of lettuce off the floor.

Wonder how he'd feel about me chasing little ducklings sprinting across several tracks of busy rails?

But there was no answer at the warden's house, or his cellphone. Suspect he took my advice and went out into the gas field, just to learn the new roads (he did).

So, I load the horribly excited heeler sisters into the rig (remember, they haven't been anywhere in weeks, either). And the small pet carrier. And discover it is just a little awkward trying to drive slightly bow-legged.

Especially whilst trying to keep the heelers and their tiny, sharp-toed feet out of my lap.

As I reach the tracks, I call the railroad guy back.

Where's the ducks?

Turns out they herded them off the tracks, into the big gravel dike around their huge diesel tanks.

Okay. Running around on oil and diesel-soaked ground probably ain't real healthy either, but it's better than hopping along rails.

I hike the dike. Clear around the huge tanks. The label on the diesel said something like 1,450,000 gal.

Really.

And the diked pit around those two tanks is big enough to hold all that fluid if there should happen to be a rupture. Takes a while to hike around it.

No ducklings. Or "new ducks" either, for that matter.

But, off to the south, by the parked semi trailers and storage sheds, I hear some real faint pipping.

New ducks.

I walk the trailers, the spare railcar hitches, the porta-potties.

No ducklings. Unless they're in a porta-potty.

But beyond this storage area the ground drops steeply away, down a weedy slope into the southern end of town.

What used to be the "wrong" side of the tracks, but is now a combination of small homes, dumpy trailers, and green, maintained yards. This is where Willie's used to be (The only whorehouse in town when I first got here. My first and only visit to that establishment would make an interesting entry here, I suppose... if I haven't mentioned it already.)

So, we slowly cruise those narrow streets and alleys. Drawing paranoid glances from residents, and friendly waves from others.

But no ducks. "New" or otherwise.

So, it's a little after five o'clock. A quick detour a couple blocks north of the tracks and the volume on an empty SUV is soon set to max.

And home we come.

Empty handed.

And slightly bow-legged.