OUTDOOR Nebraska

IN THIS ISSUE:

OUTDOOR NEBRASKA of the Air

Sowbelly Camp Out

THE BIG rainbow, turned by the pressure of my awkward excuse for a fishing pole, rocketed down Sowbelly Creek, with me in hot pursuit. The seven-foot line tied to the end of the ponderosa limb was as taut as a bowstring. If the fish didn't turn within the next few feet, we would go hungry tomorrow.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the rainbow hit the gravel riffle at the end of the pool, turned, and came racing back into its depths. He lay for a few seconds on the bottom, and it was there that my partner Jim Tische finally saw his size.

"Wow," he exclaimed, "if you land that baby we'll live like kings. He must go five pounds." Jim JANUARY, 1960 3   watched me wrestle the big rainbow with a hungry look in his eye. "Land him," he pleaded.

"I can't apply any more pressure or that little hook will pull out," I shouted back. "Just have to hang on and let him swim himself out."

After 10 minutes of give and take, the fish rolled over on its side near the shore. I kept the pressure on the line, and quickly ran my fingers through the gill and jerked up.

"Get out the frying pan," I cried happily as I held the fish high.

Eating was the one thing foremost in our minds. We are both built for lots of food—Jim short and stocky, and me, long and lean. We were deep in Sowbelly Canyon, northeast of Harrison, on the second day of a three-day camping trip in mid-December. Our goal was to see if we could live off the land with a minimum of gear, willing to take anything this Pine Ridge area had to offer in legal game. We knew that we might be inviting trouble, especially with winter blizzards a constant threat, but we had reasoned that this would only add to the challenge.

We had left Harrison at dawn Monday, little dreaming that we would catch the lunker rainbow. In fact, we were wondering whether we would creel any fish at this time of year. Once we reached the jump-off spot on U. S. Highway 20 about 3 miles out of Harrison, we pulled the car off the road and began loading our gear. Jim and I chose this highway route instead of driving the graveled road into Sowbelly. It forced us to walk three miles overland through the worst that the Pine Ridge had to offer. Abandoning the car this far out would set the scene for a convenience-free outing, and test our stamina.

Once ready, we loaded our 30-pound packs on our backs and headed for an adventure that we'll long remember. Two down-lined sleeping bags, a twoman pup tent, and a canvas ground cloth were strapped to Jim's pack frame. My knapsack held our staples, cooking gear, and ax. Our food was about the same as that carried by the early day trappers flour, corn meal, dried fruit, lard, salt, and sugar. We included a couple of modern-day items such as powdered milk for cooking and some chunk chocolate for quick energy. A piece of fishing line, some No. 12 hooks, and a muzzle-loading shotgun made up our gear for taking fish and game. In planning the trip, we thought that the old gun and fishing line would put the odds on the side of our targets.

It took Jim and me a good four hours to reach our camp site, the packs getting heavier by the step. Our top-heavy packs kept threatening to topple us backward as we edged up the canyon walls. Our bodies, used to more comfortable conditions, ached from the climb, and we stopped more than once to take off our packs to rest. The view at such times was exhilarating. Far below the ponderosa faded away into prairie country. To the north was the hazy-blue line of the Black Hills. The Pine Ridge itself, pocketed with countless canyons and covered with trees, never looked prettier.

Having gone far enough, we finally selected a site about one-quarter mile from Sowbelly Creek, along a ponderosa-spattered canyon floor. Ominous clouds began building up to the north about noon, so we made camp, gulped a lunch of fruit, tea, and chocolate, and hurried to Sowbelly in search of our dinner.

Fishing this small, clear stream with the clumsy rig and pickled minnows was no easy task. The storm that had threatened now cut loose in a rainsnow soaker, making angling even more difficult. The fish were spooky and zipped into cover at the slightest disturbance.

Trial and error told me that I had to stalk the pools on hands and knees if we were to eat. I would 4 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   drop my bait at the head of a run and hope there was enough line to reach the fish in the pool. Two hours of this excuse for fishing paid off in a small brook trout. This couldn't satisfy our appetites, so I decided to try parlaying the little guy into something more our size. I removed the gill from the "brookie" and put it on the hook, hoping this natural bait would work better than our pickled minnows. Casting down-stream the bait washed around under the logs for a few seconds, and then I felt a tap. In short order the fish swallowed the bait, and I set the hook on a nice iy2-pound rainbow. We had our dinner.

Tuesday evening's menu included the fish, biscuits, and coffee. Without the housewife touch, we needed an hour to prepare the meal, and because of our limited cooking equipment, we had to cook and eat by courses. Using a reflector oven made of aluminum foil, we did manage to have our biscuits and fish at the same time.

The evening meal over, I leaned back against the trunk of a big ponderosa that towered over camp, wondering what would be our main course tomorrow. Neither of us had seen any rabbits along the stream, but we were confident that if we could find a big patch of weeds and buckbrush, we would have our cottontails.

Jim's yawn brought me back from my mental wanderings.

"I don't know about you, but I think I'll crawl in the sack. Besides," he added, "I want to see if that bed of pine needles is any substitute for a mattress."

We woke up to a clear frosty morning, but a quick breakfast of mush, coffee, and biscuits made us forget the chill.

"So this is what I have to kill our next meal with?" Jim asked, looking over the double-barreled 12 gauge muzzle-loader.

"That's it," I answered, showing him how to load it. I poured the powder in, added the caps, and set the hammers. (continued on page 25)

FISH by the Numbers

THANK GOODNESS humans aren't like fish. Otherwise clergymen, politicians, sociologists, resource authorities, and the like would really be pulling their own and each other's hair over the plight of a people-populated world. A fish's reproductive potential puts even the prolific rabbit's talents to shame. One small pond of finny females could produce enough fish (with the help of their spouses, of course) to completely clog every waterway on the globe. Fortunately, few of the millions spawned ever reach maturity.

Cold-blooded animals make the warm-blooded species look like pikers when it comes to childbearing. At the top of the heap of the cold-blooded varieties are the fishes. And as you would expect, dear old mother carp vies with the best of them for production honors in the Plains states. She's long been notorious for her capabilities. It has been said that with a couple of good production years behind her, she can spawn close to a million eggs at one sitting.

