I knew there would be trouble when I was just 16 miles north of town.

Where Sunday's snow had all melted away in our country, the land to the north and west was still white.

Solid white. As I gathered up my wing barrel at the edge of this band of winter, the heelers and I all felt the bitter cold in the air. Certainly the pronghorn sensed the change in the season, fervently walking along stuffing their faces and bellies.

Ignoring us as they tried to convert the last of the summer's bounty into fat reserves for the coming winter.

My next barrel was in the middle of all that snow, roughly forty miles away across the desert.

Or 77 miles if I took the long way around, on highways.

I went around. But this would still leave me with 15 miles of desert dirt road, probably a muddy mess.

The snow got deeper as I wended west, even starting to pile behind the snowfences.

The cowboys were out, gathering their stock off the open range, preparing for an early move to the winter pastures.

A young couple in a rental car flagged me down. He'd drawn an antelope license, and this little sedan was the only vehicle they could rent in DIA. They were from New York, totally unprepared for winter weather, the pretty wife looking forlorn behind the steering wheel in her obviously brand-new Cabela's winter coat.

They'd tried one of the main county roads, and turned back within a hundred yards because of the mud. Twice he looked down at my tires with envy... "That's what you need out here, huh?" Umm, yeah. And they're not for rent. I direct him to a short stretch of old, abandoned, paved highway he can hunt off of, and then continue west.

When it came time to leave the comfort of plowed highway for desert track, things were looking grim.

Our road wasn't much better.

After a mile of sloshing through mud and snow, I reach a high point where I can look ahead.

Okay, that might be drivable. But then I look farther along, where the road crests the divide and heads out into the true desert.

Ummm, nope. Ain't even tryin' that. And there's another ten miles beyond to get to my lonely barrel. I give the heelers a quick break in the blizzard, which surprised the hell out of the blind one, and then turn around.

Relieved to be on pavement, we turn east, towards my last three barrels.

But I already know it's going to be a long drive, 'cause this snow and mud is also going to cut off my dirt road shortcut to the last two barrels.

Losing that adds over fifty miles to our trip. And means the heelers' dinner will be late. By at least an hour or more.

And that's a crisis in our pack. As I pointed out to the wife after our last late night drive, a package of cheese-and-crackers buys me 22 minutes of tummy time in a heeler. That's how much after dinner time they started pestering me after feeding them cheese and crackers.

I don't have enough packages of cheese and crackers along on this trip for an hour or more.

But there's naught to do but drive.

And drive.

But as we reach Independence Rock, we step back in time.

All the way back to Autumn.

There is no snow. There is no mud.

The pronghorn are peacefully lazing about, totally unaware they are only twenty miles from winter.

Bucks strutting around chasing each other and herding their does, thoughts of coming cold the last thing on their minds.

Our shortcut should be fine. We'll have time to spare. I even linger a while with Becky and Amy's ghosts.

The sun set while we still had two barrels, and fifty miles, to go.

The moon rose after the last barrel, with almost thirty miles to go.

The heelers' dinner was ready and waiting when we came in the door. Only twenty minutes late.

I had to wait for mine.