they FISH FOR PAY

These hardy river men carry on industry ebbing with time

THE GRAY half-light of dawn began to lighten the eastern sky as Henry Prater made his way down the hill from his modest home in Rulo to the nearby Missouri River. Pulling up to the clapboard fishing shack he calls his camp, Prater eased out of his car and gazed down and across at the water.

The Missouri ground its way southward, mirror-like at first glance, but filled with swirling eddies showing the treacherous power that lies beneath. The main channel slides by, straightened by years of work by the Corps of Engineers. Rocky training dikes, built to keep the river in its course, jut out at an angle. Here is where Prater heads to tend his NOVEMBER, 1963   nets and traps. Eddies swirl behind these barriers, collecting food for fish and fish for fishermen.

they FISH FOR PAY continued

Traps are baited with spoiled cheese. Men relish the catfish they catch, but are revolted by the bait's reeking odor. A mixture of corn, ground wheat shorts, and water is cooked into a mass to lure unsuspecting carp into the nets.

Prater has spent half of his 50 years tending his nets and traps. The routine is almost automatic. The boat is glided in behind the dike. Prater probes for the line anchoring the net close to shore. Once found, it is pulled into the boat and emptied of fish. Often the net is empty; seldom any more is it full.

The Missouri has changed from the time Prater's 75-year-old father, Vernon, started as a commercial fisherman 50 years ago. The backwaters and twisting course of the river have changed and the river's little more than a tube, carrying fallen trees, silt, and debris to the Mississippi and the ocean.

OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   NOVEMBER, 1963 5   6   they FISH FOR PAY continued

There are around 10 commercial fishermen in Rulo, and when Henry returns to the dock, they are busy in two's and three's cleaning their morning catch. There is very little said but the arrival of each boat is carefully watched by half-turned heads pretending to be concentrating on the task.

Once done, the men sit on the steps of their camps, almost as if waiting for someone else to make the next move. Finally they drift back up the hill to their homes in this sleepy onetime boom town. A highway sign on the outskirts reads, "Rulo—population 412", but it's closer to 300.

Rulo was founded in 1858 and, in its day, was quite a bustling river town. But where other similar towns grew up to become Omaha or Kansas City, Rulo was passed by. The few remaining inhabitants work in nearby towns that blossomed while Rulo withered or, like Prater, eke out a living from the past. Abandoned homes tell the story of those who left.

Is there a future in commercial fishing? Prater thinks not. "It's getting harder every year, but when you have spent your whole life in one job it's hard to get another." "

THE END NOVEMBER, 1963 7

HEN SUFFRAGE

by John P. Weigand District Game Supervisor

THOUGH SPORTSMEN aren't about to kill the goose that laid the golden egg, more and more are beginning to wonder why the hen pheasant should continue to enjoy such a hallowed position in wildlife circles. The issue becomes especially exasperating during the hunting season when all the cocks in the neighborhood are making like Olympic track champions while a bevy of hens watch on the side lines, almost undisturbed by the goings on.

The hen pheasant enjoys a unique position here. Unlike the female quail and prairie chicken, she continues to sit on the pedestal of protection.

Protecting hen pheasants is a management theory accepted when the prized game birds were becoming established in the state. Then every potential producer was needed to raise broods to fill available cover. Now that the birds are here to stay and pheasants are up to the limits set by the carrying capacity of the land, game technicians know that some hens can be hunted without affecting future production. Nine years of concentrated research proves that.

The intensive hen-status study conducted in Clay County over the past nine years brought out a number of important factors. It was learned, for example, that in a healthy population, a relatively high percentage of the hens contribute nothing to production. An average of only 39 per cent on the study area brought off all of the young pheasants in an eight-year period. In one, only 13 per cent was responsible. Even during the best year, only 54 per cent of the hens were productive.