Following spawning habits, fish can be divided into categories, the nest and the non-nest builders with the fish who spawn willy-nilly usually taking the honors for most eggs laid. Unfortunately, carp and many other non-game species fall in this category. Sportsmen will agree: if they are going to be swamped with fish, they would rather they be the game varieties.

Nest builders in Nebraska are primarily members of the sunfish family. It includes largemouth bass, crappie, bluegill, rock bass, and a number of smaller sunfish species. Other nest-building game fish here include the trout and the catfishes. The nest of the trout is spoken of as the redd.

There are a few game fish that are random spawners. Like most rough fish, they strew their eggs upon rock rubble, gravel, vegetation, and debris. Among these are the white bass, walleye pike, and yellow perch. They prefer to run upstream, but will spawn on lake shores. The northern pike is also a random spawner, depositing its eggs on vegetation. The yellow perch produces eggs in a long string which attach to weeds, sticks, and other submerged material.

The eggs of the random spawners are adhesive, and cling to any objects with which they come in contact. This protects them from being covered with silt, and to some extent, also protects them from fungi and bacteria. Floating in moving water, they have a good supply of oxygen. In most cases, eggs must have as much or more oxygen than the fish. This is especially true of trout and salmon.

Trout, though concerned enough about preparing the nest for the coming young, turn out to be pretty lousy parents once the spawn is completed. They'll take off to parts unknown, leaving the eggs unattended. Sunfish are just the opposite, caring less about nest preparation. Once the eggs are laid, however, the male remains on guard and even protects the fry a few days after they begin swimming.

Clean gravelly stream bottoms are a must for trout production. In the early fall, the female brown, using her tail as a spade, digs a depression about the size of a large dinner plate, then lays her eggs and covers them with gravel.

The male, lying beside her, fertilizes the eggs. This done, they wash their fins of all parental duties. The male trout turns out to be more than a rotten father, since he and his trout relatives are the only game species that do not prepare the nest. There is a reason for this, however. The mother trout may be quite large and the male small. If he were to perform the rigorous task of making the redd, he might not be able to take care of all the eggs.

The catfishes generally seek nests in secluded spots. Males prepare the nest, tend the eggs, and watch over the fry for a short period, which may prove that the trout spouse is not so dumb after all. Sunfish males follow the rather hen-pecked life of the catfish papa. They construct their nests along 6 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   the shores. But these aren't hidden like catfish nests. Bluegill nests may become so abundant along the shore line that they are border to border, a condition that makes fisheries workers pull their hair.

Consider a study made in Michigan a while back. It shows how prolific sunfish can be. A fisheries biologist checked the hatch of various sunfish species in a small lake. First, he counted and marked all of the nests. When the eggs hatched he counted the fry from a portion of the nests of each species. Taking an average, he estimated that there were 164,000 largemouth bass fry from 33 nests, 46,000 rock bass from 58 nests, 1,518,000 common sunfish from 188 nests, and 6,610,000 bluegill from 269 nests. The fantastic total from this small pond that could support 2,500 adults was well over 8 million youngsters. Water, like the land, has its limitations. As a result, many of the young never reach a size to fit the creel.

A world of fish-choked waterways that may be a fisherman's dream of heaven will never occur (thank goodness). Actually, the sunfishes, given a good home with plenty of food, about match anything heaven can offer. And under the same conditions, the other game fish will afford about all the sport most anglers could want.

Winter Duck Haven

THRONGS OF ducks knifed the sullen skies this December morning. Countless more rafted together on the Platte River of the Dodge-Saunders Refuge. Watching this armada of ducks made my pulse beat at triple time. Huddled half frozen, I forgot my gun as I watched one of nature's grandest spectacles.

Duck populations were down this year, but this 50 to 75,000 group at the refuge looked far from being a lean crop. Sand bars were busy with resting and gabbling ducks. One water pocket was black with bobbing mallards, pintails, and teals, their feet constantly churning, keeping ice from forming.

With so many ducks before me, you would think my trigger finger would be itching. It was, but the birds were safe within the confines of the refuge. The minute they got up to feed—their wing beats resounding like distant thunder—I could follow them to the nearby grainfields for plenty of exciting shooting.

Experienced hunters know that Nebraska's system of waterfowl refuges provides plenty of shooting opportunities, not only near the refuges, but throughout the state. Most ducks and geese would wing across the state almost nonstop without them. Hunting would be a matter of catching the ducks as they passed through, providing only sporadic shooting at best. The safety of a refuge lures them in. Once here, they'll often stay throughout the season, and even through the winter, depending on temperatures and open waters. Many have made Nebraska their permanent winter home. Food abundance, protection from gunning, and plenty of open water make our state refuges mighty inviting.

The winter-waterfowl push began with the first nip of winter in the Canadian Provinces. In no time Nebraska waters began to bulge with thousands of web-footed travelers. The first waves of blue-winged teal and pintails showed up in early September. An armada of baldpates, gadwalls, shovellers, and greenwinged teal arrived by the first of October. But the big flight that warmed the cockles of all duck hunters' hearts occurred in early November. Then the lead-gray skies spilled thousands of mallards onto our refuges. Canvasbacks, scaup, and mergansers the last to arrive—winged in late in November. After it was all over technicians estimated that 380,000 mallards alone stopped here. By the first of December, this figure dropped to 364,000 with more flights heading south. Depending on the severity of the winter, even more waterfowl eventually will move to warmer climes. The refuges, however, had been effective in holding birds for shooting during the season, and at the same time, gave ducks and geese needed resting sanctuaries during the migration.

Fish and Wildlife Service and Game Commission technicians make periodic checks of Nebraska refuges throughout the winter, keeping close track of waterfowl numbers as they move south. Airplanes are employed, assuring a more accurate count. What looks like a solid mass of birds from the ground is pretty well pocketed when seen from the air. Actual aerial counts are made when the ducks and geese take off in evening flights.

There are nine state refuges including Lake Babcock near Columbus; Lake Burchard, three miles northeast of Burchard; Plattsmouth, a mile northeast of Plattsmouth in Cass County; Lake Walgren, southeast of Hay Springs; Lake Minatare, near Scottsbluff; Garden County; Dodge-Saunders County; Holt-Rock-Boyd-Keya Paha County; and Lincoln County. In addition, there are two federal refuges—Crescent Lake and Valentine. A third, DeSoto Bend, will soon be ready to house waterfowl.

