The first call came out of the darkness, almost immediately after I stepped out of the truck. A deep, gentle "hooo-ho-ho-hoo-hooo". Followed quickly by a second call, same as the first, but in a higher, thinner voice.

A pair of great horned owls, disturbed by my presence. The higher pitched call probably from the male, or a young bird. The deep call from the larger female.

But they both echoed, surrounding me with hooting owls.

Hoo-ho-ho-hoo-hooo, I called back.

And silence.

I stand quiet in the darkness, staring at a couple bright planets and the wonderful mist of stars known as the Milky Way. A sight foreign to those of you who have never looked up through high, thin air with no artificial light at all.

The moon has not yet risen, providing only the faintest glow off to the east. Here, the only man-made light was the intermittent red flash from the anti-theft system on the truck's dash.

But it is not the darkness that fills my thoughts. Not here.

Again the female calls out, joined by her mate. The calls start on my right, and bounce their way below me and off to my left. And again I answer.

And they are silent.

I retrieve the camera from the cab of the truck, silently shutting the door on the eager heelers.

No way they get out here.

I aim the lens almost blindly, guessing at where things might be, lit only by starlight.

"Hoo-ho-ho-hoo-hooo" the owls call out a third time, and a third time I respond.

Silence.

It's late. We have seventy-some miles to go, and two more wing barrels to put up.

Time to go.

I open the truck door and make one more call of my own out into the darkness.

Hoo-ho-ho-hoo-hooo.

There is no answer.

Before stepping into the cab I turn to my left, to the 120 feet of empty canyon beneath my feet.

Goodnight, Becky.

There is no answer.