Brood surveys conducted every summer back up the technicians' findings in the research area on a state-wide basis. These showed that there was an average of 75 per cent of hens with young over a nine-year period. This does not mean that 75 per cent of the hens actually hatched young, but rather these were the hens which were in the company of chicks. In Nebraska, then, there is an annual minimum surplus of 25 per cent of these unproductive hens and in most years more than 50 per cent surplus.

To verify their findings that hunting would not affect production, technicians at the research area conducted a simulated hen harvest over the past three years. From 19 to 23 per cent of the hens were removed by trapping. On an adjacent area, none were removed.

When a comparison of production was made, it was learned that hen removal did not adversely affect production. The remaining hens simply produced 8 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   as many young chicks on the trapped area as were produced on the area where no hens were removed. In the final analysis, it is the carrying capacity of the land which regulates the number of birds in a given area and the available population will produce up to this level and no higher.

Cocks walk the hunting plank without affecting population, but countless sassy hens that could be shot go down the drain

If an either-sex hunt were held, both successful and unsuccessful hens would obviously be bagged. This is where general pheasant population dynamics come in. Extensive research has shown that the average annual mortality for pheasants is 60-70 per cent. This holds true whether the birds are hunted or not and applies to both sexes.

If, for example, there are 100 birds, 50 cocks and 50 hens, in a given area in the fall and hunters bag half of the cocks, there are still 75 birds going into the winter. By nature's decree, an additional 35-45 of these pheasants, both cocks and hens, are going to die before the next spring from weather, cover shortages, predators, automobiles, and other causes. By permitting some hens to be shot during the season, the hunters can beat the other mortality factors to the punch.

One of the objectives of management is to provide adequate protection for the resource without overprotecting it. Under the present regulations, which prevent any legal hen removal, the resource is receiving more protection than is needed.

Five states and Ontario currently allow a hen harvest. Follow-up research after two years of permitting a hen in the daily bag in one state showed that more cocks were harvested, more total pheasants were taken by each hunter, and average production increased. As stated, the researchers have removed 19-23 per cent of the spring hen population on the study area here for three consecutive years and there has been no adverse effect on production during succeeding years.

Since a good number of hens are going to be lost during the year as a result of nature's mandate, some of these birds could better be used by the sportsmen. The recreational opportunity would be enhanced while eliminating the chance of mistakingly killing hens in a cocks-only season.

Game management has come a long way from the days when the hen and other female wildlife species were placed in such a hallowed position. A limited hen season is something to ponder while hunting this fall when the elusive cocks are running hard and keeping under cover and seemingly only hens, a portion of which are doomed anyway, are available. In some states, the hen pheasant is providing additional recreational opportunity. She could do so in Nebraska.

THE END NOVEMBER, 1963

MASSACRE CANYON

Pawnee sun sets for the last time when Sioux war party swarms over the ridge by J. Greg Smith  

BUKSKARIWI RODE in the middle of the long procession that twisted its way up the rugged divide that separated the Republican from Frenchman's Fork. Strung out ahead were the chiefs and hunters of the Pawnee nation, each lazily drinking in the warmth of the August sun, but poised to take off at a gallop at the first sign of buffalo.

Pushing up from behind were the squaws and children. Theirs, too, was a leisurely pace, but they worked at keeping the long string of pack horses in line. In their charge was the venison and hides of 1,000 buffalo, and they watched the packs and travois carefully to see that none would be lost.

Sky Chief had led his people on one of their most successful hunts. Leaving their reservation on the Loup in July, they pushed across the Platte near Grand Island and moved west toward the great herds that still grazed the unsettled plains of southwestern Nebraska, even in 1873. The first big kill was made on Plum Creek. From there they moved south, then west up Beaver Creek, and on to the Republican.

This was the Pawnees' hunting ground. It had been for as long as anyone could remember. Hides for moccasins and lodges bulged in the packs. Tons of meat already dried would feed the nation through the longest of winters. It was good to be in the hunting grounds again, good to be following its game trails again.

