World Record SAUGER

THE WHIRLING REEL'S drag bell changed from a gentle click to a high-pitched siren as my prize dove for the deep. Only moments before, he'd hit the chub minnow with such fury that my glass rod tip bent clear to the water. Round 1 had begun with what had to be the champion of the Missouri.

Line raced through the eyelets even while I cranked the reel in the opposite direction. Marv, my husband, yelled encouragement from the sidelines.

"Turn him. Turn him. You're almost out of line. Let him run, he's a big one. Don't let him get away."

Letting this fighter loose was the last thing I wanted to do. He felt like he had royal blood in his veins and was out to prove it. Frantically I tried to hold him, but the line still zipped out.

"Is the end of the line fastened well enough to the reel?" I asked myself. "Will the 25-pound-test line hold?"

We had left our home in Plainview early that morning in late October to enjoy the wonderful solitude of angling the Missouri River just above Lewis and Clark Lake. The temperature and water was low, the south wind high. All factors pointed to a good day on the water.

By mid-morning we had journeyed the short distance to the ferry landing at Niobrara, launched our 23-foot boat, and headed into the current. Marv followed the ever-changing channel on the depth finder, noting the depths of some of the more familiar holes. We have fished this section of the Missouri ever since Gavins Point Dam was closed in 1956.

Sauger, like most river fish, like to lay in a quiet, protected area and wait for food to wash their way. These holes in the shifting sandy bottom offer ideal DECEMBER, 1961   lounging spots. They vary from a few feet to more than 30 feet in depth.

The Niobrara River was on the rise and boiling out of the Missouri's left bank. We decided to try our luck around the mouth. Marv glanced at the depth finder and couldn't believe his eyes. The neon blips indicated the boat was passing over a kettle-shaped hole we didn't know existed. We were about 35 feet below the mouth of the Niobrara. Marv maneuvered the boat around to the upstream side, slid by a couple of treacherous sand bars, and anchored on the ledge just above the hole. From here, lines would drop into the kettle.

The sauger rig my husband dreamed up for river fishing is most effective. Because of the ever-shifting sand on the bottom, he believed that the perfect position for the bait would be 4 to 8 inches above the sand. This is impossible with conventional gear because of the steady river current. He made the rig out of piano wire weighted on the bottom so that the hooks are kept above the sand when the line is held taut. My outfit is 24 inches wide, 10 inches down to the 3-ounce weight, and both 6-inch leaders hold No. 6 hooks.

After attaching the sauger rig, I grabbed a 3-inch chub from the bait box and started to hook him across the base of the dorsal fin like I'd always done. Then I got another idea, and speared him at the rear base of the dorsal fin, then ran the hook across to the opposite side of the front of the fin.

Marv watched disgustedly, saying that I would only lose minnows and wouldn't catch any fish. But time would tell. The champ was waiting in his corner for our title bout.

Once the minnows were secure, I pitched the rig into the hole. After my husband had his spotted, we settled back to wait for a strike. This is one of the most enjoyable times of a fishing trip. The river is beautiful in the fall. Trees along the banks are ablaze with color and reflect on the water as it rushes to its date with the Mississippi. The trip is worth it, even if you don't catch fish.

Our hooks had been in the water scarcely 20 minutes when the wind suddenly shifted out of the south and started blowing from the northwest. Marv and I pulled in our rigs as the boat turned with the wind and pitched them back into the hole. I had just settled back to resume soaking up the 4 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   vivid fall colors, when the bell signaled the first round.

Almost dumfounded, I watched as the line whirred out of the reel. I finally grabbed the handle and started rewinding wildly. For the first few agonizing minutes, I thought the reel was broken. No matter how fast I turned, the line kept racing out. The champ had come out of his corner with blood in his eyes.

The line continued its disappearing act into the cold Missouri. Finally, against my better judgment, I turned the lunker and pulled him back, but then he started running again. My prize hit the end of the 70-yard-long line several times, but on each occasion I was able to keep it from breaking.

In the next five minutes, he pulled every trick in the book. By the end of 10 minutes, I thought the fish was tiring. I knew I was. Then the line suddenly became slack. Feeling this lack of movement, I started reeling in line. Wham. He struck a sneaking blow that almost sent me to the mat. I don't know what kept the line from parting. The champ had reached deep in his bag of tricks and moved toward the boat, then poured on the steam and doubled back.

Marv and the champ exchanged glances through four feet of water. As the big fish zipped by the boat he appeared four feet long—by this time I was tired enough to believe it. My husband made a pass at him with the landing net, but it glanced off the champ's jaw and only made him fight harder.

This veteran acted like he had seen a net before. The final round was coming up and the odds were even. As the last bell rang, the champ was once more stripping line off my reel. I tugged him back close to the boat and Marv again got ready with the net. With a well-aimed "swish" the big fish was ours, down for the 10-count in the bottom of the boat.

As he lay quiet and exhausted at my feet, I leaned against the gunwale, for I was also tired from the fight. Our battle had lasted about 15 minutes.

Neither Marv nor I thought that this fish was even close to a record. In fact, we were only curious of its weight when we took it to a grocery store in Plainview to have it weighed. Only then did we discover what a champion I had fought and defeated. Mine was an 8-pound, 5-ounce lunker, the biggest sauger ever taken in Nebraska or anyplace else.

Marv and I like to eat fish, not look at them, so we had the prize cooked up in short order. But I am having the head mounted as a memento of the toughest fight I'd ever had. The world's record sauger is mine.

NEBRASKA'S STRONG MAN

TEMPERS WERE AS hot as the blazing summer sun, hotter still at the bottom of the open-pit quarry where big burly men squared off to prove their point with fists instead of words. A big-as-all-get-out chunk of manhood was planted smack in the middle of the ring, ready to take on the whole crew, if necessary, to make sure these hombres knew who was boss.

Now Antoine was boss. No fool would doubt that. Well, maybe one—a barrel-chested individual who'd been doing most of the talking and wasn't lacking in his share of muscles, either, in head or body.

"Ah, monsieur," the superintendent said. "You theenk you know more than Antoine, eh? Tell you what. Eef you can leeft that rock, we work the quarry your way. Eef not, we do eet mine."

The pit superintendent pointed to a great boulder left standing in the middle of the quarry, a huge stone that no one in his right mind would dare "leeft", not even a bone-headed one that had such a big mouth and big ideas.

But the hulk took the challenge. He bent his huge frame over the rock, got a good grip, and lifted for the sky. Nothing happened. He got a better hold and tried again. The rock stood still.

"Step back, boy. The heat and the rock, they are too much for you. Let Antoine try."

