The call came a little after eight o'clock.

Last night. A couple bites into dinner.

One of my wardens reporting that, when he returned from Regional Town, he found a wing barrel on his lawn.

Not erect, mind you. Just the pieces. Someone had knocked down one of my wing barrels, brought the barrel, sign and fenceposts into town, and dumped them on his yard.

Ooookay.

That's a new one. I've had barrels blasted by shotguns (either frustrated hunters, or someone upset with our grouse season), plugged with bullets (presumably just bored), knocked down by cattle, and stuffed with entire sage grouse carcasses (Presumably someone pissed about our late season, which waits until the birds are off the creek bottoms and you have to hunt to find them.)

Even had one stolen, once. Back in the last energy boom. I suspect it became a wood-burning stove in someone's garage or trailer.

But I've never had one returned to sender. Even if they got the wrong house.

The call came a little after eight o'clock.

This morning.

Dispatch, relaying a message from our town's Chief of Police. Seems he's been found by an injured eagle, which is walking up to him asking for help.

Really. That's what he told her.

Ooookay.

So much for having a day off before deer seasons. I quickly load everything back into the truck that had been taken out of the truck when I took it in for a new fender on Tuesday. (The old one was being shaken off, literally. And had already been welded back on once. The body shop guy said they had to do "a lot of welding" inside. "That truck's not going to last you much longer.")

So, I find the Police Chief by the town shop, and he immediately lets me know he's got a redtailed hawk, not an eagle.

And he's right.

And he's having the thrill of the week helping me run this thing down.

An immature redtail, with a broken left wing. A bad break, with bone sticking out. He's thinking hit on the nearby railroad tracks, but I suspect instead the poor thing stooped after a rabbit inside this semi-industrial part of town, and got nailed by a wire or fence.

Either way, it needs to go to Central City and the rehab people.

So, coffee is made, the heelers loaded, and off to town we go. First to drop off my wings from Monday's collection in the warden's freezer. (A necessary step, as last year I was awarded the prize for rottenest wings of the state at the November wing bee, since they didn't get frozen that year.)

And also to pick up my barrel. By the size, I can narrow it down to one of three locations. One is unlikely to upset anyone, so that leaves two others. One ten miles west, the other 45 miles northeast.

I try to con the warden into ferrying the hawk, but no dice. So, here I am, already well over the maximum number of hours they allow us to work in the month, about to work nine more hours on my "day off". But we can check the barrel site to the northeast on our way back from Central City, and double up on errands.

Two hours later the hawk is delivered to the Audubon folks, who force a cup of coffee into my hands and let me see their screech owl while I sip. (A western screech owl, to be exact. I mentioned a bird expert was in our part of the state a few years back, trying to figure out where the eastern species ends, and western begins. "I suspect the owls don't know," is what the rehabber said, and I suspect she's right.)

As we rolled back down the same stretch of asphalt on the return trip, I was grumbling to myself about the lost day. Which I would have preferred to spend down south in the forest, taking pictures of aspen. But, truth be told, at almost three dollars a gallon, and eight miles to the gallon for the old Dodge, I know I wouldn't have gone anywhere.

And now, here I am, using someone else's gas and truck, about to go through a smaller mountain range to look for a wing barrel.

Things could be worse, I guess.

Still woulda been nice to get some pictures of the salmon spawning, though.

I turn off the highway at the red canyon, and head up the county road. Halfway to my mountains, I pass a ranch truck and horse trailer, and wave back at the driver. Two miles farther up I find a truck stopped in the middle of the road, flagging me down.

Hunters.

And it seems the first truck wasn't a rancher, but another load of hunters. In radio communication with this truck. Looking for someone exactly like me.

'Cause their elk season opens tomorrow, and they have no idea where to hunt.

They thought they did, when they bought a square mile of our state. But they found out today that their newly owned square mile is just nothing but rocks.

So much for buying land sight unseen.

I am too courteous to ask how much they spent.

The other bad news is... I'm on the wrong side of the river. If we were on my side, I could tell them where the elk are, where the public land is, and which ranchers might let them on private land.

On this side of the river, I got no clue.

But I know generally where the elk are, and I got a map that shows public land and roads. So, for almost a half hour, we stand there in the road, pouring over my map.

And yes, like all other feckless hunters who don't plan ahead, they offered to buy it.

Uhhh, no. Only one I got, and we get them free as a courtesy. Wouldn't be right to turn around and sell them.

Four hunters, two older men, two young ones. Most vocal older one is clearly a farmer, navigates by rote, not maps. Most vocal young man, his son I believe, is more attuned to GPS and maps. He wants to follow my suggestion of running to town to buy a map. If only to know what is public land, and what is private.

Dad just wants to go look for the public land.

Like it's gonna look any different from the private stuff.

We get them lined up on a couple roads they can use to get up into elk country, and then Dad is eager to roll. To go scout, get the hunt on the road.

His silent friend standing there like Ed Norton watching Ralph Kramden. Waiting for disaster to fall, and not the least surprised to see it coming.

Finally we reach the mountains. And the heelers get their first real break of the day by the spring under the large ponderosas, after over five hours in the truck. The aspen are just barely starting to turn at this elevation, but there were still plenty of other colours.

And the cottonwoods were in their prime.

Of course, there was fun trying to decide which was better... looking at them from above the canyon

or from the bottom.

Finally we make the last switchback, where I can look down to see if my barrel is there.

And it is. So the one in back of my truck must be from the desert, 10 miles west of town.

Oh joy. Another hour added onto the day ("off").

But at least a few of the aspen had some colour in them. The Black Hills gold type.

Fifty-five miles later, and a little before three-thirty, finds us checking the desert barrel, by the Ankylosaur site.

No barrel. Just three holes in the ground where the posts had been set, and tire tracks of whoever took offense.

This is the spot.

Unload the barrel, and posts, and grab the post pounder.

No post pounder.

I always leave the postpounder in the truck throughout grouse season, just in case a barrel needs to be reset. But there's no post pounder in the truck today.

Remember stripping out all the loose gear when it went into the body shop? All the stuff I might need to use in the interim?

Craaap.

Back to home we go. Extract post pounder from garage, and back to the Ankylosaur site we go. And in goes the barrel, 25 meters down from the spot which apparently offended someone. We'll see if they let it stay for the remaining three days of the grouse season.

And a little after five o'clock, we're finally home to stay.

For my day "off".

The knock on the door came a little after nine o'clock.

A deputy sheriff.

Seems the police department has a couple stray dogs that are attacking other dogs, and cannot be caught. Game warden wants me to bring in the tranquilizing rifle for the dogs.

Not to tranq them, but to kill them. Use a solid practice dart, and it's effective, quiet and safer at short range.

Okay. The right weapon to use in a trailer court.

So much for dessert. I change back into uniform (straight from the dryer), and check the tranq rifle and pistol. Making sure I got blank charges, CO2 cartridges, and practice darts. Then I load three cases into the truck.

The deputy pulls up.

Game warden called, said they don't need my gear any more.

I don't ask why. I don't want to know. The wife's godson lives in that trailer court, but we're pretty sure his heeler is at his Dad's.

Deputy says he'l tell the warden he owes me a big one.

No, just a little one. If I'd already been on the highway when he canceled, it'd be a big one.

After all, it is my day off.