My family moved from Wyoming to our first home in Alaska in the summer of 1958. Nome was an interesting place in those days; full of suprises around most corners it was. It seems that the elders found out that my dad had the largest rifle in town. Figuring he was a "cowboy" (he always sported the Stetson when outside) the elders would come to him when the white bears become a nuisance. He would fill a pocket full of freshly reloaded 30-06 rounds. Armed with his sporterized Springfield, he would head out with a couple of elders to the edge of town. As I recall, these rounds were loaded with the favorite 180 grain cup and core bullet of the day. Eleven or twelve bears fell to that combination during our two year tenure to western Alaska. The elders were happy, dad was happy, and (I am quite certain about this) more than a few bears were not....
"You've been here longer than the State of Alaska is old!" *** my Grandaughters
