By Phil Rowe

Andy’s rusty old pickup slowly rumbled down the narrow country road in western Kansas, barely making 20 miles an hour as it jostled around potholes and over cracks in the ancient blacktop. Just turned 70, Andy is now a retired farm equipment repairman, having driven these roads thousands of times over the years.

Beside Andy on the dust-covered bench seat sat Duke, his faithful pal and hunting buddy, a nine-year-old black Labrador retriever. Duke’s graying muzzle revealed his age, but at heart he remained in his hunting prime, ever alert for birds and critters that might appear along the roadside. Duke scanned the scene hoping the truck would stop so he could scamper after a rabbit, pheasant or sage hen. Duke dearly loved truck rides with his master.

The sun hung high in a cloudless sky, this nearly calm September afternoon. It was warm enough to require keeping the truck windows open. Duke kept his head out through the passenger-side opening in the gentle breeze, his mouth open and extended panting tongue lightly flapping as they rode along. Drool and saliva quickly evaporated in the dry air. No other traffic could be seen. For miles ahead and miles behind the road ran straight as an arrow across the empty plain.

"Look at that, old boy," Andy declared, pointing off to his left. "There across that just-harvested wheat field. You see it?"

Duke pulled his head back into the cab of the truck, turning toward the sound of his master’s voice, though he had no idea what was being said. He might have thought, or fervently hoped, that his attention was being called to a rising bird, a fleeting rabbit of even a coyote furtively crossing the road. The chase is the thing.

"There’s a dust devil over there, and it’s moving this way. Better keep an eye on it so we can close the windows before we get blasted with dirt and grit. Looks like it’s a half-mile off. Yep. And now it’s just reached the newly plowed field yonder. See how it picks up the loose soil and turns itself a dusty brown."

Suddenly, Andy decided to pull off the road at a wire-gated pasture drive, to let the twisting column of brown debris cross the road up ahead. "No need to get things any dirtier in here than they already are, old boy." Duke soon whimpered and excitedly bounced back and forth on the seat, eagerly waiting his master’s word to "Go get em, Duke." But the call didn’t come. There was no move toward the door handle. His beloved master simply sat there, watching and waiting.

"This is good, my friend, we can wait here for the thing pass safely ahead. It’ll be gone in a moment." The two watched as the apparently threatening, but actually fragile, whirling dervish passed by, carrying bits of added debris from the roadside. A bit of plastic bag, some paper and tumbleweed fragments broken off as the vacuum-like mouth swept along. Some of the dirt from the plowed field darkened the core of the still-narrow phenomenon.

It was barely twenty yards across at the bottom and still quite narrow up at the 200-foot level. And there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Though related to tornadoes, these things are tiny by comparison and far less destructive. They can be more of an annoyance than a threat to property or lives.

"There it goes, Duke, down that draw to the right, toward that small stand of cottonwoods." Duke’s ears lifted slightly and he cocked his head to one side. The leaves were just turning yellow in anticipation of the coming autumn. Suddenly, a couple of the trees shook angrily, as if attempting to scare off the intruding whirlwind. Soon thousands of yellow leaves joined the rising column of dirt, dust and debris being carried across the countryside. The added color was quite beautiful.

The dust devil’s encounter with those trees proved to be too much. Its very existence became doomed when the trees and branches disturbed the airflow along the column’s base. The vacuum broke and the thing soon came apart. Too disorganized now to continue its whirling pattern and movement, the dust devil soon became history. The only thing it left was a sky full of now-falling and fluttering leaves, twigs and dust. It surprises folks to discover how fragile dust devil’s can be.

"Okay, boy. It’s passed. We can go on home now. Besides, hunting season is still a month off. We’ll come back. There’s game down there in those cottonwoods. You’ll see." And Duke settled down, curling up on the seat next to his knowing master, as the truck continued down the road.