RINGTAILS ON THE WAHOO

by Gene Hornbeck In eerie darkness we stumble on, hoping and clicking, waiting for coon to finally give up ghost

JOE DIVIS shouted encouragement to his dogs as their treeing bark slowed. We hurried along the high creek bank as fast as the brush and fallen trees would allow. Up ahead in the ravine, the dogs' barking picked up when they heard us coming. Joe Divis, Nebraska state fire marshal, was leading our group of raccoon hunters through the inky darkness near his home town of Wahoo. Ronnie, Joe's oldest son, followed closely on his dad's heels. Bob Waldrop, Game Commission photographer was next, and I, panting heavily, brought up the rear.

Flashlight beams swung first to front and then down to the ground, searching for limbs and logs that could spell a bad fall or a gouge in the eye. Bob was laden with a seven-pound electronic flash unit and twin-lens reflex camera. I had a similar camera and conventional flash unit. Joe's big five-cell flashlight was his only weapon, while Ronnie carried a neat little slide-action .22, safely empty of shells until the raccoon was treed.

"Rambler's barking sounds muffled," Joe yelled, as he scrambled over a four-strand fence. "I'll bet MARCH, 1961 3   my 30 years of coon hunting that ringtail has gone underground on the dogs."

RINGTAILS ON THE WAHOO continued

My pulse was hammering from more than just the exertion of the fast pace. Joe's big light cut through the darkness, finally pin-pointing the yammering dogs.

"You're right Dad," Ronnie said disappointedly, "the ringtail went into that hole."

Champ, the big black and tan, was deep in the raccoon's den with just his tail sticking out. Rambler, a registered Walker, and Pete, another black and tan, were milling around outside the hole barking encouragement to their running mate.

"Might just as well put the leashes on," Joe said. "That ringtail will stay holed up for a long time."

Bob's electronic flash was blinking, recording the action of both dogs and man as Joe struggled to get the dogs on the leash.

Raccoon hunting offers a lot of excitement to the hunter, but it can be a nightmare to the photographer. After a confident night's work, he is often dismayed with the results. Unseen limbs pop up in the middle of the picture. Action shots are out of focus because of lack of adequate light. In the rush, pictures may be either under or overexposed. But then it's all in a day's work.

Bob was having his share of such problems as he moved in to record the scene. With his nose stuck in the reflex finder of his camera, he forgot to look for the hole he stepped in. His leg went knee deep in the unseen trap. As he fell sideways, the flash went off to add to the confusion. A quick check showed that camera and leg were in operating condition.

We leashed the dogs and dragged them away from the hole, hiked through a pasture, and cut back into the creek bottom.

"Let's hope they strike a hot trail," Joe said as he slipped off the leashes. "There are plenty of raccoons along this creek, and the night is warm."

The four of us stood in silence for a few minutes, waiting for the dogs to announce a new strike. Overhead the sky was ablaze with stars. Somewhere 4 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   down along Wahoo Creek, a farm dog barked in the frigid stillness. From our vantage point, we could see the lights of the village of Weston.

"Those hounds have to hit soon," Joe said.

The words were barely spoken when we heard the bass voice of Pete bawl, "Coon." I watched Joe's face in the light of Ronnie's flashlight for the signal to move. He reminded me of a director in a symphony. A slight smile moved across his lips as Pete worked out the wanderings of the ringtail. Champ joined in to make it a duet. Seconds later, the third dog moved in as the group searched for a line. Their voices raised to a crashing crescendo as they highballed it out of the creek bottom.

"Let's move," Joe urged. "The dogs are heading up the draw on a small feeder stream. We can cut across the cornfield and hit the head of the draw."

"I would like to get ahead of the dogs and get some pictures of them running," Bob said.

Walking in the dark with a small flashlight doesn't present too many problems, but your chances of barking your shins or taking the skin off your nose increase rapidly when you move any faster.

Joe led out at a trot and soon found that even with 30 years of following dogs, one can't always stay out of trouble. He was moving along the top of the creek bank when he suddenly plunged into a hidden hole.

"Are you O.K., Dad?" Ronnie asked concernedly.

"Ankle feels like I twisted it a little," he groaned as he struggled to his feet and tested the damaged limb. "It's all right," he added as he took a few steps. "Let's go. The dogs are waiting."

Cutting in at the head of a woody draw, we were just in time to catch the dogs running toward us. Bob and I tried to outguess them to get some running pictures. I switched on my light. Balancing it in one hand, I tried to find running dogs in the view finder. The dim light caught one for an instant, and I pressed the release on the camera. The flash momentarily blinded both Bob and me, and by the time we could see again, the dogs had disappeared into the woods.

"I think I caught one on film," I called to Bob, "but I wouldn't make any bets."

"It's good you did," he answered. "I didn't see one in the finder, and all I saw were spots after that flash went off."

The dogs were trailing back down the woody gully, and we stood quietly waiting for them to pick a new course. They soon swung back upstream toward some abandoned buildings and a feed lot. Here their bawling became irregular.

The four of us moved up to the dogs to see what happened. A herd of Herefords milled in the feed lot. We picked up the dogs in the lights standing on the edge of the lot. Like many hounds, they had neither the heart nor desire to trail even the tantalizing scent of a raccoon through a herd of cattle. The ringtail had won again.

We called the dogs in and walked back to our original starting point almost a mile away. Once more the hounds were unleashed.

Our third try started out with a bang. The dogs hit a hot scent about a quarter of a mile from the lot. They were off and running in high gear, and we hurried to keep them within easy hearing distance.

Less than five minutes passed before we heard the dogs chorusing the treeing song.

"Sounds like we finally have a raccoon," Joe said eagerly.

"Let's hope so," I chimed in. "It's almost Ronnie's bedtime, and I would sure like to see him get a shot at one before we call it quits."

Joe's hounds had the ringtail treed in a huge Cottonwood. They were setting up a real ruckus, trying to climb the tree to get at their prey. The Cottonwood grew from the floor of the valley with its crown reaching over 100 feet into the starlit sky. Somewhere up there the raccoon would be hugging a limb in hopes of hiding from the searching beam of light.

Our arrival was none too soon. After searching the main trunk, Joe climbed (continued on page 24)

MARCH, 1961 5

CAT KILLERS

by Neale Copple Lose your sense of smell, develop an iron stomach, and join the catfishing clan

YOU CAN use a mess of old cheese. A chunk of ripe liver. A salamander. A minnow. A crawdad. The gut of a young jack rabbit. A bit of chicken blood. Not a witches' brew. Not a new formula for what little boys are made of. Simply a sampling of catfish baits.

To the uninitiated, a debate over the respective merits of a mess of old cheese and a chunk of ripe liver may seem a slightly sickening thing. But when it comes to bait, catfishermen, whose ranks include some of the most fastidious of persons, seem to acquire an iron stomach and lose their sense of smell.

When some successful fisherman claims he has found the only bait, his catfishing friends will tell him, "You only happened to hit on what they wanted that night."

These skeptics claim that if the catfish are biting, they'll bite on anything including that much-abused kitchen sink. More than one fisherman will tell how he baited up with a bit of his lunch—maybe a chunk of old hot dog—and landed a 10-pound blue catfish.