Garden County Refuge, which has been set aside as an improved breeding site, includes an area 20 rods wide on each side of the North Platte River through the length of Garden County. The Dodge-Saunders County Refuge follows this same pattern, with its boundary running 20 rods wide along each side of the North Platte River from the west line of Dodge County to the east line of Saunders County, and southeast to the bridge at Venice on U.S. 30A and State Highway 92. The boundary for the Holt-Rock-Boyd-Keya Paha County Refuge extends from State Highway 137 on the west, to State Highway 11 on the east and covers 20 rods on each side of the Niobrara River. The Plattsmouth Refuge boundary extends north to the Platte River and east to the Missouri River.

Some refuges are obtained by the Commission either by purchase, lease, or gift. Others have been established under statutory law by the state legislature. Signs tell all that the area is a waterfowl sanctuary. Hunting is prohibited, and molesting any of the birds is punishable by a fine or a jail sentence.

Webbed feet will continue their busy chore of keeping ice from forming on the waters of Nebraska refuges. Nearby grainfields will supply ducks and geese with needed feed to last out the winter. And when Canadian climes warm, they will return north, knowing there will be a resting haven when they come back to Nebraska next winter.

Yesterday's GUNS Today

NOT TOO long ago a man hunted of necessity, not pleasure. The gun he used was his most important possession, and any varment that moved was "fair game". Warring brave, buffalo, prairie grouse, or road agent were all targets, depending on the situation and the season. Guns gradually changed into the powerful efficient weapons we use for pleasure today. The evolution of the gun is a fascinating story, for within it lies the conquest of a land, its resources, and people.

Indians had depended on spears, bolos, and later, the bow and arrow for countless centuries. Their battles were of little consequence, the game they killed barely scratching the surface of wildlife abundance. Then came the white man, and with him, his gun, unleashing a chain of events that completely changed all that had been before.

The Spanish were the first to trade guns with Nebraska's Indian population, but they were extremely conservative about letting any firearms slip into the hands of the natives. Not so, the French. Their policy of trading firearms for pelts, for example, resulted directly in the Sioux Indians being forced into the Great Plains from their ancestral homes between the Missouri River and the Great Lakes by the better-armed Chippewas and other tribes.

The trade guns which the French, and eventually the English and American traders, bartered to the Indians have an interesting story. Basically, these weapons were rather short barreled, flintlock, and later percussion smoothbores. Cheaply but ruggedly made, they fired round balls and even buckshot.

These weapons were extremely valuable to an Indian tribesman, as they provided a real advantage in fire power over his bow and arrow-armed aboriginal enemies. The Indians had awe, respect, and a great possessive instinct toward firearms. One brave reportedly said: "My gun is my father and my mother. It feeds me, clothes me, and protects me. I never let this gun leave my sight, but keep it always with me."

The effect of the gun trade during the Indian wars has been ignored by some and blown far out of truthful proportion by others. Some drugstore writers, whose contributions to knowledge are at most questionable, would have you believe that the Sioux and Cheyenne in the fateful fight with Custer OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   at the Little Big Horn were armed with modern 1873 Winchester lever-action repeaters, making them veritable machine guns on horses against the hapless Seventh which carried single-shot .45/70 Springfield carbines. Nothing could be further from the truth. The braves of Crazy Horse and Gall used mostly bows and arrows to wipe out Custer's command. A spattering of Sioux had single-shot flintlock trade guns. A few captured .45/70's supplemented the Indian fire power.

"Kentucky" rifles, so well known in American history, were the prime weapon of Plains traders and trappers of the early 1800's. These Americanmade, long-barreled, flintlock rifles fired a patched ball of rather small diameter. For long-range work against Indians and hombres they were greatly superior to the smoothbore muskets common at the time. Lacking was the power needed to handle grizzly bears and other large game species. The Plains rifle was gradually evolved to fill this need. This larger caliber weapon had more power than the traditional Kentuckian and was the pride and joy of the frontiersman who could afford it. Ignition systems changed as technology developed, with percussion rifles supplanting flintlocks in the pre-Civil War period. Fixed cartridge weapons were rapidly developed after that conflict.

More prosaic were the ordinary weapons found in use by the people inhabiting the Plains in these times. Most of the travelers on the emigrant trails as well as early day settlers were glad to own any type firearm. Few could afford the luxury of the more modern guns. Many, settling in the state after the war, depended on older weapons, the prime requisite being that a gun be accurate enough to get needed game for an often bare table. The repeating rifle came onto the scene at this time. These were eagerly sought by every settler who could afford such a gun.

The importation and sale of obsolescent surplus military weapons. from other countries may be thought by some to be a comparative modern-day practice. Actually, dated military weapons have been on the market almost since Nebraska became a state. The advent of the breechloader put thousands of muzzle-loaders on the market, some of which were converted to breech-loading shotguns called "Zulus". Adoption of a modern bolt-action weapon by the Swiss in the 90's placed large numbers of the repeating .41 Swiss rim-fire weapons on the market at bargain prices. Settlers who could afford little else snapped up these guns.

Shotguns should not be overlooked in any discussion of prairie weapons. The early smoothbore muzzle-loader served as a shotgun when needed. Another early use of scatter-guns was by guards on the stagecoaches "riding shotgun". Then, as today, few weapons were as effective on human targets as a buckshot-loaded shotgun at reasonable range. The use of shotguns for wing shooting came later.

Nebraska was almost entirely a shotgun state from the time of the near extinction of deer and antelope in the 90's until modern times. Rifle shooters have been a comparative rarity, and didn't come into their own again until the large-game species were restored.

Guns have changed, but so have gunners. There are a lot more gun-toters around than there ever were in territory days, but as expected, targets are somewhat tamer. Outlaws and warring Indians have been replaced by deer and wily pheasants. A gun's worth, however, has not changed. It is just as important as it was to mountain man and settler—the key to a heritage of sports afield.

RECOURSE for a CREEK

HOG WIRE, logs, rocks, and roses plus a little ingenuity can produce lunker-size brown trout. I know, because I've seen such fish in the upper reaches of Verdigre Creek near Royal. They weren't the work of a Nebraska-type Dr. Frankenstein; but they were real "brownies", ready to try my pattern.

Before you get the idea that someone has come up with a formula to create trout in a laboratory, I'd better explain that the materials mentioned were only utilized to help nature produce browns in the spring-fed stream. To learn how they help, you have to know more about Verdigre Creek.