Only Bukskariwi seemed out of step with the easygoing procession. You could spot the long curly   hair of the white Indian agent easily among the 400 Pawnee. But this was not what made him different. He was the only one that rode uneasily, and he kept scanning the high ridge ahead as if he expected trouble.

MASSACRE CANTON continued

John Williamson had a right to be concerned. Only he believed the three white hunters who had come to the camp the night before to report that a large band of Sioux were hungering for Pawnee scalps. Sky Chief, Fighting Bear, and Sun Chief ignored Williamson's plea to head east, even implied that he was a squaw and a coward for suggesting such a move.

So bold was Sky Chief that he refused to send scouts into the concealing terrain to take a look-see. As far as he was concerned, his ancestral enemies were north of the Platte where they should be. This was a white man's trick to lure the Pawnee away from the buffalo. But if Sioux did come, his warriors could count plenty coup.

Shots echoed up the canyon ahead of the procession. But this was more like a volley, not the occasional shots of Sky Chief and a few other braves hunting to the north. Williamson spurred his horse forward, and by the time he reached the head of the column, the first hunters were back in reporting the worst.

Sky Chief was dead, they shouted, killed by the advance scouts of the Sioux as he was skinning out a buffalo. Others had fallen and the Pawnee ached for revenge. Again Williamson said his piece, urging the Pawnee to retreat to a more defensible position while there was still time. Again they called him a squaw. The Pawnee would fight in the open.

Pack horses, squaws, and children were herded down the deep ravine that stretched clear to the Republican. While the warriors painted for battle, the war song of the Pawnee rose from the crowded ranks of the squaws below. The chant grew louder as the Sioux approached. But when the full force of the enemy eased over the ridge, the Pawnees' war song went with the wind.

Riding down on them were 1,200 Brule and Oglala Sioux, a crushing force that outnumbered the Pawnee by at least four to one. Williamson charged out at the urging of the chiefs to seek a parley, but he was met by a volley of hot lead. Moments later, the Dakotas slammed into the thin ranks of the waiting Pawnee.

Though outnumbered, the warriors of the Loup held their ground. Only when they saw the Sioux circling the lips of the canyon to get at their helpless women and children did the wTarriors give way. Charging down to their families, they, too, committed themselves to the deathtrap of the canyon.

Squaws frantically cut the packs from the horses, grabbed what children they could, and jammed deeper into the ravine. Crowded together were 400 Pawnee and 800 horses, all pushing for the safety of the Republican so far away. Williamson was a part of the deadly crush. He tried to grab a small girl that had fallen from her mother's back, but could OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   only touch her outstretched hand before he was driven ahead by the panic-stricken throng.

Time and again Indians and horses were piled up at narrow slots, and once through, a pile of dead remained behind. Bullets ricocheted through the canyon walls and arrows whispered into waiting targets. The Sioux pressed in on three sides, and only the twisting, crowded route to the river offered promise of escape. Finally the remnants of the band spilled out on the floor of the Republican and clawed their way to the river.

Just then the sound of a bugle rolled across the river and moments later Major Russell and 40 troopers from Fort McPherson charged into view. At the sight of the soldiers, the Sioux hightailed it back up the canyon to round up 700 captured Pawnee ponies, kill or take prisoners, and loot the packs for hides and venison.

Russell urged the remaining Pawnee chiefs to take their braves back up the canyon to tend the wounded, bury the dead, and retrieve their packs. The chiefs wanted no part of his proposition. They said that the wounded would already be tortured and the venison poisoned. Instead, they led what was left of the band to Red Willow Creek.

The Pawnee presented a dismal sight at their makeshift campsite. There was nothing to eat. All their gear was gone. Brave warriors and helpless squaws and children were gone forever from their ranks. Tears flowed from the (continued on page 37)

NOVEMBER, 1963 13

MY DATE WITH Merriam's

by D. J. Cole We were standing pat with fours but Old Ironsides held the aces

THE OLD TOM sauntered into the alfalfa field, mincing his way along without a fear in the world. The rest of the flock was already winging its way to the creek bottom and safety. This oldtimer wasn't going to let a few hunters panic him. But then he didn't know that this was the opening morning of Nebraska's first wild turkey season.

