Hey, did you know they built "Low Fuel" warning lights into modern pickups?

No, I didn't either. Until tonight.

After submitting comments on the seven-year highway project, I loaded up the heelers and we headed out to gather up wing barrels, and any sage grouse wings hunters might have left me.

Because of the snow, we were forced (or I should say, I was wise enough) to stay mainly on paved and gravel roads. No shortcut trek across the desert. Which means more miles than usual, and lots of back-tracking.

We were three barrels down, three to go for the day when we passed the last available gas pump. About fifteen minutes after they normally lock up.

I already knew it was going to be close, so I started watching the gas guage carefully. We were just nudging below half a tank when we headed into the desert for barrel four. An eighteen mile trip in on snow-soaked muddy roads, and 18 miles back out. Then 120 more miles to go.

As expected, the road was sloppy. Had to use 4-wheel drive.

And I swear, I could see the needle slide down. To save on fuel, we came out in 2-wheel drive. Slid some, but the needle barely moved.

When we hit the highway again, we were down five-eighths of the tank. I did the math.

Five-eighths gone, almost exactly 200 miles traveled. That means we've got about 120 miles left in the tank.

We've got 21 miles to the next exit, then ten miles in to the barrel and ten miles back out. Then 35 miles of highway to the last exit, and six miles in, six miles back. Then 33 miles home. Plus another mile to the pumps.

That's 122 miles.

Ohhh, chit.

Unless we want to have a warden or the wife ferry a few gallons of gas out to us, a most embarrassing circumstance, we need a few more miles of gas.

Or we have to skip a barrel, and come all the way back for it tomorrow, a terrific waste of time and more fuel.

Well, it worked for Nixon, it'll work for us.

We cruise down the highway at 52 mph. Passed quickly by literally every vehicle in our lane.

The heelers notice. After bumping each other in alarm, they both turn and stare at me like I've lost my mind.

"It's almost dinner time, and the idiot is slowing dowwwn?"

But 41 miles later, after our next jaunt into the muddy desert, we're back on the highway with more than a quarter of a tank of gas. Just a needle's width more, but still more. When it finally hits the quarter mark, yielding us 80 miles of travel at earlier consumption rates, we've only got 70 miles left to go.

We can gather barrel six after all. Taking the exit towards which yields more looks of despair from the heelers.

"Dinner's gonna be laaate!"

As I finish stowing the last barrel of the night, and writing my notes on the wings, I realize I've screwed up. Left the truck idling, burning gas, for nine minutes. Little short-haired heeler appreciated the heater, though. We're only a couple degrees above freezing now.

But now we have just over one-eighth of a tank to get home on. So, it is 52 mph all the rest of the way.

Shortly after we enter town, it comes on.

If I have things figured right, we had 0.8 gallons left when we refueled. Or maybe 1.8 gallons.