The superintendent shoved the panting wreck aside and eased up to the great boulder. Placing his Our boy Antoine Barada could lick them all, including Paul Bunyan calloused fingers in his favorite holds, he gave a mighty grunt, and the big stone was clear of the ground—all 1,800 pounds of it. Antoine held the rock up long enough for the crew to be dutifully impressed, then dropped it, shaking the ground so bad, it's said, that a couple of the boys bit the dust.

This was Antoine Barada, the strongest man that ever roamed the Platte. Delilah had her Samson, Hiawatha his Kwasind, and the north woods, its Paul Bunyan. But Nebraska has its Antoine Barada, and as far as we westerners are concerned, our boy Antoine could lick Samson, Kwasind, and Bunyan, one at a time or all together, and with one hand tied behind his back.

There isn't a Nebraskan who wouldn't admit that maybe the stories of Antoine's great feats may sometimes be just a little exaggerated. But Antoine was real flesh and blood, and they're convinced that most of the yarns are gospel truth.

Like the time Antoine had a showdown with Paul Bunyan with marbles in the then-flat Sand Hills. Antoine had the slickest shooter of the pair, an agatized mastodon's skull. Every time Antoine would take his turn, the skull would dig a new ravine in the sand, and pretty soon all 20,000 square miles became a land of beautiful rolling green hills. Needless to say, Antoine won the game.

Some folks say that Antoine had a lot to do with carving out the weird formations at Toad Stool 6 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   Park. Others tell about the times when he felt devilish and kept changing the course of the Missouri. And there's the place on the Platte where the river goes underground for a spell. Old-timers say Antoine got his foot stuck in quicksand, and when he finally pulled his boot loose, the whole darn river ran down the hole. One would have to admit that these stories of our boy Antoine Barada were stretched a mite.

But Mari Sandoz, famed Nebraska historian, has long recognized Antoine's feats of colossal strength. She tells of one incident this way:

"Antoine Barada was a hurry-up man, always rushing, can't wait for anything. One time he got tired of watching a pile driver working along the Missouri with the hammer going up-down, up-down . . . and the piling going down maybe a half inch. So Antoine, he picked up the damn thing in his bare hands, throws it high and far so it lights clear over the Missouri where it bounce and bounce, leavin ground tore up for miles and making what the greenhorns call 'Breaks in the Missouri'.

"But at last it stop, and if you dig down in them high ridges you find it is the pile driver with grass growing over him, a little poor soil, you understand, but it seems to satisfy them that ain't never crossgd the Missouri and don't know better. When Antoine had disposed of the "Johny Jumper" hammer, Jae 'j/f. sees that the piling that is (continued on page 25)

FIVE FOR FIVE

THE FLOCK OF SNOW and blue geese looked over our setup for what seemed an eternity before swinging into the south wind and heading straight for our blocks. Face down in the small blind, I waited for my partners in the other spread to open up. But the shots didn't come.

"Must be waiting for one more swing before they take them," I thought, as the big ganders winged within 50 yards of my 12-gauge.

Dick Schaffer, editor of OUTDOOR Nebraska, Charlie Maulher, our guide, and Sid Wallen and Dawson Sievers from New London, Minnesota, were well hidden in their blind, waiting for the big birds to wing back. This would be our first chance at geese in a day and a half of waterfowling on the Missouri River north of Ponca.

Our group was hunting out of Jon Schulke's blinds at his Big Hill Camp. The geese were in good numbers, but the weather was against us. The temperature was close to 80 the day before, and Sunday boaters and anglers were making the hunting even tougher.

I stole a look to see what our flock was doing. They had swung a quarter mile to the north, turned back into the brisk wind, and quartered toward the waiting guns. They were cruising at 90 feet above the river.

Charlie was feverishly talking goose language, trying to convince the 15 or so birds that things were all right. I eased my hand up and slapped a sand fly that was feeding on my neck, turned my face down again, and waited. A few seconds ticked off before I heard them coming in off to my right. From the sound, they would pass between the blinds.

They weren't honking and jabbering now like the highfliers often do. Theirs was a low chuckle, a 8 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   drawn out Churrr-Churrr-Churrr. Charlie talked back to them.

"Let's hope these guys are ready to shoot on this pass," I thought. My right hand went to the safety, as the wingbeats told me the time was at hand when a goose hunter must act or go without.

The big birds were overhead, barely moving against the wind.

"Now," I shouted, ramrodding into action. A blue came over the barrel and began climbing as my partners popped up in jack-in-the-box fashion. I swung the 12-gauge ahead of the outstretched neck, squeezed the trigger, and the load of No. 2 Magnums caught him hard. The blue died instantly.

A snow zoomed skyward as I swung for the second shot. All the guns were booming now, and I caught a glimpse of a snow crumple and fall off the far edge of the flock. I touched the trigger again and knew the instant that I did that the goose was ahead of me.

All of us piled out to pick up the geese. Mine was an old blue with an almost white head and neck. Dick had clobbered a snow and Dawson, a young blue. It was a poor showing, but could be expected. Nerves were tense and the shooting tough.

"That flock sure took its time making up its mind," Charlie offered.

"They acted a lot different than that first batch our neighbors across the channel got into earlier," Sid said, loading his gun again.

He was referring to a flock of about 200 Hutchins' Canadas. The birds had come in from the east early in the morning, set their flaps, and swung toward our sand bar. But they ran into trouble before they made it to us. Two hunters across the river each got two birds out of the bunch.

The water level on the river had dropped as the upstream dams closed up to store the winter water supply. The lake across from Big Hill Camp, normal-a hot spot for geese, was a shimmering mud flat with very little appeal to the big ganders. Many of the birds that would normally use the lake were now using the broad flat sand bars about 10 miles upstream. This was the beginning of the third week of the season and the flights were reaching a peak.

Charlie spotted a flock of small Canadians circling a bar about a mile upriver.

"I'd like to get into that bunch," Sid commented. "Must be the same ones that our neighbors busted."

"If you want to try a sneak, I'll take you across the channel," Charlie offered. "It'll be a long hike, but there's a chance you can get to them."

The two hiked to the boat and Charlie piloted his hunter across the river. We were sitting outside of the blind drinking coffee when our guide returned.

"Not much cover up there," Charlie reported, "but with a little luck he may get to them."

Just then Charlie spotted three geese coming in from the east, and we scrambled for the big blind. Three blues were coming straight at us at treetop height. We watched as they cleared the channel and set their wings.

"They're going to land on the far edge of the bar," Dick whispered. "They're out

LAND OF THE BUFFALO

JUST OVER 100 years ago, Nebraska boasted an amazing array of big-game animals and fur bearers. Bighorn sheep and elk, grizzly and black bears, wolverines and lynx were all found here.

Though these, along with buffalo, wolves, and mountain lions, are no longer common, Nebraska can still lay claim to plenty of fine hunting. New species have taken the place of old, and management programs hold a bright future for such restored species as antelope, mule and white-tailed deer, and such introduced species as Merriam's turkey.

