We will not dwell upon the day's early morning hours.

The wasted trip. The wasted, precious morning during a drastically shortened strutting season. The wasted gas.

The sleep lost.

Nor will we go into detail about the curse words that flew into the air, directed towards ears in far off California.

Not that he really needs to hear them, seeing as how I don't know how his chemo is going.

Let us just say, the locks on the gates that he swore could be opened with either a "1202" or "7777" combination...

Weren't.

No, I will instead mention the 30-mile detour I took, scouting routes to yet other leks.

Leks it seems, I could have reached and counted this morning.

And that there is a heck of a lot of snow left on the Divide.