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Escaping the Madness

Mon, 27 Apr 2026 20:14:14 GMT

Is there a place left on Earth where we can just relax in good, old-fashioned sanity?

It's been a while since I've added some thoughts to this author's blog. I took a few months off to research my latest book, Roaming Crow, then a year to write it. The world has changed a great deal in the last year and a half, so I have some catching up to do.

January, 2025 started with a bang, when the Southern California wildfires destroyed 18,000 homes and caused over four-hundred deaths. Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the country, an Army Black Hawk helicopter collided with an American Airlines jet, killing all sixty-seven people as both aircraft crashed into the Potomac River. These two incidents seemed to be the starting gun to an onslaught of disasters, some natural, some man-made, but all of them freakish.

The fires have continued into 2026. A million acres in the Nebraska Sandhills have been charred by wildfires during March and April. Sparse grass, the only thing stabilizing all these dunes, is gone, leaving sugar sand at the mercy of springtime gales. It could take two or three years for the land to recover, depending on timely rains. Unfortunately, we are in a drought, and the cattle can't survive in a desert. Thank God for generous farmers from across the state who are donating hay for the livestock.

Am I wrong, or are we experiencing more tornados than usual? I was doing some reading in the unassuming Book of Hosea this morning and came across this phrase: They sow the wind and reap a tornado . I had to stop and ponder these words. The context was the country of Israel and the feigned godliness of it's idol worshipping kings. They spewed empty lies which humored the countrymen, but would eventually spawn a tornado which would destroy their nation. If you're wondering, Hosea was an 8th century B.C. prophet.

Then came the flash flood in Texas last July 4th that drowned 119 people. Twenty-eight of these were children and the director of a Christian girls camp. Natural disasters don't discriminate whom they affect.

Now, let's look at some of our man-made afflictions, starting with our pocketbook. Insurance costs have sky-rocketed; many folks are forced to go without medical insurance. Mortgage rates have doubled, making it more difficult to purchase a home. Prices at the grocery store continue to climb. Fuel prices have increased by 30% since the start of the war with Iran.

Speaking of the war, have you noticed a sudden change in people's demeanor lately? Vocal Trump adherents are strangely silent now. A befuddled hush has fallen across the country. The most self-assured man in the world has created a world of uncertainty.

Speaking of uncertainty, the world now has a muddled view of Christianity. Christian Nationalism is a malignant cult that has taken over our current administration, along with it's red-state minions. With Trump as its leader, this cult is threatening to take control of the world. Threats to neighboring countries, threats to the Pope, threats to destroy entire civilizations, concern the rest of planet Earth. This war with Iran has brought out the true character of the Trump administration, which looks nothing like the teachings of Jesus.

The United States has had a special relationship with Israel since its declaration of independence in 1948. This is an interesting friendship, given the animosity between Jews and the earliest Christians. After all, we Christians are accusing the Jewish religious leaders of killing our Savior, and the Jews claim that Jesus was a heretic. It seems that those of the Jewish faith should be as much at odds with Christians as they are with Muslims. But here we are, strange bedfellows that we prefer to think as being the "good guys." But this war, and Israel's recent war with Gaza is shifting the world's view of us. Donald Trump's poor judgement and crude comments, along with Benjamin Netanyahu's war atrocities has the good guys looking like bad guys, and unfortunately, the bad guys are still bad guys. This is even confusing for me to write.

So, I've talked about the weather, which is a nice, neutral subject, and religion and politics, two forbidden subjects. Since I have violated the code of writing ethics, this blog post will not appear on social media, unless someone finds it worthy of sharing on their own page. If so, you have my blessing. As for me, I'm long past due a trip to the land of the living, otherwise known as the Sandhills, where I hope to regain a little sanity. Shalom!

Tune In

Sat, 21 Feb 2026 20:00:04 GMT

A Place to Ponder Life

O ne of my earliest recollections in life was lying on the bed at night with my eyes fixed on the orange glow of the vacuum tube inside an old RCA radio. I would spend cold winter evenings gazing into the glass bulb, wondering how it could transform AM radio waves into a muffled, lo-fi song. If the signal coming from KOMA in Oklahoma had too much static I would fine tune the dial. To this day, I travel back to this childhood memory every time that I hear The Doobie Brothers' Black Water, or You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet by Bachman-Turner Overdrive .

Unfortunately, this kind of wondering is a pastime of times past. Today, there's no need to sit and ponder anything. We have within fingertip reach, the answer to any question imaginable. Just enter AI mode on our smart phone and wait a couple seconds for Google to enrich our minds. But in the long run, what is this really doing to our brains? Are we unknowingly losing our sense of wonder?

Perhaps one of the greatest secrets of the Nebraska Sandhills is its ability to pull us from the mainstream and gently rest us in a pastoral setting which is lush for meditation. But electronic communication is invading deeper into the remote reaches of the hills each year. Introspective solitude, once cherished, now takes a back seat to our addiction to our device. No matter how much we wish to live by our own gut instinct, the smart phone always finds its way into our hand, jerking us back into mind-controlling cyberspace.

"He that lives according to nature will never be poor, but he that lives according to opinion will never be rich."

This quote sounds as if it were written by someone fed up with social media. Actually, it's the words of Epicurus, a Greek philosopher who lived twenty-three hundred years ago. Had he lived today, he would end this quote with ten exclamation marks and a thinking face emoji. Social media, for the first time in the history of mankind, makes it possible for everyone in the world to share their opinions with everyone else in the world. Whether you are the giver or receiver of these opinions, the hackles on the back of your neck are probably raised. We no longer need to wonder about the other person's political views, what they like and what they hate. This phenomenon has created a cancel culture, where individuals live on isolated plateaus separated by hundreds of dividing lines.

I've been asked if the Sandhills are changing too. My answer is yes. First came the big-round baler, which took the place of hired hands and their families. Then, a few years ago, cell towers started popping up across the hills. Now, when I venture into the Sandhills for a day of fishing or hunting I have a custom of turning my phone off. It's handy for emergencies, but those are extremely rare where it's just nature and me. I've learned that in order to tune in to nature, I must first log off of the internet. Then I can breathe in some fresh air and start adjusting my inner dial to tune in to God's clear and gentle whispers.

Deer Camp 2025

Thu, 27 Nov 2025 20:12:18 GMT

Ten spellbound days in the Nebraska Sandhills

For over a quarter of a century I've had the incredible opportunity to share the Sandhills with deer hunters from all over the United States. These folks come not only to hunt, but to experience this enchanting land. I took some snapshots along the way to portray this year's adventure. Enjoy!

Sunrise.

Another glorious day begins.

Another hunter spots us.

A winged hunter adorned a gate post with half of a kangaroo rat.

A wanton whitetail is hot on the scent of a doe.

His fatal mistake.

Warm, calm days pushed the deer into shady holes.

Hiding in a washed-out cow trail.

Distant antlers in the grass.

Can you spot the doe?

This old boy came out from hiding before sundown.

This whitetail succumbed to a precise long shot.

A mingling of ducks and swans.

The waxing moon is a thin fingernail following the sun's path into the western horizon.

Saying farewell to another rifle season in the Sandhills.

Thank you Scott and Emma Kuhn of Deer Meadows Outfitters for hosting another fantastic hunt this year. I will never take for granted the beauty of this extraordinary land and the wonderful creatures that call this place home.

Introducing Roaming Crow

Fri, 25 Jul 2025 10:59:26 GMT

John Hunt's Second Nebraska Sandhills Novel

I will never forget the first time that I saw this tree. A decade ago, I was squinting through 12 power binoculars from a hilltop on a neighboring ranch. The deer hunter by my side had no idea that I was temporarily taking a break from the tedium of scanning endless hills, hoping to spot some wild game. For just a moment, I searched the southwestern horizon for a much larger quarry. I was looking for " the hill."

I had read about this hill in a geography book describing my favorite place in the world: the Nebraska Sandhills. Not only was this hill the tallest from base to summit in the entire Sandhills, but it's the first place west of the Appalachians to exceed 4,000 feet in elevation. From my lofty vantage point that afternoon, the hill stood out like the Matterhorn on the distant horizon. I could only describe it as a hill upon a hill. What really caught my eye, though, was a lone tree growing halfway up on the northeast side. "How in tarnation did that tree get started," I mumbled under my breath.

"Say again?" my hunter asked.

"Oh, nothing," I replied, momentarily forgetting about the task at hand . "Looks like there should be a deer out there somewhere."

Inside, I was telling myself that someday, I was going to climb that mountain over there.

A few years later, I had the incredibly good fortune to get invited to hunt on the very ranch encompassing the hill. I was beyond ecstatic. I was going to check off one of the biggest goals on my Sandhills bucket list.

When the rancher told me the name of the hill on his place, my jaw dropped again. It was the same name as the hill that mystified an area homesteader over a century ago. A few years ago, I read the story about this young pioneer lady and her puzzlement about this hill. All this lore only added to my fervor to explore this mysterious mountain of sand.

One blustery December day I was alone on the mountain with a muzzleloader rifle slung over one shoulder and a camera over the other. I had walked up the north side with the wind at my back. I made a circle and started back down against a gale so strong that I had to lean into it. My path happened to take me directly above the lone tree that grew from the base of a steep incline. Wind is relatively quiet on the prairie: no whistle through pine needles, no rattling of cottonwood leaves, just the soft waving of grass. As I approached the solitary tree, though, a strange sound filled my ears. The rush of air through the naked limbs created a haunting roar that I can't begin to describe. Suddenly, a story hit me like an ocean wave. In a matter of seconds, a plot, a setting, and two characters came to mind. All I needed was a theme and a whole lot of research to write my second novel about the Nebraska Sandhills.

My first book, Secrets of the Sandhills, included many of the wonders of this land, but in 20,000 square miles, these marvels are countless. Sadly, I failed to include a most impressive work of nature: the Dismal River. I wanted to weave the Dismal into the story line, but it just didn't fit. This river is so spectacular that it justifies its own book, so I watched and waited, hoping for an inspiration.

Then, that day on the hill, the wind came through. It accosted my mind, showing me a way to link a young pioneer woman, a Pawnee man, and the Dismal River with this mountain of sand. The common thread tying this all together is this lone tree, standing watch over its rolling domain.

I hope you enjoy Roaming Crow: my endeavor to describe this incredible land and its first people.

Rivers

Thu, 04 Jul 2024 18:16:10 GMT

Why such odd river names?

The Dismal River

Name origins fascinate me. For instance, the name "Nebraska" comes from the Otoe word "Nebrathka", meaning "flat water." French traders who worked this area three hundred years ago translated this word and designated it to the river that formed "The Great Platte River Road" to the Rockies. For some reason they changed the spelling from "plat" which means flat to "platte" which means boring in French.

A much less "boring" river flows across the top of Nebraska. The Niobrara gets its name from the Ponca word which means "running water."

The French also named the Loup rivers. "Loup" is their word for "wolf" people-- the Pawnee who lived on it's banks. They were impressed by the large dogs that the Pawnee women kept for pulling loaded travois on their buffalo hunts.

The Elkhorn river was named after the Omaha chief, Ta-ha-zouka, or "Elk's Horn."

Last winter I came across some interesting history in the book, The Pawnee Indians, by George Hyde. I have always wondered how Nebraska's Republican River got its name. It seems that in 1776, a band of Pawnee who didn't like the politics of the Grand Pawnee broke off and settled on this southwestern river. This move impressed Spanish officials who were in charge of this territory as an event comparable to the revolt of the American colonies. They dubbed this river: Nacion de la Republica , home of the Kitkehahkis band of Pawnee, or Republicans .

Each time we cross a river bridge in this part of the world, we can thank the American Indians, the French, and the Spaniards for the names that we now take for granted. It also helps us celebrate our independence from European rule. Happy Independence Day!

p.s. In answer to the question whether England has a 4th of July: yes, they don't skip from the 3rd to the 5th.

Sands of Time

Sun, 16 Jun 2024 03:17:24 GMT

Can time change the Sandhills?

I received a bulging letter stuffed with photos in the mail this week from a fishing client. These were good old 4x6 prints, like we used to get in the mail a few days after sending the roll of film off. The photos took me back a few decades to, seemingly, a primitive age. They made me ponder some changes that I've witnessed in the past quarter century.

"What are some changes that you've noticed in the Sandhills over the years?"

This is one of the most asked questions that I get at book signings. It's not a question with easy answers. Some things are obvious, like the arrival of the internet, which connects ranchers with the entire world. From the beginning of time until just a few years ago, folks could live in places where all they knew was what they lived, read about in books, or watched in the evening news. Those were simpler times. Not so today.

One evening a few years ago I sat in a rustic, two-story ranch house and discussed old times with a seasoned Sandhiller. Buck worked ranches his entire life and recently made the switch from horse-drawn equipment to tractor power. He lamented the life savings that he spent on machines to replace his beloved work horses. "Tractors and big-round hay balers and processors have taken the place of several ranch hands and their families. What used to take lots of man power is now done with diesel-fueled horsepower. Young people are leaving the hills to raise their families in the cities, where the jobs are."

I began fishing the Sandhills in the 80's and started guiding anglers a decade later. Fishing in the Sandhills is a fickle affair. The ecosystem of a Sandhills lake is a fragile thing. Imagine all the ingredients that it takes to keep fish alive and thriving in six feet of water with the weather extremes that we experience in this part of the world. Fish need to survive minus forty temps in the winter, one hundred ten degree days in the summer, and droughts that cut the water depth in half. Add predators such as pelicans and cormorants that find these shallow lakes to their liking and it's a wonder that any fish can survive. Then there's possibly the biggest destroyer of the water ecosystem-- the common carp. Thanks to well intending, but short sighted Europeans that brought the carp to America, we now have a fish that is nearly impossible to eradicate. This fish can move in and destroy a Sandhill lake in the matter of a few short years. All this leads to my motto about fishing the Sandhills lakes: "If you find good fishing you'd better hit it hard, because it's not going to last."