But what happened to Nebraska's former big-game animals, where did they roam and when did they become extinct? Journals of the pioneers and early-day naturalists unfold the dramatic story of the animals' losing fight with man, how the prairie wilderness was transformed from an endless, uninhabited plain to a thriving agricultural state.

No other animal demonstrates the plight of early-day wildlife better than the buffalo. Nowhere was there a more dramatic slaughter of wild animals. From the teeming millions that once roamed in great herds from Canada to Mexico, the bison was reduced to a pitiful few stragglers. Prior to 1850, there were an estimated 60 million in North America. Less than 40 years later, in 1889, only 1,091 were left in the entire continent.

Indians took more than their share of the shaggy beasts before the white man came, but even if they wasted many, the tribes could not make a noticeable dent in the vast herds. It took the white man with guns and money to back him to cause the wasteful slaughter.

When the killing first started on a large scale, many of the hunters from the east were more than 10 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   willing to shoot the buffalo, but they did not want to skin the carcasses. Later, hunting became more organized, and a well-equipped outfit of hunters, skinners, and handlers could take as many as 120 in one stand in 40 minutes, and up to 1,500 in seven days.

Between 1871 and 1887, 5,860,000 hides worth $40 million were shipped out of Dodge City, Kansas, alone. Authorities then estimated that for each hide sent, there were three to five that were wasted. This would rocket the total number of bison killed in just this one area during the 17-year period to well over 23 million animals, enough meat to feed the present population of Lincoln for 270 years.

Prior to 1873, hides were legal tender in the West, and when the herds were reduced, bones took the place of hides. And there were plenty of bones to be had. In the early 1860's, the area along the Platte between Fort Kearny and Julesburg, Colorado, was described as being white with bones for as far as a person could see.

Buffalo were pursued relentlessly, even after their numbers were down to a pitiful few thousand. Indians killed the last buffalo in Nebraska in 1882. It was a small herd located at the head of the Dismal River on the Buffalo Bill ranch. There were stragglers seen after 1882 along the headwaters of the Republican, and calves were caught as late as 1885 near Ogallala. Small herds exist today in the Niobrara National Game Preserve, the Game Commission's Wildcat Hills area, and several private spreads.

Elk were abundant in all parts of the state. They were equally plentiful along the wooded Missouri, in the rolling Sand Hills, and rugged Pine Ridge. Elk were reportedly more numerous than buffalo in the Loup valley when it was first settled. A state surveyor reported a herd of a thousand elk in Custer County, and another pioneer observed thousands in herds ranging in size from 200 to 300.

In the 1860's hunters were taking the big animals in Saline County, with other parties journeying to such areas as the Blue River to hunt the plentiful wapiti. A herd estimated at 1,700 was living in the Scottsbluff area in the 1870's. The Dismal River supported a large population, and a Mr. Buckingham, an old-time hunter from Dubois, Wyoming, said the best hunting grounds he found were not in Wyoming, but Nebraska's Dismal River region.

As late as 1883, elk were still found in the northern and western part of the state. These disappeared shortly after this time, the decline caused by the same factors that decimated the buffalo herds.

Bighorn sheep once ranged across western and northern Nebraska. These were the plains bighorn sheep, a subspecies of those found in the Rocky Mountains. Their range extended as far east as Birdwood Creek, northwest of North Platte. Bighorns were hunted by early settlers until the prized species completely disappeared. The last reported kill was in 1888 in Scotts Bluff County. It was said that the head of this animal weighed 47 pounds.

It would seem impossible that the solitude-seeking grizzly bear would have called Nebraska home. Of course, at the time they were reported to occur, the state was a solitude of wilderness. The big bears were said to have ranged in the western half of the state. One plains grizzly was killed by early explorers near the mouth of the Niobrara. Another was reportedly taken on Brush Creek near Burwell in 1874.

Black bears occurred principally in northern Nebraska, but they were never common anywhere in the state since the bear is a forest animal. One was bagged in Nebraska City, with the following description of the killing.

"... but to my utter astonishment, I beheld, instead of investors, a huge black bear coming up the street on a brisk run, the glorious majority of the entire population . . . screaming in his wake ... at this, bruin halted, climbed a tree on the bank of South Table Creek, when Sheriff W. P. Burchfield, he shot him on the spot ..."

The bears disappeared with civilization and never returned. Nebraska was on the fringe of the bear's range even before white men invaded the country, and the environment was not suitable for them to survive the onrush of development.

Mountain lions or pumas occurred throughout Nebraska prior to 1900. They lived mainly along wooded streams and in the Sand Hills, with the most desirable habitat in the rugged Pine Ridge area. M. O. Steen, director of the Game Commission, says that it is not only possible, but probable that the mountain lion is again present in the state, due in part to the restoration of deer.

Wolverine, a symbol of the far north, is said to have occurred throughout Nebraska in 1870, with better range in the northwest. When they disappeared from the state is not (continued on page 24)

DO FISH SLEEP?

IT IS COMMONLY assumed that fish do not sleep. It's not difficult to see how such a belief arose. People looked at fish, saw no ears, and assumed fish could not hear. Similarly, when they saw that fish had no eyelids, they naturally assumed that fish did not sleep, either.

Some recent observations seem to support this view. Fish watched in tanks and aquariums appeared to go without sleep. A gray nurse shark in an aquarium in Sydney, Austrialia, is said to have kept on the move—apparently without sleep—for six years, swimming over 200,000 miles in the process.

But the truth is that all fish do sleep, at least for some part of their lives. Their concept of a "good night's sleep" may not tally with our own. Only a few minutes' respite may enable them to keep going for another 24 hours. Some fish sleep much more than others, the habit varying among the different species.

Though some fish manage with little sleep, others like several hours' motionless rest, usually on the bottom. Whether the eyes are open or closed has no connection with sleep. Humans may close their eyes for sleep, but they have no way of shutting their ears and can sleep soundly through all the hubbub of a modern city. Similarly, fish may be sound asleep, unseeing and unhearing, though their eyes have the normal glazed, seeing appearance. Whatever we are, whether people or elephants or birds or fish, when we sleep, our minds are temporarily withdrawn from the outside world.

A fish's eye is fundamentally very similar to our own, but lacks true eyelids. The reason we have lids and fish don't is simple. Humans need to constantly moisten and clean the surface of the eyeballs. The lids help perform this service. A fish, on the other hand, has its eyes naturally and constantly lubricated by the water in which it swims.

This is vividly illustrated by the four-eyed fish, Anableps, which lives in Central America. This fish's eyes are divided into two sections, one for seeing under water, one for seeing in the air. It lies on the surface of the water for hours on end, the upper half of the eyes clear of the water. But this exposed portion of the eyes, although adapted for vision out of water, has no eyelid arrangement. The poor fish has to keep ducking his head beneath the water every few minutes to keep the eyes moist.