Catfish baits can be placed in three categories—live bait, recently alive bait, and very dead bait. In 6 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   the very live group, frogs, minnows, and crawdads are among the most popular. Most of the fraternity prefer crayfish. Frogs of all kinds and sizes have their backers. Many old hands prefer the smaller croakers, despite a disturbing attraction to turtles.

As would be expected, catfish fans are not even satisfied with the normal live baits. There are those who back a tiny bullhead as perfection. In Nebraska, it's legal to use a bullhead for bait provided it has been legally caught and counted as part of the angler's limit. Many bullhead devotees clip the sharp spines before tossing the little fellows to their big cousins.

Of course, don't forget the commonest of all live baits—fishing worms. The king-sized variety, night crawlers, is considered best by most fishermen though they dig deep during dry spells.

The most popular of live baits for any fish are probably minnows. Catfishermen use up a good many buckets of them every season. However, you couldn't expect this clan always to fish with minnows the normal way. You'll find some guy with a half-dozen medium-size minnows draped on a hook. He says, if you want to catch big catfish, you have to give them big bait. He represents the "bait by the gob" school of catfishermen.

This leads naturally to the second category of baits—those recently dead.

One well-known representative is the "good ripe minnow." It mellows beneath a little dirt in the hot sun until it becomes an oily, stinking mess. In the same general category would be chunks or strips of other fish. Some anglers claim a strip of the white meat of a lowly carp is a most deadly bait in catfish circles.

Of course, the majority of the strip-bait school is represented by those who use chicken entrails. Usually, these fishermen want the entrails to wave enticingly behind the hook in the current. There's an interesting variation of this technique. Some anglers claim that a certain segment of a young jackrabbit's intestine is irresistible to their prey. In somewhat the same category are unhatched chicks, and a variety of other similar juicy baits that have long worked well.

This very quickly leads us to the most infamous of catfish lures—the very dead baits.

Any rabid catfishermen can give you a formula for a "stink" bait that, after a few days in the hot sun, will walk down to the river on its own power. Many of these notorious mixtures include chicken blood. There are plenty of formulas. One involves a mixture of blood, soda, cornstarch, and alum. The alum is alleged to "cut" the odor.

Speaking of odor, if that's what you want, there are any number of baits that involve cheese. One of these amounts to little squares of cut sponge. They are placed in a jar with a mixture of chicken blood and limburger cheese. This bait, properly ripened, is supposed to be deadly.

There are, of course, catfish baits ad infinitum and ad nauseum. At least one study, however, backs up the crawdad school. James T. Shields, a fisheries biologist for the Fish and Wildlife Service, took a survey of some 3,300 fishermen who sought the cats on the Republican River in southern Nebraska and Kansas.

In his findings, Shields pointed out that crawdads and blood were the favorites of channel cats, while minnows seemed the dish for the flathead or yellow catfish.

Among baits surveyed, crawdads had been used 26 times and caught fish 25 times. Some 379 attempts with blood brought home fish 208 times. Minnows were tossed to the whiskered clan 372 times, with results on 97 occasions.

But Shields, a true scientist, and a man who understands catfishermen and their rabid stands on bait, concluded:

"Catfish will feed on practically anything, as is indicated by their large mouths and stomachs, their strong jaws armed with fine teeth, and their healthy appetites. To aid them in their quest for food, they have very sensitive smelling organs, their barbels (or whiskers) . . .

"The foregoing information is not meant as a cure-all for the many problems involved in the selection of the best catfish bait. In fact, in other areas the wily one might pull in his whiskers at the smell of such baits as crayfish and blood . . ."

Ah, so Mr. Shields is somewhat of a psychologist, too. But then, what would catfishing be if everyone liked the same bait?

THE END MARCH, 1961 7

A BETTER ROAD

IF YOU WOULD know the true story of Americans, their wildlife, and their land, look first to history. On its pages you will find that story, revealed in the critical light of historical fact. To better understand this story, however, it is necessary to first scan the history of other men and their land. It is necessary to look at yesterday as well as at today.

Mr. Steen's searing appraisal of America is as pertinent in 1961 as it was when first presented 14 years ago at the North American Wildlife Conference in San Antonio, Texas. In those 14 years America has made considerable progress in soil and wildlife conservation, and some situations have changed, but the basic ill is still here, the slow but indomitable leaching of the life from our soil, and consequently from all life. Steen's presentation stirred biologists and laymen alike, and was hailed as the outstanding paper of its time. Today this trail-blazing paper is still a guidepost.

Look at history, and you will see nation after nation march across its pages, to rise and flourish on the rape of a fertile land, and to pass on into national decay or oblivion with the depletion of that fertility. Look at history, America. When you do, you will see that civilized man has always misused the land. There are many unproductive scars on old Mother Earth, starvation-ridden lands that once adequately fed great nations. Look at the history of any nation that has ever tilled the soil and you will see that man is not worthy of his stewardship of the land. He always despoils the land, and the degree of his destruction can be measured in terms of his tenure plus his so-called civilization.

When the source of man's sustenance and material glory will no longer sustain his way of life, he does one of two things: he sinks into individual and national decay, or he takes, by force of arms, more fertile land from some other nation. That is history.

Van Loon defines history in this short but tremendously significant sentence: "The history of man is the story of a hungry animal in search of food." But man is not possessed of physical hunger alone. His hunger engulfs the whole array of human desire, and he uses the land to satiate that hunger without much regard for the future. Man's philosophy with respect to the land is "Rip it off the hills; gouge it out of the soil; get it into the bank in one generation if possible." His slogan is "To hell with tomorrow, I want mine today."

These are searing words, but they are not my words. I only quote from history. These words are written on the sands of time; they are scrawled across the pages of history—that "story of a hungry animal in search of food."

So much for yesterday, now let us look at today.

You are young and you are strong, America. You are progressive, you are wise. Your way of life is 8 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   different, but your ideals are high; you will not do these things, you say. Let us look at the record—at your history.

by M.O. Steen Director, Nebraska Game Commission

You are young, America. This land has been under your control some 300 years, more or less. For about 100 years you have used it intensively. Tonnage yields to feed the world has been your goal. You have produced, but at a price. You have produced, but you have also ruined, partially or completely, more than half the fertile topsoil you possessed. It took the Chinese 10 times as long to do as much to China.

You are strong, America. But may I remind you that your way of life, your institutions, and your society are builded on, sustained by, and no better than, the land on which you live. I remind you that adequate nutrition requires more than mere bulk, that nutrition is a qualitative as well as a quantitative thing. I remind you that your hillbilly is a hillbilly because he grows his food on hillbilly land. In the light of present-day knowledge, there can be little doubt that the true hillbilly is what he is because of malnutrition; qualitative malnutrition that dulls his mind, saps his strength, and smothers his ambition. This American is already in the process of degeneration. Do you not see him raze, and burn, and hack, and gouge the impoverished soil on which he lives, further depleting its ability to nourish him? Can you not see the vicious circle in which he lives, a circle that moves relentlessly around and around, a circle from which few escape? Must I remind you that there are other groups within our society which suffer a like fate? What are your "Tobacco Road" and your "Grapes of Wrath" if they are not svmbols of this truth?