Now, back to the photos that I received in the mail, I realize that some things will never change in the Sandhills. People who don't live here will always be struck by the peaceful feeling that envelopes their soul when riding the water of a natural Sandhills lake. Marsh wrens and yellow-headed blackbirds will never cease their mating calls. The bass will always be fat, the pike will never fail to exhilarate, and the perch will hold your thoughts captive. Thanks, Tony, for making my day!

Vince and Tony with a nice northern pike.

The raspy voiced yellow-headed blackbird.

The slow talking guide.

The brilliant rainbow.

My long time fishing buddy, Vince.

Same two guys, a quarter century ago.

Not Just Fishin'

Tue, 14 May 2024 22:20:31 GMT

Fishing takes on a whole new life in the Sandhills

Tony's firm grip on a "hammer handle" pike.

There's something special about a personal first. I'll never forget my first solo ride on a bicycle. It brings to mind my first catastrophic bicycle wreck when I managed to get a corn cob stuck up my nose. Such things tend to stick in one's mind for a lifetime.

Each time that I have the pleasure to guide anglers on their first fishing trip to the Nebraska Sandhills, I'm reminded just how special this adventure is. Last week, my long-time fishing buddy, Vince, brought along a pal who had some fishing experience, but never in the Sandhills. Tony was in for a treat.

"Wow, listen to those birds!" he exclaimed as he crawled from the truck. Canada geese pairs were scattered about the meadows and sitting on their nests atop the muskrat lodges. Acres of cattails which framed the lake were alive with yellow-headed and red-winged blackbirds, marsh wrens, and distant bitterns. I smiled as Tony scrambled for his well-worn Nikon camera. I could tell that he was going to enjoy this day even if the fish didn't bite.

Once on the water Vince almost immediately hooked a pike and Tony had one mouthing his lure but didn't get the hook set. "You really have to jerk back hard when you feel them take the bait," I explained. "Pike have iron jaws and clamp down on your lure."

We had a stiff northwest wind so I steered the boat across to calmer water where Tony declared, "This is beautiful out here. Look how blue the water is!"

Later that morning, I maneuvered the boat into a quiet bay and told Tony to get his camera ready. "This looks like a good spot to get a photo of the elusive little marsh wren. They are easy to hear but not so easy to see," I explained. "They are loud like the house wren but are well camouflaged in the cattails."

Suddenly, Vince yelled "Yep!" and I looked to see him straining against a good fish. We scrambled for the net as the pike tested Vince's reel drag. The powerful fish surged into some cattail roots and I figured that would be the last we saw of it. But miraculously, it turned and came back out and I was able to scoop it into the landing net.

"Thirty-one and a half inches," I announced to the excited anglers as I laid the pike on my yardstick marker. We took some photos then Vince returned the fish to it's watery domain.

As I pointed the boat out of the lagoon Vince said that he was hung up. I looked and saw his lure stuck on submerged coontail moss behind me. I grabbed his line and gently pulled the lure free. Just as I said he was unhooked, a pike engulfed the lure right underneath me. I knew that Vince had a bunch of slack in his line that was draped the length of the boat so I gave the line a hard jerk with my hand, then let go. "Vince! You've got a fish!" I yelled. After another hard-fought battle we netted the thirty-two and half incher.

Happy anglers.

Tony kept his camera around his neck and captured some fantastic photos of pretty much every type of bird we saw. During a lull in the action he asked me a question and I glanced his way with a possible answer, only to lock eyes with a pair of gag glasses that instantly had me doubled over with laughter. Now it was my turn with the camera.

I even made Vince try them on.

At 4:30 in the afternoon we called it quits and as I was loading the boat Tony hollered at me and pointed at the nearby road. A couple of horseback riders were driving a herd of cattle past in the same direction that we were departing in. I don't like motoring through a cattle drive, especially when we're going in the same direction, so I took my time stowing the boat and equipment while Tony snapped photos of the cowboys. When the herd disappeared over the hill I pulled onto the sandy road and headed for home. When we topped the hill we spied the two horses coming back our direction. I was relieved to see that they had the cows safely out to pasture and were heading home. A young cowgirl was riding the lead horse and she smiled and waved as we drove past.

"What a sweetheart," Vince said.

Next, we met who I assumed to be the girl's mom. I slowed the truck to a stop and she walked her horse over and said hi though my open window. "How was the fishing?" she asked.

"Kind of slow", I replied.

"At least the wind went down for you," she said with a knowing smile.

"Yeah, we had a great day," all three of us agreed as I let off the brake and started on. "See ya later!"

It was a great day.

Just Click Refresh

Thu, 02 May 2024 04:48:14 GMT

My two day Sandhills getaway

For the last twenty years or so I've been going on annual spring fishing excursions to remote Sandhill lakes. This trip that I affectionately call "The Bass Blitz" started back when my son, Mitch, was old enough to endure such adventures. We packed everything short of the kitchen sink and set off for pristine cow pastures untouched by human beings. The joys and hardships that we experienced are now treasured memories that we often look back on with a smile.

Now days, I pack much lighter, only taking the essentials like fishing rods, tackle boxes and trolling motor batteries. A small cooler filled with apples and bologna to go with bread and granola bars keeps the stomach satisfied. I also pack a sleeping bag to keep me warm at night in the passenger seat.

This week I forgot my sleeping bag, but Scott and Emma Kuhn graciously let me stay at their Deer Meadows lodge. It seems like the older I get, the more appealing that a soft bed and hot shower gets. I don't turn down the hot coffee, eggs and bacon either.

I call it the "Bass Blitz" because this is the time of year when largemouth bass are going on their prespawn feeding spree. They tend to bunch up in tight schools and gorge on anything that swims by. It's the kind of thing that anglers dream of. Couple that with all the newly arrived waterfowl and you have an outdoor person's paradise. It's my chance to regain some of the sanity that I lost over the winter.

In a little over two days I managed to fish eleven different lakes in the central and western Sandhills. I snapped some photos while in the boat that I hope you'll find interesting.

One of the four master angler bass that I caught.

You gotta love these Sandhills crappies.

A "speckled" pike at Cottonwood Lake

A beautiful ruddy duck. The male's bill turns blue during mating season.

My favorite duck, the male wood duck and his pretty wife, in a cottonwood tree.

Plum blossoms overlooking Merritt Reservoir.

When I embarked on this trip Sunday afternoon I felt like an old wind up alarm clock with an unwound spring. I felt like a rechargeable battery without a charge. I felt like a computer that needed a reboot. When I get like this my wife, Teri, boots me out of the house and tells me to stay in the Sandhills for as long as it takes to recharge. This could be a dangerous ultimatum, except for the amazing regenerating power that the Sandhills possess. Two days and I'm a new man.

Everything's Bigger

Sat, 13 Apr 2024 16:54:14 GMT

Things are different in the Sandhills

We've all heard the saying "everything's bigger in Texas," but there's an obscure area in Nebraska that is like a tiny Texas. The Nebraska Sandhills is about one-thirteenth the size of Texas, but compares favorably in the southern state's bragging rights. I've compiled a list of enhancements that the Sandhills make to the world around us.

The hills are humpier
Valleys are marshier
Lakes are bluer
Rivers are steadier
Soil is sandier
Coyotes are howlier
Yuccas are yummier

8. Pastures are peacefuller

9. Distractions are scarcer.

10. God is nearer

11. Real cowboys are commoner

12. Cowgirls are cuter.

13. Smart phones are dumber (no coverage)

14. Cows are smarter (cover a lot of territory)

15. Bugs are bigger.

16. Pike are hungrier

17. Bass are chunkier

18. Wild flowers are vaster.

19. Air is purer.

20. Stars are brighter.

Good Friday

Fri, 29 Mar 2024 15:20:55 GMT

The Day that the world received a new sign

As I travel the Sandhills, I'm always struck when I spy a cross planted in the sand. Some stand large on the skyline, some are small and white, in remembrance of a resident. These wooden and metal signs are symbols born on the day that our Savior died.

Jesus was both the son of a carpenter and the Son of God. He lived a sin-free life, helped the downtrodden, and the religious leaders of the day rewarded him with death on a cross. It was a black day when the authorities crucified God, but something new was coming. Three days later...

The dark clouds parted and the Son returned! Happy Easter everyone!

Shed Hunting

Thu, 21 Mar 2024 19:07:50 GMT

What is it about deer antlers, anyway?

Once in a while I stumble upon a real "treasure" left by nature. Like the elk shed that I found in Grant County, or the time that found an entire whitetail buck skull in Sheridan County. I was fishing Billy's lake with my cousin, Gene, and we decided to make a pit stop on shore. I maneuvered the boat through the reeds and up to a bank where I jumped over in waders and pulled the bow close enough for Gene to step ashore. I spotted something white barely sticking out of the water under me. Then I saw something else a foot and a half away. They looked like antler tips, but I was skeptical. I reached down into the muck and extracted a perfectly preserved skull. We were astonished both at our find, and the fact that in a lake with over four miles of shoreline, I managed to beach the boat exactly splitting the protruding tips of the two main beams.

A few years later I found a muley buck skull a couple hundred yards west of that very spot. It was also partially submerged in the water. These two skulls now sit and watch the traffic go by in our front yard.

Non-hunters probably wonder what the big deal is about antlers. I can't explain it either. There is just something seductive about long tines on a heavy beam. A doe seems to go for those big old heavy racks too. I guess it's just another one of those mysteries of nature.

Sandhill Cats

Fri, 15 Mar 2024 05:20:51 GMT

My lifelong battle with felines

I've lived with cats pretty much my whole life. Growing up on a farm, cats were just part of the livestock inventory. Their sole purpose was to control the mouse population. We called our cats names like Sassy, Cassy, Sophie, Cookie, and Bob. Slink, the tuxedo cat, hid behind the bird feeder tree and harassed my song birds. Gracie, the demon cat, bit clean through my thumbnail. Maybe I'm just a little paranoid, but it seems like cats have it out for me.

They struck again yesterday afternoon. I just finished installing another shower in the house that I've been remodeling in Sheridan County and was loading the Suburban for the two hundred mile drive home. My wife, Teri was expecting me between seven and eight so I hurried to get my tools carried out to the car by four-thirty.

I've been careful to close the back hatch ever since the king cat jumped in and marked the entire interior with his urine on my first day there. But on my final trip back to the house to get my Shop Vac, I carelessly left a side door open. When I loaded the vacuum inside I heard the ominous sound of frantic cat claws on leather and glass. I looked in the front seat and spotted what looked like a yellow pin ball bouncing off the walls at laser speed. One of the wild cats was inside and couldn't get out! Now, I was frantic.

I ran around the car and opened doors, hoping the cat would get out before spraying body waste everywhere. When I reached the other side I glimpsed the yellow cat ricochet out of the original door and streak across the yard. Perturbed, I slammed the doors shut and reached for the driver's door. To my horror, the door was locked. The cat managed to hit the automatic door lock in its flight and locked me out of my car! Stunned, I walked around and around the car, trying every door and hatch to no avail. My frantic mode was now at a whole different level.

Assessing the situation, I realized that I was pretty much helpless. My phone, which was locked in the car, wouldn't do me any good anyway because there was no cell service. It would be a three mile walk to the nearest residence for help, and it would be dark in a couple hours. My only hope was to break into my car.

Inside the car and out of reach were all sorts of tools that would aid me in the break in. I would have to go search the place for wire and something to pry the door open. Luckily, I found a pair of pliers and a chainsaw wrench in the garage. In the backyard stood an old tower with guy wires hanging loosely from the top. I cut a five foot length with the pliers and headed back to the car.

I pried the top corner of the front door out with the chainsaw wrench and manipulated the wire through the tiny opening forward and down toward the door lock button that the cat must have hit in its pinball tour. After a frustrating bout of poke and hope with the wire I came to the conclusion that the unlock button doesn't poke as easily as the lock button. I could make the lock button work every time that I touched it, but not the unlock button. I moved to the passenger side and tried it to no avail. Then I pulled the wire out and bent a hook in it to try to pull up on the manual lock. No luck there either. I was running out of options and daylight.

Then I spied the car keys lying in the center console. I directed the hook end of the wire toward the keys and miraculously hooked them on. I gingerly pulled the wire back out, praying that I didn't drop the keys down a crack where I wouldn't have another chance at them. I pulled them until they were dangling inches from my nose, but on the other side of the glass. I looked at the unlock symbol on the fob and mentally visualized pushing the button. That didn't work either. I ended up dropping the keys in the seat, hoping to poke the unlock button with the wire. Of course the fob landed upside down, and try as I may, I couldn't flip it over. Daylight was waning and my level of anxiety was peaking.

Now, officially in full panic mode, I went searching for a bigger lever. Every old farm house has an iron pile somewhere and I quickly found it. I pulled a rusty apparatus from the pile and headed back to the car. It was a steel bar about sixteen inches long with a heavy steel handle dangling from it. I pried the door corner out with the chainsaw wrench far enough to insert the steel bar, but the handle kept throwing the thing out of balance so that I couldn't keep it where it needed to be. Just when I was losing the last ounce of cool left in me, a rusty bolt fell out, separating the clumsy handle from the bar. It felt like a miracle was happening.

