Bunny-massacre parties were big social events

Imagine, for a moment, that you’re passing through a little Harney County town when you see, in a used-car lot, a DMC DeLorean that someone has modified as a replica of the car from Back to the Future. It even has a replica flux capacitor, and the readout of the dates in old-school LED readouts on the dash. The price is right, so you buy it, and immediately you want to take it out on the highway and see what the replica equipment does when you hit 88 miles an hour. Twiddling the knobs, you set the red “Destination Time” readout for something random, which turns out to be “July 15, 1908.” Then you punch it, and watch the speedometer needle rise towards 88. There is a sudden flash of light and then the car starts shaking vigorously. You think you must have had a blowout, but as you slow down you realize the pavement on the highway has run out and you’re rocketing over a potholed, washboarded dirt road at 88 miles an hour. You quickly slow to a stop. And that’s when you realize that the car isn’t a replica, or even a movie prop. It’s an actual working time machine, and it has brought you back to — what was that date again? July 15, 1908? You’ve come to a stop in a part of the road that overlooks a shallow canyon, close by the rim. You see something moving in the canyon below, so you get out for a better look. In the canyon below, you see a line of people — probably 200 of them — moving through the sagebrush, beating at it with clubs. And the ground at the people’s feet is quick with little furry creatures — running, hopping, bounding away toward the end of the canyon, which someone has closed off and enclosed with a portable fence. Looking through your binoculars (don’t leave home without ‘em!) you see that the creatures are jackrabbits. There are literally thousands of them. And the people — men, women, and children, some of them as young as 5 or 6 — are smashing them with their clubs when they can, and driving them toward the portable-fence corral when they can’t. You’re close enough to see the joy, enthusiasm, and occasional vengeful fury on the faces of the people with the clubs. Little kids are jumping up and down waving bloody cudgels and carefully dressed ladies are daintily dabbing gore off their blouses, and everyone who is not a jackrabbit is having a thundering good time. Looking above the fray, past the tightly woven fence where a small heap of dead bunnies has been piled up, you see some other folks setting out what looks like a big multi-family picnic with, as they say, all the fixin’s. Everyone looks just as happy as a toddler at Disneyland. Except, of course, the terrified bunnies. Cold sweat stands out on your brow as you wonder if your DeLorean actually brought you not into the past, but into a David Lynch movie. In a panic you leap back into the car, start it up, and twiddle knobs until today’s date is in the red numbers. Heedless of the rough road surface, you gun the car up to 88 miles an hour, hoping desperately that the whole “lightning has to strike the car for this to work” thing isn’t also real .... (Central and Eastern Oregon; 1900s, 1910s, 1920s) (For text and pictures, see https://offbeatoregon.com/2501c.rabbit-drives-in-eastern-oregon-685.513.html )