Prairie ballet!

Thought I'd post this from the mulie sighting the other day. This little guy is "pronking." I believe it is an Afrikaans word for the stiff-legged, prancing run that some antelopes over there, and mulies here, use to cover ground. Whitetails do not indulge. What fun it is to watch a mob of a dozen or so mulies pronking away over the plains like a gaggle of wind-up toys!

The mulies are back

A nice gift for the First of April: the return of the mule deer. Ten females. They left early in the fall and haven't been on the place all winter. Plenty of whitetails, but no mulies. It's good to see them again. Even better will be seeing their fawns in a few weeks.

The First of April

And, apparently, the first day of summer as well: at 245PM today the thermometer topped 97°.

My poor trees, that are now entirely greened with new leaves, may be in for a rude surprise. Normally at this time of year we would still have snow on the ground, nighttime temps well below freezing, and perhaps even a killer storm on the way. Some of our worst weather "events" have come in April

We are still two months away from a safe window for planting gardens and the like. Never saw anything like it.

My very own mining engineer

No question about it: Jack is the diggingest dog I have ever lived with. He's fascinated by our prairie pocket gopher. He will stand for an hour over a hole waiting for one to show up. If it seems fresh (and sometimes I'm sure he can hear them down there working away) he will go to work trying to dig them out. So far I don't think he has caught one. If he ever does I am afraid he will be a gopher-dog instead of a bird-dog. I've given up on keeping him from digging altogether. But I do have to watch him because he is very fast. I got distracted for a few minutes and he had the hole in the picture big enough to almost disappear into in about two minutes flat. No gopher out of that one, but he never seems to get discouraged.

New look for an old friend

Been quite a while since I've had a gun-related entry here. So...

I recently had a facelift done on an old friend. My Colt Gold Cup is one of my most accurate handguns, in addition to being pretty elegant esthetically as well. Her only flaw was that the short extension of the grip safety coupled with the long spur of the hammer caused her to occasionally give me a painful bite on the web of my hand. I like a pretty high hold on a 1911 and this tendency of the Gold Cup was annoying.

Not too many gunsmiths around here, but I finally stumbled on one that is experienced in that sort of work. Plus, he's only a 210 mile round trip away. Anyway, I had him install an Ed Brown beavertail grip safety and a Wilson ultra-light skeletonized hammer. I was happy with the trigger as it was at 3 pounds 12 ounces, but when she came back it was 3 pounds 9 ounces so all is well. Years ago I had the Elliason sights dehorned for carry purposes, so now she is about perfect as an all-around "field and target" pistol. The extraordinary accuracy of this old classic has not been changed, of course.

The 'smith only took a little over a month to do the work and it's good to have her home again. I can't think of a single improvement that could be made to her now.

Dry!

We have had little snow this winter, a very unusual non-event that does not bode well for our spring. The red flag warnings have been out for a long time, and we keep hoping for a good does of rain that will encourage the grass. A couple of seasons back we were thinking that maybe the drought had broken. Now we are not so sure. Wells tend not to go dry here, but we need surface moisture to make good grass. There's also the ever-present danger of fire

Jack the Doofus

My boy Jack is almost a year and nine months old now, and still very much a pup at heart. I don't think I've ever had a dog that was as much of a play-boy as he is. He's always looking for something to carry around, toss, chase, or otherwise amuse himself with.

Lately, his favorite toy has been a toss-ring— a kind of frisbee with a hole in the middle. He likes to "wear" it and run around at top speed (every fourth step a leap into the air ) as if looking for a tree to run into. Fortunately he hasn't run into anything yet but he seems to keep trying. He's very proud of this toy and misses no opportunity to show me how good he is at putting it on.

I love a dog with a sense of humor. Jack qualifies.

Signs of Spring

Slowly the prairie begins to come alive again.

It's been a strange winter here on the High Plains. So far— and I say "so far" because it is far too early to be toting up the score— we have had very little snow, and only sporadic periods of intense cold. The last couple of days it has reached the mid-70s, with lovely bright sun and little wind. But as the Ides of March approach I am reminded of the old samurai saying: "In victory, tighten your helmet strings!" Good advice, whether you are a plains-dweller or not.