With all the strength that I could muster, I shoved the steel bar between the door and the frame and pried out until I thought that the glass was going to explode. Then I turned the socket of the chainsaw wrench lengthwise and wedged it in the opening. I now had a crack wide enough to bring the car keys through. I slid the wire hook down to the seat and poked the keys until they were hooked and carefully drew them up to the opening. Just as I reached the opening, the wire twisted around and I don't know why the keys didn't drop off and fall between the seat and the door. But, miracle number two, they stayed on the wire and I pulled them through and into my grasp. I poked the button on the fob and listened to the sweet sound of doors unlocking. I could now go home.

I gave the innocent looking cats a final glare as I returned the ranch tools. Cats.

Percy Whitlock

Sat, 02 Mar 2024 05:03:35 GMT

The inspiration behind one of my favorite novel characters

Frank Browning circa 2002

If you've read my book, Secrets of the Sandhills, then you'll smile when you see the name, Percy (Whitty) Whitlock. Percy is the Georgia hunter who flies out west for a guided hunt on the Blue Diamond ranch. He turns out to be as loveable as the real-life "Whitty", named Frank Browning.

My only encounter with Frank was on a deer hunt in the eastern Sandhills twenty-some years ago. I was fortunate enough to be assigned his guide on the four-day hunt. I couldn't decide whether this guy looked more like Brad Paisley or Jeff Gordon. He was silent as we drove through the predawn fog to our destination on the Cedar River opening morning. We quietly set a pop-up blind on a hill above the river and sat back, waiting for the sun to come up and burn the fog away. After what seemed like hours, we could finally see the couple hundred yards to the river.

"There's a deer," Frank hissed. "It's a buck...a big buck! Can Ah shoot im?"

I watched the deer walk upriver through my binoculars. "No, it's just a two year old," I replied. "We'll wait for something bigger."

"That's the biggest buck Ah've ever seen," Frank said with a hint of remorse.

His statement made me recall what my hunter from the previous year, who also happened to be from Georgia, said when I asked why it took so long to shoot the deer that I was pointing at. He said that he thought it was an elk.

"We'll see bigger," I said.

That afternoon Frank got his opportunity to shoot a big buck. It was a very narrow opportunity though. The buck was at a full-out sprint, giving Frank about five seconds to aim and fire before the deer disappeared over a rise. The bullet missed and Frank was heart broken. "If Ah go home now without shootin a buck, Ah'm gonna throw my rifle out the airplane window," he lamented.

That evening, and the next three, Frank had the entire supper table in uncontrollable laughter as he recounted the day's hunt. On the final afternoon Frank got his deer. The stories that night were, as they say down south, "better'n boilt peanuts."

Thank you, Frank, for the inspiration you gave me, and I'm pretty sure, everyone else that you come in contact with!

A Sandhills Carpenter

Sat, 17 Feb 2024 22:11:33 GMT

Walking four weeks in a Sandhiller's shoes

When a carpenter takes a job in the Sandhills it's a fair bet that it will involve a bit of windshield time. I'm finishing a house remodel that is located nearly two hundred miles from our home in Broken Bow. That sort of commute requires a duffle bag full of clean socks and shirts for some overnights at the jobsite. Darn, I have to go live in my beloved Sandhills.

Monday, January 22nd, I packed the Suburban with every necessary tool, including the dreaded plumber's box, and headed west on Highway 2. My destination was a ranch house on Highway 27, halfway between Ellsworth and Gordon. The job involved replacing two showers and a kitchen floor. As in any home remodel, I was prepared for the worst, or so I thought.

We call this place the "Guide House." It's the house where all the hunting guides stay who work for Deer Meadows Outfitters. Last fall we noticed the familiar odor of skunk when we walked in the door. The smell hadn't improved by January. When I removed the lid to crawl under the house, the same odor came wafting out. I slowly swung the beam of my flashlight into the dark recesses of the crawl space, searching for beady eyes and white stripes. Thankfully, all I found was a big, yellow cat. I figured that a cat and a skunk wouldn't cohabit the space.

The guide house is a 1980 model factory-built home like I so despise working on. Every time that I work on one I say "never again." Every time I work on plumbing I say "never again." Here I was, plumbing in a factory-built house. The only thing that made me say "yes" to this job was the fact that I live in this house every rifle season, and the fact that it sits in the middle of the gnarliest of hills.

I found all sorts of unpleasant surprises as I ripped out the old tub. The drain pipe ran above the floor into the bedroom closest which forced me to cut out several floor joists and header them for strength. This had to be accomplished on my back in the crawl space, laying in newly deposited cat poop. I wasn't sure which smelled worse, skunks or cats.

Next, I pulled up the vinyl plank flooring to expose water soaked plywood, originating from the toilet. This would all need replaced.

The nearest Menards store was in Scotts Bluff, two hours south and west. I made a list of supplies and jumped into the Suburban for the drive, only to discover another smell. The big yellow tom cat had jumped in the open back hatch and marked multiple spots. I dumped urine off the the floor mats, rinsed them off under a hydrant, and propped them against the fence to air in the sun. I drove the first forty miles with the windows down in the January air, streaming cat scent down the highway.

Other than the smell, the drive to Scotts Bluff was quite pleasurable. I spotted Chimney Rock to the south and I have never seen a prettier view from a Menards parking lot.

I purchased a new shower and all the plumbing and wood to install it, and fueled up to make the two hour journey back to Scott and Emma's in time for supper. Getting supplies is serious business when you live in the Sandhills.

Scott and Emma Kuhn are long time friends and graciously hosted my stay in Sheridan County. Scott operates Deer Meadows Outfitters and coaches the Cody Kilgore boys basketball team, making the daily eighty-six mile drive to Cody. His 5:30 a.m. practices require him to leave pretty much in the middle of the night. Emma is an all-around cowgirl that cooks like a gourmet. I put on several pounds during my visit. Steph Kuhn is another cowgirl and part time brand inspector who lives next door. We enjoyed her home-grown beef for many of the meals. Also, living amongst them, are an assortment of cow dogs.

Aggie

Back at the guide house I ran into another problem. Half the electrical circuits were blinking on and off for some reason. Sometimes they would stay off for an hour or more. I was having enough troubles before losing lights so I paused the plumbing job and started tracing the outage. Luckily, I had a voltage tester with me and found the problem in a breaker panel under the meter box on the power pole in the back yard. A spade lug was corroded and a few swipes with a file fixed the problem.

I managed to finish the floor framing and plumb the drain by Thursday so I loaded up the car and headed home, hoping to get a little fishing done at Avocet Lake on the way. I only had enough daylight left to walk to the middle of the lake and drill two holes and catch two little perch as the full moon was rising in the east.

On Sunday, I picked up a shower door and some plywood at Menards in Kearney for the trip back on Monday. I spent the second week taking out the wet floor and replacing it with treated plywood. I also framed the two ends walls to fit the new shower. Factory-built houses don't use standard size tubs so I had to retrofit the new shower.

Week three I picked up some trim and flooring in Kearney to finish the main bathroom. I also made a trip into Gordon to purchase a new toilet to replace the old leaking one that had cracks across the bottom of the tank. Before I left on Thursday I tore up the kitchen floor to discover the same problem. A leak had soaked the plywood underneath and it was wafering up like a potato chip. I needed to make another trip to Menards for kitchen plywood and flooring, plus another shower for the master bathroom.

Main bathroom with the new flooring nearly finished.

This week I tore up the kitchen floor plywood underlayment and replaced it with new 3/4 OSB tongue and groove sheets. Amazingly, the skunky smell disappeared with the old, wet plywood. I installed the new plank flooring and trim to finish the kitchen. Before I left in the snowstorm on Thursday, I plumbed in the supply lines for the new shower in the master bath. I will finish the job when the special order shower door comes in at Menards.

Looking back at the last four weeks, I reflect on things that I learned about the Sandhills and the people that live there. For one, there is no such thing as a low-mileage vehicle in this area. A simple trip to the grocery store means putting on between fifty and a hundred miles. Kids can commute over a hundred miles each day for school.

People who live out here need to be a jack-of-all-trades. There isn't a plumber a few blocks away to repair a leaky toilet. When the lights start blinking they have to find the problem and fix it. When the county road becomes impassable, they blaze a new road cross country. I spied a minivan driving across a meadow to get to the highway one day. It's a no-nonsense, non-conforming, neighbor helping way of life that appeals to me. It's a place where the rest of the world can go somewhere in a hand basket and it will still be there, quietly watching the sunsets.

Hush, Be Still

Sat, 23 Dec 2023 17:18:59 GMT

Is this today's most forgotten commandment?

Setting a date to fish the Sandhills in the spring is a little like playing Russian roulette. The weather changes quicker than the outfits on a hostess at the Academy Awards. It's not uncommon to experience snow, sleet, rain and sun, all before noon. But one weather feature that you can always count on is the wind. The annual clash between winter and summer starts in March, peaks in April, and doesn't subside until the first of June. These shifting gales just happen to coincide with the popular spring fishing season.

It's always a challenge for me as a fishing guide to match the level of excitement that my clients enjoy as we approach a wind-swept lake. On the worst days, wind whips the tips of whitecaps into a vapor that streams across the meadow and swirls away into the distant hills. I hide clinched teeth behind a grin as I struggle to balance my body against the wind to pull on my chest waders. The neoprene waders serve dual purposes on days like these. They repel the waves that crash over the transom and slam me as I run the electric motor. When the wind is such that I can no longer control the boat, then I simply jump overboard and pull it and my lure casting fishermen along the leeward side of the lake.

"This is great fishing!" exclaims a chipper angler as he leans into another hard fighting northern pike.

"Yeah, the wind seems to be really turning 'em on," replies his buddy. "This is a great day!"

"These are hard times," I mumble under my breath as the boat strains to break free of my aching arms.

It's times like these that I remember one of my favorite commands of Jesus. He was resting in the bow of a fishing boat while his disciples were struggling to keep the thing afloat in treacherous waves. Just when they were about to resign to Davey Jones' locker, Jesus stood up and rebuked the wind.

"Hush, be still."

The lake turned to glass and the fishermen switched from a terrible fear to an awesome one.

Hush, be still. This isn't a real popular phrase these days. In a culture that feeds on bigger, louder and busier, quiet and calm sounds out of place. But if you think about it, hush, be still is the foundation to all of Jesus' commands. Be still and know that I am God . Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind . How is this possible without first hushing our mind and being still before God?

Love your neighbor as yourself. This command cannot be carried out without some serious soul-searching in a calm bay. I hope that you find a still place to hush during this season of peace on earth. Merry Christmas!

Sand, the Great Equalizer

Tue, 21 Nov 2023 17:45:38 GMT

How the rugged western Sandhills level the deer hunter's playing field.

Over the past quarter century I've guided deer hunters from all walks of life: doctors, bankers, CIA and FBI agents, a Night Stalker helicopter pilot, an F4 fighter pilot, hunting show personalities, etc. But some of my most memorable hunts have been with blue-collar Joes like myself; the kind of folks who saved their hard-earned money to go on a fully guided trip of a lifetime.

My favorite line in Scott's welcome speech to a new group of hunters goes something like this: "We don't care whether you are a brain surgeon or a ditch digger; you are all simply deer hunters out here. Let's go out and have fun."

Camouflage and orange transforms diverse individuals into soldiers of equal rank. My second round hunters last week drove in wearing Stetsons, my first hint that they were Texans. Four o-clock the next morning, they blended in with all the other hunters from Indiana to California, dressed for the day's hunt.

On the hour-long drive to the hunting ranch that morning I learned that these two Texans were retired cafeteria cooks. They normally hunted public land in west Texas and New Mexico for mule deer and elk, so they were looking forward to their first guided hunt.

I asked them if they could walk, since we can only drive our trucks on the windmill trails. "That's how we hunt in New Mexico," Gary replied. "I had heart surgery three years ago so I have to stop and catch my breath every few minutes."

"I'm glad you told me that," I replied. "We are at nearly four thousand feet of elevation here, so the air is quite a bit thinner than Ft. Worth."

We got lucky and spotted a shooter buck not long after sun up. We put the sun behind us and wind in our face and inched our way through the grassy dunes. Peeking over a high knob, we spied antlers ninety yards below us in a shaded bowl. The bedded buck was tending his doe which lay a few yards away. Gary quietly jacked a round into the chamber, cradled his rifle in my shooting stick, and sent the bullet to it's precise destination.

Gary's 184-inch personal best mule deer.

We hunted three more days before Gary's buddy, Mike shot an old three by three on the last morning. I had the privilege to show off the beauty of the Sandhills and some of it's secrets during our treks through the dunes.

An old Kincaider place. Notice the cistern on the skyline, right of the tree.

A pair of trumpeter swans, basking in the morning sun.

Wild Horse Hill, one of the most striking dunes in the Sandhills.

"This is fun!" Gary said over and over as we traversed the curvaceous hills of this enchanting land. I smiled inside. Another person is softened by the lazy swells of the Nebraska Sandhills.

Warning Signs

Sat, 21 Oct 2023 18:03:02 GMT

Nature's Built-in Alarms

One of the things that we learned in Army basic training was how to pull guard duty. The sequence of apprehending an intruder went something like this: ask person for the password, if person flees yell "Halt!", if person doesn't halt then yell "Halt or I'll shoot!", if the person continues to run, banking either on the hope that your M-16 isn't loaded with live ammo or you are a really poor shot, then you can go ahead and shoot him, preferably in the non-vitals. I, fortunately, didn't encounter any bad guys on my duty.

I was reminded this week of nature's warning signals that we need to heed before it kills us.

Thunder gets louder as deadly lightning approaches. Red sky in the morning means sailors should take warning. Green sky under a thunderstorm usually means hail. Sun dogs in the winter can mean snow in the near future.

