It started as a sanity trip, more than anything else. One of many decisions that Sunday afternoon that, looking back, all went the wrong way. But the heeler sisters were hyper after weeks of being housebound, and we had received several reports of large numbers of elk wintering low on our unit, near the main road. And tons of people out in country to watch them.

There had been talk of closing the unit to humans to avoid stressing the elk. It would be nice to know if there really was a problem before we did that.

So in the middle of the afternoon, the sisters and I head out. Not bothering to put on any winter clothes, since this would just be a short jaunt across the railroad tracks.

There was fresh snow covering the land from the night before, so it was easy to see there would be no repeat of the crowd seen weeks before. Only one set of vehicle tracks in front of ours. A vehicle we soon found at the abandoned ranch buildings, two men unloading to hunt any unsuspecting cottontails. A quick check of their paperwork found all in order.

But they had also been out here the Friday before, to watch elk and hunt coyotes. One reported seeing over 1,000 elk on the unit, which isn't too far from our estimate of 800+, but still well above the normal elk presence of less than a hundred. But most importantly, they reported seeing two crippled cow elk, apparently shot, and large, fresh blood spots where the herd had crossed the bladed road.

Right under the powerline. Three miles in past the tracks.

So much for taking a quick peek from the tracks and going home. We're going drift-bustin'.

Three-tenths of a mile later we were stuck, the truck resting on top of rock-hard snow, the wheels spinning uselessly.

I am wishing I had had the sense to put on thermals before heading out, as I climb into the coveralls and head out into the blowing snowstorm to shovel. Only to discover my short-handled, square-bladed shovel, so perfect for extracting snow from under a vehicle, somehow managed to disappear from the back of my rig.

Along about the time a certain warden borrowed the truck, in fact.

But shoveling can be done with a long-handled spade, it's just harder and less effective. And no other option was available.

A quarter of the truck excavated, I am relieved to see the two rabbit hunters drive over the tracks. And in no time, we are jerked out of the drift, and free to turn around and go home. But there's still the matter of the two crippled elk. And the hunters are continuing south, after coyotes now, and eager to show me the elk they discovered.

Bad decision number two: we follow.

Their heavier rig, on narrower tires, does a good job of plowing the path for us, until we get by the pond. That drift stalls them, and it takes a second run to get through. Thereafter, we're spending as much time driving cross-country as we are on the drifted-in road. Finally, the powerline looms into view from the white mist, and we can barely see a large herd of elk foraging on a far hillside.

Too faintly to see if all are well, or not. But I have had enough. I pull alongside, and advise the hunters I'm turning back. This is nonsense. But they continue on. "If they have to call Search and Rescue, tell them where we went, okay?"

So I pull off the road on a ridge and park, get out the spotting scope, and sit to watch the elk herd react as the hunters drive past.

Bad decision number three.

But the snowstorm settles in, and I see nothing. One minute the elk are there, then it's white. When the snow lifts, the elk are gone. And I see the hunter's truck hightailing it back down the road towards me. I decide to wait.

Bad decision number four.

Yeah, the elk herd boogied when the hunters arrived. All except one cow, who can't get up. They report there's only one bad spot in the road, otherwise it's an easy drive to the downed elk. They turn around, and I follow.

Bad decision number five.

The "one bad spot" turns out to be a drift deeper than the one by the pond, and three to four times as long. They barely struggle through, as do we after a good long run at it. We park directly below the powerline, and can see the elk on the hillside across the draw, not quite a half mile away. Her hind end is down, and she's struggling to rise. Without success.

There are only two options at this point. Leave her to Mother Nature's graces, or put her down with a bullet. One of the hunters gives me a horrified look when I suggest the former, so I come up with a third option. To hike to the elk and see if a closer presence will motivate her to rise. I mean, she was in the middle of the herd just minutes ago, it's unlikely that she would then suddenly lose use of her limbs.

As an added incentive for the elk to rise, I take the heeler sisters. They have been bouncing and yipping in the truck since we left the interstate, the walk will do them good.

Bad decision number six.

And in the unlikely event the elk still cannot rise, I take the rifle.

Bad decision number seven.