Instead of depiending on his powerful wings, the big gobbler stiff-legged it across the field like a society matron hurrying to get out of the rain. Heavy with dignity, he picked his way through the field while Harry Carson and I debated who would shoot the bird. By the time Harry pulled up on him the old torn was still only 30 yards away.

Harry's shotgun boomed in the still morning air. The bird rolled over two or three times, but came up running. This time there was no fooling. Dignity was forgotten as he high tailed it for safety. Harry let him have it again, bowling the bird over like a ten pin. But this gobbler wasn't finished by a long shot. He got back up and zigzagged his way across the field. Harry hurried his third shot and the bird folded like a punctured accordion, only to get up again and stagger into the creek bottom.

Harry and I turned to each other with the same look of disbelief. "What happened?" we both said simultaneously.

"I put enough lead into that critter to bring down on ox," he said, "With all the No. 4's I hit him with, he must be the heaviest turkey in the Pine Ridge."

But we were in for more surprises from the torn. Both of us figured he would be down for the count in the creek bottom. We searched high and low but to no avail. We got to calling him Old Ironsides as we looked, figuring that nothing could stop him.

The area of the Pine Ridge north of Fort Robinson had been our deer-hunting hangout for years. Harry and I hunted on the James ranch and found 14 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   the buttes ideal mule-deer country. When the Game Commission began stocking Merriam's wild turkeys we figured we had it made.

We often saw flocks of 20 or more during our deer hunts and could walk right up to them without the turkeys showing any sign of fear. Both of us figured it would be like shooting chickens in a barnyard, but all the same, we wanted a chance to get one.

When the Pine Ridge was opened to 500 permit holders last year, Harry and I were among the first to apply. We sat around on pins and needles waiting to see if we would get a permit and, luckily, both scored. With turkey and deer permits in hand, we could hardly wait for November 10 to roll around.

Harry and I left Lincoln Friday morning on our 450-mile jaunt, the day before the opening. Neither of us could know the raft of troubles that lay ahead so our spirits were up, remembering those half-tame turkeys we had seen in the past. Perry Moody of Crawford and George James, our host, were waiting for us when we pulled in at the ranch. After dinner we gazed out over the moonlit buttes planning the morning hunt.

"It'll be a snap," George assured us as we lingered over coffee. "They're as tame as chickens and even an old-timer like yourself can't miss."

It was beginning to sound even easier than Harry and I thought.

"Yes," piped in Perry, "we'll hit the roost first thing in the morning before the gobblers leave for the alfalfa field."

Neither George nor Perry had permits, but they were anxious to see that Harry and I got gobblers. The four of us spent as much time getting cameras ready as we did our guns. The birds were already off the roost but were feeding in the alfalfa field Perry spoke of the night before. The flock of 30 paid no attention to us as we circled and began photographing them. We got within 50 yards, took our pictures, and then went back to the truck to trade our cameras for guns.

This was just too easy to believe. We sauntered out into the field and were within 35 yards before the birds came to life, thundering off in flight like so many overgrown quail. Harry's Old Ironsides then began his act, bringing us back to reality.

After our fruitless search for Harry's bird we hit the trail again and soon spotted the rest of the flock working its way over the top of the canyon. The birds were tantilizingly close all that morning, working just far enough ahead to stay out of range of our 12-gauge shotguns, but close enough to lead us on and on. After three hours we called it quits and headed back to the ranch.

George and Perry attempted to boost our sagging spirits over lunch.

"There are two different flocks we can hit this afternoon," George offered. "The first comes out of the trees and feeds near a haystack and the other comes into an alfalfa field. You can practically set your watch by them. They show up, regular as clockwork, at 2 every afternoon."