A couple days ago I helped my friend, Carl, survey a new fence line in the rugged, shark-tooth hills south of Broken Bow. It was one of those perfect autumn mornings that begins crisp, but soon has you peeling off jackets. The air was so calm that our voices carried a quarter mile across the canyons as we used the transit to set marking flags. When Carl reached the far end I hiked to the top of a nearby hill to get a panoramic view of central Custer county. I was amazed at the distance that I could see.

Back at the side-by-side vehicle Carl asked me if I wanted to see some area sights. I said "Sure!" I tossed my snake stick away and jumped in for a ride. He took me though wooded canyons and over passes where elk and bison used to roam. I could almost imagine the spots where Pawnee would ambush their winter provisions.

The last spot that we visited was a hill with an old surveyor's benchmark on the peak. This was one of the highest elevations in the area, located on the divide between the Muddy Creek watershed and the South Loup. We spotted a steel post on the peak and took off on foot to investigate. I managed to beat Carl to the top and headed directly for the survey marker which I spied hiding beneath a yucca plant. Anxious to read the brass plate, I started to spread the yucca needles, only to hear a distinct buzzing. The next three or four seconds were a blur as I somehow levitated back past Carl and landed ten paces behind him. From that vantage I could see the coiled rattlesnake behind the yucca. His tongue was darting in and out and his rattle was pointed straight in the air.

After a minute it occurred to me that I should breathe. I hate snakes. This one gave a fair warning though-- before he killed me.

Of Dogs and Horses

Sat, 26 Aug 2023 15:56:24 GMT

Some of our best friends have four legs.

Asha

Last evening I had the good fortune to attend an Embracing Life Through Horses demo in Broken Bow. Kacey Finney, a real-life cowgirl heads up this neat program designed to bring emotional healing through interaction with horses. Marty Leggett, assisted by his son, Griffyn, demonstrated his horse training expertise inside the round pen and linked it to his own spiritual journey. At the end of the evening I considered the incredible amount of empathy that God bestowed on other living creatures.

Back in 2012 we adopted a puppy a couple months after my wife, Teri, found out she had cancer. The little white mixed breed came into our lives just before surgery and the chemotherapy ordeal. We named her Asha, which is an Indian word for hope. She lived up to that name as she slept in Teri's lap on the bad days. She seemed to know when her master needed extra love.

Asha stayed on the farm when we moved to town in 2019. She adopted a new family and tries to keep the place free from unwanted intruders, like possums and skunks. She's down to one eye now but still meets me when I drive in for a hug and a healthy scratch behind the ears.

Dogs and horses serve double duty in the Sandhills. First, they earn their keep by assisting the cowboys in their daily chores. It's amazing to watch well trained border collies work with horsemen as they round up a herd of cows. The whole process goes like clockwork. But just as important, a cowboy's horse and dog are his friends. They listen to their master's words with knowing eyes and caring hearts. They are the kind of friend that everyone yearns for.

Sandhill Definitions

Sat, 19 Aug 2023 16:53:23 GMT

Some word meanings adopted by Sandhillers.

All the talk about AI these days gets me thinking about how words have different meanings depending on where you live. If you bring up AI in the Sandhills you're no longer talking about artificial intelligence; you are referring to the entirely different subject of artificial insemination. Breeding cows is a whole lot more important in this part of the world than computer generated concoctions. Sandhillers use familiar words in abnormal ways:

Blowout : a large sandy hole created by wind.

Wet meadow : low spot in a valley where the ground is saturated with water.

Cat steps : the stair-steps that form on steep hill faces.

Sugar sand : loose, dry sand in pasture road tracks.

Hay the road : spread hay to firm up the pasture roads.

Cattails : (1) road gravel. (2) alternate winter feed.

Cake : cattle supplemental feed.

Cheater : steel bar used to shut gates.

Dead man : large object buried in the ground to anchor a corner post.

Fresh : (1) ungrazed pasture. (2) New milk after a cow gives birth.

Bred : pregnant cow or heifer.

Open : not pregnant cow or heifer.

Bulling : a cow in heat.

Heavy : a cow ready to give birth.

Dally : wrap rope on saddle horn.

Piggin' string : small rope used to tie a calf's legs together.

Short go : final round of top competitors in a rodeo event.

This is a short go at the hundreds of words and phrases used by the folks who call the Sandhills "home." If you've spent any time there then I'm sure that others come to mind as you read through these.

Sleep in the Sandhills

Sat, 12 Aug 2023 18:29:21 GMT

Nature's white noise, ceiling fan, and other sleeping necessities.

When people talk about their sleeping difficulties I do my best to show empathy, but truthfully, I don't understand. My ability to sleep has always been my strongest attribute. Long before child restraining seats were invented, I slept in the rear window of the car. After a night fire mission in the army, I slept holding on to the two overhead rails in the aisle of a transport bus. A few years ago I woke up in my work car which was parked in the garage and realized that I was late for my own birthday party.

Gone though, are the nights that I can sleep comfortably all night. Chronic back pain from building houses for forty years has me constantly searching for a soft position. My Select Comfort air bed is a little like sleeping on a cloud, but I can't take it with me everywhere. Short trips in the Sandhills usually means that I will be sleeping in the reclined seat of the truck. In the rare weeks when mosquitoes aren't buzzing I can stretch out on the ground or on the floor of the boat. Sand conforms to your body, so it's a little like a mattress.

White noise machines are not necessary in the Sandhills. The constant hum of mosquitoes or the quiet patter of rain on a pickup roof can lull any brain into slumber. If this isn't quite enough noise, then an occasional coyote serenade may do. Night hawks, owls, and killdeer provide background harmony. Late summer crickets and hoppers play their leg fiddles deep into the night. If you're real lucky, you'll be sleeping near water and listening to the rhythmic lapping of waves slurping on a sandy shore. The rattle of cottonwood leaves in a gentle wind is enough to quell the most troubling thoughts.

Most folks require darkness to sleep well. The Sandhills are so dark at night that the stars seem extraordinarily bright. The moon is like a train's headlight. One night I woke to reposition my lower vertebrae and glanced out the side window. My favorite constellation that I've named, "The Steer," was perfectly framed in the picture. I smiled and thanked God for the unexpected gift. This was something that a person could never experience at home staring at a drywalled ceiling.

My wife needs a fan blowing on her all night to sleep. I use her as a windbreak since I don't need the draft. Speaking of wind, the Sandhills normally provide all the breeze necessary for a night's rest. Early spring tent camping requires either one hundred mile-per-hour wind rated tents or a nearby vehicle to tie the tent to. On the worst nights you may need both. Folks who sleep to AC/DC or Van Halen would enjoy this type of camping. I prefer the late summer doldrums, when night air hovers like a hungry hummingbird at a petunia. This is when you can lay back and enjoy the entire relaxing Sandhill orchestra.

Oh, I almost forgot to include the sound of a creaky windmill, and the bellow of a distant cow calling for her calf; a western evening just wouldn't be complete without some cowboy sounds. Good night to you all.

Hill Critters

Sat, 29 Jul 2023 19:27:55 GMT

Discovering Exotic Species in the Sandhills

The long-billed curlew

Traveling the Sandhill highways at sixty-eight miles per hour may be a quick way to see a lot of hills and lakes, but it's not the way to discover the creatures that inhabit this incredible land. You may get lucky and see a herd of mule deer or pronghorn from the road, or get unlucky and collect a whitetail that impulsively crosses in front of you at the last moment; this isn't the good way to grill venison. If you travel quietly and methodically, like the critters that live in these hills, then you will be amazed by the diversity of life that call this place home.

I've had the good fortune to explore hundreds of hidden habitats in the hills over the years. Regretfully, I didn't carry a camera along in my early adventures, like the time that I stumbled across a family of burrowing owls. Now, a camera with lots of zoom and tripod is crucial gear. My main goal is to capture these rare creatures on "film" so that I can share them with the world. Following is a short compilation of photos that you may find interesting.

The "baby on stilts" killdeer on Merritt Dam.

A Grant County short-tailed weasel, dressed in his winter coat.

The eared grebe on Smith Lake in Sheridan County.

Four and twenty (thousand) blackbirds, sitting on a fence.

A wily coyote considering his next meal.

A mule deer fawn, considering how close is close enough.

A trumpeter swan, soaking up the morning sun.

A majestic muley, in the heat of the rut.

A forlorn muley, after the rut.

Is it a "yucca buck?"

Nope, just Cousin Gene.

An elusive bittern, slipping through the cattails.

The great blue heron.

Chickens of the prairie, dancing for the ladies.

Texan immigrant.

(photo courtesy of Mitch Hunt)

Finding God in the Hills

Thu, 06 Jul 2023 21:02:35 GMT

Is it possible to discover God in the wilderness?

It was the middle of the 2012 drought. The rain left in April and didn't return that year. By the middle of July our little dry-land farm was shriveled up and threatened to blow away in the relentless hundred degree wind. It was the year that God broke His steadfast silence and uttered wisdom to me.

I'm not the type that receives voiced revelations from God like some of my Pentecostal friends. Sure, I talk to God, but it's normally a one way conversation. He speaks daily to me though His written word, but I'm talking about communication that is even more direct than a text. I mean face-to-face, syllable-stressing English, complete with thought-provoking pauses.

During the peak of the drought I received a phone call from a fishing client. Craig had the urge to catch some panfish in the Sandhills and he knew that late July was was prime time for perch fishing. I jumped at his request; here was my chance to vacate the dried-up farm and spend a couple days in "God's Country."

I passed under the rare makings of a thunderhead on my way northwest into the hills. As I drove through the shade of the cloud I considered the chances of this cloud building up and moving southeast like they generally do. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could get a nice rain while I'm gone," I thought to myself.

I spent the afternoon on a lake searching for perch and watching the thunderhead steadily build into a supercell thunderstorm. I said a few prayers that the storm would head toward our farm in eastern Custer county.

By five o'clock the skies threatened to force me off the lake. The cloud was moving backwards! I quickly loaded the boat and drove west on the road that I was on, trying to outrun the rapidly approaching storm. At the end of the road I turned the truck around to face the onslaught.

In minutes the greenish-black cloud caught up with me, unloading a wall of water that obscured vision past the nose of the truck. There I sat, in a freak deluge in the middle of the worst drought in recorded history.

Rain pounded the windshield and the truck rocked in the wind but I expected the storm to pass quickly. The dry atmosphere couldn't hold much water--or so I thought.

Twenty minutes later the driving rain continued, converting the road into a river. I wondered if I would be able to drive back out. Then I started wondering about something else. Why is this happening here, where there's nothing but grass and cows, while we've been praying our hearts out for even a shower to keep our crops alive back home? Then I realized that I was directing this question straight at God. I expected the usual reply of silence as the storm raged on.

Seconds later, a gentle and sure voice sounded in my ears. "I am simply watering my wildflowers. As for you, my grace is sufficient."

An awed trance gripped me and wouldn't let go as the rain finally let up and I plowed water toward a brilliant rainbow. My windshield wipers throbbed out a meditative rhythm during the eight mile drive to my campsite. That night the gentle patter of raindrops lulled me into the most tranquil sleep of my life.

Two months after this incident, those same words came back to mind when my wife's doctor said the word "cancer." A short time later they surfaced again as I pick-axed a grave into the sun-scorched ground to bury our family dog, Shilo. The words that God gave me that day in the wilderness have been my anchor throughout many a storm since, and will be into the future.

So if you're wondering if we can find God in the wilderness, then my answer to you is a definite "yes!" I've jotted down some other opinions on the matter by three men named David, Job, and Paul.

Thank You Sandhills

Sat, 17 Jun 2023 13:29:05 GMT

Pictures from the past that bring back priceless memories.

They say that cameras cannot do the prairie justice. In a sense this saying is true; photos make the terrain look flat and featureless compared to real life. You must use your imagination to fill in the voids left by a still frame that captures a mere millisecond in time. The fresh, early morning smell of grass and sand must come from memory. Then add distant coyote barks or honks from a pair of trumpeter swans. If you're creative enough, you will even feel the bite of cold December air on your cheeks.

Photos are memories. Each one transports us back to a time and place so impressive at the time that we got the camera out and took a picture...

A herd bull with his doe, moments before a sunset storm.

Moonrise on Big Alkali Lake.

One of our early spring, father/son camping trips.

Lakeside breakfast omelets.

A healthy Sandhills bass.

Campsite under the stars on Black Steer Lake.

Herd of mule deer making the half-mile swim across Billy's Lake.

A massive whitetail getting a boat ride across Billy's Lake.

Sheridan County moonrise.

This is a small sampling of the thousands of photos that I've taken in the Sandhills over the years. Each one has an underlying story that authors like Mark Twain or Ernest Hemingway could run with. I did my best to capture the mystique of this land in my book, Secrets of the Sandhills. But to truly discover the beauty of the Sandhills, you must immerse yourself into the land. Oh, and take a camera along; you never know what you're going to find in those hills.

Living the Sandhills Way

Sat, 03 Jun 2023 18:24:17 GMT

The long and short of it.

People fascinate me. I study them everywhere I go. If I'm visiting the Grand Canyon, I find the foreigners around me as interesting as the gorge. If I'm walking the concrete canyons of downtown Chicago, I'm pondering the purposes of the local pedestrians. Walmart parking lots are like free zoos. Now days, thanks to social media, I have access to the minds of the entire world in my pocket. My hobby is a cheap one, and an endless source of entertainment.