The stream in its upper reaches is one of the few in northeastern Nebraska cold enough to support trout. Historically, it has always had some browns. These, however, fought a losing battle against suffocating sand from an abused and overgrazed watershed. Though the stream bed of gravel was a natural for spawning, it was so often covered with drifting sand that few trout could find, a place to lay their eggs. Sand also destroyed much of the minute plankton in the water, curtailing natural growth. Verdigre Creek wandered willy nilly, cutting a new course almost everytime the eroded countryside was washed by heavy rains. Tall grass and trees, whose shade was needed to keep the trout stream cool, were ripped out as the creek changed courses. None of this added up to a very pleasant picture. Also, there was the ominous threat that Grove Lake, a Commission-made recreation lake a few miles down-stream from the creek's source, would soon be clogged by sand, its life expectancy cut by years.

Something had to be done to protect this potentially great recreation resource. That's where the hog wire, logs, rocks, and roses came in.

Buying a major portion of the Verdigre Creek watershed (about 1,700 acres) during the past two years, the state has set about making improvements in the stream bed, banks, and watershed. Logs 12 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   attached to the hog wire serve as barricades to contain crumbling banks, thus helping clear the creek's silted bottom. Reed canary grass and willows have been planted along the stream's course to help stabilize Verdigre and to keep its water cool. Before planting, the creek's temperature ranged in the low 70's in the summer. This too-hot-for-trout temperature was reduced dramatically after planting, dropping to 57-60° F. by last July.

The Commission has begun a program of watershed treatment in the hills around the creek in cooperation with the Neligh office of the Soil Conservation Service. Following SCS plans, detention dams have and will be built to help slow down waters that carry sand into the stream. Multiflora roses have been planted "on the contour" on Commission-owned hillsides, further checking erosion.

Work has been done on the stream itself to make a better home for trout. Logs have been sunk in the stream to create deep holes. The creek in its natural state was never blessed with too many of these pools. Log-deflector dams cause the water to cut deep into the stream bed, creating big holes to house big browns. Where possible, dams have and will be built to make additional pools. These dams also speed up the flow of water and help lower the water temperature.

Rough fish, such as suckers and buffaloes, were eliminated from Verdigre Creek and Grove Lake when the entire watershed was rotenoned in 1958. Trout stocked in the stream, as well as large and smallmouth bass, northern pike, channel catfish, and bluegills released in the lake, were assured plenty of room to set up houskeeping.

This low-cost project, utilizing available materials, is showing dramatic results. Big two-pound browns already have been taken in the upper end of the creek. Trout stocked last year spawned in the stream's now-clean gravel bed last October. Warmwater species planted in the lake are also doing well, and should provide plenty of top-notch fishing next summer.

Verdigre Creek, however, has its limitations, as does any stream. Water, like land, can support only so much wildlife. But stream improvement such as that being done at Verdigre raises a stream's fish capacity. Plankton and bugs, the trouts' basic food source, are bountiful in the sand-free stream. Cool water, so essential to these fighters, is assured by grass and willow plantings. Deep pools, the home of big trout, have been created by damming. Stream treatment giving maximum living space to desirable fish was assured through rotenoning.

As you see, hog wire, logs, rocks, and roses can produce fish. The formula, however, for such creations involves the protection of an overgrazed watershed, plus the co-operation of specialists in the engineering, land management, and fisheries fields. The Verdigre watershed is a mighty pleasant sight these days. So are those two-pounders I mentioned, especially in a grass-lined creel.

Year in Pictures

NEBRASKANS are fishing in Burchard, shooting from state-owned duck blinds at Cowles, and putting shiny new yellow numbers and letters on the bows of their boats.

They're also reviewing a brandnew park bill, forerunner of a sweeping change in park classification and management. Present and future parks and recreation areas spotted over the state are slated for improvements financed by the new law's .13 mill levy.

The first captive flock of Canada geese at the Plattsmouth Waterfowl Area has called down some migrating cousins, forming a semipermanent flock and increasing chances of better gander gunning along the Missouri River. The three-day antelope kill topped 87 per cent; the deer kill success hit 58 per cent; quail population tops 23 years of records. New fishing, picnicking, and recreation areas are open; many lakes are freshly rotenoned and restocked with fish.

Pleasure boats are sporting lights, numbers, and safety equipment in compliance with the new state boating law. Revenue above enforcement costs will be turned back into the expansion of facilities, opening the way for greater boating oportunities as well as safety.

Nebraskans lost a fine game bird when the legislature put the mourning dove on the protected list some years back, and efforts in 1959 failed to restore the bird to its former and proper status. Several trout streams washed out from flash floods; pollution in the Platte and Loup rivers near Columbus killed tremendous numbers of fish.

But the year 1959 has seen Nebraska take many strides forward in conservation and recreation; it has been full of progress and good days afield. This year Nebraska outdoors, 1960 version, promises even more.

BURCHARD LAKE

THE LITTLE striped lizard, interrupting his sun bath, gaped at the huge earth-moving machines moving up the hill. Scrambling to safety under a log, he studied the yellow monsters belching smoke as they scratched the earth bare. Across the draw a cottontail rabbit watched as the tractors tore great gashes in what had been familiar home ground.

The work went on for weeks as the dam inched higher. Finally, grading, tamping, and planting done, the machines left, and all was quiet again. The water began creeping up the valley, and the quail coveys retreated to higher ground. Men dumped fish into the deepening waters. A new Nebraska recreation area was born.

Burchard Lake in the rugged southeastern Nebraska hills has not made its formal entry into sporting circles yet, but that day is nearing. A realization of the dreams of sportsmen's clubs of southeastern Nebraska, the lake fills a long need in this corner of the state for a vacation area.

Burchard's beginning dates back several years to when the Game Commission promised residents of southeastern Nebraska a lake site if they would raise 25 per cent of the purchase price. Although the local people could not meet the agreement entirely, the Commission selected a 560-acre tract, 3 miles northeast of Burchard. Work was begun on a 1,400 foot dam in August 1958, and completed in the spring of 1959. The lake will fill within the next year if rains equal those of 1959. Constructed at a cost of $156,500, the dam will control a 144-surface-acre lake when full.

Picnic and camping facilities occupy only a small portion of the recreation grounds. The bulk of the hilly and fairly open area has been retained for wildlife management. Inhabiting the grassy regions is a good-sized flock of prairie chickens which probably would be driven out by any organized tree and shrub planting. The prairie chicken is listed as a vanishing species in most states.