You are progressive, America. When your land fails to produce the tonnage you desire you fix things up with chemical fertilizers. But you pay no attention to the warnings of scientists whose long experience in tilling the land leads them to say that chemical fertilization is only a delusion, a stopgap, a tonnage producer that does not restore essential, life-giving elements inherent in a fertile soil.

You are wise, America. When your overworked corn lands lost much of their fertility and their ability to produce, you came forth with hybrid corn. Your corn yields sky-rocketed, and you are still congratulating yourself on your ingenuity. But you fail to take note of one significant thing. You overlook the fact that history will record hybrid corn as being that corn which had the ability to take fertility out of the soil twice as fast as any corn that man had ever grown before.

The truth is, America, that your own land-use history records you as the greatest spendthrift of all time. You have developed bigger, better, and faster ways of using up soil fertility than has any nation in all the world. You are the champion playboy of all history, and your extravagance is exceeded only by your disregard of the consequences.

"And what," you may well ask, "has all this to do with wildlife?" Simply this, that nature makes no distinction between wild and tame life insofar as soil fertility is concerned. In Old Mother Nature's book nutrition is nutrition, and life is life. It makes no difference whether that life be wild or tame.

It is true, however, that misuse of the land is a two-edged sword insofar as wildlife is concerned. It reduces protective cover as well as fertility. Adequate protective cover and adequate nutrition are the two big essentials of wildlife production, and both these essentials are impaired by misuse of the land.

At the present time prices of farm products are very high and the economic incentive to squeeze every last pound of production out of the land is great. Our land is being squeezed, and protective cover is being reduced to a minimum. The immediate effect is to increase erosion and reduce wildlife, but the long-time effect is to reduce land fertility and, hence, all production.

The simple truth is that man can not reduce soil fertility without all life suffering the consequences. That truth is supported by evidence which grows steadily in volume and significance. This evidence puts the emphasis on qualitative rather than quantitative nutrition. Soil fertility determines the quality and contents of foodstuffs, and the quality and the contents of foodstuffs affects all life. The evidence is overwhelming. When insane men are made sane through the avenue of nutrition alone, one can no longer doubt (continued on page 22)

MARCH, 1961 9

BUSY WITH FLIES

University instructor gives inside dope on bluegill lure that's sure-fire on fish 10 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   MARCH, 1961 11

OF GROUSE AND MEN

by Mary Brashier All life of looking to the land for answers tells homesteader why chicken wouldn't prosper

THE BOY SAW the prairie chicken first. More fascinating and impelling, though, was the panorama of sun-washed hills behind the bird, hills of grass that were alive and wild under the morning wind. But the bird, quietly sitting on the sod-breaking plow, fastened his gaze. It, too, was a newcomer to the land.

The boy had come in the night, asleep the last miles the light wagon had jolted through the northeast Sand Hills to his father's claim. The bird had come earlier in the spring, to feed on the new annual weeds scattered by the plows of the first settlers. Sharptails were commoner around the upper reaches of the Elkhorn that 1874 spring, for the grasses were high and untamed yet by plow or cultivator.

That first spring the bird on the plow, along with a few other cocks, set up a booming ground in the trampled pasture, and called in some hens. When summer came they disappeared into the ungrazed bluestems to nest and loaf.

During the next 15 years, the country filled fast with settlers, and the rainfall was plentiful. But although the farmers worked themselves into old men before their time, they could only make a crazy-quilt pattern of grassed hills and cornpatch valleys. The pattern, though, suited the chickens well. They boomed and fed in the grazed fields, and moved to more lightly used bluestems to cover their broods and to roost. In the high dense grasses of the hillsides they nested and loafed, moving down to the fields and plum brush for fall feeding and bad-weather roosting. In winter they flew to the fields.

Prosperity for the farmers came to an end in 1890. Corn wilted under inadequate rainfall and hot winds, and the new frame houses sagged into gray windowless shacks. The years of drought forced some farmers out, but the prairie chicken stayed, although he was a grain bird, depending in winter largely on farm crops and weed seeds.

The boy, now a young man, stayed, too, and to support his new young family, turned to market hunting. He could get $4 per dozen prairie chickens from Chicago dealers, and on a good day he could average 100 birds. The work was hard. His dogs that started the summer well-fed were worn down to greyhound frames by fall. Only when frost glittered on the Indiangrass plumes in the mornings did the hunter give up; the birds were becoming too wild.

He enlarged his acreage when some of his neighbors pulled out, and invested what he could in 12 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   cattle, pushing his range and dollar to the limit. Corn wasn't profitable, so he turned the land back to grass for hay and grazing. The prairie chickens had liked the corn, and he noticed they flocked more in winter, flying as much as 10 to 15 miles a day to other fields.

In 1904 the Kinkaiders came. Daily they poured by the small ranch, their sod-breakers and plows dangling from the backs of wagons. They planted corn and small grains, and the prairie chicken prospered. But outside the Sand Hills the impetus of the land rush was cutting up the prairies, and the farms were becoming so small they could not support the grassland the bird needed. When the Kinkaiders left the Sand Hills, the prairie chicken, already diminishing in the rest of the state, began to plummet there, too. World War I and the increase in wheat prices kept the grasslands outside the Sand Hills in permanent cultivation. There was no place for the bird.

The prairie chickens were at an all-time low during the drought of the '30's, and practically non-existent in eastern Nebraska where once they were more numerous than settlers. Scattered remnants remained, but always these birds were in poorer lands where cultivation was spotty. Here there were pieces of grassland to shelter the birds after they fed in the grainfields.

In the eastern Sand Hills, the ranchers began to note a strange thing. Every spring's booming seemed surely to be the last. But in the summer, gawky young birds would appear with the adults, and slowly the flocks built up again.

The reason wasn't long in coming to a rancher used to looking to the land for his answers. The drought had forced many farmers out of the Sand Hills borders. Coupled with the better grazing and range practices of the remaining settlers, this brought back the grass. Blowouts healed, and the sand bluestem crept underneath the rusted barbed wire and into the lister rows. Taller grasses appeared where before cattle had kept the vegetation reduced to a mat of grass too short to cover a nest. Where the more prosperous farmer-ranchers strewed their irrigation pipes, the corn and wheat held their own.

When the first grouse hunting season opened in 1950, the old man had been dead for a long time. His grandson and son hunted and found game plentiful. But over the years, a sentiment grew, a fear that the grouse were being overgunned. The answer, they were told, was to close the season.

To the family on the old homestead, this stand was untenable. The prairie chicken had breasted the worst times of its existence back in the 1930's when there had been no season on the bird at all. The prairie chickens that had never hatched far outnumbered the ones that had been shot.

There should have been a lesson learned from the early frontier life of Nebraska. The prairie chicken had increased wherever settlers had come. It had been first most abundant in the eastern part, and late in Nebraska history, when the Sand Hills were finally tapped for agriculture, the bird increased. The reason was that the settlers had created a habitat favorable for the bird.

