In China, this is the year of the sheep. Around my rural home, it’s the spring of the skunk.

Driving up our 1/4 mile long drive that night, I counted four black and white creatures in my headlights, one wandered too close to home for comfort. Since those were visible, who knows how many stinkers ran around outside my vision.

By four the next morning, I knew one had wandered close to the house. We woke up gagging and choking from acrid fumes released within feet or maybe inches of our open bedroom windows. My stomach clenched to think one of ours dogs scored a direct hit.

After discovering my eldest daughter choking her way upstairs, hoping to find fresher air, I braved opening the door. I expected to see a sheepish pooch, stinking to high heavens. Imagine my surprise when both registered a clean air report. As bad as it smelled, I guessed two skunks had run into each other and let the odor fly. Unfortunately, we didn’t get back to sleep.

After that, I smelled skunk everywhere. I thought it was in my head until I got to the school parking lot and exited my vehicle to realize that I did smell skunk. It appeared that early morning blast occurred near my car, and I carried that scent into town with me. The bad news was I’d parked my car in the garage the night before.

That next evening, my husband ran into that skunk. We’d kept the dogs in and away from Pepe Le Pew. During the wee hours of the morning, one barked and growled threateningly at the living room wall attached to the garage. My husband bravely investigated the situation and heard rattling in the garage.

Upon flipping on the garage light, he faced our prowler. Choosing the wise path, he backed out of the garage and raced around front to open the door. That way, the inquisitive beast could depart scentlessly. That incident ended without crisis. Unfortunately, we couldn’t say the same about the next.

Our pup had previously met skunks while running through the brush around the property. With so many present, she got sprayed. In short time, I brewed up a deodorizing concoction using a twelve-ounce bottle of hydrogen peroxide, 1/4 cup of baking soda, and a teaspoon of dish detergent. I’d discovered this worked better than tomato juice to remove skunk stink. However, it can’t be used on heads and faces, which means that any dog hit straight on exhaled eau de skunk for days. No one wanted Reebok nearby for the rest of that week.

Our big yellow dog had his own run-in with those black and white kitties. An obstinate sort, he didn’t want our de-scenting treatment. Choosing his own cure, he wandered to the creek and rolled in mud until he resembled a swamp creature. Though he smelled better, no one, to his surprise, invited him in the house.

Right now, I ‘m waiting for a cold front. When it comes, skunks’ll settle down. While they won’t hibernate, an extended dormancy will clear the air.

Native Kansan Karen Madorin is a local writer and retired teacher who loves sharing stories about places, people, critters, plants, food, and history of the High Plains.

As I sat on the back step this morning seeing the bright sunshine but feeling the brisk north wind, and wishing the weather would either drop into the freezer and stay there awhile or become spring and stay spring, I heard the distinct “pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty” spring call of a male cardinal. That told me that no matter how cold the wind is or how deep the snow still gets, spring is waiting in the wings.

A little thing maybe, but it gives me hope.
When Joyce and I got married, she explained to me her “points” system. Everything I do for her garners me one point; sometimes that one point is bigger than others, but is still only one point. I’ve never fully understood her system and have always thought it a bit unfair that a surprise trip to see the Lion King live on stage rates the same as a few sips from my Leprechaun shake at Spangles. But the other side of the coin is that a few sips of my Leprechaun shake gets me just as much recognition as most anything else. A little thing maybe, but it makes me appreciate how easily she is pleased.

We have our grandson Jacob all day every-other Sunday, and last Sunday after church he and I went for a walk out into the McPherson Valley Wetlands just outside town. I was telling him about the mega beaver dam out there and promised to show him. Vehicles are not allowed on the wetlands, and getting to the beaver dam means a several hundred yard walk, so we parked the pickup and struck out on foot along a trail that’s kept mowed through the tall native grass. We’d only gone a short way when he spotted some feathers on the trail. We each picked up a few, and with them clutched tightly in his hand, moseyed on.