The birds must have lost their clocks because we hung around a couple of hours without so much as a look at one. George directed us to a cottonwood where the birds roosted every evening. We saw turkeys there but they scattered, never to be seen again. Harry and I were pretty discouraged that night at dinner. George and Perry gave us the story on how we would get one for sure in the morning, but I'm afraid we looked upon them more as con men peddling phony oil stock than old and trusted friends.

Sunday dawned bright and clear and the four of us were out at the roost as the first rays of the sun filtered through the ponderosa pines. But it was only sunlight that (continued on page 40)

NOVEMBER, 1963 15

TODAY'S SAND HILLS

Text by Fred Nelson

NEW MEN with new methods are in the saddle but the drama of Sand Hills ranching remains ' unchanged, a story of salty men putting their blue chips on the red hide of a cow. They may fly airplanes, drive expensive cars, and vacation in Vegas, but basically they're little changed from the rawhides who first brought beef to the hills.

Today's Sand Hiller still wears his Stetson at a rakish angle, be it good times or bad. His Levis are tight and probably faded, and he figures he's dressed up if his boots are shined. His eyes have a permanent squint and he considers all men his friends until they prove otherwise. He hates to walk and rides like he was born in the saddle. He appreciates good horseflesh and admires pretty women. Most of all, he's a proi^d individualist.

Typical of the men who have blended the needs of the present with the good of the past is Paul Hoefs, ramrod of the Skull Lake Ranch. His huge spread is 14 lonesome miles up the Sand Hills trail from Wood Lake. His LX Herefords dot the land that has been in the family for three generations.

Machines are doing much of the work of an earlier day around the spread, but the basic skills of cowboying are done the old way. Punchers still send their ropes snaking after a startled calf and ornery steers are kept in line by a sure-footed cutting horse. It's still a dust-eating job riding drag on round-ups and the stench of burning hair mingles with the smoke of the branding fires.

Paul Hoefs and his punchers work as a team, each respecting the other's job. He directs with the request and outlines the day's activities as if words were at a premium. Like his father and grandfather before him, Paul is Jack-of-all trades and master of most in his role of businessman, farmer, mechanic, 16 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   veterinarian, boss, banker, husband, and father. His days begin early and end late.

They call it God's greatest pasture land, the place where salty men put their blue chips on the red hide of a cow Photos by Gene Hornbeck

If the new is good Paul adopts it. He uses his plane to check on the herd, visit the water holes, and ride the fence. A bevy of trucks and tractors take the backbreaking toil out of haying and fencing, and he sends his yearlings to market in trucks guaranteed to keep the beeves prime till they're sent down the chutes at Omaha.

Paul appreciates the comforts of modern living and provides his family with all the comforts and luxuries they need. But he makes sure none are soft. He encourages his growing clan to be individuals and he instills a sense of discipline and responsibility in them, preparing his offspring for the day when they'll take over the Skull Lake spread.

While progress brings its changes for the cattleman, Paul's Sand Hills are timeless. They turn green with the spring rains and brown with autumn frosts. And when the snow comes, they become a restless ocean of white. Cows drop their calves in sheltered pockets where prairie grouse cluck and scratch in the plum brush. Across its vastness, range bulls bawl their challenge and the lonesome coyote laments his lot. The wind probes at the blowouts and fat ponies swish at the flies and crop the sweet grass.

In the good years the grass grows tall and in dry years, withers up and blows away. Either way, a man loves the land, and will stick his spread, no matter what the consequences.

These are the eternal Sand Hills of Paul Hoefs' Nebraska. It's his West of white-faced steers and the men who gamble on them. He, like his father and grandfather before him, boldly took that gamble. It's a sure bet that other Hoefs will, too, their legacy from the hills.

NOVEMBER, 1963 17   TODAY'S SAND HILLS continued 18   19   TODAY'S SAND HILLS continued   NOVEMBER, 1963 21   TODAY'S SAND HILLS continued   NOVEMBER, 1963 23

OLD MAN BUNNEY

by Bob Morris White hair, pipe ^smoking, yes, but rocker, no, not for this champ

BY THE TIME a person reaches his 70's he's supposed to fit a familiar mold. His hair is white, he smokes a pipe, and he either bores or fascinates listeners with tales of the "good old days". Having lived his threescore and 10, he sits in a rocking chair on the side lines of life, caring little for the present and living in the past.