What was this habitat? A patchwork of tall grasses and small grains, grass for nesting and brood rearing, grains for winter foods. When the pendulum swung too much one way, the prairie chickens were ousted; they didn't thrive in pure grasslands like the sharptails. Neither could they take intense cultivation that offered them no vital nesting cover.

This was why game technicians could say that grouse were no more numerous in unshot areas than in gunned. The gun had no effect on the birds at all, for the seasons were set to guard against taking more than the surplus. More important was the fact that the grouse had to have a place to live. They had to be hatched and reared before they could be shot.

The prairie chicken's future seemed relatively secure, for he was established in the southern and eastern fringes of the Sand Hills where cultivated crops amounted to no more than a third of the land cover. The sharptail was entrenched; he was suited to the grasslands of the deep Sand Hills that no plow would ever touch. What was in doubt was the future of the hunters, and the new grandson. He, too, deserved to know the same thrill of hunting the grouse as had all the boys that had grown up on the old homestead.

THE END MARCH, 1961 13

NEBRASKA'S FUR BEARERS

State boasts wide variety, but furrier's pelt prices regulate trapping activity MINK

No other fur bearer commands more respect — and price—than this aristocrat. Mink is the magic word in the fur trade, and the animal's pelt is known for both beauty and durability. Found throughout the state, mink are second only to muskrats in annual cash income and only because muskrats are more plentiful. The mink has scent glands of the Mustelidae family, and eats meat, preferably fresh. Up to 20 inches long and weighing up to two pounds, the mink is equally at home on land or water. An average litter is five to six kits. They are the size of pea pods at birth.

BEAVER

Men once flirted with death to take this largest of the state's rodents during the heyday of the fur trade. The beaver's sleek fur was until recent years a very valuable pelt. Found throughout the state, the beaver has made a dramatic comeback from the days when he was heavily exploited. He is an animal of the water, and is known for his dam-making talents. The dam and den not only serve as a home but as a food supply. The beaver feeds on bark and twigs. Weighing up to 98 pounds and reaching 40 inches in length, the beaver rears from two to six kits each spring.

RACCOON

Though his pelt commands a small price, this long-haired fur bearer will ever lure men to follow the trap line or the hounds. The curious raccoon is found near watercourses throughout the state. Related to bears, the raccoon weighs up to 35 pounds. Food varies with availability. Vegetables, fruits, fowl, crayfish, frogs, snakes, small rodents, and worms are all part of his menu. The raccoon is noted for washing his food at streamside before eating. Three to six young are born in the spring. Dens are most often found in trees, but rocky outcroppings or haystacks will suffice.

LONG-TAILED WEASEL

Excepting the shrew, there is no more ferocious animal for its size than the weasel. It has an insatiable appetite and may eat up to a third of its weight in one day. The long-tailed weasel can range up to 3V2 miles in a night, killing mice, rats, ground squirrels, and rabbits, and is known as one of nature's best small-rodent eradicators. It establishes a home in a burrow by first eating its present occupants. The supple body is less than 18 inches long, brown above and white below, in winter pure white except for the black-tipped tail. The average litter contains five to eight young.

14 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   SPOTTED SKUNK

This smaller skunk is prettier than its polecat cousin and is also rarer here, but its pelt is of no more value. Armed with a potent scent, the "civet" is a member of the Mustelidae family. The small fur bearer is about half as large as a house cat. It weighs between one and two pounds, and is 14 to 22 inches long. It eats anything—rodents, insects, reptiles, fowl, and carrion. An average litter of four young arrives in the spring. The den is in brush, under buildings, in rodent holes, or stumps. Some experts are concerned about its future here since numbers appear down.

SKUNK

Though boasting neither speed nor strength, the skunk is more than able to take care of himself with his powerful scent glands. The pelt, though sleek and durable, is not of real value today since the skunk is a long-hair. The squat, heavily built animal weighs up to 10 pounds, and can reach a length of 40 inches. The "polecat" is common throughout the state. He inhabits burrows, abandoned dens, tree stumps, and deserted houses. He hunts at night and feeds on rodents, insects, and fowl.

BADGER

The mean-tempered and up-to-20-pound bundle of dynamite known as the badger commands plenty of respect in the wild, but little interest as a fur bearer. An animal of the prairie, the badger is well-equipped to take care of himself- Strong jaws boasting 34 teeth, short powerful legs tipped with well-developed claws, and a don't-cross-me disposition combine to make him a fearless foe. Thus equipped, he can dig out his meal in quick order, the dirt fairly flying as he tunnels into rodent holes. Birds and their eggs, reptiles, and insects are also featured on his menu.

MUSKRAT

The "little brother of the beaver," as the Indians called him, is our most important fur bearer because of his smooth brown short - haired coat. The muskrat is found throughout the state and is concentrated in the ponds and marshes of the Sand Hills. This rodent's principal food is roots and stalks with frogs and fish as side dishes. He may boast both a bank den and a plant house. The muskrat is vulnerable to both weather and predators, but his productivity of several litters of two to nine a season makes up for those taken.

FOX

This alert and self-sufficient fellow has little value as a fur bearer, for the pelt is of poor wearing quality. Of the two species in Nebraska, the gray is lesser known, with a small range in the northeast and east. The red is found state-wide, but numerous only locally. His favorite habitat is a patchwork of wooded stream bottoms, cropland, and pasture in hilly terrain. He is an opportunist in his diet—he eats what is handiest, any meat, be it carrion or freshly killed. Average weight is IOV2 pounds, although the bushy tail makes him look bigger. Four to six kits are born in the spring.

OPOSSUM

This marsupial, the only pouch-bearing mammal on the North American continent, is of little value as a fur bearer. However, its handlike back feet, gripping tail, pouch and ability to feign death make it an interesting animal. Abundant in the southeast, it is extending its range to the north and west. It is nocturnal and selects its den in burrows, hollow trees, rock crevices, and under leaves. The possum will eat almost anything. Nine of the up-to-20 grub-like young may survive. They are born 13 days after mating.

MARCH, 1961 15

BOON AND CROCKETT BUCK

by Dick Wolkow

LOTS OF THINGS can happen in the first 45 minutes of deer season. I'd already failed to score on a quartet of feeding whitetails that gave me the slip just as shooting time began, and I had been frozen out of a Platte River stand that had taken days to find. Months of planning seemed all for naught as I stalked the dry river chute bordering the cornfield. Instead of being hidden and waiting for the deer to come to me, I was out 100 yards from my stand, and every whitetail in the area could spot me in the fast-coming dawn.

Then I heard them—deer running through the chute. Before I could get set, one broke from the dense cover and stopped dead in its tracks not 75 yards away. I was face to face with what looked like the biggest deer ever to browse in these long-closed woodlands.

This one had to be mine. It had to because I would never get another chance at such an animal. Even in the gray light, I could see the tremendous rack he carried. The buck was the one I had dreamed about when I filled out my application last summer for the Eastern Platte area which stretched from Central City almost to Omaha. It was the one I hoped for when I tramped through the many wooded areas within a 10-mile area of my home at Two Rivers Recreation Area near Venice.

