Thursday evening was spent wrapping up antelope classifications in my biggest area. All the routes done, except for two halves. One unfinished because of darkness, the other due to heavy, but welcome, rain.

Fortunately, they're close enough I should be able to run both halves in one evening. Which is good because the day after tomorrow the hunting season opens for this area, and the idea of collecting pre-hunt classification data suddenly becomes moot.

The first route takes the heeler sisters and I back out into the prairie. A land of prairie dogs, cactus flats, and shrinking reservoirs.

And forgotten wagon boxes, left to wear away in the wind.

The heeler sisters are frustrated because there are too few breaks for drag races. I soon figure out we're going to run short on time and daylight. I wanted to start the second half route by seven o'clock, but it's almost a quarter after when I pull off the highway and open the only gate on this route.

The GPS says sunset will be shortly after seven-thirty, but we're in the foothills, tall hills that are being draped by sand dunes from the desert.

We'll lose our sunlight long before then.

And we do. We're about ten or fifteen minutes from the end of our half route when the sun disappears.

And yeah, that hilltop on the right is the Continental Divide.

There's a large herd of pronghorn at Sunset Point, the high ground that I always try to reach by sunset when running the full route, from the other direction. Presumably the same large herd I had pass me in a panic during the heavy rain yesterday evening.

And again, I cannot classify them. But it's too late, now.

We're done.

As I wend our way back through the dunes towards the highway, I spot headlights coming off the pass five miles to the north.

Presumably a bowhunter, hunting elk or deer until dark (it was, as I found out on check station the following weekend). They're going much slower. But I know the road they're on, and that's probably wise.

A little less than two miles from the highway I stop, and give the frustrated heelers one last break. They snoop and pee, and then the little maskless one finds herself in the headlights.

I shout out "Run!", and off she goes down the road, with her blind sister racing after.

They're over ten years old, and this is the first time ever that they're raced down the road in front of the truck.

The sightless heeler actually has an advantage on the return leg into the headlights, and wins easily, guided in by my voice.

Another brief outing at the gate at the highway, and they settle in for the long drive home.

And yet another late dinner.

A mile or so later, I spy a long yellowish object laying in the road, and circle back for a closer look.

A rattler.

As usual, I hop out for pictures, trustingly leaving my door open.

Now, there's something I soon learned.

When a rattlesnake moves out of the light beams, and your eyes are still adjusted for headlights, the poisonous serpent disappears.

As in, I had no clue where the thing was.

This is not good.

Especially since the last I saw of it, it was facing towards me.

Grabbing a flashlight before stepping out of the truck sure woulda been smart.

I sidle into the headlights.

And take a picture of where I had just been standing.

Yeah. That's what I could see, too.

Nothin'.

But play with the contrast and intensity on the very same digital image, and there you have it.

A rattlesnake passing my recently vacated boot tracks.

Heading straight for the open truck door, with the two curious heelers hanging out as much as they can.

You know, the thought of using the camera's flash to see the snake never occurred to me. 'Til now. 'Course, it would have left me totally blinded, so maybe that's a good thing.

The idea that did occur to me was to kick sand.

Rattler coiled up (I assume), and started buzzing.

Allowing me to circle around the buzz, push the heelers back inside, and head for home.

Making an important mental note...

Never, never step out of the truck at night in rattlesnake country...

Not without a flashlight.