We will arrive in the Barossa at peak jacaranda. Reviewing the sentence I just spoke, I realize I am speaking gibberish as far as my neighbors in Dakota territory are concerned. So I’ll explain.

People in Larimore a century ago recognized their veterinarian, Dr. Hermann M. Eisenlohr, by his black derby hat as he came up the street. Figuratively, too, he wore many hats, and was a truly colorful local character.

The waterfowl hunters of Dakota Territory were mainly townsmen, who ventured into the countryside and returned with ducks and geese to distribute among neighbors. These middling folk shared the venatic landscape with a more effete and elite class of hunters who traveled in style.

The first newspaper notice of the City of Saginaw, the railway hunting coach of outdoorsman and author William B. Mershon, is in the Fargo Argus of 6 September 1883. Described as “plainly but elegantly fitted up,” the Saginaw carried nineteen hunters, their dogs, and equipment. “Dogs and guns were to be seen everywhere,” writes the reporter. “The coach seemed a hunter’s perfect paradise.”

As the folk culture of duck hunting burgeoned in late nineteenth century, hunting accidents proliferated. Many shotguns still had hammers, which were sources of accidental mischief. Also, ammunition became less expensive in the late 1870s as manufacturers replaced brass with paper for shotshell casings.

When I came to North Dakota, from another prairie state, in 1992, many things seemed familiar, others not so much. For one thing, as the owner of an enthusiastic Labrador retriever, I found local habits of waterfowl hunting perplexing. I remember heading out for opening day at a nearby waterfowl production area, setting decoys, and rather quickly taking a limit of teal, the usual thing for opening day here, as it turns out.

In late nineteenth century, rabies scares animated communities all over the northern plains. Most were brief, and published reports lacked analytic detail. Certain episodes, however, attracted attention and produced documentation that gives us some insight into prairie community dynamics.

At the community level on the prairies, people of the late nineteenth century took threats of hydrophobia, or rabies, seriously. Authorities and editors knew news when they heard it, but did not want to incite reactionary panic, the phobia of the phobia.

In May 1886 a physician in Watertown, Dakota Territory, was bitten by what press reports said was a “mad dog.” The doctor immediately booked steamship passage, “gone to Paris,” the papers said, “to consult Pasteur.” Just the year previous, 1885, Louis Pasteur had announced discovery of his somewhat tortuous vaccination procedure for rabies.

There is a word out of fashion in this era of specialization, referring to a notable type of individual, the “polymath.” A polymath is a person of multifarious talents and expertise who walks in several intellectual or artistic worlds and blends them with imaginative results.