That's what a man's supposed to do, but someone other than Loron Bunney. True, he's 75 years old and smokes a pipe. And his hair, what there is left of it, is white. But it's doubtful if anyone is bored or fascinated with what he has to say, for he speaks little, tending to business and answering questions of the past only when prodded. His rocking chair is a late-model car. There's a leisureliness to his walk but it's strong and sure. He relates yesterday with today but he knows that comparison over the years is impossible.

Bunney is a conservation officer with the Nebraska Game Commission. He has been an officer, or as he prefers to call himself, a warden, since 1925, except for a two-year period. In these 36 years he has covered over a million miles by car and walked 25,000 or more across prairies, through narrow 24 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   streams, and up and down canyons in each of the state's 93 counties.

He's hardly a typical officer. Only H. Burman Guyer who came with the department in 1929 approaches Bunney in seniority. Eighteen of the Commission's 42 officers were hired since 1950 when Bunney already had 25 years of service under his belt. Bunney's area is Keith County, which includes mammoth Lake McConaughy and its 105 miles of shore line. He's up every morning before dawn and, in spite of his years, puts in a day that would tire men half his age.

Getting up early has never been a problem for Bunney. He was born in 1888 on the family homestead near Lamar, and learned at an early age a man was supposed to beat the sun to the punch. With eight children to raise the elder Bunney was a market hunter during the winter months to make ends meet. In 1895 the family moved to Harlan County in hopes the land there would be more productive.

It wasn't much better but with the market paying $5.50 a dozen for prairie chickens and 10 cents each on quail, the elder Bunney kept everyone fed. In those days there was a spring season on waterfowl. Quail and prairie chickens were legal game from October until the first of April. Back then there seemed to be no end to game.

"Farming was different then," Bunney remembers. "Only the valleys and sides of hills were cultivated, leaving plenty of cover for the prairie chickens. On frosty mornings in April they would gather in groups of 75 to 100 on the booming grounds. I remember one place a mile west of our house where they wore the grass down to the bare ground 150 yards across. Those chickens put up a racket that sounded like a roar."

After completing the eighth grade, Loron was finished with school and worked full time on the farm while getting in as much time hunting and fishing as he could. He recalls that from 1901 until around 1930 the duck season ran from September 1 to sometime in April and the daily limit was 25 with 50 in possession.

After Loron and his wife, Fanny, were married in 1909, the young couple moved north to Phelps County, settling nearHoldrege. It was dry-land farming then; irrigation that has turned that area into a top producer of cattle, wheat, and corn was a long way off.

"It was pretty much of a grind," Bunney recounts, "and when I heard an ammunition company was looking for a salesman in 1923, I put in an application and was hired."

After a year the company cut back its sales force-and Bunney was left without a job. A friend in Lincoln recommended him to John Jenkins, then chief warden with the Agriculture Department, and Loron traveled to Lincoln for an interview.

"It was March 7, 1925," Bunney remembers. "Jenkins talked to me for a (continued on page 30)

NOVEMBER, 1963

OPERATION SNAKE

by Bill Schoenecker District Fishery Supervisor Retenone paves way for top trouting in biggest reclamation project yet

THIS FALL the steady drip, drip, drip of rotenone pumped new life into the Snake River and in the process, may make Merritt Reservoir, 20 miles southwest of Valentine, one of the top trout waters in the Sand Hills. The rough-fish eradication project, the largest of its kind ever undertaken here, came off without a hitch, eliminating tons of suckers and other undesirable species along a 140-mile stretch of the Snake.