The time is a long way off when the mystery of sleep is solved. We do know sleep is a nervous rather than just a physical phenomenon. The ancient view that sleep came when the accumulation of fatigue products in the blood stream reached a certain level has long been discounted. Observations of Siamese twins have helped prove the point. These inevitably share a common blood system, yet one can sleep while the other remains wide awake. A fish's sleep may, for short periods, be as deep and complete as terrestrial animal sleep. It is rarely enjoyed for very long periods without a break.

The need for immediate sleep can swiftly be overridden by external factors more readily than in the human world. Fish which prefer to sleep in total darkness will go on swimming if they are still hungry. Sea trout and others, dozing perhaps after dusk, will become active as the moon rises. Sleeping gray mullet have been known to be immediately awakened by artificial light. Then the school reforms and swims on as if nothing had happened.

While the majority of fish probably sleep resting on or close to the bottom, some will take up a somnolent posture suspended in the water. Flatfish and one or two other species with unorthodox habits regularly sleep on their sides on the bottom, often deep in mud or sand. Lampreys attach themselves to a stone when wanting to sleep in a swift current.

The general rule seems to be that inland and coastal fish prefer the bottom as a bed, while open sea and the larger oceanic fish usually sleep suspended in mid-water. A few fish, like the basking shark, and the opah or moonfish, sleep on the surface. Basking sharks lie with the dorsal fin and part of the back above water. They sometimes doze side or even belly up. There is no doubt that the shark sleeps while basking in the sun.

Unorthodox sleeping positions are the exception rather than the rule with fish, and do not include the variety found in the animal world. Trigger fish like to sleep head downwards, and most of the wrasses prefer to turn on their sides.

One small Bermuda wrasse, known as the "Slippery Dick", can be said to pull the covers over its head when going to sleep. It dives slantingly into the soft sand on the bottom, gives a few powerful wriggles with its tail, and immediately disappears from view. Even in a tank it is hard to detect the little volcanic peak of sand which gently rises and falls as the fish breathes. The wrasse can be induced to perform this act if placed in a darkened room.

Oddly enough, sudden light or noise, or the pangs of hunger may wake a sleeping fish faster than touching it. Many a soundly sleeping fish in an aquarium can be gently prodded without waking it. There seems some evidence, too, that the practice of tickling trout may include the simple factor that the fish caught so readily and amazingly may be simply sound asleep.

DEER WITH THE BIG FEET

THE SKY WAS overcast and looked cold as we headed over the rolling hills toward the heavily wooded bottom land along the Loup River. The going was easy over the fairly open hill country, but got tough as the four of us entered the dense cover along the river bottom. An excuse for a sun was trying to break through from the east, heralding the opening day of the 1959 deer season. Each of us was anxious to get to our stands before the deer started moving.

Our host, John Zoroske of Fullerton, had planned the hunt well. For the past two months, he had searched the countryside and along the river looking for deer signs. He set up our stands in carefully plotted spots where deer were known to frequent.

The four of us, Zoroske, Truman "Doc" Lauterbach of Sprague, John Sulek from Lincoln, and I had been hunting deer near Fullerton since that area was opened. So far, Lady Luck had been good to us. But we wondered if it would hold this year.

Once settled in my well-chosen stand, I began the long, quiet wait, hoping a prime buck would head my way. It was only 7:15 when the first shot rang out. Doc Lauterbach had kicked off his .270 and brought a big whitetail crashing to the ground. The shot from Doc's gun had hardly died away when John Zoroske zeroed in on a three-pointer. Just then, a huge buck bounded into view. I fought off a moment's fever, looked through the sights, and squeezed down on the trigger. The air reverberated with the sound and the whitetail crumbled in its tracks.

The bombardment was over in less than five minutes. When the smoke cleared and we had a chance to look at our prizes, we couldn't have been happier. Doc had brought down a beautiful specimen, its rack the biggest I'd seen in a long time. The deer dressed out at 255 pounds. Later, after allowing time for shrinkage, Doc measured the rack. The buck scored an impressive 170 Boone and Crockett points, and now ranks 33rd nationally.

John Zoroske's whitetail weighed 192 pounds, hog-dressed. My buck topped the scales at 228 14 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   pounds. John Sulek was unable to score. We had evidentally spooked all the bucks out of the country. But he would have his day next year.

Opening day of the 1960 season dawned bright and clear and once again the two Johns and I headed for our stands along the Loup River. This time the deer weren't so co-operative. It was late in the afternoon before the first shot was fired. Then, John Sulek took a bead on a four-point whitetail and the show began all over again. The animal hog-dressed out at a heavy 254 pounds.

Not to be outdone, John Zoroske waited out a mammoth whitetail buck and put himself on the Boone and Crockett rolls. The antlers of his prize measured 164 points, ranking it 66th in the nation. But there was plenty of venison, too. The buck weighed 285 pounds, hog-dressed, just two pounds short of the state record.

Doc last year, Zoroske this season—it was my turn to score on a record-breaker. The deer had other ideas and the first day was a blank. But I wasn't about to give up, and headed for my stand early the next morning.

There was a sharp bite in the air and a strong wind blowing. After three hours of shivering at the stake out, I was about ready to call it quits. There hadn't been a trace of deer. I was cold, tired of waiting, and only the memory of the previous years kept my spirits from dragging. The deer were really avoiding me, so I decided to change to another position.

I had moved out some 30 feet in the direction of another stand when I spotted two deer approaching through the trees. They were only 200 yards away. I made a wild dash for my hideout, sure that I'd been seen. Once hidden, I looked back. The pair was still coming, and was now only 70 yards away. One was a young buck with but one spike on each antler.

At this point, I wasn't about to be choosy. Though no trophy, the whitetail would provide lots of good eating during the winter ahead. When he was 36 yards away, I let him have it.

Only John Sulek and I could make it to our favorite stake outs this season. Lady Luck was smiling on us again. John downed a 202-pound, three-point whitetail and I got a 151-pounder.

Getting this second whitetail answered a lot of questions that had been bothering us for the past two years. We'd seen large tracks and wondered what sized deer the big feet belonged to. This year we found out. It was my 151-pounder, just a little guy with oversized feet.

It has been three fabulous seasons. But all of us carry a lot of memories besides just the ones of bringing down trophy deer. Doc is still talking about the seven does that almost trampled him at his stand. They came so close he could hear their breath rushing in and out.

While quietly waiting at your stand, you get close to nature. As your eyes sharpen, you learn a lot about the animals and birds that abound in the state.

I'll never forget the time a doe and her two buck fawns came within five feet of my stand and carefully studied me. As the deer approached from the underbrush, they stretched their necks and turned their heads gracefully.

