Nevada Magazine announces 33rd annual Great Nevada Picture Hunt

For more than three decades, Nevada Magazine’s Great Nevada Picture Hunt photo contest has been a favorite among readers. One Grand Prize winner in this year’s contest will receive $250 and a Lake Tahoe helicopter tour courtesy of HeliTahoe. Five category winners (City Limits, Wide Open, Events, People, and Adventure) will each receive $100. Send photo submissions, preferably via e-mail, to tony@nevadamagazine.com by 5 p.m. (PST) on Friday, June 11, 2010. If you need to mail your images, call 775-687-0606 for instructions. To view past contest winners, or for more details on the contest, click here.

Nevada Magazine also recently switched subscription service providers to Minnesota-based PMG Data Services. “We are happy to announce our new association with PMG,” says publisher Janet M. Geary. “This company will be handling all the circulation needs for our readers.” Now, ordering a subscription via nevadamagazine.com is easier than ever. Soon, customers will be able to change their address, check their renewal status, and get their questions answered online.

In Nevada Magazine’s May/June 2010 issue

In the May/June 2010 issue (shown at left), available on newsstands, we explore Nevada’s softer side, with a photo feature on the state’s wildflowers and a guide to stargazing around the Silver State. A story about family-friendly attractions in and around Las Vegas and Reno provides readers with options that will keep the kids entertained, and our events-themed Spotlight covers a number of family-friendly outings to plan for this spring and summer.

A story about Nevada’s trio of wineries is perfect for when mom and dad need a break from the kids. Not to ignore Nevada’s rugged side, this issue’s History story recaps the famous 1910 Jack Johnson-James Jeffries heavyweight boxing match in Reno. The other feature highlights the state’s little-known military operations in Fallon, Hawthorne, and Las Vegas. Finally, the magazine’s Tour Around Nevada continues in the southeastern border town of Mesquite.

Cover image by Chris Talbot

Tonopah’s Central Nevada Museum

STORY & PHOTOS BY NEAL DAVIS SR.

I arrived in Tonopah on a windy and cool March afternoon and, after checking into my hotel, headed directly to the Central Nevada Museum.

The museum sets back from the main road, and, as I turned into the facility, I was greeted by three World War II bombs displayed in front of the museum yard. This included the “Guide Bomb” that was tested in secrecy during the war. Further back toward the main building, the yard was full of old mining equipment, ore cars, and other early 20th- Century machinery.

As I entered the museum, there were walls of old photos and glass-encased displays filled with old typewriters, telephones, rifles, etc.—directly out of the Old West. Old sepia photographs, era uniforms, and clothing worn during the height of the big silver strike in the early 1900s lined the walls.

I roamed through the displays until I found the Tonopah Army Airfield display tucked in the back of the building. After a brief review of the display, I worked my way back to the front and found the museum researcher, Angela Haag. I told her of my interest in writing a story about the airfield, and Angela, without hesitation, opened up her knowledge and understanding of the airfield’s history.

Since it was near closing time, I feared we would not be able to cover much during the visit. However, no clock-watchers here! Angela not only shared her knowledge but also surprised me with a DVD about the airfield and more specifically, the testing of the Guide Bomb (forerunner to the 21st-Century Smart Bomb) and, in addition, shared an autographed photo of Amelia Earhart (see below) that was given to an aviatrix friend that lived in Tonopah at the time.

I could have stayed longer conversing with Angela, but time was not on my side. Before leaving, she suggested I contact Allen Metscher, President of the Central Nevada Historical Society and the specialist in Aircraft Accident Research Archaeology & History for the airfield.

After returning to my home in Phoenix, I contacted Allen, and we had a spirited conversation regarding the airfield, its contribution to the war effort, and, most interesting, the number of young airmen killed during training—110—mostly from P-39 and B-24 training flights.

I cannot say enough about the quality of the museum and Angela and Allen’s helpfulness. They are eager to share their knowledge. You will feel at home immediately when walking through the museum doors. If you have any interest in the Tonopah area’s history, stop in and pay them a visit. You will not be disappointed.

