I knew it would be a disaster.

Trying to take off a whole week in August.

In August, of all months. Second-busiest month of the year.

So, I've been trying to play catch-up. Thirteen-hour days followed by more 13-hour days. Thirteen classification routes completed.

Nine to go. And hunting seasons are already upon us.

Tomorrow's flight will take care of two of those routes. Leaving seven.

Three of those absolutely, positively have to be run before Saturday.

'Cause that's when the hunting season opens in that antelope area.

Ooookay. Three routes in two and a half days. That's doable. There's light at the end of the tunnel.

Maybe even time for half a day off (half of a 13-hour day, that is).

Until we tried this evening's route.

Hit a rock. More specifically, landed on a rock. A rock I've been driving over for at least twenty years.

Today, either I angled it wrong, or the wind has eroded too much dirt from the sides. But the truck is broke.

As in, "maybe I should've walked to the highway", broke.

Broke as in, you can feel things moving underneath your feet that shouldn't be moving as you drive.

Craaap.

Naturally, I took it out by yelling at the sweet heelers, who wanted to do nothing but run and play as I worried, fretted, and inspected underneath said truck.

Now they're bummed and heart-broken, too.

Suspect it'll be weeks before the truck's functional again. With seven routes to run, check station duty this weekend, and Tuesday, and every weekend until mid-November.

I am never, ever taking time off in August again. The resultant mania in early September is just too much.