This is another sunset entry. If you're tired of them (and I am obviously not... do not remember a year with sunsets like these), you probably want to move on.

The clouds were looking really promising for a colorful sunset as we hustled across the desert from wing barrel number seven (rattling around in back) to barrel number eight. Barrel eight is deep in Crooks Gap, which would be lousy for trying to see a sunset. Checked the GPS for our longitude: sunset would be at 18:45.

We left the Gap at 18:35, barrel eight loaded. And hurried south back into the desert. Meeting at least three vehicles, coming from either the new gas drilling rig, or the site of our newest coalbed methane project.

May they both have the worst of luck.

And then turned east along the county road towards barrel number nine. And stopped at the crest of a rise, just a couple miles south of the Continental Divide, to watch the sunset.

Wide open spaces, nobody for miles. No interruptions.

Heelers had time for a drag race in the last rays of the sun.

Kicking up plumes of red-glowing dust.

And then it started.

The little humps just right of center on the horizon are the Oregon Buttes, and Continental Peak. Where the two branches of the Continental Divide come together and resume their path to the Yellowstone Country.

Especially enjoyed watching this unusual cloud bank to the southwest, glowing like embers in a campfire.

There were pink clouds to the south as well, and to the east and northeast. When watching the latter, I spotted headlights.

Headlights.

On the same road we're on. Headed our way. Not more than a couple minutes off.

So much for an uninterrupted sunset.

Took one more shot as I heard the SUV pull up alongside.

A falconer. With plates from an East Coast state.

Long way from home. And familiar. He introduces himself. I don't recognize the name, but I do recognize him. I'm sure we've met before. A bird dog in the back seat. The back of his vehicle is surprisingly empty.

He's lost his peregrine.

A captive raised falcon, he drove out this far so it could hunt grouse. The falcon's moult is over, and the eastern duck seasons are too late to properly exercise a newly moulted bird.

Long trip to exercise your bird. But falconers do love their charges.

And his went circling up into a thermocline on Saturday, and didn't come down. And he's still looking. Hoping she'll come to his calls, to his shotgun, or to the dog.

She's wearing a transmitter, but there's been no signal. He even went up in a plane (with my pilot) yesterday, and they couldn't pick up the beeps from the air.

Not good. Says the beacon's good for maybe eight days. Probably longer than the bird. This isn't a return to the wild. This is a death sentence for his unskilled escapee. He thinks that if last night's chill didn't get her, tonight's probably will. Unless she finds a roadkill jackrabbit or something to eat.

He's pretty depressed. And going home tomorrow.

He was last in our country five years ago. Lost his falcon then, too. Pretty sure that is where I remember him from.

Asks what I'm doing here.

Stopped to watch the sunset.

Now this thrills him. Turns out he's in the same profession, just at the federal level (and higher salary if he can afford $30,000+ for a falcon). Thinks we all should spend more time savoring our work.

I resume taking shots (well over 50... no, you only have to look at five).

These clouds were behind the Wind Rivers, far to the north. You can see that incredible half-mountain for miles, from both the Dubois and Pinedale sides of the range. My Dad has a poor slide of it from our Yellowstone trip in the 60s. I have a neat shot, taken through binoculars, from our Honeymoon.

Really need to find out what it is called sometime.

By this time the falconer can no longer resist. Gets his camera out, and we stand side-by-side, two strangers on a sandy road, capturing a sunset.

He mentions seeing a herd of elk out here in the desert. Still thrilled about it, even though he was looking for something precious and lost at the time.

Tomorrow he goes home. To the wife who told him yes, he could go west for some fun, but to be sure to come home with the dog and the bird this time.

I suggest some ponds that hold ducks along his route out tomorrow. Places to look for a peregrine. Throwing him some last hopes before he returns to his camp in the desert.

Then a few last shots, again with the Oregon Buttes and Continental Peak.

As I sat in the dark, making notes about the falconer (in case his bird shows up somewhere), I am startled by a bright glow from the south.

A falling star.

Not a pinprick of light, but a white ball, glowing irridescent red and green on the trailing side. Leaving a short trail as it burned nearly straight down. Slowly. Taking long enough that I actually thought about getting the camera.

And disappeared behind the low mesas far to the south.

Those hills are lower than I am. If that meteor or space debris didn't hit the ground, then it flared out low enough to singe trees.