The alarm went off at five after six, generating moans of complaint from the companions in our bed. I kinda figured the heelers would be less than enthused about heading out for a second morning in a row, and I was right. All I got was a squinty-eyed look from the masked heeler, as if to ask, "Are you crazy? For months we've been staying home, and now you want to go out again?"

So I watched the moon passing over the hills to the west all by myself.

A few minutes earlier than yesterday, I was well into the desert when the sun's rays started sneaking down the western horizon.

And already counting my first lek when the sunlight finally hit.

There were grouse strutting on the second lek as well,

but that's not so surprising. I'm at least ten miles from any active gas well. (Now uranium wells, that's a different story. A whole pod of uranium wells just to the northwest, which is why the roads that I usually find untouched this early in the spring were all beaten and well traveled.)

No birds on lek number three for the morning, but there haven't been for many years. Maybe wasn't really a lek to begin with.

The fourth lek takes a slow crawl up a two-track to the crest of a ridge to count, but as I near my parking spot a big black shape rises from that very spot.

And takes wing.

An eagle. A g-d m-f eagle.

And with a whoosh, the lek is immediately vacated by the grouse. All I could count was 29 cocks and three hens flying off either south or northwest.

Away from the eagle.

From this "high" point, I can also see the snowbanks that mark one of my newest leks, just reported by uranium company consultants last spring. With the 22x spotting scope, I can just barely make out two male grouse strutting on it.

Just over two miles away.

I backtrack down off the ridge, and then continue north on the main road. Normally drifted shut this early in the year, it has been plowed this winter, probably for the uranium crews, and I manage one more lek in the morning.

They're about done for the morning, so it is finally time for coffee and a granola bar. Around a quarter to nine most the grouse flush north, and we're pretty much done.

I hate going home the same way I came, so I cut east across the edge of the basin, seeing if I can make it across the divide to a highway.

And I can.

The mountain snowpack may be fine, but we're really short of the white frozen water out here in the desert. nd can only hope these hills have not seen all that they will receive this spring.