It's not quite a half mile to the elk, but seems farther. Most of the distance is a greasewood flat, requiring a zig-zag path through snow drifts up to the knees. Heelers following directly behind, hopping from one boot track to the next. The hunters drive on, in search of canid quarry farther up the draw.

Not until we leave the greasewood and start heading up the sage slope does the elk take notice of my canid escort, who have fanned out smelling all the elk sign. But she still cannot rise.

We are forced to the second solution. And it suddenly hits me.

I've got heelers with me.

Heelers who hate boomb-a-looms. They've never been afield with me before when I had to shoot something. Yeah, they've watched from the truck quite a few times, and made it clear they don't like the boom stick. But I have no idea what they'll do out in the open.

The smart thing to do is hike all the way back, almost a half mile across the drifted flat, and deposit them back in the truck. And then hike back for the elk.

The elk lets out a bleat of fear, struggling against her useless legs. She needs to be put down. And it's nearly four-thirty already. With more snow coming in. I decide to put the heelers on 'stay' at the base of the hill, a hundred meters from the elk. And up I go, to end the elk's suffering.

Bad decision number eight.

As I approach within five meters of the elk, she is clattering away at me with her teeth, but clearly cannot get up. And from far away, up the draw, comes the muffled report of a rifle shot. And immediately, the little maskless heeler is in full run, headed up to me for safety, her ears and tail tucked.

I scream and scream for her to stay, but she is more than halfway to me and the elk before she finally obeys, and stops, shivering with fear. And then a second shot rings out, and here she comes again. I hustle down and meet her, about 30 meters from the elk. And once again get her sitting, on 'stay'.

I quickly stride up to the elk, throw the rifle up to my eye and put a bullet at the back of her head, relieved at how quiet my shot is compared to the calibers that rolled down the valley. Immediately, I spin around to snatch the little maskless heeler.

Who is gone.

Hightailing it as fast as she can over a ridge to the northeast. Ignoring my screeching yells completely. A look down the hillside finds her sister also running as fast as she can. Almost due north. She pauses for a second when I yell, then lets panic take over, disappearing from sight. The last I see of the heeler sisters is the widespread hind legs and flying tail of the little maskless one as she clears the far ridge, still headed northeast.

The truck, and the road, is west.

Oh, God, no.

The elk is forgotten as I race to the ridge where I last saw a heeler, and start calling. Yelling and yelling until I have no more voice. With no one to hear me but thirty-some elk out on a flat playa.

No heelers.

It's at least five miles north to the interstate. Fifteen, northeast, to town. Land empty except for snow and sage. And coyotes. Lots and lots of coyotes. And less than an hour until sunset, with snow still coming down and wind rising.

I've just killed the heeler sisters. I know it.

The hike back to the truck is horrific. My mind racing over how I will tell this to the wife when I get to the cell phone.

The coyote hunters arrive at the rig the same time I do, and I am almost surly as I tell them I took care of "their" elk. And lost both heelers in the process.

It wasn't worth it.

Before I can unlock the truck, I hear a familar jingle. And miracle of miracles, here comes the masked heeler, trotting up the road as if she had just been out on a drag race.

But she's alone.

The call home is terse, and melodramatic. Aggravated because you cannot get signal on a cell phone within the house. I have to wait for the wife to grab a coat and get outside to talk, and even then it is almost all static. In shouted pigdin I tell her where we are, and that the little heeler has run away, into the desert. And that she'll probably die tonight. Before the wife's wail of pain is finished, I tell her we're going to follow. And she may lose a husband, too.

And I hang up.

I shove the useless rifle into the truck, and grab the backpack I keep ready for hiking. Throwing it on, I call the masked heeler out of the warm truck.

"You're not taking him?" the shorter hunter asks in alarm.

Yep. If we find her sister, I may need her to get close.

The driver is even more concerned. "You got a flashlight?" he challenges, as it is darkening soon.

Yep.

"And spare batteries?" Another challenge.

Yep. Got those, too.

As we bail off the road into the snow-filled draw, they ask if there is anything they can do to help.

Yeah.

If they have to call out Search and Rescue, tell them where we went.

And off we went to track the missing sister.