I knew there were plenty of deer. There were signs of them everywhere. Shortly before the season opened I decided to hunt adjacent to the Platte about a mile from my house. Wooded cover was thick, and cornfields pushed right up to timber line next to the river. I discovered a favorite crossing near some bulldozed trees. It was a perfect spot for stand hunting since the deer crossed from the brush to the fields to feed.

The night before the season opened was like other openings. I nervously checked, then rechecked my gear.

Once the 10 p.m. news was over, I took my boxer pup to her outside pen and was ready to call it a day. The sky was clear but the brisk north wind convinced me to lay out an extra pair of woolen socks and sweater. I left my wife, Pat, watching the late movie and headed for bed. Her parting remarks were typical.

"Good luck, be careful, and don't make a lot of noise in the morning."

If I live to be 90, the night before will always be the same. I've hunted big game from Michigan to Wyoming for nearly 30 years, and I have yet to get a good night's sleep on the eve of opening day. I rolled and tossed, and in what seemed like five minutes, the alarm buzzed a 4:30 a.m. welcome.

Face to face with the biggest whitetail since 09, my gun jams

With one eye open, I stuck my head out the front door to see what the weather was doing. It was clear as a bell. The wind was still out of the north. By 5:15, I'd prepared and devoured a stack of hot cakes, two eggs, and four cups of black coffee. Dressing warmly, I decided to wear my rubber snow pacs. Though there wasn't a trace of snow on the 16 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   ground, I wanted foot gear that would be as noiseless as possible in stalking my prey.

Pat was still asleep when I left the house and headed for the deer stand. The temperature stood at 18° above. The moon was still full and the frost on the fields glittered like a million tiny jewels that would disappear with the rising sun.

The deer run was at the far end of the cornfield. A glance at my watch showed I still had 30 minutes before the season opened. I had plenty of time so I uncased my 8X30 binoculars and scanned the cornfield ahead, still bathed in moonlight. Halfway down I made out four dark forms that had to be deer. Feeding, they barely moved during the next 10 minutes. They would pull out at dawn.

Forgetting my original plans, I loaded my rifle and skirted the field, finally bellying up behind a fallen stump near where I hoped the deer were spotted. Between the rustle of the wind in the dry corn leaves, I could hear cornstalks breaking. The deer were directly in front of me, not over 100 yards away.

Lying in a completely prone position, my head hugging the ground, I sneaked a look at my watch. Ten minutes to go. It seemed like an hour when the minute hand finally pointed straight down. I eased my head over the fallen stump. But there wasn't a living thing in sight. I decided quickly to take my original stand, even though it meant walking in broad daylight.

Easing into the huge pile of brush and bulldozed trees, I studied the terrain out ahead. At least the wind was against me, I thought hopefully. But after 45 minutes of facing its bitter coldness, I doubted if I could see the front sight on my rifle since my eyes were watering so badly.

I'd had enough of stand hunting. Besides, I was sure I'd spooked the deer toward the river anyway. With rifle gripped in both hands in front of me, I jumped to the ground and headed for the river.

In stalking, I usually take three or four soft, short steps and pause for about 10 seconds. To my left was a dry chute; to my right and paralleling the cornfield was a heavy plum thicket. I had walked only about 100 yards when I heard the deer running, in the river chute, and then the big buck appeared.

I eased off the safety on my rifle and slowly brought it to my shoulder. One fast move on my part and he would be long gone. I brought the front bead sight down until it was on the dark hair at the center of his brisket and squeezed, and squeezed, and SQUEEZED. The gun wouldn't fire. Instantly, I knew the shell-ejector mechanism was not completely closed. I pushed the pump forward firmly but it wouldn't close the action. The partly-chambered cartridge would have to be ejected and a new one rammed in. I knew Mr. Buck would be off at the slightest noise or fast movement on my part, but I had no choice.

No sooner had I pumped the new shell home than the buck dove into the plum thicket and into the cornfield beyond. For a second or two, he was completely out of sight because of the heavy brush that separated us. The deer was quartering away from me fast, and the farther he ran, the sparser the brush became.

Brush or no brush, I knew one shot was all I would get at this big fellow. I swung my rifle through the brittle foliage and held just ahead of the deer's nose. He was about 150 yards awav by now and geared in overdrive. I squeezed the trigger and this time the gun didn't fail. The buck cartwheeled and dropped out of sight.

Not knowing how badly the deer was hit, I approached with caution. There was my buck, down but not dead. One shot finished him.

It wasn't until then that I trulv realized what a beautiful animal he really was. The deer was sleek and fat. Each side of the rack sported five large points, The brow points, which later measured over nine inches, were palmated and symmetrically perfect. The base of his antlers was nearly as large as my wrist. I wasn't trophy hunting, but I certainly had one, anyway.

OUTDOOR NEBRASKA proudly presents the stories of its reoders themselves in this monthly .series. Here is the opportunity so many hove requested—a chance to tell their own outdoor tales. Hunting trips, the "big fish that got away", unforgettable characters, outdoor impressions—all have a place here if authored by the readers. If you have a story to tell, jot it down—the story, not literary excellence, is the criterion—and send it to Editor, OUTDOOR NEBRASKA, State Capitol, Lincoln 9. Send photographs, too, if any are available.

As I was field dressing the animal, a neighboring farmer came up. He had left his rifle by his deer stand, less than 500 yards away. The hunter had seen the buck come charging out of the woods and drop when I fired. Had I missed, it would have been meat in the locker for him. The deer was "headed directly for the hunter when it took its last leap.

As we both stood admiring the big buck, we tried to figure out what had gone wrong with my rifle. It wasn't the rifle but my own stupid carelessness. When I jumped from the brush pile to the ground, I had my right hand on the pump ejector and my left on the stock. My right hand had jarred the pump action halfway open, thus rendering the gun useless.

My prize weighed out at 202 pounds, hog-dressed at an official checking station. After 60 days which the Boone and Crockett Club requires to elapse before a trophy head can be entered in their North American Big Game Records, the antlers scored 1617/s points, tieing for 90th in all-time typical whitetail records.

Yes, Lady Luck had turned both sides of her face to me in a matter of moments. When it was all over, I had pulled off the luckiest shot of my hunting career. THE END

Dick Wolkow is the Game Commission's area manager at Two Rivers. He has spent a lifetime in the outdoors and has come up against lots of game, but this one still gives him the "quivers", he says. MARCH, 1961 17

PROGRESS '60

by Jane Sprague Little things like road signs, big things like Two Rivers are part of state dividends last year

A YEAR OF BOLDNESS and giant strides forward was 1960. A year which saw a model play-spot take shape in eastern Nebraska, and a hoof-flying pandemonium in the west become one of the world's largest single-trappings of big game. A year which saw new wayside areas, a new game-bird species, and three new fishes. Certainly a year of progress for Nebraska outdoors, but only an overture to 1961. Here are highlights of that year:

Two Rivers Recreation Area was the climax. Fee-fishing for trout, warm-water lunkers, a handsome new swimming area, and lush picnic areas all lured to the Venice area thousands of eastern Nebraska summer-fun seekers. This area, one of the newest and most modern in the Midwest, presently provides recreation for an estimated 250,000 annually. In the near future, attendance is expected to reach around 500,000 per year.