Fishery technicians and other personnel of the Game Commission worked hand in hand with personnel of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the Bureau of Reclamation in the massive renovation program. All agencies saw the opportunity to make Merritt a real trout producer when the new impoundment was in the planning stage. Without the renovation, the 2,700-acre reservoir would have become an ideal place for a population explosion of undesirable fish.

26 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA  

Liquid rotenone, a product that affects fish but which is harmless to humans and other warm-blooded animals, was used in the project. Since the dam was not due to be closed until December, the renovation was carried out to Snake River Falls, about three miles below the dam site. The falls are a natural barrier to upstream fish movement. Treatment could not have been carried out in December, as the much lower water temperatures would have reduced the efficiency of the chemical.

In order to prevent a fish kill below Snake River Falls and in the Niobrara River, another chemical, potassium permanganate, was used to neutralize the rotenone. Some 5,060 pounds were put in during a 76-hour continuous operation.

The search for a simple but yet dependable way to disperse this large amount of the neutralizer at NOVEMBER, 1963 27   the required rate called for some ingenuity. Bill Rhodes, superintendent of the Valentine Fish Hatchery, came up with the answer in a unit modeled after a lawn fertilizer spreader. For a source of power he turned to the stream itself and used a water wheel, eliminating the possibility of mechanical failure.

OPERATION SNAKE continued

Live boxes containing several species of fish were placed at three points below the falls to determine the effectiveness of the neutralizer. The fish in all boxes remained alive during the entire project, indicating that no fish were killed below the falls.

Completing a program of this size required considerable planning and field work. First, landowners in the area were contacted to enlist their co-operation. The mechanics of the stream renovation deemed it necessary to select "drip" stations at convenient locations, determine the flow time from one station to the next, and the water volume at each station. The actual renovation however was completed in one day.

The 16 rotenone drip stations started at varied times from 4:30 a.m. to 1:45 p.m. All stopped by 6 p.m. when the entire stream was toxic. Marsh areas on the Boardman Creek and in the immediate 28 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   reservoir site were also treated during the same day by several crews using back-pack sprayers.

Preliminary stream sampling was carried out to learn the fish species present. Though carp were not present, the common sucker population was very heavy and became the main target for the renovation.

Existing game fish were confined to the extreme upper end where brown trout were found in limited numbers. Outside of Boardman Creek where a few browns were taken, the river was dominated by suckers, green sunfish, creek chubs, bullheads, and various species of shiners.

Restocking was initiated a few days after renovation. Some 90,000 brown trout 4 to 6 inches in length were released throughout the upper end of the river. The remaining stream and lake will be stocked with approximately 300,000 rainbow trout.

The cool waters of the deep reservoir should provide ideal rainbow environment. Without competition from other species, the trout should grow to catchable size in a hurry, since all the biological productivity of the lake will be channeled toward them.

Not all of the Snake is trout water, but it is felt that sections which receive heavy spring flows will provide suitable habitat. Since the rainbows will be stocked in late fall when water temperatures are favorable, they will have a chance to distribute themselves in the stream's better areas by next summer.

If Merritt follows Red Willow Reservoir's lead, it will be producing great fishing in short order. Red Willow got the same renovation treatment before it was closed and southwestern Nebraska anglers were amazed at the results. Fishery biologists are hoping Merritt will do the same.

THE END NOVEMBER, 1963 29

SPORTSMEN ASK PERMISSION BEFORE YOU HUNT

FOR THE FASTEST ROUTE TO THE BEST OF NEBRASKAland's HUNTING GO VIA U.S. HIGHWAY Take your gun and head for U.S. Highway 30. Many towns along U.S. Highway 30 provide the best hunting in NEBR ASK Aland. From upland birds to big game, Highway 30 takes you there fast. Modern lodgings, variety of hunting-supply stores, and friendly hospitality all await you along U.S. Highway 30. Take the best route west. Go via U.S. 30 to the best of NEBRASKAland's hunting. Write or stop in the following chambers of commerce for more information on where to hunt: Blair, Schuyler, Columbus, Cozad, North Platte, Sidney, Kimball, Fremont, Grand Island, Kearney, Lexington, Gothenburg, Ogallala. The Best Route West Highway 30 Association

BUNNEY

(continued from page 25)

short time, told me I was hired at $100 a month, gave me a law book, and advised me to buy a good revolver. He gave me a key to a garage in Grand Island and said I would find a Model T for my use.