About this time a gun roared some 500 yards away and spooked the deer. But even the blast could not overcome their curiosity, for they stopped in their tracks and turned to look at me again. Now they walked back and forth, trying to figure me out.

There was a beautiful rhythm in the way they stalked. The doe led the parade with the two fawns lined up single file behind her. All three would raise their right front legs in unison, then stamp them carefully on the turf. Then they repeated the step with their left. I watched them for over an hour, completely intrigued.

This stare down would have gone on indefinitely if another critter hadn't wanted to get into the act. I glanced down and spotted a skunk. He had a look in his eye that meant only one thing. I bailed out and left both skunk and deer on their own.

My friends and I have had some real experiences during our annual get-together. As far as we're concerned, Nebraska can't be beat as a deer-hunting state. You can bet that we'll be back to our favorite stands next year.

the CAMPING VAGABONDS

PLENTY OF BLACK coffee, a smacking-good lunch, and lots of friendly chatter in the shade of Ta-ha-zouka Park's giant cottonwoods—that was my introduction to "roughing it" with the Valley Vagabonds of Norfolk. But roughing it would hardly describe these campers. They are real pros when it comes to enjoying and seeing outdoor Nebraska.

Alice and Keith Rolls, my hosts during the weekend camporee at Norfolk's new camping grounds, are typical of the group's 200 members, typical of the millions that are taking to this mushrooming outdoor activity. They've discovered that camping works magic on family ties. Both will agree that they've become closer to their two teen-age daughters since the family began camping together.

I could see that the minute I stepped out of the hot August sun and joined them in their canopy-covered, open-air dining room. This was living. Keith and I eased back in a couple of comfortable camp chairs and watched the female Rolls prepare lunch. Alice performed wonders over her portable camp stove. Sylvia and Regina, just returned from exploring the rest of beautiful Ta-ha-zouka, had the table set in quick order.

This was "Roll's Roost". Keith was mighty proud of it, and had a right to be. He'd rigged the entire camping outfit, from the neat camping trailer that 16 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   unfolded from a small box over a pair of wheels into a four-place sleeping spread to the coffee can with a couple of wires over the open end that produced golden-brown toast.

Keith told me about the family's camping experiences, about the Vagabonds which he had been instrumental in forming and now headed. Wiry and chock-full of energy, he carried on a running banter with other members of the group who were just putting up their spreads or sitting down to lunch. He made a special point of seeing that no one was a stranger when they drove into Norfolk's campgrounds.

The Vagabonds were spread out in a wide semicircle underneath the cottonwoods. No two rigs were alike, and each showed a new innovation. There were camping trailers like Keith's, a conglomeration of tents in all shapes and sizes, a couple of small trailers, and even a fancy camping bus with all the conveniences of home. I got a special kick out of one elderly couple who drove up in the most compact compact and proceeded to haul out cots, a walled tent, grub, and last but not least, a fancy aluminum-framed hammock which was promptly occupied as soon as their camp was set.

Here was a picture of people enjoying themselves, young and old alike getting their full quotas of relaxed and easy living. The elderly couple stretched out and listened to the ball game on the radio. A group of kids were yelling to their hearts content over a volleyball game. Two young anglers came running from the nearby creek, proudly hoisting a couple of bewhiskered bullheads for all to see. Alice and a couple of other housewives exchanged challenges about who was going to win the big cooking contest that I was to judge later that night.

Unlike other organizations, the Vagabonds worry little about committees, officers, reading of the minutes, controlled activities, and such. Each family is pretty much on its own to enjoy and explore the outdoors. But the organization does give every member the chance to exchange ideas, encourage other people to camp out, have fun together, and probably most important, promote the development of a first-class camping area at Norfolk. The Vagabonds have been successful on all counts.

The Vagabonds do their bit for state areas they visit as a group. This summer, members sprayed poison ivy at Dead Timber, cut down a rotting tree and replaced it with a new one at Pibel Lake, and carried sand for sand boxes at Atkinson. This isn't work to them, just a lot of fun.

Once lunch was over, Keith took me on a tour of the campgrounds to meet and visit with other members. I was most impressed by Keith Darr's camping trailer, and finally convinced him to fold up the entire rig and set it up again. I wanted to see if the operation was as easy as he said it was. It was. Even in 90° heat, Keith and his (continued on page 24)

Secret of a FISH KILLER

METCALF

THE BRITTLE COLD filtered through the silence of the ponderosa, numbing the brightly-coated hunter patiently studying the surrounding terrain. It was late October, the deer season just minutes old. Suddenly, without warning, a big mule buck crashed into the clearing below. The man raised his rifle, fought off a moment of buck fever, and squeezed the trigger. It was all over, the canyons still echoing the blast of the 30.06.

Another hunter had scored at Metcalf Special Use Area. This ponderosa-covered site lays in the midst of prime deer-hunting country in the foothills of the Pine Ridge. Each year, hunter success gets better and more and more hunters take to this wild and untamed part of Nebraska to bring down their share of game.

The deep canyons cutting gashes through the hills provide perfect deer habitat, and hunters who like to rough it find their luck runs high. During 1960's season, Metcalf was part of the county rating close to the top in deer-hunting success.

Twelve miles north and east of Hay Springs, this 1,347-acre area is not for the hunter who likes readily available comfort and convenience. You may be footsore and weary by the time you reach your spot, but the sight of a big buck will soon make you forget the job of trailing into the heart of Metcalf.

A real outdoorsman can find all he's looking for in excitement and sport midst the rugged terrain. Once there, only your factory-made hunting gear and modern rifle remind you the year is 1961 and not 1861. Even today's automobiles can't break the aura of the primitive which is so prevalent. The only access into Metcalf is by foot over deer trails which lace the hills and canyons. A public dirt road runs north and south through the eastern edge of this prime hunting area, but from there you're on your own.

Purchased by the Game Commission in 1943, Metcalf was originally used as part of the state's deer-restoration program. It's gaining fame as a public hunting ground.

Today, Metcalf's popularity lies in its excellence as a deer-hunting area. But in the future, Merriam's wild turkey may be vying for the hunter's favor. Wild turkeys have been released in the nearby Pine 20 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   Ridge and are thriving in habitat similar to Metcalf's. Whether these turkeys filter naturally into the area or are brought there and released, the possibility remains that someday the Merriam's might be providing sport.

Small-game hunters can also find their fun in the area. For year-round sport, there are plenty of cottontails to provide top action. The bunnies can be found throughout the rugged country and could stand more hunting pressure.

An occasional wildcat will leave his tracks on a canyon ledge while on the prowl for his dinner. Porcupines are also found among the dark-green pines. The Game Commission is currently taking steps to bring the population, which has become quite a nuisance in the area, under control. Numerous songbirds delight the nature lover looking for untouched beauty, as will the yucca and many western grasses of the Pine Ridge.