Ice Fishing at South Fork Reservoir

BY JAY DUDLEY

Sitting and fishing through a hole drilled in the ice was once a concept that failed to interest me. Five years of appeals from my friend in Elko did not persuade me. “It’s not like you think,” he’d say from time to time, going on to describe the pleasures of ice fishing at South Fork Reservoir. In spite of his enthusiastic endorsements, he might as well have invited me to play golf in the snow.

He finally prevailed by linking the idea with his 50th birthday, making an ice-fishing foray part of the festivities. We had been friends so long that I could not say no, and I soon found myself on a frigid February day, bumping along the lakeside dirt road, rock hard except for the low-lying mud holes we mushed through in four-wheel drive.

Now standing on shore in a borrowed snowmobile suit and thick-soled boots, I scan a surface wind riffled and blue just months ago, now frozen flat, dazzling white, and who knows how thick. Or thin.

I venture onto this layer of frozen water, feeling secure only because my heavier friend precedes me. The auger turns relentlessly—scraping, boring, bearing down, drawing ice up in a pile around the pending hole like fence-post dirt, but white. Finally piercing the last icy inch, frigid water bursts up gushing, clinging, riding the still churning auger.

And now, another piercing: a night crawler poked through and threaded onto a fishhook. Lowered into the water on a small rod and reel held steady in a PVC pipe frame, he dangles. And we wait. With a slotted spoon we take turns clearing the hole of the ice crust forming relentlessly on the exposed dark water.

Far above the twinkling snow, the sky so cloudless, the air so clear, the Ruby Mountains stand so perfect in their form that I gaze again and again, almost in disbelief. Bald eagles perch in a far away tree. A hawk soars. Canadian geese fly by on the strength of whooshing wings.

Below me, an eerie groan, then a cracking sound so ominous that heard atop any other surface would have sent me scrambling for firmer footing. Thickening and growing, but crowded and constricted by the lakeshore, with no place to go the ice splits somewhere. Following lines of least resistance the crack moves with startling speed toward us, then shoots beneath like a runaway train, but the ice does not give way.

Captivated by the unforeseen—stunning beauty above and ominous sounds below—the squirming night crawler suspended under the ice is the last thing on my mind. My friend notes a quivering in the slender tip of one tiny ice-fishing rod, more definitive than wind would bring. The rod begins to bow, tremble and shake, its holder quivering, rattling against the ice.

Due to my distracted lapse in vigilance, it would serve me right if the fish succeeded in hauling the whole rig into the hole, but I sprint toward it sliding like a kid into third base and pounce on the rod. The fish appears—about 20 inches of silver-flashing fury—detectable in frantic snatches through an eight-inch porthole in the ice.

He surges and runs again and again, eventually tiring, but still resisting. Eventually I hoist him through the 18-inch lid on the lake. Taking my gloves off to remove the hook my exposed hands feel the bitter cold.

Seated on ice in lawn chairs, when we’re not talking, it’s immensely quiet out here, but for the ice cracking and the almost-undetectable clatter of snow grains breezing across the ice’s blanket of snow. In the south, coyotes begin to howl. From the west, coyotes answer.

The fading sun enhances the cold. The chill shocks my face when I dare turn into the breeze. Eventually, my feet, though encased in layers of wool and thick boots, relay their message: it’s time to consider heading for shore and the shelter of the truck.

We gather our gear and fish into a makeshift sled—a large plastic bin bolted to garage-sale skis cut to fit, it slides deftly over the snow as we tow it behind us. Near the shore the ice has thawed only slightly but gives way beneath, dropping me a half-inch or so to the mucky bottom.

One step more, onto dry ground with the firm earth under my feet, it’s all good, an amazing—sometimes spooky—experience. I’d come again. Peeling off my thermal jumpsuit and feeling the jolting cold again, I pull myself up into the truck. Closing the door brings a sense of delight and satisfaction—like I had gotten away with something.


Cell-phone photos taken by Jay Dudley. In the first, Jay's friend, Perry, uses the auger.