Burchard Lake is being developed into a primary waterfowl management area. Already 5,000 to 6,000 ducks have claimed the lake despite the roaring and sputtering of the machinery on its shore. The grounds are closed to hunting and fishing during duck and goose migrations. Nearby grainfields and the privacy afforded by the lake far from concentrations of people make the area an excellent haven for wing-weary travelers. Incidentally, southeastern Nebraska waterfowlers already have found improved cornfield hunting around the Burchard site.

Fishermen can look forward to some tremendous sport, if the returns from the limited fishing of last summer are any indication. In some respects, the lake can be compared to the fabled Norris Reservoir of Tennessee fishing fame. Burchard's bass and walleye growth during the first year compares favorably with those at Norris where the fish growth rate has long been recognized as a standard rarely topped. Young-of-the-year walleye shot from about two inches when stocked in early June to almost nine inches. Average weight increased to almost one-third pound going into the winter. Bass yearlings, stocked in mid-April and again in October, grew from around five inches to an average of 12.2 inches, and weighed an average of 1.3 pounds. Pawnee City fishermen regularly pulled out one-pound bass and five-month bullheads weighing one-half pound last fall. Looking ahead, the walleye will probably reach a respectable 13-inch average by the fall of 1960. Channel catfish should also show dramatic size increases. No figures are available on the bluegill released.

The picnic area behind the grass-sodden dam will be ready by spring. Wells and fireplaces have been built. Picnic tables in a variety of colors are being completed. Some of the tree cover has been thinned and the area mowed to complete the pleasant surroundings. A footbridge connecting the two sections of the picnic area is being assembled. Grading and surfacing of three miles of rock-surface roads is over half done. A bridge over one finger of the lake will be built this winter. The 12 x 80-foot boat ramp is in place; playground equipment and sanitary facilities will be added.

The weedy cover in some parts of the grounds seems perfectly designed for bobwhite quail. Young coveys were abundant on the area last summer, and annoyed whistlers broke from almost underfoot. The hard-to-find roads into the areas are undeveloped, and are little more than two-rutted trails under tangled branches of elm. Few people have found the area yet.

Burchard Lake has not yet attained the maturity and grace often associated with other isolated recreation areas. Its loneliness is too raw, its face is yet too scarred by graders and bulldozers. In time, however, it will develop into a lovely jewel, filling the long-felt need for a restful fishing and picnicking area in southeastern Nebraska.

SNAKES ALIVE

IT'S A SCIENTIFIC fact. A snake's stomach can digest the bones, feathers, or scales of its victims. Some snakes give birth to living young. Mother reptiles hate their babies. Yes, with a passion. A mother snake has never been caught swallowing her young in any of the great zoological gardens. Who can deny such facts?

"I can," roars the nonconformist snake fancier. "I've seen it with my own eyes."

The running controversy between the experts and the eyewitnesses to a mother snake swallowing her young "for their protection" is revived each time a new convert to the latter group is made. The experts persist that it can't be done. But laymen swear they saw what they saw. And who can say they didn't?

One of the leaders of the growing "I saw it" clan is a former Iowan, a recognized scientist in his own right, who still clings to a boyhood recollection of a motherly garter snake. He remembers it this way. The snake, pressed into a corner by stone-throwing schoolboys, hissed loudly, then stretched along the ground and opened her jaws. Around the corner of the country schoolhouse scampered a number of tiny snakes which rushed pell-mell into her open mouth and safety.

But that isn't all of his story. The babies, he said, were defiant little cusses that gained bravado from their haven. Once inside, they turned, stuck their striped heads out, and heckled the onlookers with their forked tongues. Back along the mother's body were signs of a considerable rumpus as other little snakes fought for a chance to hang out front.

It can't be, retort the biologists. One family of little garters may number 75, often around 30 or 40. Imagine one snake wriggling around with 75 halfgrown and squirming youngsters in her mouth or stomach. And how far away from danger could she crawl with a pack of infants in her gullet. Mama, they say, just doesn't have this kind of interest in her snakelings. She doesn't diaper, bottle, or burp, being more likely to roll over on her offspring, desert them, or eat them to appease her own appetite. The little fellows apparently know this, they say, and prefer to fend for themselves.

But there's another story. A Nebraska lady reports she killed a garter snake and found a bump on its body. Opening it, she freed 20 active snakelets. Professional herpetologists (full-time snake watchers) hastened to assure her that garter snakes, along with rattlers and water snakes, give birth to living young, while other snakes lay eggs. Two Game Commission technicians found 126 small garters inside one adult. The young were in the body cavity, not the stomach. Many viviparous (giving birth to living young) snakes are killed with enough violence to set free young. Killings usually are messy enough to confuse the stomach with other internal organs.

"But," counters a Falls City man, "it's true that a bull snake lays eggs. Yet when I returned to one I had plowed in two, five small snakes crawled out of its body." Philosophizing on this, the man offers an explanation: "Some people can do things other people can't. Maybe some snakes are that way, too."

But the same man is convinced that another snake deliberately called her young into her mouth when he surprised them on a cow path. Did the mother yawn, and did the babies come scampering gleefully out when danger was over? Nobody knows. The family does this, if it can, in secret.

Scientists, pestered unmercifully by the "I saw it" clan, make this concession. If a snake, any size, gets no farther than a snake-eating snake's throat, he has an excellent chance of coming back to freedom without ill effects. Probably no physical reasons prevent a snake from surviving in another's mouth, if he wants to live that way. But the professionals dare any reptile to survive a gastronomical sojourn. A snake's stomach juices are potent. A reptile has no chewing teeth; rats, birds, and fish are swallowed whole. His gastric juices, then, must completely digest bones, feathers, and scales, and most certainly, tender young snakelets.

An Illinois expert alienated amateur snake watchers the country over when he labeled their sincere beliefs "untrue" and "fables". Firing back at him came an irate Nebraskan who offered to trade snakes captured inside their mother for a cast of Abe Lincoln's footprint. Angered by no reply, he promised to settle for a William Jennings Bryan footprint, furnishing six affidavits from people who had seen the snake-swallowing act.