Hardy souls enjoy camping in Metcalf. No picnic tables or fireplaces await you, but the beauty of the area makes up for the lack of modern conveniences. Pitch a tent close to Little Beaver Creek, a small, meandering, spring-fed stream, and enjoy a little of the thrill the early pioneers felt when they first came into this wild country.

Listen closely. You can almost hear the footsteps of Sioux braves returning to their land out of the past. Here, less than a century ago, the Indian claimed the land. Descendents of early Kinkaiders living near Metcalf can tell hair-raising stories of Indians and the Frontier justice that once ruled here.

No improvements are slated in the near future. Plans are to allow Metcalf to remain in its present primitive state. More acres of rugged timberland may be added to whet the sportsman's appetite. An 80-acre piece of crop land may be traded for a same sized block of timber.

Wildlife there is not used to human interference. Except for occasional Game Commission personnel making surveys, man rarely uses the area. Deer hunters flock to the area during open season, but when it ends, life returns to normal.

This is Metcalf. It could be the place where you take your trophy buck, where you sense the real thrill of the outdoors.

FIVE FOR FIVE

of range, but if they get down behind the bank we can pull a sneak on them."

The trio settled down along the water's edge about 200 yards out. The birds dabbled for a few minutes, then walked in behind the low bank of the bar out of sight.

"Who wants to try a sneak?' Charlie asked.

"Think we can make it?" Dick questioned.

"If they stay where they are you can," Charlie answered. "You'll have to crouch for the first 100 yards, then crawl the rest of the way. Why don't you and Dawson try it? Gene and I'll try to keep you posted by hand signals."

The two hunters left the blind in a crouch, crossed a shallow stretch of water, and dropped to a crawl. Just then we heard a bunch coming out of the north. The flock was still a long way off, circling the river. It wasn't a big bunch, maybe 25 snows and blues. The ganders didn't act like they would work our area.

Everything looked all right, but only for a moment. The first fly in the ointment was a lone snow. He came in calling for the company of our decoys. It was all either of us could do to refrain from clobbering him as he hung 30 yards overhead, looking at our blocks.

Dick and Dawson spotted the snow and hugged the ground. But the loner wasn't the only one to give us fits. The upriver flock was making motions of heading our way.

"Wouldn't you know it," Charlie hissed. "Put a man out on a sneak where he can't possibly hide, and all the geese in the country head our way."

The flock came right down the line toward the blind. The distance shortened, first 300 yards, then 250, 200, still boring right for us. Our partners stuffed their faces in the sand, trying to hide.

My gun was ready. Charlie tensed up on his calling as the distance narrowed. He churred to them a couple of times, then eased his big 10-gauge Magnum into position. Without saying a word, we both knew the other was ready to shoot. The geese had 50 yards to come until they were within range of his cloudbuster; another 15 before I could shoot.

It was then that the whole show blew up. The three blues on the sand bar honked a greeting to the flock. As a return favor, the flock honked a warning and flared away. Almost instantly, the three blues took flight and joined them.

One minute we had geese all around us, the next, none. Our two companions trudged back to the blind.

"I still have a mouthful of sand," Dick grinned. "I felt like an ostrich out there."

"Talk about feeling naked as a jay bird," Sievers chimed in. "I could feel those 25 pair of eyes boring holes in my back."

It was then that we heard Sid shooting upstream, and saw the Hutchins' take wing. There were three shots, a pause, then a fourth.

The "eeeonk, eeeonk" call startled all of us, and we dropped out of sight in the blind. It was another loner coming down river, perhaps the same snow that had worked us earlier. The goose was flying low, straight for the blind. Dick and Dawson leaped into action, both guns roared at the same time, and the snow plummeted into the blocks.

The afternoon wore away, and the sun finally dropped over the bluffs of the river. Several bunches looked us over, but kept out of range. Dick glassed the opposite bar for signs of Sid and finally saw him.

"How he did get into those hutches," Dick reported. "He's carrying two of them."

As we hiked to the boat, we heard geese again and finally located a big V of highfliers winging across the setting sun toward the south.

"Honkers," Charlie said, shading his eyes against the light. "First big bunch I've seen this fall. Hope you guys can come back in a week or so. There's a good chance some of those big boys will stay long enough to offer shots."

Sitting here looking out the window of the office, my thoughts go back to the Missouri and the big Canadas. It has been a spell since the Missouri hunt, and a goose would look mighty good on the Sunday table.

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

NEW YORK . . . Game Researchers of the conservation department have decided it's best not to ask a black bear to take a walk. Bruin covers too much ground in the process. One particular bear who had been a nuisance at a local garbage dump in the Adirondacks was moved to a spot 65 miles away so he could reform. But apparently the new neighborhood wasn't exciting enough. A year later, the men discovered the same bear less than two miles from his garbage-dump hangout. He had returned to his life of crime.

NORTH DAKOTA . . . North Dakota big-game hunters can take to the field in a bevy of colors this year. They'll be able to change from wearing only red as a safety color by selecting outfits in shades of orange and yellow, too. State law requires all big-game hunters to wear a colored hat, or cap, and at least 144 square inches of safety color on both back and chest while hunting.

MICHIGAN ... See anything fishy here? The 1958 waterfowl season at the Swan Creek Highbanks in Michigan provided 11,802 permittees with 1,569 Canada geese, 4 blues, 2 snows, 103 mallards, 15 black ducks, and 2 baldpates. Hunters fired 103,000 shells in over 44,000 hours of hunting.

Well, an alert New York editor caught it. If their count and his arithmetic are accurate, that figures out to a little more than 60 shells per bird bagged.

PENNSYLVANIA ... A Pennsylvania game protector's predator call netted him a bag of one red fox. But the merits of the call itself are in dispute. The advertisements read that the predator is supposed to rush to the sound. When the officer spotted a red fox sleeping in a field and three different blasts on the call brought nothing more than a sleepy-eyed look, he decided the fox was either deaf or hadn't been informed of the call's merits, and shot him.

CONNECTICUT . . . Multiflora rose, famous as a living fence and protective cover for wildlife, has now become a protection against wild drivers on Connecticut highways. A hedge in the center of a divided highway greatly "decelerates" cars out of control, reports a state official. "The roses form a thick tangled wall that prevents fatal head-on collisions."

PENNSYLVANIA . . . The gyrations of a gull trying to take off from a Pennsylvania lake attracted the attention of two fishermen. The gull would rise a few feet from the water but was pulled back. The fishermen investigated and found that the bird had been hooked by a musky-sized plug.

PENNSYLVANIA ... A Pennsylvania frog has learned the hard way that chickens shouldn't be included in his diet. A hunter out looking for frogs heard a small chick peeping and investigated. He discovered a frog with the chick crammed in his mouth. But the culprit found there was no excuse for chicken thievery. He landed in the hunter's frying pan.