The year 1960 moved on with the completion of modern, air-conditioned cabins at Ponca State Park. A luxurious new pool was begun in a pine-and-butte setting at Chadron, and new wayside areas opened near Kimball and Clarks. Ponca Park was enlarged by 206 acres; Alexandria Recreation Area by 345.

Boating funds paid for two badly-needed concrete boat-launching ramps at Lake McConaughy.

Handsome redwood and Douglas fir signs sprang up at all state parks, historical parks, recreation, and wayside areas, and 185 new blue-and-white directional signs adorned our state highways.

In 1960 the 10-year development program at Fort Kearny got under way. Fort Hartsuff, which guarded the frontier during the early settlement of Nebraska and the West, was acquired.

Northerns and walleyes reached a new high in production, and Nebraska's entire production of fish stocked in 1960 was the highest since 1945. A 3-pound, 9-ounce smallmouth bass taken from McConaughy Reservoir broke previous records, while a 3-pound, 5-ounce crappie and a 15y2-pound gar, taken by bow-and-arrow, took their class honors. Production has begun on three new fish species: warm-water trout, kokanee, and redear sunfish. Rearing of smallmouth bass began in 1960. Loup City 18 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   and Ravenna lakes were deepened by construction crews, and Nebraskans enjoyed rod-bending fishing at Burchard since it came into its own in 1960.

Gifford-Fontenelle Refuge near Omaha opened seven additional miles of the Missouri River for waterfowl nimrods, with 22 blinds built along the Maniwa Bend of the river. Scaled quail arrived from New Mexico and were planted in the Sand Hills and southwestern Nebraska. One of the world's largest antelope transplants provided 557 of the gray ghosts for the Sand Hills. The largest and wildest of American game birds, Merriam's turkey, went on to new heights of production in the Pine Ridge, confirming hopes of an early season on these prized game birds. Continuing pheasant studies showed again that Mr. Ringneck could not be overharvested by the gun.

A record number of deer permits were issued in 1960, and a new record set with the taking by bow-and-arrow of a white-tailed deer weighing 220 pounds, hog-dressed. Migrating geese accepted the Plattsmouth Waterfowl Management Area as a stop-over, and the state-wide goose management program gained speed. The Keith-Garden County Waterfowl Refuge will soon see a captive goose flock luring other geese to the area. Nebraska youth took a hand in wildlife management in 4-H and FFA projects.

Nebraska officially took over administration and enforcement of boating laws from the Coast Guard in 1960. A new transistorized mobile radio system, partially paid for by Civil Defense funds, now provides closer contact and smoother communications for law-enforcement officers. The Game Commission's total income rose in 1960. Including both cash and appropriations, its $2,659,000 was $270,000 over that of 1959. The state park mill levy, initiated in 1959, brought in $398,000 last year.

There were dreary moments. An extremely harsh winter and spring floods set back developments and ate up funds that could have been used for gain. Bobwhite quail suffered from the worst winter in 10 years. Niobrara State Park, Memphis Recreation Area, Plattsmouth Waterfowl Management Area, and Fremont Recreation Area were all hit by floods. Repairs were completed in time for summer recreation in these areas, though. Despite efforts by sportsmen and game-management experts, the mourning dove still remained off the list of game birds in Nebraska.

Last year saw Nebraska take many steps forward to become one of the top recreation meccas of the nation. The groundwork was laid to make the state a gunner's paradise for small and big-game hunters alike. Nebraska's waters provide sport for every taste. Modern facilities increased vacationing pleasure. A prelude to new attainment in the coming decade, 1960 was a standout; 1961 will be even better.

THE END MARCH, 1961 19

CROW DOWN

A Photo Story by Bob Waldrop Noisy, arrogant, and flighty, this rascal can elude a box of shells without trying 20 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   MARCH, 1961 21

A BETTER ROAD

(continued from page 9)

that quality counts. Some day foodstuffs will be valued on the basis of quality, not quantity. When that day comes we may have the economic incentive that will save your soil. Until we do, we must save the land by any means we can.

The simple truth is that the growth, vigor, survival, and reproduction of all life is wedded to the land by unbreakable bonds. The truth is that America should maintain, without impairment, the fertility of all her lands. To do otherwise is unthinkable, and must eventually lead to disaster. It is not wildlife alone that hangs in this balance, it is America herself that is at stake.

If this be true, what are we doing to maintain the fertility of America's land? Let us look at the record. Let us look at history—today's history.

As individuals we are doing relatively little. Here and there an individual has learned that he can maintain the fertility of his farm and make more money in the long run than if he misused his land. But that individual is relatively rare. The masses know nothing of this. In fact, the masses, including the vast majority of those who till the land, know little or nothing of the true significance of land fertility and the real dangers of land abuse.

As a nation, we have done very little to save our agricultural lands. Our most effective governmental actions have been the establishment of the Soil Conservation Service, and the initiation of benefit payments to American farmers for soil-conserving practices. But neither of these is the result of any united desire or action of the American people. The first came into being largely because of the inspired leadership and dogged persistence of a single American citizen, Hugh H. Bennett, father of the Soil Conservation Service. The second came into being as a device to circumvent the law. Benefit payments for soil-conserving practices in America came into being by chance—they were initiated because the Supreme Court of the United States said we could not pay public money to American farmers for plowing under crops and killing little pigs. Thus was born America's principal national efforts to save her soil.

If this is not enough to convince you that America does not know the truth, look to the seat of your government—look to Washington. There you will see your government appropriating 45 million dollars to the Soil Conservative Service to finance their work of holding America's water where it falls and her soil where it lies, and, at the same time appropriating 188 million dollars to the War Department with which to make down payments on dams designed to stop the water that doesn't linger where it falls and the soil that doesn't stay where it lies.

(Editor's note: figures used here are those of 1947, the year this talk was originally presented.)

Forty-five million dollars to the doctors who feverishly strive to sew up your severed and gushing arteries, America—and frankly admit that they are waging a losing fight—45 million dollars to the doctors who feverishly strive to suture your severed and gushing arteries, and four times that sum to the tinsmiths who beat out buckets with which you propose to preserve your life's blood.

That is not—as some may assume—an indictment of tinsmiths. It is an indictment of you, America, you, who entertains and tolerates such a twisted, distorted, cock-eyed concept of national values and national needs.

If you are not yet convinced that America doesn't know the truth, look again to Washington. There you will see many of your leaders and representatives sponsoring a movement to slash, by one-third, the appropriation for soil-conservation benefit payments. You will see the scalpels poised and ready to cut the heart and backbone out of America's principal effort to save her land. These men contend that you can not afford to pay for saving the soil, that you have other and better things to do with public money. You can afford, it seems, 11 billion dollars plus for national defense, but can not afford 300 million dollars—2% per cent as much—to save the very thing you propose to defend. You can afford to subsidize navigation, aviation, hydroelectric development, flood control and other special interest groups, but you can not afford to subsidize the saving of the land, in which every living American has a stake, as do all the generations yet unborn.