A Scotish herpetologist used some fancy terminology to state that the swallowing bit cannot benefit the snake race. He described a small poisonous snake, the adder, and her family of 20 newborns basking in the sun. When danger comes, he theorizes, she might allow her 20 six-inchers to hide in her mouth. If the menace comes nearer, she then follows adder custom of drawing into several coils with her head and neck drawn back to lunge. But her family hampers her—she's head-heavy, so to speak. Flight is well nigh impossible.

Telling blow to the swallowing story, as far as this Scot is concerned, is that the defenseless mother with her burden is easier prey than 21 speedy adders, all armed with fangs and venom. No snake, he reasons, would adopt a habit that can wipe out an entire family with one blow. And none of the thousands of broods of snakes raised in captivity, he insists, have displayed this trick.

And so it goes. Everybody wishes someone would settle the question once and for all, as the layman can't believe somebody who won't believe him. Nobody is going to believe anybody until they see it for themselves.

Wildlife Count Down

OLD MAN WINTER has a bag of tricks up his sleeve that even the best of us can't cope with. Our best out is to take refuge in the nearest warm corner when he cuts loose with his Sunday punch of whipping prairie blizzards or driving sleet, and wait out the storm.

But what about wildlife? Usually there's no neutral corner for them. After a heavy storm it would appear that all animals have completely abandoned the terrain or are at least buried under it. Closer inspection, however, shows that wildlife still abound.

How do the various species "make a go of it" in winter? The snoozy ones like bears and prairie dogs curl up in a cozy corner and sleep out the season. Ducks and geese, showing this same kind of "moxey", head south. Most others, however, appear ill prepared to withstand the winter. Upland-game birds like pheasants and quail which had depended on summer's thick foliage for food and cover, are left exposed to the elements and enemies. Antelope and deer find movement difficult, their small sharp hooves never designed to ply deep snows. Rabbits find escape from their enemies difficult because hiding places are stripped of cover.

There is no denying that wildlife is at a disadvantage during the winter. Deer, for example, though blessed with a warm coat, can become weak, their energies spent by fighting through deep snows. If they are confined to one area too long, they quickly consume their food supply. Yearlings become weak and vulnerable. Pocketed long enough, the whole herd soon shows the effects of malnutrition. The range also suffers, deteriorating to the point where it will take years to attain its former capacity. Fortunately, such situations are abnormal in Nebraska.

What about King Ringneck? How does he weather winter's blasts? Along with the rest, the 21 JANUARY, 1960   pheasant has his problems. Corn and milo which hid him from the hunter during the fall may be completely covered after a blizzard. His food supply as well as his home is buried, leaving him easy prey to his enemies and wintry storms. Sleet storms may pound down on him mercilessly, coating everything in a hard crust of ice.

Surprisingly, pheasants do not need much to survive normal winters in Nebraska. Harvested fields still provide feed. Weedy fence rows, hedgerows, and tree stands afford cover. If fields are close enough to these spots pheasants will have little trouble getting through the winter. There are few cases of birds starving in this state. From tests conducted in Minnesota, it is easy to see why so few are lost. Birds studied under penned conditions lived an average 16 days without food before dying. Most snows in Nebraska don't cover the ground that long, since winds sweep areas bare. Birds lost as a direct result of a blizzard usually die of suffocation, for ice forms over the nasal openings and the mouth.

Such kills are more graphic and apparent than during other seasons, causing many to believe that most of nature's killing is done in the winter, taking game that could be "stock-piled" for next year's hunting. This is not the case. Game cannot be stock-piled. Numbers are governed by the carrying capacity, or environment, of the range. Nature's harvest is not confined to one season, but occurs throughout the year. Only when the state experiences exceptionally heavy snows combined with low temperatures such as the famed blizzard of 1949 can we expect a large kill.

What happens when a severe storm strikes? As an example, picture a section of farm land on which 200 pheasants live. But within the section there are only "coops", or homes in the hedgerows and weed cover, for 100 birds during a really heavy storm. Only one thing can happen—100 pheasants, left exposed to the blizzard, will die. Even without the storm, most sooner or later would be lost.

Consider the loss of wildlife throughout the year which includes losses during a normal Nebraska winter. Seventy per cent of our pheasant population dies. Eighty per cent of our quail are lost. The cause? It's a combination of things including cover, natural enemies, weather at all seasons, and other factors, all coined under the single term "environment". It determines how many birds will survive, and how many will be lost in the annual population turnover.

The section of land that supported 100 pheasants in the spring will have just about the same number of birds the next spring, even though their numbers would have increased dramatically during the summer hatching season. All wildlife produces more than the environment will support.

What happened to the excess pheasants? Eggs laid in the summer are tasty morsels to a freewheeling skunk. Nests exposed in a grainfield are destroyed by mowers during harvest. A hard-driving hail storm kills week-old chicks. Older birds become vulnerable to disease when soil loses its nutritive values. Suffocating blizzards take their toll. When spring rolls around and all the dying done, about 100 birds remain to start the cycle all over again.

What would happen if hunting was permitted on this section of land. Turnover would still be 70 per cent, only in this case a possible 75 pheasants would have been killed by hunters. Natural mortality would take the remaining 25.

The annual natural loss, whether it be pheasants, quail, deer, or any other game species, adds up to waste. Hunting replaces waste, affording countless outdoorsmen with sport as well as food. Nature builds up tremendous surpluses. And in the case of pheasant and quail, Nebraskans haven't even come close to what should be theirs.

Outdoor Elsewhere

NEW MEXICO . . . Five quail lives were saved in Elephant Butte Lake by a Mr. Arnold who happened to be fishing there. Arnold and his fishing Ai partner found a small quail floating with its head under water. They took it to the bank, placed it on a warm rock, and continued fishing. As they fished they picked up four more quail with their heads in the water. They drained the water out of the birds' throats and placed them on the rock with the first quail. Checking their patients on the return trip, the men found four birds walking around, still wet and weak. The fifth appeared dead but when it was picked up, it flapped its wings. The men propped this one against a rock and went home. No report was made regarding their fishing success, but as quail savers — they're champions.

COLORADO . . . Appalled at the number of fatal hunting accidents this year, Colorado Game and Fish Department Director Thomas L. Kimball has asked district attorneys to bring manslaughter charges against hunters responsible for hunting deaths. With five hunters killed so far and 13 wounded, Kimball said, "Our main goal is not the punishment of careless hunters but to eliminate them through an organized program of hunter safety education. We will take every step necessary to punish to the greatest possible extent any hunter who injures or kills another in the field. A man with a gun, like a man with a car, should realize he has an instrument of death in his hands and should conduct himself in a safe manner whenever he uses it."