MISSOURI ... A trout fisherman, caught dip-netting fish from the raceway at Roaring River State Park recently, pleaded insanity before the magistrate judge. The conservation agent who apprehended the violator agreed that dip-netting trout from a raceway in broad daylight did appear to be an "insane act". Said the amazed warden, "He told his friends that the fastest way to catch trout was with a dip net and proved it by catching eight before he was stopped." Besides a fine of $75, the man spent a night in county jail, sleeping off an overdose of John Barley Corn.

OHIO ... A unique group of Cloistered Franciscan Nuns in Canton has gone into the fishing lure business. About 16 different kinds, sold under the name of St. Peter's Fishing Lures, are available. They range from plastic worms to jigs, bucktails, and plugs. Funds derived from the sale of the lures are used to aid the Great Fisherman's quest for souls. Each lure is sold with a built-in prayer that the user will be blessed with good fishing success—apparently on the assumption that some anglers need the extra help.

THE CAMPING VAGABONDS

wife, Maxine, had the outfit down and up again in only minutes. And I was slowing them up by taking pictures.

Darr's rig is the ultimate in do-it-yourself, at least as far as I'm concerned. The compact box of the 7 by 10-foot trailer is only 3-feet high when folded. But when Keith and his wife get through, it becomes a combination kitchen, bedroom, and if necessary, living room when the weather gets rough.

Later Keith and I hiked through the rest of Ta-ha-zouka. The city fathers have a right to be proud of the park. The landscaping and play facilities are outstanding. I was especially impressed by the collection of animals including buffalo, brown bears, coyotes, and many others. Certainly the city's decision to develop the camping area in conjunction with the rest of the facilities has gone a long way toward making the park one of the most outstanding in northeastern Nebraska.

Getting approval for the camping facility was not easy. That's one reason that the Valley Vagabonds was formed. City fathers were hesitant to open their fine park to outsiders, believing that many were no more than gypsies and would take advantage of the city's hospitality.

Keith began his campaign about two years ago, arming himself with all kinds of statistics to show how camping had changed from one of itinerants to that of families exploring and enjoying new outdoor vistas. Camping would mean a new source of revenue to Norfolk, the facility proving the town's tradition of warm hospitality. He spoke on radio, wrote guest editorials, spoke before civic organizations, city officials, and the Chamber of Commerce. And finally he organized the Vagabonds.

This year, the town's leaders caught the spark of Keith's enthusiasm and developed the campground. The Chamber of Commerce printed giant post cards and distributed them to towns and cities along U.S. Highway 81. One camping family beat the party distributing the cards back, proving Keith's belief that the facility would be in great demand. That same weekend another car pulling a large trailer stopped at the new park. The family spent $35 in Norfolk during their two-day stay and left with a mighty fine opinion of the park and town.

Smoke from a couple of dozen cooking fires rose to blend with the brilliant reds, golds, and purples of the setting sun as we headed back to camp. The kids were hungry, the camp-stove creations done and ready to be judged. Five picnic tables were loaded with food. I had my meal in short order by just sampling each entry.

The Vagabonds settled down to take in the big spread, and once the meal was over and the awards presented, all joined in singing their favorite campfire songs and roasting marshmallows. They had followed this same procedure in camp outs at Ponca, Lewis and Clark, Fremont Lakes, Dead Timber, and other state areas.

What a way for family and friends to spend their weekends together, I thought, as I headed back to Lincoln. I had Keith Darr's trailer design firmly stuck in my mind and was figuring ways to get the rig made this winter. I knew one family who would take to this kind of life in a big way.

CLASSIFIED ADVERTISEMENTS

LAND OF THE BUFFALO

known. A few were reported in 1882, and J. Sterling Morton said they were very scarce in 1905. Sables, otters, and lynx also occurred here, but they, too, disappeared with the advent of civilization.

Will such species as elk and buffalo ever return? Probably not, at least not in huntable numbers. Both compete with cattle for available forage, making restoration economically impossible. Restoration of bighorn sheep, who now find it tough sledding even in their Rocky Mountain retreat, would also be difficult. Wolverines, bears, and other species associated with a wilderness habitat would generally find conditions unsuitable now.

Civilization, man's heavy utilization of game resources, and lack of protective laws all took their toll of Nebraska's wildlife. Fortunately, management, firm laws, and effective enforcement have combined to restore many of the original spices. New species 24 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   are taking the place of old. Today, Nebraska is fast becoming recognized as a hunter's paradise, not only with its outstanding variety of birds and small game, but big game as well.

NEBRASKA'S STRONG MAN

left stands a mile higher than the rest, so he gives it a lick with his fist and it pop down into ground so deep it strike buried lake, the water flying out like from bung hole 50 feet high and like to drown out the whole country if Antoine, he did not sit on the hole first."

This is but one of the Barada stories that Miss Sandoz heard from half-breeds around the Pine Ridge. But she suspects that most of the yarns originated from families who lived on what was called "breed strip" in southeast Nebraska.

Antoine Barada legends, like Paul Bunyan legends, go on and on. But unlike most other fables, these are based on a true strongman and frontier Nebraskan. The story of his life is a legend in itself.

Michael Barada, Antoine's father, was a nobleman in the court of Louis XVI just prior to the French Revolution. His romance with an American Indian maiden, Antoine's mother, is one of the most beautiful of the early West.

As Michael sauntered along a fashionable street of Paris one spring day, a red rose fell at his feet. He traced the flower's flight to a window and caught a fleeting glimpse of the piquant face of a girl. Then she was gone, and Michael was smitten.

Two days later when he returned to the spot, there was no rose and no face at the window. He learned his true love was an Indian maiden who, with others of her race, had been brought to France to show Parisians what the American natives were like. The girl was Tea-Gle-Ha, or Laughing Buffalo. The beautiful 17-year-old had spent a year in the capital, but had left Paris for America the day after Michael had seen her at the window.

This didn't stop the young romantic. A few days later he sailed for America and his love. In his blind rush, young Barada didn't bother to learn the facts that would help him in his quest. He didn't know the girl's tribe. He didn't know anything about the geography of the new country. He didn't even know her ship's destination.

The port was New Orleans, from which Tea-Gle-Ha traveled up the Mississippi to rejoin the Omaha in the Wisconsin-Iowa area. Barada's boat landed in Montreal—several hundred miles of forests and plains from Tea-Gle-Ha.

Hundreds of fruitless inquiries would have turned the most determined Casanova back to France, but Michael was not deterred. He joined a band of trappers and went into Indian country to become a skilled trapper and hunter.

