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desert route 3.1 (in the snow) The forecast called for rain. Mixed with snow. Seventy percent chance. Which is a safe bet, when it's raining when you went to bed. But that other 30 percent can make all the difference. So, when I got up dark-and-a-half early in the morning, the rain wasn't a surprise. And as I sped down the highway in the borrowed truck, I knew the wet here did not matter. The question is, what is it doing at the strutting ground? Thirty miles can make a lot of difference. And since I absolutely, positively had to get a good count on this lek this morning, I kept on going. Four miles north of town, the rain turned into snow. Which is a good thing, actually. Grouse will rarely strut in the rain. Not a good thing to get your bare skin soaking wet out in the wild. But a light snow? Not so bad. And I'm still on the Divide. Out in the basin, it might not be snowing at all... It was. I got to the lek just a few minutes after sunrise, but all I could see was eight cocks standing around on the strutting ground, not too sure if there was any point in doing anything else. And within moments, before I could make a second count, the lek was empty. Flushed. Not by me, but by an apparition that came running out of the dark whiteness. A pronghorn buck. Well, craaap. These standardized counts are supposed to be made every 7-10 days. This was day ten. Craaap. I sat there for several minutes, the spotting scope staring out into a white nothingness, waiting for the buck to peacefully move on. My left leg was soaked from the heavy, wet snow flakes. Might as well go home. No point in fighting the snow and mud just to get to another empty lek somewhere. The heavy blanket of white covered the world, smothering any noise. Out of nothingness, I am passed by silent pronghorn and into nothingness they return. Farther on, I in turn startle another band, rolling silently past on muffling white. Presumably leaving them stunned as I, too, disappear back into the falling snow. A mile from the asphalt, the silence is broken by the loud trills of a sage thrasher. Unlike the sage grouse, this determined male wasn't going to let a little spring storm dampen his ardor. And then it was thirty miles to home. Dropping out of the highlands the clouds rise, and I discover a band of new bucks. Male fawns, approaching their first birthday, have begun to band together with a few older bucks. Already sparring, pushing and humping each other. Thrilled with these new weapons they are growing on their heads. A few miles from the highway I am surprised by an unexpected flying shape. The long, curved bill and trailing legs are easy to recognize. It just isn't what you expect out here in a desert. An ibis. A white-faced ibis, to be exact. Presumably unhappily stalled in its northward spring migration by this storm front. Making do with a miniature wetland in the ditch of the road. By the time I get back to town, the snow has turned back into rain. Just the right weather to put a damper on someone's day. Something to go with their morning speeding ticket. |
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