IDAHO ... A Boise deer hunter, Robert Hartley, mailed in a plastic streamer taken from the ear of a five-point buck he bagged in November. The Fish and Game Department gave him a run-down on the deer's tagging record: March, 1956, marked as a fawn; trapped and released same year; last Valentine's Day it was caught again and released. The shot that ended his traveling found the deer 60 airline miles from the site of its last release.

SOUTH DAKOTA . . . Five years ago, 19 tagged turkeys were released north of Wasta on the Cheyenne River. That must have suited one of the birds to a "T". Last week, Harry Burmeister, Wasta, shot a big torn in 76 Canyon. A tag on the bird showed that it had been planted by the Department of Game, Fish and Parks in January, 1955 — about three-fourths mile from the spot it gobbled its last.

As Game Division Chief Les Berner said, "It speaks well for the habitat."

CALIFORNIA . . . California Conservation Officer Tom C. Harrison is still scratching his head over a recent case. Seems he cited a truck driver for having a big turkey vulture, protected in California, cached away in his truck. What puzzled the warden is not the fact that the man shot the bird, but that he had picked and cleaned it and was taking it home to cook. The defendant said he didn't know what kind of bird it was, but "it was a nice big one and looked delicious after I picked it."

MISSOURI . . . Conservation Agent Larry King is a little doubtful about women being the weaker sex. It all began when Mrs. Cletus McClanahan heard dogs barking "treed" behind her chicken house. On investigating,she found the dogs had an adult bobcat at bay. She instructed one of her children to bring her gun from the house, but she hated to use it for fear of hitting one of the dogs. Instead she picked up a large stick, yelled "sick-um", and while the dogs held on, she dispatched the animal. Her husband and Agent King agreed they would have found it difficult to tackle a bobcat in such a fashion.

PENNSYLVANIA ... A Franklin sportsman returned home empty-handed from a hunt and, in his haste to go indoors, forgot to kennel his rabbit dog. Later the dog dropped an expertly cleaned rabbit on the porch, having swiped it from a neighbor. He apparently tried to overcome his master's shortcomings.

1960 FISHING REGULATIONS

THIS YEAR'S fishing regulations will give Nebraska anglers plenty of chances to hack away at state lunker records, only this time archers will get in on the act. For the first time they'll be able to try their skill on game-fish targets. Previously they could take only non-game species.

Other than the change making bow hunting of game fish legal, the 1960 fishing regulations are much the same as they were last year. Limits have been knocked off rock bass, and the bag and possession limits have been upped on northern pike. Following is a breakdown of species that can be taken with season length and limits listed.

Nebraska's growing boating public will welcome this new safety gadget. A fishing and hunting sports vest for anglers, hunters, sailors, and water-sports enthusiasts has the smart appearance and comfort of a sleeveless sweater, yet provides the same type of flotation system used by the U. S. military forces, that of supporting the wearer in an upright, face-up position, even if unconscious.

Compressed gas jets into the front flotation compartment and the neck cushion when two red tabs ore pulled, and a supplementary oral inflation system permits the wearer to inflate or deflate as desired. Compressed CCR gas is contained in shatterproof metal cylinders which can be replaced at most drugstores.

The vest is manufactured by Rubber Fabricators, Inc., Grantsville, W. Va. The company has long supplied inflatable survival equipment to the armed forces.

Fast draw — America's fastest growing back-yard hobby—has a new entry in the field. It is the gas-operated .22 caliber Crosman Single Action Six revolver.

Recently introduced, the handgun has a precision rifled barrel and will group .22 caliber pellet shots within an inch at 25 feet. The makers further claim the gun has no recoil, smoke fumes, or loud report. An especially long spur hammer has been engineered for faster cocking and fanning.

Retailing at $17.95, the gun has authentic styling and is a replica of the old Western Peacemaker.

SPEAK UP

"Please tell me what regulations apply to hunting with crossbows. Because of bursitis I cannot draw a regular bow, but the possibility of hunting with a crossbow appeals to me."—Weyius E. Dewey, Omaha.

Crossbow hunting in Nebraska is prohibited. Those weapons are too powerful and dangerous—they shoot a heavy wooden bolt which cannot be controlled easily. I'm afraid you'll have to look for another means of hunting.—Editor.

"On what animals is a bounty paid in Nebraska? Aside from this, I have a suggestion for hunters. A game-bird carrier can easily be made from a coat hanger by first making a circle of the wire and then bending it up in the middle. The hook slips easily into the belt, and the birds' heads are caught securely in the loops of the hanger. I enjoy OUTDOOR NEBRASKA because it has in it articles on things I know and can do myself."—Harold T. Cockson, Columbus.

Wolves, wildcats, foxes, and coyotes are bounty animals; and if you present the green scalps with two ears and face down to the nose to the county clerk in the county in which they were killed, with satisfactory proof in writing that the animals were killed in that county, you can claim a $2.50 bounty for each animal. But not all counties operate a bounty system, so you better check with your local court house first.—Editor.

"Can I hunt jack rabbits with a .22? And can I ride on the front fender of a car and shoot jacks from the road?"—George F. Searles, Atkinson.

Jack rabbits are not game animals in Nebraska, and you may take them in any manner desired, providing you don't trespass. Consequently there are no laws against your hunting them with a .22 from the fender of a vehicle. However, such is certainly very unwise. I would suggest you find a safer method.—Editor.

Sowbelly Camp Out

"When you swing on your target, make sure that you keep swinging until the gun goes off," I cautioned. "These old cannons don't ignite as quickly as that autoloader of yours."

"Getting these hammers back could give me a little trouble," Jim grinned as he hefted the gun. "Fits me pretty good, though."

We worked up along a dry creek bed searching each brush pile and thicket for game. Wandering out into the flat floor of a broad canyon, we saw a big weed patch that looked inviting.

Jim walked toward one end of the patch and got in position on an old blowdown, giving him a good view of the patch. I entered on the other side, walking slowly through the tangle of weeds, and almost immediately flushed a plump cottontail.

"There's one on the way," I called. A second later I saw the old blunderbuss come up to Jim's shoulder, swing silently as it followed its target, then erupt a black plume of smoke and fire. Wadding fluttered downward like confetti.