As he ventured south into one of the many Omaha Indian villages, he passed by an old squaw sitting in front of a tepee. She called to someone inside. The name she used was Tea-Gle-Ha. Two weeks after their second meeting the two were joined by Indian ceremony, and Barada became a member of the tribe.

Soon after Michael joined the tribe, the Omahas moved across the Missouri into Nebraska territory, close to the present city that bears the tribe's name. Antoine was born in 1807 near what is now known as Fort Calhoun in Washington County.

Antoine had scarcely reached his seventh birthday when he was captured by a party of Sioux. His extraordinary physical development spared him the fate of his less fortunate companions. Two years later he escaped and was eventually returned to his parents.

Antoine moved to St. Louis, working at jobs that added to his physical stature, including the quarry bit where he lifted the 1,800-pound boulder. Young Barada returned to his tribe in 1832 to visit his parents. He remained with the Omahas for several years before returning to St. Louis where he married Josephene Veien in 1836. That same year his father, Michael, represented the Omahas at the treaty of Prairie du Chien.

Gold in California stirred the same adventurous blood in Antoine's veins that lured Michael thousands of miles to follow his Indian maiden. Antoine traveled overland in search of riches. Six years later he returned by way of Panama and New York. He and his family finally settled in Richardson County and cut out a farm from the wilderness. There, he and Josephene raised seven children—Michael, William, and Thomas Barada; Mrs. Fulton Peters, Mrs. John Dupree, Mrs. William Provost, and Mrs. John Khun.

As settlers flocked to the rich Missouri valley, a small community was formed and named Barada after the famed pioneer. Antoine Barada died in the spring of 1885 and was laid to rest in a small cemetery east of town. The real Antoine Barada had passed on, but his legend remains, the strongest man west of the Missouri.

notes on Nebraska fauna

FRESH-WATER DRUM

IF YOU HAPPEN to be fishing from a metal boat in one of Nebraska's waters and hear a queer drumming sound from the deep, don't be alarmed. You've probably spotted yourself above a school of fresh-water drum having a fishy clambake below.

Few fish have been named so appropriately. Surprisingly enough, though, Aplodinotus grunniens is mistaken for several kinds of fish as shown by some of his common names. Many anglers refer to him as a white perch. Others call him a silver bass. Both, of course, are incorrect. This fish is a member of the drum family, having no connection with either species.

Other common names are sheepshead, croaker, grunter, and grinder. Though it sounds like the fish or his namers have been around the wrestling ring, he still remains the drum. You'll know you've caught one if the fish has scales, doesn't have whiskers, is silvery in color with no dark markings, and has a dorsal fin at least half as long as his body.

Actually hearing the drum from the surface is a pretty rare experience. You'll be more likely to catch the sound after you've creeled one of the silver fighters. There is a difference of opinion as to where the drumming noise originates. Some say that the sound is produced by the air bladder. Others believe the heavy teeth in the drum's throat are the cause. And still others contend that it is produced by both organs. The truth is, no one really knows, since there has been limited research on this species. If the air bladder is responsible, the sound is probably produced by rapidly discharging air from one chamber to another. If the teeth do the job, the noise is probably caused by a grinding process.

With the exception of the fresh-water drum, all members of the family live in salt or brackish 26 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   water. The white sea bass, black croaker, and kingfish are all members of the salt-water drum family. These varieties, of course, will grow much larger than their landlocked cousins.

The drum can be found from south-central Canada into Mexico. He is native only in the central part of the United States. Prior to stocking, drum were present in Nebraska only in the Missouri River and the lower portions of the larger tributaries of the big river. In 1936, the fish was stocked throughout the state. At present, drum can be found state-wide.

Little is known about the drum's habitat needs. He seems to be tolerant of silt to some degree, and can reproduce in either still waters such as the big reservoirs or in the larger rivers. Studies are now being conducted in Missouri to learn more about the species. This lack of research can be explained by the fish's popularity. Unlike other species, the drum has just recently come into his own as a game species.

The fresh-water drum has a definite yearly upstream migration, probably tied in with the spawning urge. This results in concentrations below dams and stream obstacles.

In most cases, the drum reaches 5 inches at the end of the first year, around 9, the second, 12 the third, and on up to 27 inches and 8 pounds at 17 years. No fish, of course, grows at a certain rate, or to a certain size, because they're a particular kind of fish. Instances have been known where a drum attained 25 inches and 11 pounds by 10 years. Growth in the drum, as in other fish, is dependent upon food availability, how long it is available, and living conditions.

The preferred natural food of the grinder consists of mussels, snails, crayfish, and small minnows. The powerful throat teeth can do an excellent job of breaking shells.

This fish is uniquely tied in with Nebraska's western heritage, Indians in particular. The drum's skull possesses two bones that are easily detached. These are milky in appearance and are shaped somewhat like a wafer. The Indians collected and kept these "ear bones" as valuable tokens.

Parts of drum skeletons have been found at a few Indian camp sites. From these, scientists have discovered that the fish once grew to a size of 150 to 200 pounds. Indians called the drum the buffalo fish. To them, the fish grunted exactly like a buffalo. Actually, the plains Indians rarely utilized the drum or other species. They were buffalo eaters, not fish eaters.

When fishing for drum, present the bait on or near the bottom, since the drum is largely a bottom feeder. Move often until a school is located. The drum will take worms, shrimp, and soft-shelled crayfish. The latter has proved especially good as a drum getter. On occasion the species will strike artificial lures. He puts up a tenacious, bulldog fight when he's hooked on light tackle.

Fishermen should remember that the drum is a relatively light biter. Only enough sinker should be used to take bait to the bottom. This doesn't mean straight to the bottom. One effective way of fishing the eddy of the tailrace at Gavins Point is to use a Vs-ounce sinker and play out enough line to allow the bait to bounce along the bottom. Use a light monofilament line for best results. Incidentally, the drum is one of the last fish to start hitting at Gavins in the spring, so plan your trip accordingly.

Favorite fishing hot spots include the Missouri River and its oxbows, the tailrace at Gavins Point Dam, the Tri-County reservoir system including Maloney and Sutherland near North Platte, and the tailrace east of Columbus. The state record is 19 pounds. This fish was taken in 1959 by Barton L. Andrews of Omaha in Carter Lake near Omaha.

The grunter makes up a significant part of the commercial catch on the Mississippi River. While working with the commercial anglers there, I was asked to watch for white perch as the first seine haul came in. I saw none. I didn't expect to. White perch are native to coastal and near coastal waters of the east coast. I reported, "No white perch," to the boss. He looked over the catch and noted over 300 pounds. Yes, you're right. They were freshwater drum.

Grunter, grinder, or just plain drum, this unique fish is an interesting and valuable part of Nebraska's fishery resources. Try landing one on light tackle, and you'll agree you've latched on to a real tough fighter.

WINTER READY