The light is changing, too. We already have "that certain slant of light" that bespeaks the coming of spring. It's the other side of the coin of fall light that tells us winter is coming. Winter may be starting its departure song, but we still have a ways to go until seeds can go in the ground. As usual, I will use Memorial Day as my garden's inauguration day, however encouraged I am by that certain slant of light.

[And a tangential note— our eyes and brains are so accustomed to a familiar symbology that if you look at the picture above from a slight distance, you will swear that it is upside down!]

A recent hunt re-cap

Two weeks ago I loaded up my little camper trailer and all four of us headed out for a 350-mile trip to a friend's farm where we got to do some bird hunting.

Birds were scarce, but it was good to see my friends again and have some quality time with them. The dogs, all three, enjoyed the trip, too. Em and Jack were out in the fields every day and Mags stayed back in the trailer, which she loves. She made comfy nests in the big bed and there were no complaints from her.

We had the chance to hunt a lovely private preserve that had some of the best habitat I have seen in a long time. Nevertheless, there were few birds. The day we hunted there we had six hunters and a like number of dogs. Jack and Emma performed well, but we didn't get into more than three rises on the whole day.

My hosts were apologetic but I assured them it had been a great day and I wasn't disappointed at all. The dogs had many great days, as did I. I know the dogs would have liked more rises and more birds in the bag, but I don't hunt to kill things. I hunt to be with the dogs, and revel in watching their joy as they work. It was also good to hunt with friends and enjoy some great days afield.

We were gone almost a week. Excellent trip, but we were all glad to be home. Mags dashed inside, jumped up on the couch, and did her patented head-stands in joy to be back in her house.

Good Day, No Birds

Jack and I hunted a neighbor ranch today. We saw a lot of birds but they were all doing their road-runner imitations— tails high, legs flashing in a sprinter's blur. I think they have two mottoes: "You fly, you die!" and "Be bold, don't hold!" Or something like that. But despite a bitter cold wind Jack was enthusiastic and didn't want to quit. Once the snow started (almost horizontal!) I wimped out and suggested we call it a day and he grudgingly agreed.

The Birthday Girl

Emma is ten today. Ten good years with a good dog!

It saddens me when my dogs grow old. Such good friends should live much longer than they actually do. Emma is just now beginning to show her age, but she is still up for a full day of hunting, or anything else that you might have in mind. She's a bit creaky the next morning, but ready to go again if you are.

I am well aware that dogs could not care less about birthdays, but I do. So she will get a "special dinner" today. That's the tradition around here. And that means that Mags and Jack will also get special dinners because they are great believers in their own version of the Fairness Doctrine which states that what One gets the Others get as well. Why not? Birthdays are to be celebrated by all!

When the cord snaps

Last night I was once again impressed with how easily the thin cord of civilization can be severed. So much depends on those wispy little power lines snaking in from the outside world. Last night, about 1800, they failed.

This is not an unusual thing out here, but I have gotten in the habit of calling it in immediately, since the phone company's line batteries tend to go out very quickly. I keep a little old-fashioned line-powered 'phone handy for just such occasions, even though I can hardly hear the other party. My power coop is aces, and no matter the problem they hustle to get it solved.

About an hour after the juice stopped flowing I fired up the fireplace, since the temp was dropping rapidly from about 28°. I lit the oil lamps, unplugged computers, the VCR and the TV, and settled into a rocker with the iPad for some reading. This was the first time I had the iPad during a power failure and glad I was to have it. The backlight makes reading a delight— reading with oil lamps is not what it's cracked up to be in books about the Good Old Days— and the 10+ hour battery is a comfort. (If you just listen to music on it it will last a lot longer. Sixteen days by one test.) I read from Richard Harding Davis's war correspondent writings until about midnight when I pulled out the couch-bed in front of the f/p and the dogs and I sacked out.

The power popped back on at 0230 this morning and I restarted the furnace. The temp was 15° outside but the house temp had only dropped to 66°, even though I had let the fire go out after we went to bed, thanks to all that good insulation.

I never started the genny. Didn't see the need.

There's nothing like a power failure to bring home how much we depend on that wired-in juice. Just about everything comes to a screeching halt when it fails, especially if it's after dark. It's probably a Good Thing that it happens from time to time to keep us humble. And to remind us to know where the flashlights are and to keep plenty of lamp oil on hand. We live on a thin crust wherever we happen to be.