America, you can afford to mobilize your manhood into armies that you count by the millions, to equip them with implements of destruction that stagger the imagination, you can afford navies that swarm the seven seas, you can afford aircraft that figuratively—and literally—blot out the sun, you can afford 200 billion dollars in the prosecution of a single war, you can afford barrels—nay, rivers, of American blood; all this, and more, you can afford to save America danger from without, but a little lip service, and a token gesture here and there is all you can afford to save America disaster from within.

America, you go the way all men have gone. You are a living symbol of the truth, that history repeats itself. You are not young, you are not strong, you are not wise, you only dream these things. You live an old, deceitful dream, that blinds your eye against the truth, that leads you down Disaster Road.

You have one chance, and only one. Wake up. Shake off this dream. Wake up. Shake off this spell, that you may see, that you may take a better road.

THE END

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Outdoor Elsewhere

Understanding Wife

PENNSYLVANIA . . . About noon on the first day of antlered deer season, a game protector came upon a man who said he was sweating out the "last two hours" he could hunt this year. The man was newly married, and his bride had considerately agreed to postpone the honeymoon until 2 p.m. to permit her husband to try for a buck.

Quick Recovery

NEW HAMPSHIRE . . . Early one morning a pick-up truck stopped at the office of a North Hampton veterinarian, and a worried man knocked on the door. In the back of the truck lay a deer which he had hit as it crossed the highway. The vet wasn't in, but the man insisted the doctor's wife "come see". He was afraid the deer was badly hurt. They approached the truck and the man place his hand on the animal. Immediately it erupted to its feet, leaped out over the side of the truck, and fled into the woods. The dazed couple were as stunned as the deer must have been when it was hit.

Saw Calls Turkeys

PENNSYLVANIA . . . Ray King of Somerset County recently found a new use for his chain saw—calling turkeys. While sharpening the saw with a file, King called several turkeys into "talking" range. His rasping brought the turkeys into the nearby brush where he carried on a lively conversation with them during the sharpening episode.

Deadly Diet

NEW HAMPSHIRE . . . The smaller you are, the more you should refrain from peanut butter, is the advice of the American Museum of Natural History to chickadees. Although it's a favorite with wild birds and has been long regarded as a staple in feeding-station diets, it can cause death to smaller varieties. Autopsies on well-fed birds that toppled over and died showed that the esophagi of at least six were so filled with peanut butter that they choked to death.

Note to chickadees: mix the peanut butter with an equivalent amount of bird seed, beef suet, corn, or very coarse corn meal.

Never Underestimate a Women

PENNSYLVANIA ... A small-game hunter made the mistake of shooting too close to a certain York County home. The sound of the shot had hardly died away before out stormed an exasperated housewife. She cornered the hapless hunter and, wielding a length of 2 by 4, hammered home some safety and consideration for others—to the man's great discomfort.

Pass the Fish

PENNSYLVANIA . . . Sylvester, the cat, will stick to canned salmon from now on. He had his eye on a fine dinner earlier this spring—an unobservant pheasant hen. But Sylvester forgot to look before he leaped, and he was soundly thrashed by the little lady's mate who was lurking protectively nearby.

Double Trouble

TENNESSEE . . . Double trouble is in store for game and motor-law violators. The Highway Patrol and the Game and Fish Commission worked out a co-operative road block setup. While troopers visit the driver, wardens will check hunters in the party.

Deer Stampede

IOWA . . . Leonard Anderson of Linn Grove, entering his barn to fork down hay for his cattle, heard somebody snort. Suddenly the door was full of deer and horns. Anderson was thrown through the air by the impact of a buck, and very nearly trampled by two does, as they charged out. Anderson had hunted during open deer season without getting in a shot at the critters. He's a little disgusted, also a little lame and bruised.

First-Class Flight

MICHIGAN . . . The bedraggled little wood duck frozen into a farm pond late this winter could only wait for the worst. But the son of a Conservation Department employee pitied him, chopped him out of -the ice, and took him home to thaw and be nursed back to health. Now Woody's companions had long since departed, and it was much too late for him to fly south on his own. So an airlines which had just inaugurated a jet service to Miami agreed to add another passenger, and Woody hitchhiked south at 600 miles per hour.

Chase In Reverse

OKLAHOMA . . . Something approaching the familiar "man-bites-dog" news story was observed last week. Eleven antelope were seen chasing a coyote. Normally one would expect the coyote to be doing the pursuing.

MARCH, 1961 23

RINGTAILS ON THE WAHOO

(continued from page 5)

the almost perpendicular 40-foot bank laboriously and coursed the light slowly over the ends of the branches.

"Here he is," he called. "A few more seconds and he would have made it over to this small tree, leaped to the ground, and left the dogs thinking he was in the branches."

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Once again the problem of having only one hand free gave both Bob and me trouble. We clawed our way up the bank, always mindful of the cameras and flash units. Bob lost ground, and he slid halfway back down. A chunk of frozen bank broke off under my foot and I lunged forward, grabbing a convenient bush, to save myself from the same fate.

We joined Joe and Ronnie. The boy was just getting ready to shoot our prey, but we were able to get a couple of hurried pictures. The little rifle spat a string of fire, and the ringtail tumbled to the ground.

Hiking back to the car, we talked over the high lights of the hunt.

"Sure wish that raccoon would have been in a smaller tree," Bob injected, "I'm curious to see what I got."

"Well," Joe replied, "There's always a tomorrow. "Maybe the ringtails will co-operate a little better."

"There are a thousand nighttime adventures for those who follow the hounds," Joe said as we reached the car. "There are also a thousand laughs to go with the stories. I think my favorite is of the guy hunting ringtails for the first time with an old veteran. Seems as though the dogs were unusually musical and the old raccoon hunter leaned back against the tree, just listening to the song of the hounds. As the dogs went into a particularly soul-rendering encore, the old hunter queried, 'Now isn't that the prettiest music you ever heard?'

" 'Music?' the novice asked. 'I can't hear anything with those hounds making that racket.' "

THE END 24 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA

SPEAK UP

Send your questions to "Speak Up," OUTDOOR NEBRASKA, State Capitol, Lincoln 9, Nebraska Bragging-Size Browns

"I've had good luck over the past two years at Grove Lake and Verdigre Creek, but nothing to match the three browns I took early February.

"I caught three that totaled 9% pounds by our baby scales; the largest one went an even four pounds. They might have weighed more as we didn't weigh them until we got back home Monday afternoon. The weather was a cool 23 degrees, but with fish this size one can put up with just about any kind of weather."—Donald L. Pierponi, Grand Island.

Yes, They Do

"I notice in one of our leading sports magazines someone asking if fish actually have been known to jump into a boat. Let me tell you what happened to us this summer. As we (my two granddaughters, Sue and Nan, and myself) were fishing in our farm pond near Dawson, a strong gust of wind drove us against the shore. Grass nearly a foot tall was growing up through the water, and as the boat crowded against it, a fish suddenly exploded into the air and with a thud came down in the middle of the boat. Nan jumped it and pinned it down.