Our home is in the narrow corridor between the Nebraska Sandhills and the rest of the world. Broken Bow claims to be the "Gateway to the Sandhills", much to the chagrin of some other towns closer to the border. From my front porch I can spot Sandhill rigs simply by reading the license plates as they drive past. Any county number on our highway between 61 and 93 signifies a Sandhiller. But there's more signs of a Sandhiller than just a license plate.

I once attended a Cornhusker spring game in Lincoln where I spotted a man that I knew from Hyannis. He was waiting in a crowded line in front of me to purchase tickets to the game. He stood out in the crowd as much as if Chuck Conners, The Rifleman, were standing on a street corner in the South Bronx. This got me thinking about the differences between Sandhillers and other folks. The following is a partial list that I came up with.

Sandhillers are long on common sense and short on urban regulations.
Sandhillers are quick to listen and slow to speak.
Sandhill drivers are quick with friendly finger waves and slow to road rage.
Sandhillers are long on lady's ponytails and short on men's mohawks.
Sandhillers are long on working sinew and short on muscle shirts.
Sandhill rigs are flecked with cow manure instead of glossed with car wax.
Sandhillers are long on Stetsons and short on beanies.
Sandhill ladies are long on denim jeans and short on yoga pants.
Sandhillers are long on home grown beef and short on tofu.
Sandhillers are long on sun and short on tanning beds.
Sandhillers are long on cattle pot washes and short on carwashes.
Sandhillers are long on eye contact and short on indifference.
Sandhillers are long on artistry and short on artsy.
Sandhillers are long on spurs and leather and short on bling.
Sandhillers are long on function and short on ostentation.

A few years ago I was privileged to help film an airplane scene in Hyannis. A simple expression struck me at the time and still impresses me today. Our filming crew joined a couple of area ranchers for supper at the Hotel restaurant that evening. When I introduced our young lady pilot to the men, they stood and removed their hats for her. It was one of the most courteous gestures that I've ever witnessed. It made me proud to share this unique culture with the rest of the world.

Remember

Sat, 27 May 2023 14:49:41 GMT

A day to respect those who gave all for our country.

Cemeteries across the nation are dressed in their Sunday finest for this weekend's holiday. The stars and stripes wave above marble monuments adorned with pink peonies and lavender gladiolas. Memorial Day, or "Decoration Day" to old-schoolers, kicks off each summer with a somber reminder of those who gave of their lives to ensure our freedom to enjoy all the beauty that the United States of America has to offer.

There's a cemetery in Lincoln County, nestled in the Platte valley ribbon that separates the Sandhills up north from the cedar canyons to the south. My wife and I turned off of I-80 one year on Memorial Day and pulled the car to a stop inside the confines of Nebraska's only National Cemetery, Fort McPherson.

The first thing that I noticed was the solemn quiet of the place. A hush fell over the grounds that reminded me of drill and ceremony training back in Army basics. White stones stood at parade rest in perfect rank and file, as if anticipating orders from the First Sergeant. But there was only silence.

Unlike other cemeteries, the individual graves were simply adorned with a single, small American flag. Each soldier is equal in the end, giving all they have to keep America, America.

The air was spring fresh, but I swear that I could smell a hint of cordite-the smoke from a spent tank round.

Let us remember and be grateful for the men and women who sacrificed their lives so that we can relax with a glass of iced tea under an umbrella in our neatly mowed backyards this weekend.

Spring Renaissance

Sat, 29 Apr 2023 16:37:30 GMT

Rebirth in the Sand

Driving across Nebraska from east to west in the spring we notice a disparity in color. Deciduous trees are leafed out in Omaha. Lawns are dark green and freshly mown in Grand Island. But the landscape changes as we gain altitude on Highway 2 and the loamy earth shifts to sand at Anselmo. Suddenly, the hills are still brown from the long, cold winter. It seems as if spring forgot to pass this way. Why is there such a stark contrast in color?

My first encounter with with the Sandhills was in the spring of '81. My brother-in-law, Marley, invited me on a fishing trip with his grandpa up in Rock County. It was a sort of sending off party for me a few days before I left for Army basic training. Grandpa Ray Sybrant led us on an excursion that altered my course in life. Our battles with wind, driving rain, an old wooden boat with a gas motor that wouldn't start, and a flat tire on the truck were enough to stamp memories for a lifetime. It was one of the greatest days of my high school years.

To find spring in the Sandhills one must look closely. The hills are covered with warm season grasses that show very little sign of life until any chance of frost is past. But if you look closer, you will spot tiny, exquisite flowers such as the milkvetch above. Then, if your nose detects the sweet fragrance of plum blossoms, you can follow the scent upwind to the snow-white bushes that frequent road ditches and side hills. Cool season grasses such as brome and wild oats provide green borders around the bare trees in the low spots. Willows around the lakes and ponds are hinting of life.

Migratory birds such as the long-billed curlew make their annual pilgrimage north to nest and rear their young. Marshy air is filled with the distinct songs of the yellow-headed blackbirds and the whomping call of the bittern. Canada Geese take advantage of the isolated safety of muskrat lodges to lay their eggs.

Newborn calves romp in the sand, testing out their youthful agility. Their mammas are still feeding on last year's hay until the cool season meadow grass stretches out to touch the ever-growing warmth of the sun.

Springtime in the Sandhills may be drawn out longer than most of the world, but it gives us more chance to enjoy new life on Earth. So let's warm our lives a bit and spend some time in "The Land of the Living!"

Disconnect

Sat, 15 Apr 2023 16:36:15 GMT

There is a place in Nebraska where the world disappears and Earth emerges.

Can I let you in on a little secret? Peace is free. Freedom isn't free. Happiness usually costs money. Our ever increasing desire for entertainment is getting more expensive every year. The world in general has a way of wearing us down and robbing our joy. But peace is still out there, waiting patiently for us to partake. It only requires us to disconnect from the world for a bit and plug into its creator.

I glance at my surroundings as I sit at my desk. A calendar lies directly below the computer screen, reminding me of future obligations and that time's wasting. A stack of bills, paid and unpaid, sit on the table behind me. A graph paper tablet with my sketching of a custom stair railing lies next to my keyboard, urging me to get busy on that job. Outside the window waits a lawn needing attention and a vehicle with mechanical issues.

Then my gaze drifts upward to some large prints on the walls. Above the computer screen hangs a photo that I took on a frosty morning in Grant County. A mule deer stands staring at me as I look down the frost-covered road that winds through the mountainous, grassy dunes beyond. Beside this picture is a print of Big Alkali Lake displaying its mirrored beauty on a late-April evening. There's the picture on the west wall of me showing off a fat Sandhills bass that my son, Mitch, took on one of our cherished spring camping trips. Over on the east wall hangs the dead tree photo that Mitch took that now adorns the cover on my book. Looking at these prints, I can refocus on the bigger picture of life.

Disconnecting with the world is the key that unlocks the Sandhills' peace. Turn the cell phone off. Turn the radio off. Get out of your car and put some walking miles between you and it. Find an inspirational spot up high so that you can see in every direction as far as your eyes will detect. Then sit down and listen. At first you will hear only the wind flowing through the grass. Then you notice the meadowlark's whistle coming from a yucca stalk somewhere down below. A red-tailed hawk lets out a high-pitched screech as it circles overhead. Soon your eyes and ears adjust to the environment, sending peaceful signals to your brain. Now it only takes time for your brain to adjust. Mine doesn't take long, but some folks might take a day of two to come around.

Disconnecting with the world means that you are reconnecting to something else. In my case, God now gets my undistracted attention. Lines from long forgotten church hymns surface from deep down in my brain. Bible verses pop out of nowhere. Buried blessings come to mind. Soon I'm having a casual conversation with the Creator of the Universe. This, my friends, is true peace.

Survival In the Sandhills

Sun, 02 Apr 2023 01:21:11 GMT

Why cowboys should be named Jack

It was a warm December afternoon. My hunting buddy and I were driving through a Garden County ranch yard in search of the man in charge. We'd spotted a management buck--a deer with poor antler genetics, and we wanted to ask permission to hunt it.

"There he is," my friend, Bob, said, pointing to a corral behind the barn.

I looked in that direction and broke into a slack-jawed grin. The cowboy, dressed in hat and spurs, was atop an extension ladder that was propped against a power pole.

"Only in the Sandhills," I said. "Looks like he's installing a yard light."

Over the years I've had the good fortune to spend some quality time with ranch families. I've learned that Sandhillers are about the most self-reliant folks to come across the Atlantic. One family especially comes to mind. My cousin, Gene, and I were guiding deer hunters on their ranch south of Lakeside. We stayed in a bunkhouse near the sprawling main home.

The rancher's petite wife cooked breakfast and supper for four hunters, two guides, plus her own young family. She shared the secret to her delicious cooking: home grown vegetables from the garden out back.

"I have to water the garden pretty much every day in this sand. It's quite a job to keep the deer and rabbits out," she explained. "This squash comes from Native American seed."

She told us these things while standing at the stove in her boots and spurs.

Later, we saw her hauling feed to a herd of cows in a remote area of the ranch. She was driving some sort of Russian army six by six.

"I have no idea how she opens and shuts that gate south of the house," Gene pondered. "It takes the two of us to manhandle it."

"Yeah...these ranch women are pretty wiry," I reflected.

When people live fifty miles from town they learn how to get by on their own. When a sewer backs up, they clean it out. When a bale processor breaks in two, they weld it back together. When their corral's too dark, then they climb up the pole and install a yard light. "Cowboy Jack" is "Jack of all trades."

Snakes

Sun, 26 Mar 2023 01:52:33 GMT

Some call it a phobia. I call it plain old fear.

I can't remember when it began--my fear of snakes. I remember sitting at the supper table as a kid, listening to dad's story of chopping a large bull snake in half with a sickle bar mower in the hay field. "Each length of snake was three feet long and as big around as my wrist. It kept writhing on the mown alfalfa for several rounds," he explained. Dad had no love for snakes. "The only good snake is a dead snake," he claimed. Maybe that's where I acquired my repulsion to the slithering reptile.

Somewhere in my childhood years, I recall wading through tall cattails with a fishing pole. My quest was to make it to the open water of a bayou on the Middle Loup river. I spotted some carp milling around on the surface from an adjoining hill and instantly felt boyish adrenaline flow. In a flash I was standing in thigh deep water at the edge of the reeds, expectantly watching my red and white bobber float the gentle waves. The carp were unimpressed with my offering though, and my patience finally wore out. I turned and headed back to dry ground but was suddenly confronted with a road block. The mid section of a snake much longer than I was tall, lay across my path through the cattails. I debated for a millisecond, then changed course, making a huge arc around my adversary, creating a wake that must have spooked every fish from the backwater. My life long battle with snakes had begun.

Looking back, I have come to understand that snakes sense my dread of their presence and go out of their way to be near me. If I was riding a dirt bike along the end of a cornfield then a large bull snake waits for me at a sharp bend in the road. The sunning snake then enjoys watching me jump the irrigation pipe like Evel Knievel and come to a stop out in the corn. If I'm irrigating corn with syphon tubes from a ditch, then the snake would be lying behind the berm where I made a giant step across the water. I once levitated six feet in the air in the middle of one these maneuvers and managed to get a running start before I hit the ground. I would never be able to achieve such a feat without the aid of a snake and adrenaline.

I took a job back in '85 with the Custer Public Power District. One of my assignments that summer was to help my supervisor dig dirt from ground transformers and fill it back in with crushed rock. Field mice used the transformers for their homes, building nests and eating the protective coating off the electric wiring inside. We hoped to solve the rodent problem with our rock barriers. I didn't fear the 600 volts of electricity in these transformers nearly as much as the thought of coming in direct contact with the sizeable reptiles that preyed on the local residents. One day the inevitable happened. I was busy digging away at the soft dirt when something caught my wary eye. A black forked tongue slithered out of the back corner of the transformer hole. I focused on the tiny movement and realized that the tongue was shooting from a snake head as big around as a kid's fist. I jumped to my feet and started shoveling rock into the hole as fast a badger digging a hole in the middle of a gravel road with a truck approaching. My boss was impressed with my sudden production.

A carpenter has ample opportunity to cross paths with snakes. In forty years I think I've seen them all. From digging into balls of hibernating snakes while excavating basement walls to finding snake skins in attics, I've come to the conclusion that there is no place a snake won't go. I once witnessed the blood curdling scream of a well man as he streaked across a lawn pointing back at the well house yelling "snake!" A few years ago I remodeled an old house in the hills near Callaway where rattlesnakes were notoriously abundant. One day I noticed something sticking out from some clothes on the porch floor. It was the unmistakable rattle of a snake's tail. I stood back and watched for movement. After a while I concluded that it wasn't alive and moved the clothing back with a stick, relieved that it was only the rattle with no snake attached.

I've also had my share of close encounters with snakes as a fishing guide. Why does a snake need to cross a lake? My theory is that it sees my boat and has an uncontrollable urge to swim out and crawl in with me. When I spot a snake swimming toward me I ready a canoe paddle in my left hand while wielding a seven-foot, heavy action bait-casting rod in my right. If smacking him with the fishing rod doesn't deter him, then hopefully the canoe paddle will. Some snakes are so persistent that I can beat the lake to a froth and they still make it part way into the boat before I finally convince them to leave. Maybe they don't like the loud screaming.

Another pitfall to my fear of snakes is the ribbing that I get from close friends. Most people are graciously sympathetic about my demeanor toward snakes, but some are at home enough to enjoy every minute of my distress. I usually laugh along with them after the fact if they don't get to malicious. My wife, though, is quite comfortable at going overboard with the snake jokes.

On a family trip to the Black Hills we stopped at Cascade Falls near Hot Springs to stretch our legs and snap some photos. My wife, Teri, was quick to point out the cautionary signage along the path to the falls.