When we got to the beaver dam we discussed why it was built like it was, knocked around there awhile and headed back toward the truck. A few more feathers were added to the collection on the walk back, and suddenly I remembered a small turtle shell I had found there and procured for just such a time as this. I told him I had found something for him that was either in the back of the pickup or in my trapping shed at home, and he pestered me the rest of the walk to tell him what it was. It was not in the truck, so once at home, I parked at the shed and retrieved it while he waited in the truck. It was a totally intact top-and-bottom shell about four inches across from a box turtle of some sort. I cleaned it up with my knife and gave it to him. Taking after his dad, Jacob’s a KU basketball fan, and as I gave him that silly turtle shell you’d have thought the whole KU basketball team had him on their shoulders running with him around the court. His eyes were the size of dinner plates and he couldn’t wait to get inside and show the shell to grandma.

I’m afraid I often miss the boat when it comes to sharing my love of the Kansas outdoors with others. I’m always looking for big outcomes; for example, why take someone along with me to check traps when I might not catch anything today? Why take a kid deer hunting when we might not see a deer? Why take someone fishing when we may not catch any fish? I need to learn to see the feathers and the little turtle shell along the trail (remember my wife’s scoring system?) They’re little things, but to people yearning to experience the outdoors, they are like a ride on the shoulders of the KU basketball team (unless they’re K State fans!)…Continue to Explore Kansas Outdoors.

Steve Gilliland, Inman, can be contacted by email at [email protected].

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If you were to follow the path of the Arkansas River through the flatlands of Eastern Colorado all the way to my native country north of Bucklin, Kansas, there is a very defining “lay of the land” that you would probably notice.  On the south side of the riverbed, sometimes a mile or so away, are almost endless rolling sandhills, as opposed to reasonably flat land on the north side once you get out of the river valley.

This very sandy area sometimes extends another mile or two south; sometimes hardly noticeable at all. Much of the sandy land has never been tilled, and is covered with sage brush, yucca, plum thickets, and some of the best grass cover around. Over the years, the areas have been tightly fenced, and windmills are working day and night. It is a relatively narrow strip of prime cattle grazing area.


During the Ice Age, when mountains were formed and rivers began to flow, the heaving of the earth apparently caused sand to be pushed southward from the river. In the ’50s and ’60s, with the introduction of center pivot irrigation, some of those hills were successfully farmed, as long as  plenty of water and fertilizer were added.

But most of the land became strictly pastureland, as it did in my home country. My Grandad secured a lot of this land sometime in the teens and twenties, and with the help of a couple of his sons, pastured many head of cattle, mostly cow-calf programs, on the richly covered grasslands. Grandad loved Hereford cattle, and he tended them carefully, while his sons did most of the plowing, planting, and harvesting.

When the dust storms hit during the ’30s, some of the most fragile of the sandy lands would be blown bare. These areas, known as blow-holes, would be stripped of every blade of grass and it would take many years for it to reseed and become viable again.

When the War began, a new use was found for Grandad’s pastureland and Grandad wasn’t very happy about it. Most of his pasture acreage was designated as a Bombing Range by the government. B-17 and B-29 Bombers, stationed at Schilling Air Force Base in Saline, Walker Air Force Base near Russell, and Pratt Air Base at Pratt, dropped thousands  of practice bombs on Grandad’s pasture for several years.

Grandad was allowed to run cattle on an adjoining section of grass at his own risk, which he did.


Practice bombs, usually 100 pounders, with occasional 500 pound models, and always painted blue, were loaded with sand and black powder. When the bomb hit the ground, black smoke was visible so that on-board bombardiers could get a fix on there accuracy. My cousin Keith and I would sometimes ride our horses over to the target area, and there seemed to be no bomb crater anywhere near the target! But “misses” were scattered all over the countryside. No injuries to people or cattle were reported.


When the War was over and the land returned to the family, the government sent many trucks to the site to remove the bomb metal, and to generally clean up any other accumulated debris. And a Grandfather and many head of cattle were happy again!

Kay Melia is a longtime broadcaster, author and garden in northwest Kansas.