"To top the whole adventure off, it was a three-pound bass, the best fish we've ever taken from our pond."—Wesley L. Heim, Dawson.

Lad Traps Big Beaver

"This January I trapped a 66 \'2 pound beaver. Is this any kind of a record for Nebraska this year, or have some been taken that were larger?"—Larry Meier, 13, Arlington.

Yours is a very good catch, undoubtedly among the top weights. Only one exceeds yours, and it was a 70-pounder.—Editor.

Plaudits to Steen

"I enjoy OUTDOOR NEBRASKA very much. Mel Steen sure has a lot of critics, but it's a good thing his shoulders are broad. He should keep up the good work so that outdoor Nebraska will stay for the public, not for the few.

"We really had lots of fun at Gavins Point Dam last year. We caught carp by the sackful on rod and reel. For pure fun give me a carp and some dough balls."—Orval Harrison, Carroll.

Home of Stray Cows?

"I have just received my January OUTDOOR NEBRASKA, and want to compliment you and Mr. Steen on your fine work. It is shocking to see how little we Nebraskans spend on our wildlife and our tourists.

"Since I have been stationed in Germany, I have met many people who have the idea Nebraska is a desert of stray cows, dust, and 'poor ole farmers in shanty huts'. I am a staunch Nebraskan, and believe me, that hurts. I plan to obtain a wildlife major in colloge, and return to Nebraska, so that I can have some part in helping my state grow.

"We have a good man in Mr. Steen; it's too bad we won't back him up more."—Larry D. Smidi, Frankfurt, Germany.

STATE RECORD BREAKERS

Two new marks make grade. If you have toppers, speak up MARCH, 1961 25

Notes on Nebraska Fauna

PRARIE RATTLER

by Pete Czura Given a choice the rattler will fade away. But when he coils to fight, he's savagery in a snake skin. If he doesnt rattle, give him room anyway

MONG THE groups of important reptiles inhabiting this country, the rattlesnake family has, by far, the greatest number of poisonous varieties. One member of this group is the deadly prairie rattler, who is tagged with the scientific name of Crotalus viridis viridis.

Of all the serpents, the prairie rattler is one of the most interesting. His warning rattles, richly-colored hide, and sullen, sinister countenance leave a lasting impression on any who cross his path. There have been reports of some reaching six feet long, but the prairie variety is generally moderate in size and not as stout of body as most rattlesnakes. The longer ones are heavy-bodied and ponderous movers.

Five of the largest male prairie rattlers studied in Nebraska averaged 37.2 inches, while the largest females averaged 29.1 inches but will grow to 35 inches. George Mousel of Cambridge reported killing a prairie rattler in Frontier County in 1954 measuring 46 inches, the largest reported to the Game Commission to date.

These rattlers are common in much of the grassy plains country of western Nebraska. In the fall, they congregate in large numbers to hibernate in dens in the bluff and hill country. Though confined to the west, prairie rattlers have been spotted as far east as Boyd County. Their general range in North America is the Great Plains from about the 95th meridian to the Rocky Mountains, and from southern Canada to extreme northern Mexico.

Coloration of this species is grayish, brownish, or yellow-brown with a row of large, round, and well-separated blotches of brown upon the back. Smaller and less distinctive blotches are on the sides, too. Markings on the back have a narrow, dark margin and outside of this is a narrow band of white and yellow. Toward the tail, the blotches fade into 26 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   obscure transverse bands. A dark strip of color extends from the eye to the angle of the jaw. Eye plates are usually marked with two white lines which join and form a sharp point at the outer margin.

Mice, ground squirrels, and other small animals unfortunate enough to get within range of the rattler's poisonous fangs make up much of its menu. The snake's food habits make it economically beneficial to man, but the danger of snake bite prevents it from being considered a desirable neighbor.

Young snakes are born alive, probably in late summer. Litters are reared every other year (from any one female), and the number of young per litter varies from 4 to 21, with the average being 12.

When confronted by man, this creature possesses a disposition which is anything but affectionate. Although the prairie rattler rarely advances or makes hostile movements of attack, it is more than capable of defending itself.

Don't depend on the snake's rattles to warn you of its presence. Sometimes the rattles are buzzed furiously when the snake is disturbed. But there are occasions when the rattles remain silent even though the snake is tormented until it strikes savagely. If an enemy retreats, the prairie rattler will glide for cover, but if pressed, it is ready to fight.

Few rattlers throw as much energy into a fighting coil as do these snakes. When surprised, the little fighter will hurl his body into a circular formation, arch his neck in an oblique bow to support his heart-shaped head, and jab in lightening thrusts at the enemy. So energetic is the lunge that some snakes have been observed to dart forward several inches on the ground.

Its effective striking range is about one half its length, and it is at this distance that the snake is capable of delivering a deadly-aimed blow. However, if it is goaded into a frenzy, the rattler can strike at distances up to two thirds its length. Such efforts, however, are wild and delivered without accuracy.

Rattles are a unique part of the snake and authorities are somewhat puzzled as to the natural use of the gadget. To presume the snake is provided with this appendage to warn enemies away from its formidable fangs means to join the group of tall-tale tellers. Some say it is used as a call during breeding season. This could be as the snakes are not wholly deaf although lacking external ears. Others claim the accouterment is used to decoy prey within range of its fangs. Many snakes, both venomous and innocuous, vibrate the tail when angered, hence the "warning" sound of rattlers.

A common idea is that the age of a snake can be determined by the number of rings or segments of the rattle. Many believe that snakes acquire a new joint or ring of rattles every year. This is pure fantasy. First, the rattler can acquire from two to three rings each year, depending on how often it sheds its skin. The rattler seldom attains more than 10 or 11 rings, as the vibration of the tip would be so pronounced that segments would soon be worn, broken, or lost. Rattlers in the wild usually have from five to nine segments in their strings.

Fangs are almost the exact replica, in hard enamel, of the hypodermic needle. Each fang is rigidly attached to a movable bone of the upper jaw, and each one connects with a gland situated behind the eye which contains the deadly venom. When the jaws are closed, the fangs fold back against the roof of the mouth, but when the jaws open, the fangs spring forward, ready for action.

The forcible ejection of venom from the fangs is caused by the contraction against the glands of the muscles which shut the jaws. The ejection is voluntary, and unless the reptile desires, there is no necessity when closing the jaws to contract these muscles sufficiently to force venom from the glands. Also, the fangs are covered with a sheath of thin, white fleshy membrane. This is never withdrawn except during the act of biting.

Some legends have it that a poisonous snake may be rendered permanently harmless by removing its fangs. This is not true. Fangs are shed about every three months, and by a neat arrangement of nature, the new ones grow into place alongside those about to be shed. These become connected with the poison gland before the old fang is loosened and falls out.

The prairie rattler forms a part of the great web of animal life in Nebraska, and should be considered a vital part of the outdoor world. In its sphere, the snake is content to be left alone. Only when the rattler is molested on his home grounds do you have to keep your distance.

THE END MARCH, 1961 27