"Yep, I saw that," I said with disgust.

"Should we be going down there?" she asked. "I might just go back to the car."

"That's fine," I replied. "I'm going to saunter down and get a picture of the falls."

"Be careful," she warned.

Don't worry, I'll look for snakes," I said assuredly.

Our son, Mitch, and I eased down the wide concrete sidewalk, cautiously scanning the grass and weeds on each side. We made it down to the falls, interrupted only by a cottontail rabbit that gave me a momentary start. I got some photos of the falls which turned out to be picturesque, even from the safe distance of the tourist overlook. Mitch went back to the car to be with his mom and I made a quick photo shoot, then headed back to the parking lot. As I neared the car, still checking every nook and cranny along the sidewalk, Teri got an evil idea.

"Watch this." she said with a giggle.

Then she reached over and laid on the horn. I levitated in slow motion while my camera which I was holding in front of me flew into the air. I felt like an astronaut spinning through outer space, watching the camera float away. Luckily, I had the strap wrapped around my wrist and it snapped tight when the camera reached its apex. Then it flew back into my hands as I came back to earth. I gathered myself, took a deep breath and continued my stroll to the car that rocked with laughter. Ha Ha.

The Sandhill Crane

Sat, 18 Mar 2023 19:09:36 GMT

Is there a connection between sandhill cranes and the Nebraska Sandhills?

Tuesday afternoon my ears detected an old familiar sound. It was the unmistakable warble of cranes above. As I gazed up into the hazy blue March sky I heard another sound-- the raspy screech of an eagle. My eyes immediately spotted the two bald eagles circling, then the cranes appeared much higher, but in the same line of sight. They were riding the early spring thermals in their round and round signature migration flight. It's springtime in Nebraska.

I apologize for the lack of pictures in this blog post. Shamefully, I have no sandhill crane photos in my archives. Years ago, I helped my son produce a documentary about the sandhill cranes' springtime stopover on the Platte River. We spent mornings and evenings in various blinds near Fort Kearny State Park, filming the magnificent birds feeding and dancing in cornfields and sandbars. We even filmed and interviewed other photographers in action. I still remember one Omaha photographer's description of a previous rainy year and his attempt to get a good photo. "I spent three days in the blind taking thousands of pictures of gray birds with a gray background under gray skies," he lamented.

Strangely, I managed to come away from all this with no photos of my own.

Crane experts tell us that there really isn't a connection between the sandhill crane and the Sandhills of Nebraska. Their name derives from their wintering grounds in the Texas sand hills. They fly over the Nebraska Sandhills enroute to their summer nesting grounds from Canada to Russia. The only time that you'll see cranes land in these Sandhills is for a night layover.

I've personally experienced some cranes that took a liking to the Sandhills though. A few years ago we came across a lone sandhill crane feeding among cattle on the Valentine National Wildlife Refuge on a December muzzle loader hunting trip. It appeared to be in fine health and perfectly content to live with the cows.

Last November we watched a flock of cranes daily pick though a sparse cornfield in the Sandhills of eastern Sheridan County. They seemed to be right at home in the remote hills. Maybe they thought that this looked like their wintering grounds down south...or maybe they were part of the flock that ventures into far eastern Russia to have their young and just needed some extra energy to continue south.

If you get a chance to view the sandhill cranes while they're congregated on the Platte in March and early April, I highly recommend sitting in a blind with binoculars or a camera with lots of zoom. In the evening when the birds return to the river after feeding all day, you will experience a wonder of nature that you'll never forget. If you are not able to see the birds in real life then check out the documentary below. Our son, Mitch, created this film as a teenager.

John the Baptist

Sun, 12 Mar 2023 00:27:35 GMT

My Attraction to Water

Middle Loup River

It's no secret that Nebraska sits atop one of the most incredible fresh-water resources in the world--the Ogallala aquifer. Springs well up in the Sandhills, providing steady flow to several major rivers in the state. From one of these rivers, the Middle Loup, sprang my love for water back in my childhood years. It's also the river that recently earned me the nickname, John the Baptist.

I grew up back in the 70's, religiously attending the Baptist Church in Arcadia. It had a built-in baptistry so I didn't get to experience an outdoor immersion like you see in the movies. Pastor Tweter said that "water is water, whether it's in a river or an indoor cauldron," so I figured that I conformed to the biblical standards of baptism. But still, I had a deep down regret that I wasn't baptized in the spirited flow of a river.

Now, fast-forward to the recent past, when I took part in another immersion. My wife, Teri, friended a coworker who, out of the blue, popped the question, "Could your husband baptize me in the river?"

Slightly befuddled by her request, Teri replied, " Why sure--I'm sure he would be glad to..."

"Thanks a million!" the coworker exclaimed. "I've been pretty sick lately and I don't know how much longer I have to live. I'd feel a whole lot better if I could get baptized."

Teri presented me with the lady's request that evening over supper.

I was just as surprised at her inquiry. "I'm not an ordained minister," I replied after letting this soak in. "About the only credential I have is that I grew up a Baptist."

"Well, now you can be John, the Baptist," Teri replied, pleased with her quick wit.

We set a date in early September, when the river was still warm and the current gentle due to diversions up stream for irrigating. I knew of a spot below an old piling wing south of Comstock where the current created a natural hole deep enough to get wet. As the time neared, a thought occurred to me. This could be special water that we were baptizing in.

Somewhere in the past, I read an article about how water cycles itself. The writer claimed that all the water molecules on earth are just as they were when Earth was created--no more, no less. Each molecule has gone through several evaporation/condensation cycles in the course of history. During these cycles the water molecules have passed through at least ten different human beings. It could be that the water in your glass today was in Napoleon Bonaparte's drinking vessel two hundred years ago.

This line of thinking brought me to the point where the most famous baptism of all time took place. The location was the Jordan River in Israel and the date was AD 30, or about two thousand years ago. John the Baptist (the real one) immersed Jesus Christ in the river, signifying the start of His three year ministry on Earth.

What sent me on a drawn-out thought process was the water that touched Jesus' face as he went under the Jordan's surface. That water, which started as snow melt on Mt. Hermon to the north, eventually flowed downstream to the Dead Sea. But it didn't die there.

Dead Sea water evaporates into the sky, leaving the salt behind. This vapor flows in clouds to the east and eventually forms a rain drop which falls on the Euphrates river valley. The drop of water makes its way down the river and flows into the Persian Gulf. Waves push the drop out of the gulf and into the Indian Ocean. Monsoon ocean currents carry the water around the horn of India to the Bay of Bengal where it once again evaporates into the sky. The cloud drifts over Thailand and rains on Vietnam, where it ends up in the South China Sea. From there the water catches the Kuroshio ocean current, transporting it to the North Pacific Current. In time the water ends up in the California Current, heading south along the west coast of what will one day be the United States of America.

Okay, at this point you're thinking that I'm nuts. How can you possibly follow a raindrop halfway around the world and have it conveniently end up off the coast of California where it will evaporate and move in a cloud over the Rocky Mountains and fall to earth in the Nebraska Sandhills? You have a valid question. I'm not saying that all this is probable-- but is possible. If something is possible, then my boundless imagination will make it happen somehow.

So now, after say a decade of world travel, our water drop made it to western Grant County, Nebraska and fell gently to a hilltop as a snowflake. The snow lingered a few days above ground, but soon melted into the sponge-like sand, and down into the dark recesses of the Ogallala Aquifer. Then it begins it painstakingly slow movement to the east. Years go by. Decades pass. Centuries add up to twenty. Then suddenly, it sees daylight again! It's late summer when the water emerges from the sand on the upper reaches of the Middle Loup River. In a matter of minutes the drop of water flows down a mossy slope and into a tiny stream. As the water drop flows east, it gains more friends and what started out the size of a sidewalk soon becomes a lane, then a two-lane highway. More and more water stored up for centuries underground joins in to form a bona fide river.

Water in the Middle Loup's upper stretches clip along at around seven miles per hour. As it flows east, the downward gradient lessens and the water slows up a bit. Just below the town of Dunning another river joins the Middle Loup. The Dismal River has been paralleling the Loup since its beginning seventy-some miles upstream. Now the river is at full strength and on its way to a couple diversion dams. At Milburn some water is diverted into an irrigation canal. Further downstream, below the town of Comstock, a considerable amount of water is diverted into a canal toward Sherman Lake. Just below this dam is where we join our preceding baptism.

So I lead the lady into the gentle current out to the wing-dam hole. I grip her hand tightly as she steps off the shallow sand bar into the waist-deep water. "Pay no attention to the minnows nibbling at your toes," I say with a grin. "People in the city pay big money to have pedicures like this."

The lady's eye's widened, then she grinned. "I can feel them!"

I recited the regular baptism words and had her plug her nose. She leaned back into the current and I did my best to help her under and back out gracefully. When she stood back upright I looked at the water streaming down her face and wondered... Could it be that this is the very water that streamed down our Savior's face so many years ago?

Prohibition in the Sandhills

Sun, 05 Mar 2023 03:13:54 GMT

The Roaring 20's in the Wild West

One of the benefits to carpentry is spending time with folks as I remodel their homes. After the shock of having their living quarters destroyed, people warm up to me as I begin to piece things back together. By day three I'm just one of the family, enjoying hot coffee and homemade cookies. If I'm real lucky, and the kitchen isn't torn up, I even get to enjoy a home-cooked noon dinner. On one such job I had the pleasure to work for Carl and Cindy Olson of rural Broken Bow.

At the dinner table I heard stories about Cindy growing up on the L.D. Mercer ranch thirteen miles northwest of Thedford. Carl told of his stint in the navy where he patrolled the shores of Vietnam. I enjoyed the conversations almost as much as I savored Cindy's superb cooking. Life was good.

One day as we were eating a scrumptious dessert, Carl started on a story about his grandfather in North Platte. Charles (Hervey) Cole was born on the 12th of November, 1893. He grew up in the Platte Valley where he married Edna May Woodman and they settled down in North Platte to raise a family. Maybe "settling down" aren't the best words to describe their lives though. Hervey took a job with the FBI to feed the nine little mouths that Edna bore in the early years of marriage. The "Roaring Twenties" were certainly that for this young family.

Hervey's assignments with the FBI included shutting down houses of ill repute and catching bootleggers. The Prohibition may have outlawed whiskey during this fourteen-year time frame, but it certainly didn't create a society of church-going saints. One night he was working Front Street, looking for bootleggers when a gangster thumped him on the head and threw his body on a west bound freight train. It was the end of the line for this meddling government agent-- so everyone thought.

Hervey gained consciousness somewhere in eastern Colorado where he staggered off the train and wandered aimlessly around the railyards. He couldn't remember a thing about his life. An area farmer saw him zig zagging incoherently about and asked him his name. Hervey thought a minute and replied, "I don't know." When asked where he was from he had the same answer. The kindhearted farmer told him to get in his car and he would give him a job raising sugar beets.

A year and a half went by and one day Hervey developed a nose bleed out in the field. For some reason his amnesia suddenly left him and he could remember everything. He told his boss the news and the nice man offered to pay all his back wages and help him get a train ticket home. "There's one more thing that I need you to do," Hervey added. " I need you to write my wife a letter describing what happened."

Back in North Platte Hervey found his wife milking cows at a local dairy to get by. She took her long lost husband back after reading the letter.

Charles Hervey Cole bought a gas station in North Platte and a small farm that is now part of the Union Pacific yards near the Golden Spike. He passed away at the ripe old age of 67.

Stories like this abound in the Sandhill region and each one fascinates me. If you have a good one, I'd love to hear it!

Plain Labeled Books

Tue, 21 Feb 2023 18:57:31 GMT

Sometimes the least adorned surprises us with stunning charm.

Highway 2 near Halsey

I once read a quote by an 18th-century English preacher named Matthew Henry that reminded me of the Nebraska Sandhills. He said that "Gold needs not to be painted." The more I pondered this statement, the more I realized the truth behind it. True beauty doesn't need manmade enhancing to bring out its best qualities. The Sandhills doesn't have boardwalks around geysers or suspension bridges spanning gorges one thousand feet deep. It doesn't have snow-capped peaks towering fourteen thousand feet above the states to the west. But the hills do have a quality like no other place in the world--twenty thousand square miles of grass covered sand dunes where fresh water abounds. These ingredients come together to form a land that's pure as gold, yet modest as a mourning dove.

I think of some old books in my small library. One of my favorites is entitled A Fine and Pleasant Misery by Patrick F. McManus. This is a hard-cover book with nothing but the title on the edge and four tree figures embossed on the front. Nothing about the book screams "New York Times Bestseller," but I've received more hours of entertainment from it than any other media production.

Another book, The Holy Bible , comes to mind when considering plain labels. This is a book that I've spent more hours reading than all other books put together. Here is a great example of a book that needs no embellishing to sell. It's words do the talking.

When I asked Tanner Seay from Virginia to write a song about his experiences in the Sandhills he wanted a few guidelines for the genre and lyrics. I told him that I envisioned something in the order of A Horse With No Name by the group, America. Also I mentioned the analogy between the Sandhills and a plain labeled book. He went home and wrote the lyrics and melody that nailed it. You can check the music video out on this website.

So next time you drive through the Sandhills, think about your favorite plain labeled book and how it compares to the secrets that this land has tucked away in its pages.