"Well, did you or didn't you?" I yelled, as Jim bent over a little to peer under the smoky remains of the explosion.

Jim waved me on, indicating he'd missed, and I continued on through the patch. Jim had better luck on the next shot, and within an hour had bagged two "cottons".

Because cooking rabbits is time consuming, we decided to combine lunch and dinner later in the evening, taking advantage of the clear weather to get in some more fishing. But before heading out, we dressed the rabbits, wrapped them in aluminum foil, and placed them in sand in the coals of our fire. Jim and I stuffed a few apricots in our pocket along with some hard chocolate, and returned to the creek. It was here that I did battle with the five-pounder.

Darkness comes fast in early winter, so our nights were long. Though we got to bed early, we spent a few hours after our evening meal trying to call predators. On Monday night we called in a pair of eyes, but not close enough for us to make an identification.

The winds were blowing a steady gale our third morning out. Low-hanging clouds moved steadily overhead, threatening rain or snow as we hurriedly built a fire and prepared our final breakfast.

Once the meal was over, we packed our gear and headed out of the canyon. The storm that threatened earlier looked pretty tame by mid-morning. The outward trek was about as tough as it was going in, requiring three hours to get back to the highway and the car.

Jim and I hadn't really proven anything as far as living off the land goes, but we do know that it is comparatively simple with even a muzzle-loader and hook and line. The trout were hard to take, the cottontails very easy. The weather wasn't as rough as it can get. The scenery was inspiring. The food? It could have been a lot worse.

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Notes on Nebraska Fauna

BALD EAGLE

FEW BIRDS are as famous as the bald eagle. Poised, ready to strike at all who would threaten, it has become the symbol of a free people. Paradoxically, however, the bird that is revered in image by all Americans is persecuted in life, an ironic twist in values that has almost brought about the extermination of the species.

The bald eagle (Haliaeelus leucocephalus leucocephalus) was once abundant throughout North America, its range extending from Alaska to Mexico. It has been threatened since it became the nation's symbol in 1782. Estimates put its numbers at fewer than 1,000 pairs throughout the entire continent. Greatest abundance occurs in Alaska. A bounty was paid on bald eagles there until recent years, and hundreds were killed annually.

The bald eagle isn't bald. When the species was named, bald meant white. Naturalists have tried to change the name to "white-headed eagle" but without success. The eagle's body is almost black, setting off the gleaming white head and tail. Added to this striking coloration is its brilliant yellow beak and feet. With a great six-foot wingspread that carries it to lofty heights, the great bird is one of our most majestic species.

The bald eagle has been described in two geograhical races, but they are indistinguishable in the field. The northern bald eagle has a length of approximately 34 to 43 inches and a wingspread of 82 to 98 inches. The southern species is smaller, the male being 30 to 34 inches in length with a spread of 72 to 85 inches. The female has a length of 35 to 37 inches and a spread of 79 to 90 inches.

This bird usually frequents the shores of lakes and rivers, and his food consists largely of fish. He varies his diet with birds, small mammals, reptiles, and carrion. The bald eagle soars high in the air in 26 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   quest of food. His power of sight is famous, and it is believed that he can spot the object of his quest when at a distance of two or three miles.

Benjamin Franklin strongly opposed the bald eagle as a national symbol because of its eating habits. He said that the bird "was of bad moral character. Too lazy to hunt for himself, he watches the labors of the fishing hawk and when that diligent bird has taken a fish, the bald eagle pursues him and takes it from him."

What Franklin was talking about is the bald eagle's favorite trick of taking fish from an osprey. The eagle will circle in the air while the osprey works below. When the fish hawk rises with a catch, the bald eagle swoops down from 12 o'clock high, screaming as he comes. The osprey, alarmed by the attack, drops the fish and dives for safety. The attacker continues his dive and catches the fish in mid-air. Most will agree that Franklin was probably wrong. The bald eagle is an excellent hunter, capable of getting its meals without depending on the osprey.

This bird lives to reach great ages, estimated at 100 years by some naturalists. Bald eagles mate for life and usually return to the same nests year after year. Seldom do the birds migrate far from their nesting sites. Only a severe winter will cause the northern bird to move to the south. Some winter in Nebraska. Bald eagles can be found along the North Platte River with concentrations near Leshara in the east and the Lake McConaughy area in the west.

Few creatures seem to show so great an attraction for home as the eagles. One pair stubbornly clung to its nesting tree in the middle of a practice bombing strip during World War II. Nests are made of sticks woven into a tight mass and lined with soft grasses. While the nest is being built or repaired, the aerial prowess of the bald eagle comes into full display. The big bird often hurls itself with outstretched talons against dry branches, snapping them from the tree. Other times, the bird will hover over a tree, then close its wings and plummet down, letting its weight and momentum break off limbs.

Their aerobatics during courtship are equally fascinating. Both birds go into spiraling climbs, to great height. Just two small specks, they dive, soar, and twist, until, at the climax, the two great birds grasp talons and plunge through space, turning over and over like a wheel in the sky as they fall. Courtship over, the female lays two eggs, occasionally three, and rarely four. The parents take turns brooding the eggs, and the nest is never left unguarded. Eagles breed very early in the spring and often must contend with unseasonable snow storms and heavy sleet. During bad weather, one bird will stand on the edge of the nest and spread its huge wings as a windbreak for the other.

The parents spend at least three months every year in household duties. This is considered a long period for a bird, but it takes five weeks to incubate the eggs. Eaglets are tiny but hungry white balls of down at birth. The parents tear food into pieces small enough for the young to consume. The adults shelter the brood from the sun with outspread wings when they are not feeding them.

Dark-brown juvenile feathers replace the eaglets' natal fuzz by 12 weeks. Then they are ready for their first flying lessons, the flat top of the nest serving as a practice flying field. The parents use food to coax their young from the nest. Once off the high platform, they are forced to fly.

Three years pass before the young reach maturity. Many do not develop the white head and tail feathers that are the distinguishing marks of the species until they are six or seven years old. The male bald eagle develops a high clear call, described as cac-cac-cac. The female's cry is more harsh and is sometimes compared to the loud laugh of a maniac.

It is unfortunate that this magnificent bird is threatened by extinction. Laws now protect the species, and studies are under way to learn more about them. With proper management measures, the bald eagle, which represents the spirit of America better than any other bird, may continue to grace our skies.

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