Wind, Water, and People

Wed, 15 Feb 2023 21:04:58 GMT

The Enchantment of the Hills

Bunger Lake

I stood at a distance and watched the man peer intently into the water at the lake shore. Was he looking for fish? Tadpoles? The Lost City of Atlantis? This was the third time that I caught him acting in this manner that day. First, it was the abandoned schoolhouse where he stood and stared in the window. Then we came across the rusted, tangled remains of a windmill that appeared to have been in the path of a prairie twister. He seemed to get caught in trances that continued to the place of awkwardness. Ending his momentary enchantment with the water siren, he raised his head, glanced across the lake, and then we continued our hunt.

We were nearing the end of a five day archery hunt in the western Sandhills. My hunter happened to be the inventor of a well known household product and was as close to being a billionaire as anyone I've ever known. He could purchase pretty much anything that the world has to offer, yet he was allured by the simplest elements of nature. The Sandhills were working their magic on him.

I've been guiding hunters and anglers in the Sandhills for over twenty-five years now. I've witnessed the effect that the hills have on people. What's difficult though, is to describe the emotion that people experience after a few days walking the dunes or floating the waters of this enchanting land. One factor seems to be common among these newcomers. They arrive like a twelve string guitar, tuned too high. A long stroll through the sand unwinds the tension, lowering the pitch to a baritone ballad played out as wind flows through the grass and our legs brush the sun-dried rattle pods. Soon we are stepping to the tune of an old time church hymn from our childhood. The world shrinks down to this yucca strewn solarium inhabited by meadowlarks and mule deer.

Mother Teresa may have summed it up as well as anyone: "We need to find God, and He cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature--trees, flowers, grass--grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence... We need silence to be able to touch souls."

A Long Road To Nowhere

Sat, 28 Jan 2023 20:14:01 GMT

A Look Back at Some Favorite Destinations

Shell Lake

It was a late September day in the year 2010. The afternoon sun was warm on the sand as we sat and pondered our situation. The truck and boat were stuck axle deep in the sugary ruts that led through some impassable yucca chops on the Pawlett Ranch in Garden County. Our destination was Black Steer Lake on the southern border of the ranch. My son, Mitch, and I were on a mission to video ducks for a documentary that he was working on. We also planned to get some fishing in while on the remote lake. Somehow, we had to figure a way out of this predicament to continue this treasured journey.

My mind flashed back to another excursion that Mitch and I were on a few years prior. We were on a father/son camping trip that we took each year to shake off the spring fever. We packed everything short of the kitchen sink in the pickup and boat and headed deep into the Sandhills. Our only plan was to drive to the end of a long road away from all forms of civilization and live in unity with the virgin land.

We ate dinner at a picnic table on the Boardman Creek arm of Merritt Reservoir, then continued north and west to McKelvie National Forest where we set up camp. We hiked the forest and fished some area lakes, then decided to move on to something more remote. After a short pit stop in Cody to replace a broken lockout hub on my four-wheel drive, we continued west to Cottonwood Lake near Merriman. Our food cooler was warming up so we drove into town and ventured into the local saloon. Mitch was eleven or twelve at the time and his eyes were pretty big in the dark establishment embellished with pictures on the ceilings. The barkeeper was very friendly and sold us a couple bags of ice.

Cottonwood Lake was nice, but still a little too urbane for our taste, so we followed a helpful conservation officer's advice and drove west to find Shell Lake. I always keep a Nebraska Atlas & Gazetteer in the truck which shows pretty much every back road in the state. Ignoring the warden's directions which seemed to take a round about way to the lake, I instead tried a short cut indicated by a thin red squiggly line in the atlas. We drove past an old railroad sign that said Irwin , where we pulled off to look for signs of life, past or present. Off in the distance was a ranch place that seemed to be on the road we were taking. We soon drove into the ranch yard and I spotted a lady gathering jeans from a wind buffeted clothes line. I walked over to her with a few cattle dogs accompanying me to ask for directions. She listened to my request, glanced at my truck and boat, then proceeded with her advice. "The only way to get to Shell Lake from here is on horseback, and even that could be a little tricky," pointing at the mountain of a hill behind the house. She looked at my map and recommended that we back track to a county road that went north a few miles and curved around to the west, then south to the entrance road to Shell. We were a mere three miles from the lake and it looked to be another fifteen or so by road.

We drove past bison herds on the final leg of our journey that snaked through the hills to a wooden windmill that marked the trail into Shell Lake. At long last we arrived at our destination. One pass down the trail to the south end of the lake was enough to reveal that we found what we were looking for. We were at the end of a very long road to "nowhere."

This "nowhere" turned out to produce one of the fondest and most etched memories of our father/son camping trips. First, the spring gales tried to blow our tent down during the night. I had to tie a corner of it to the truck bumper to keep it from slapping us in the face. Just before daylight the wind subsided to dead calm and I was able to cook cheese omelets for breakfast which we ate on the ramshackle boat dock. "Uhm! This tastes really good," Mitch exclaimed with his feet dangling above the glassy water. We spent the day fishing the crystal clear water for bass and pike, then capped it off with a hike to the hilltop above the campsite to take in the gorgeous sunset. Mitch still has a small vial of sand that he scooped up there to take home as a souvenir.

"Nowhere" destinations offer us opportunities to enjoy the bare essentials of life. Uninhibited by the noise and flashing lights of our high-tech world, we can simplify life down to its primary design. Sound is crickets and coyotes accompanied by the rattle of cottonwood leaves and the gentle lap of waves hitting the shore. The sights before us are God's creation, not ours. In fact, nothing stands between us and our Creator, giving us the perfect environment to chat.

Now, back to the task of digging a buried truck and boat trailer from the sand. Mitch was in his late teens by now and in the prime of life. I needed his strength and ingenuity to help jack the truck up and place yuccas under the tires for traction. After an hour struggle we managed to extract ourselves from the blowout and continue our trek.

A few miles later we arrived at Black Steer where we set up the camp in the above photo in a small bowl overlooking the lake. This was by far the most remote camp that we had ever experienced. The only living creatures for miles in any direction were coyotes and raccoons, deer and pronghorn, coots and bald eagles, bluegills and ospreys. We spent the next two days capturing some of the most amazing video of our lives. Footage that has appeared on PBS and television commercials for years.

The roads in the Nebraska Sandhills are noted for their length; private lanes can be eight miles or more. Traveling these roads gives us a sense of the sheer size of this place. So whether you call it "nowhere" or "somewhere," when you get to that special spot in the Sandhills you can say that you are "now here."

Country Schools in the Sandhills

trex2hunt@gmail.com (John Hunt) — Sun, 08 Jan 2023 02:15:57 GMT

Learning the Essentials

Photo by Erik Johnson, Lincoln Nebraska erikjohnsonphotography.com

It was late afternoon on that peaceful November day. I was trekking through some unfamiliar dunes south of the Niobrara, half looking for deer, half searching for hidden treasure. Cresting a ridge in the windswept chops, I spied something odd in the blowout below. Four legs protruded from the bare sand. I stared at the aberration for a few seconds, trying to put whatever this was in the context of its surroundings. I was in the middle of a cow pasture on the edge of the immense Sandhills and in the middle of what most people call "nowhere." What could this possibly be? Curious, I climbed down into the blowout and traversed softly over to the unknown object. The legs were solidly attached to whatever was buried by the shifting sand. I set to digging it out with my hands and promptly had it extracted. It was the metal remains of a school desk. Now, my inquiring mind shifted into overdrive. How the heck did a school desk end up out here?

Thoughts of yesteryear and families that once inhabited the now barren thousands of square miles in rural America tend to hypnotize me. I get caught up in what was once children laughing and adults doing life in a simpler time. Pulling a school desk from the sand opened a whole new can of worms. It inspired me to dig deeper into our local history books.

Above is a beautiful camera capture of an old country school in western Cherry county. The closest towns are Hyannis, thirty miles to the south, and Merriman, thirty-seven miles north. One hundred-nine years ago when the locals built this school, travelling to town every day was not an option. If their children were to get public schooling they would have to entice a teacher to come here and live. Fifty dollars a month should do the trick.

When I drift past this old school in a boat, casting a spinnerbait along the smartweed for the elusive musky that supposedly roam this lake, I can almost hear children reciting the Pledge of Allegiance through the open windows. Horses would be tied to a hitching rack under the much younger cottonwood tree. A bell is hanging next to the door to beckon the students back to their seats after their noon recess which consisted of pump-pump-pull away and ante-over. One student would abstain from these games though, choosing rather to be down at the shoreline with a cane pole and worm. I snap out of my fantasy and steer the boat on.

Photo by Bert Downing

Teachers back then had to be tough. They usually boarded with a nearby family and either walked or rode to school by horse and buggy. On cold mornings they started a fire in the pot-belly stove with Hereford coal (cow chips), then carried water from a nearby hand pump or windmill for the students to drink. They all drank from a mutual ladle and water jar. The bathroom facility was a two-hole shanty out back. The teacher was the janitor, principle, secretary, disciplinarian, nurse, and counsellor. They earned their fifty dollars a month.

Most school districts back then wouldn't consider hiring married women because a pregnancy could wreck a school year. So this narrowed the prospective teachers down to men, who seldom applied for the job, and unmarried women. More often than not, the teacher was a young lady fresh out of high school with normal training. Some of these ladies even homesteaded while teaching and ended up with their own land. Like I said, they had to be tough back then.

The photo above was taken at Purdum in 1910. Notice that this school is made of sod walls and a sod covered roof. The teacher is on the left.

These are students at the Hecla school in Hooker County. The date of this photo is unknown.

This was a Blaine County horse-drawn school bus. The reins went through a hole in the front of the bus.

The 1928 photo above is of a Hooker County school consisting of two families. Chances are the students in these pictures have lived out their lives and have passed on by now. I wonder what kind of legacy each person leaves behind. Some probably fought in World War II. Some may have went on to be teachers and nurses. I'm sure that a few are still in the Sandhills carrying on the family ranch. Most became mothers and fathers to the next generation who thankfully, are still around to tell us the stories about the good old days and country schools.

Lost Chokecherry

trex2hunt@gmail.com (John Hunt) — Fri, 30 Dec 2022 05:07:27 GMT

New Years Day in the Sandhills, one hundred forty-four years ago

At first glance this is just another Sandhills ranch trail winding its way to the next windmill. Upon closer examination we notice that an opportune jackrabbit used the truck tracks during its nightly feeding foray. A fog cloud is hanging in the valley to the north, obscuring the windmill at the end of the trail. What we can't see though, is the hidden valley four miles beyond that knob to the right known as the Lost Chokecherry.

Nebraska's famous author, Mari Sandoz, wrote a book called Cheyenne Autumn about a band of Native Americans who escaped their reservation down in Oklahoma to flee on foot back to their home in the Yellowstone country. They survived a shootout with the U.S. Army in Kansas and eventually made it to the Platte River near Ogallala where the group split ways. Dull Knife took his followers northwest toward Fort Robinson where they were captured during a blizzard. Little Wolf, along with thirty-nine other men, forty-seven women, and thirty-nine children headed north into the Sandhills with the Army in pursuit. They managed to elude the Army and holed up for the winter on a hillside above Chokecherry Lake just south of the headwaters of the Snake River. The year was 1878.

Sandoz wrote about how the Cheyenne men made hunting excursions to the south to get meat and hides to survive the winter. They shot mule deer on Spring Lake, which if you turn and face the other direction in the photo above, you would be looking down upon.

I feel very blessed to have guided in the very hills that the Cheyenne hunted to stay alive that winter. The Sandhills are full of history like this. It's sad that not all the tales are written down to pass on to future generations though. I will strive to learn the stories and pass them on to you, the reader, in future blogs. Thank you for your time and interest. Happy New Year!

Why the Sandhills?

trex2hunt@gmail.com (John Hunt) — Thu, 15 Dec 2022 23:09:23 GMT

About My Romance With This Land

There's a place smack dab in the middle of North America that is known to few. Ask most anyone about the Sandhills and they will give you a blank look. It's a twenty-thousand square mile solitaire centered in what is arguably the most socially advanced country in the world. This is a mystical place indeed.

Maybe it's that I too, being a bit of a lone wolf, am drawn to this land. Imagine floating adrift ocean waves on a one-man raft. That's what hiking the Sandhills is like. Cresting one rise only reveals endless waves beyond. This ocean of sand is frozen in place by a thin mantle of grass, giving life to a myriad of critters that call this place home. I, being of the curious sort, am intrigued with what might lie over that next knoll... maybe a family of burrowing owls, or possibly a short-tailed weasel dressed in his white winter suit. I've seen enough to realize that nothing is impossible out here.

Canoes and Columbias

If you seriously want to experience the Sandhills you need to do one of three things: you can live here, you can learn how to paddle a canoe, or you can buy some good hiking boots. Most people don't have the luxury of living in the Sandhills so that narrows our options down to either a canoe or boots. With one of these means you can experience the magic of this land.

My first eye-opening encounter with the Sandhills was a canoe trip down the Dismal river back in 1982. A buddy and I packed our old fiberglass canoe with enough provisions to sustain us for the seventy mile excursion. We experienced hundreds of fresh-water springs spilling from the canyon walls into the cold, clear swiftness of the Dismal. We ate from grapevines hanging over the river as we quietly passed underneath. We shot over a mini waterfall and shouted in victory as the canoe bobbed back to the surface. We climbed the tall hill behind our campsite to view a late summer thunderstorm passing to the north. We learned how to survive on wild plums when our provisions ran dry. This two and a half day trip would be forever etched as a safe mooring haven for my soul.

There is something about floating quietly among the exotic life forms in the Sandhill marshes. In late April the yellow-headed blackbirds return from their wintering grounds in Mexico. Their loud, distinct mating calls fill the air with background music. The strange african bongo drum sound coming from somewhere back in the rushes is the mating call of the shy bittern. Canada geese utilize the numerous muskrat lodges to rear their young, pretending not to see you when you happen too close.

I've spent countless hours over the course of my life quietly slipping into secluded bays and inlets of Sandhill lakes as I guided anglers in search of the northern pike and largemouth bass that thrive in these clear, fertile waters. The fish even seem to find life more abundant here, growing to enormous sizes compared to the rest of the world. Below is a plaster mold of a two pound-two ounce bluegill that I mounted for my uncle which he caught in Pelican Lake back in the 90's. The quarter is for size comparison.

You don't have to be an angler or a bird watcher to enjoy the quiet beauty of the Sandhill's lakes and rivers. Anyone looking for a peaceful interlude will find all kinds of breathing space adrift the blue water lakes or cool streams that adorn this enchanting land. To add icing to the cake, cell reception is scant in this remote expanse, so enjoy!

If you don't own a canoe, or you're afraid of water, then simply tie on a pair of high-top boots and go explore the three-hundred-fifty thousand acres of public land in the Sandhills. Designated hiking trails are few, so you are free to blaze your own. Traversing these expansive hills will give you an exhilarating feeling of individual freedom like none other. Imagine embarking on a trek across the sand dunes of the Sahara. The Sandhills of Nebraska is the same, only with grass to cool the air and water in the valleys to bring all forms of life. Hiking in the sand is easy on the joints and exercise for the muscles. Mostly, though, it's medicine for the soul.

I've been privileged to work for a hunting outfitter for going on a quarter century, giving me ample opportunity to hike the Sandhills. Thankfully, my boss doesn't believe in hunting out of motorized all-terrain vehicles and our trucks are not to leave the ranch trails. This leaves us with one means to hunt. Over the course of the years I've legged over a thousand miles in the rugged terrain of the western Sandhills. Speaking for myself and dozens of hunters from across the country, there is no other hunting like this. Hoofing it through these hills has a way of melting away the hard callouses of life. I've witnessed a transformation not only in myself, but in almost every hunter that arrives from all walks of life. Hunting the Sandhills is more than just harvesting an animal; it's a soul cleansing experience that transcends description.

So am I just a fool obsessed with a spot on Earth? Maybe so, but I guess we all have our obsessions. Mine just happens to be one that brings me peace, joy, and closer to the heart of God. Merry Christmas!

Deer Camp 2022

trex2hunt@gmail.com (John Hunt) — Tue, 22 Nov 2022 19:37:57 GMT

Hunting the Sandhills

We finished our twenty-fourth rifle season at Deer Meadows Outfitters Sunday evening hunkered down next to a frozen lake, squinting into the setting sun at a muley buck and his doe just over the neighbor's fence. It seemed to be a fitting end to nine days of tough hunting. This year's drought sent deer on migrations to find greener pastures elsewhere, leaving only the faithful residents to pick from. I snapped photos throughout the season to bring you a recap of our hunts. Hope you enjoy!

A couple days of freezing fog coated the hills with ice prior to opening morning.

My hunter, Jeff, and I sidestepped this sleepy old muley that we dubbed "The Black and White Buck".

We also stumbled across this old fixer-upper.

Jeff departed to his home in Texas deerless, but satisfied that we gave it our best. My next two hunters, Steve and Brent, arrived from Maryland Wednesday evening.

They got their first taste of the Sandhills on a chilly, snowy morning that eventually broke into patches of blue sky, revealing the Air Force refuelers overhead.

Late in the afternoon we glassed this old muley hanging with a young fork-horn. We put the stock on and dropped him with a single, precise 290 yard shot.

Two days later, we found ourselves glassing for herds from one of the tallest hills in Grant County.

Steve discovered this pretty buck a couple ranges over and we put the sneak on him. Success!

With my two hunters tagged out, Cousin Gene and his hunter, Ken, loaded into my truck and we went on a last day desperation hunt. Gene's boot couldn't stand his walking speed and flopped apart so we taped it together for the final hours. The whitetail-racked muley that we found just across the fence didn't jump to our side, so we returned home that night empty handed.

We found this old Kinkaider foundation, reminding us of the European's efforts to tame these hills.

Monday morning we loaded our gear and headed back to our normal lives: General Gene to Ft. Kearny, Capt. Rich to his home in Aspen, and Gene's old ford, "The Deer Magnet" to its resting place behind the shop where it awaits its next big adventure at Deer Meadows.

Northern Pike

trex2hunt@gmail.com (John Hunt) — Wed, 09 Nov 2022 02:06:10 GMT

Water Wolves of the Sandhills

"Holy Moly! Did you see that? A monster pike just followed my bait right up to the boat!" I smiled as my fishing partner dropped his pole to the floor and sat down to catch his breath. A pike follow never fails to convert the casual soul into a bumbling ball of nerves. I liken it to a near miss from a gator attack.

"Next time he does that, lower your lure to the bottom of the lake and he will usually follow it down to eat it," I said.

"Do you think he will come back?"

"Probably not, as loud as you just screamed," I replied.

The northern pike is at the top of the food chain in the Sandhill lakes where it swims. It will eat everything from carp to ducks. When they are really hungry, they will even try to eat each other, no matter how big the other guy is. I've had them latch on to some pretty nice fish on the end of my line. Their teeth are razor-sharp, cutting nearly before they touch anything. Their snouts are shaped like a shovel to root in the lake bottom muck for winter hibernating frogs. Their bodies are shaped like a torpedo, chasing down prey from a distance. They are the ultimate predator, the wolves of the water.

I remember as a child, listening to adult anglers talk about pike fishing in the Sandhills. They told of early spring days, fishing in chest waders, and casting red and white Dardevles out into the open water. The heavy spoons cast like bullets way out to where the big ones roamed. They didn't argue about the lure of choice, but they did get into some serious discussions about the best rods and reels. Spinning reels allowed for the longest cast, no doubt, but the debates were about who of the big two, Abu Garcia and Berkley, made the best outfits. At the time, I was still using a cane pole and dreaming of the day when I could experience the kind of fishing that the grown ups were doing.

Then the day came when my brother and I saved up enough money to place an order to Sports Liquidators. Their offer was twelve assorted spoons for $3.99. They weren't Dardevles but they looked pretty awesome in the picture. Fifty years later, I still have one of these.

My brother and I split the dozen spoons and I clipped a hammered chrome one on my snap swivel one morning at Pibel Lake. The Game and Parks had stocked the lake a year before with pike and I was anxious to hook my first one. It was a calm July morning and I made my way around the west shore of the lake, casting the spoon as far out as my Zebco 202 would allow. On one of the retrieves I felt a jolt and set the hook. The fight was on and I soon beached the flopping pike into the tall brome grass that surrounded the lake. I pounced on the slimy fish, widely avoiding its teeth and slid a stringer through its gill and out the mouth to carry my prize catch back to camp to show everyone. The fish measured 17 3/4 inches long, which I now consider a hammer handle, but at the time was a real monster. I was hooked!

As I gained angling experience through high school and beyond, I discovered that I could catch pike on more than just spoons. One of the deadliest pike lures of all time was a Lil Tubby. I soon knew if there was a pike in the area casting this interesting lure. It was a plastic crankbait with a twisty tail attached. Regretfully, the lure went out of production sometime in the 80's.

I will never forget my first serious day of pike fishing in the Sandhills. It was a cool, rainy Saturday in September, 1985. My brother-in-law and I loaded a canoe on top of my Chevy S-10 and we headed for Dewey lake on the Valentine National Wildlife Refuge. I heard reports that the perch were hitting so we dug a bunch of worms and drove north. We paddled around the main lake, dragging worms to no avail. We noticed some rigs parked at the west boat ramp so we decided to load up and head that direction. What we found there changed my idea of fishing for the rest of my life. Pike were attacking our spinnerbaits, sometimes three at a time. We sat in the canoe for hours, soaking wet in a driving rain, and caught pike on nearly every cast. We thought that we had died and gone to fishing heaven. We had discovered the ultimate rush in fishing.

Since that day I have guided dozens of men and lady anglers in the Sandhills, targeting the voracious northern pike. I've heard comments like "I have fished for pike in Canada and Alaska and have never seen anything like this. I had no idea Nebraska had this kind of fishing." In twenty-seven years of guiding, we have boated an estimated 10,000 pike. We caught and released at least ninety-eight percent of these fish.

I've had the privilege to fish for almost every species in the central part of North America and every one of them has its unique quality. Perch and walleyes are known for their table fare. White bass and wipers fight like the dickens. Trout are a blast on a flyrod. Catfish grow to enormous size. Carp never give up the fight. Bluegills and crappies provide fast action. Largemouth and smallmouth bass provide great sport. But number one on my list is the fish that has all these qualities plus the one that is hard on the old ticker. No other fish will follow your lure to within arms-reach, then threaten to jump in your lap to eat it. No other fish will be called the water wolf.

Anticipation

trex2hunt@gmail.com (John Hunt) — Mon, 25 Jul 2022 19:22:09 GMT

How our zest for life keeps us young at heart

A fishing guide isn't in it for the money. A daily guide fee normally covers expenses and should leave enough to live for a day or two-just enough to keep us in the business. There's something bigger that compels us to do what we do.

So what drives a person to spend hours preparing equipment and driving hundreds of miles to sleep in a reclined truck seat in order to make the early morning rendezvous with a group of eager anglers? I think the answer lies in that word "eager." I get to share the day with people on their day off and doing what they love. I get to see the best side of folks.

My 60th birthday is rapidly approaching and I don't necessarily like all the emotions that are springing like weeds in the garden of my life. Arthritis steals from my youthful gusto. Covid took much of my stamina. Indifference slowly sneaks in and tries to convince me that a rocking chair would be easier. I find it harder every year to find enthusiasm.

But there is still something that never fails to get my heart pumping. My first glimpse of dark blue water nestled between the grass-covered dunes after a long absence wakens my slumbering adrenal gland. My ears perk up when I park the truck and open the door to the sound of bull frogs bellowing in the cattails. Aquatic aromas fill my nostrils, sending a loud signal to my brain that something wonderful is about to happen. Suddenly, I'm seventeen years old again, with that mysterious substance flowing through my blood that makes all the aches and pains vanish.

For me it's fishing. You might prefer golf, biking or photography. It doesn't really matter what gets your blood flowing as long as it's healthy. I still remember the words of a college professor who said, "We do the same things when we're old that we did when we were young, just a lot more of it." This statement holds true only if we make the choice to keep at it.

Our bodies are going to age regardless of all the ways we try to prevent it. Our attitude in the latter part our lives makes the difference between living life to its fullest and giving in to the rocking chair. A fellow that I took fishing a few years ago whose name I've forgotten served as an inspiration to me. He came to the United States from his homeland of Greece as a penniless teenager. Speaking very little English, he enlisted in the Army and fought in Korea. He went on to become a chef, living out his life in Nebraska. He still worked full time at age 80 and seemed fit as a man twenty years younger.

I still have possibly a quarter-century ahead to make the best of what God gave me. May I keep my focus proper and the boat seat my rocking chair!

Welcome to Fresh Air with John Hunt!

Mon, 04 Jul 2022 18:39:25 GMT

Now that I've finally published my novel, Secrets of the Sandhills, I can get back to writing again. The extensive book project inspired me to share even deeper personal discoveries from my lifetime of traipsing the hills and gliding the waters of this enchanting land. I endeavor to describe my findings in a way that they come to life in your world too.

So why a blog?

My school years were back before personal computers, social media, and "weblogs". My earliest writings magically appeared behind the ball point of a BIC pen across lined paper in a spiral notebook. We were also fortunate enough to own a Royal manual typewriter to pound out the dreaded high school term papers. The "delete" button on that machine consisted of a bottle of white-out and a whole lot of patience. I didn't particularly enjoy writing back then.

As life progressed, I slowly developed an urge to share my thoughts with others. My friends understand that I'm not one to express myself orally. My motto has always been: "It's better to remain silent and appear a fool, than to open my mouth and remove all doubt." But the urge to speak my mind continued to grow.

Then Facebook, or "Facelift," came along. I had no idea that the world held so many experts on so many subjects. I soon learned that hiding behind a screen tends to bring out the best or the worst in people. No longer did I have to ponder someone's true inner self. Reading all the drama and division, I decided that this wasn't the best platform to express myself.

I started my first blog, A Carpenter's Angle, a few years ago. In it I wrote about stuff I witnessed in my forty year stint as a carpenter. It's amazing how much a person learns about folks when he or she is living amongst them, remodeling their homes. I now look at others, wearing neither blinders nor rose-colored glasses. I came to realize that God wired every person's brain a little different (some of us a little more different than others). I enjoyed writing my observations in that blog, but now it's time to move on.

The world today is about as divided as I've seen it in my lifetime. The Vietnam War and all its unrest took place while I was still too young to fully comprehend. It was a terrible time for the world. Today, it seems like we are rapidly moving into another era of that kind of culture. The canyon walls between the opposing sides of any issue are caving off with each new bombshell hurled across. The enemy is grinning wider with each new gritty stance. Abraham Lincoln quoted Jesus when he proclaimed that a house divided against itself cannot stand. Today's cutting culture is in desperate need of some stitches and healing.

So along comes a blog about fresh air, fishing, and nature. In it, you will find no political stances, no finger pointing, and no ugly rhetoric. This blog is meant to transport us back to the very basics of life, where something as simple as a wild flower can teach us a profound lesson. I'm sure that I will find remarks such as, "You are too simplistic", or "You need to pull your head out of the sand," in the comment section below. But I also think it's possible that many of you will find this blog refreshing and hopefully, healing. I would love to hear your thoughts.

Thanks for your interest and time. Enjoy!