"I got home late that night and the next morning went for a ride in the car with my brother-in-law, Walter Parker. When we got near Sacramento Lake I heard some shooting and spotted three men about 300 yards off, hiding in a hayfield shooting ducks. I told Walter to drive and then jumped out behind a haystack while he drove away to come back that evening. Around sundown the three men walked right up to me, each with three ducks, and I arrested them. It caused quite a commotion when they were fined $100 for shooting out of season."

Bunney and the other half dozen or so officers covered the entire state then, staying away from home a month at a time on occasion and sleeping outside much of the time.

"The department had an order then that they wouldn't honor any hotel bills between May 15 and September 15," Bunney recalls. "I had a blacksmith fit a bunk-like cot in the back seat of the Model T. You could eat for about $1 a day without going hungry."

He left the department in 1927, working in Omaha for two years until the Game Commission was formed in 1929. He came back, working under Frank B. O'Connell, who was then chief warden.

Loron has seen many changes in game since his boyhood. Pheasants were unheard of until the 1920's when imports were first brought to the state. He recalls traveling to Schuyler in 1929 30 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   to see his first beaver and to Halsey in 1930 where he spotted a deer.

With more officers in the department, the state was divided into two districts in 1936. Bunney was in charge of the eastern half, with eight men under his direction. Law enforcement was a far cry from today's efficient organization. Communication was slow and with officers far apart, poachers still had a chance. Although the men had uniforms, they were used only for meetings and other occasions.

In 1943 Bunney was transferred to Ogallala where newly-opened Lake McConaughy was destined to be the state's prize fishing spot. The lake was only a third full then and over a period of two years, 16,000 carloads of rock were brought in to repair the face of the dam.

By 1945, McConaughy was producing good catches of fish. Anglers came from all over to take advantage of "Big Mac's" fabulous production. Bunney remembers checking 475 fishermen on the Fourth of July, 1951. He used to go a whole year without seeing that many people when he covered the entire state.

Although he never went into it too seriously, Bunney was quite a shot in his day.

"I had heard how trapshooters broke 95 or more targets out of 100 and wondered what it was all about," Bunney said. "I decided to give it a go and broke 93 in the state meet in my first try."

Bunney got better, though, winning the state doubles title in both 1923 and 1926. In 1925 he had the seventh highest average in the nation with .9754 on 1,100 targets. Lacking time and money to keep up competition, he dropped out for nearly 12 years. In 1942, he got in the act again and picked up the state all-around championship before giving up competition for good in 1956.

His retirement hasn't hurt his shooting eye, however. His eyes for business are good, too. Two years ago during the goose season, Bunney observed three hunters across Lake McConaughy. He was a mile away but picked out one of the trio shooting over his limit. Bunney then drove around the lake, a distance of some 35 miles, arrested the violator, and prosecuted him in Keith County court. The three went away from that one mumbling to themselves about the old man's eyesight.

Bunney has observed many changes since he became an officer, one of the most important being his attitude about his career.

"When I first started it was just a job, a way of making money. After a few years I began to realize there was more to it than that. You have to enjoy and believe in what you're doing. If you don't you'd better quit and go into something else."

That's about as close as anyone will ever get to hearing a sermon from Bunney. Neither hero nor fool, Loron Bunney is what he is—a man doing his job. About the only distinction he has is that he's doing a job that is as much a part of his being as breathing. Many people search their whole life for such a dream as Loron Bunney's, but few ever find it.

THE END

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How to make BUCKSKIN MOCCASINS

by Lou Ell Draw a pair of winners with this easy-to-follow plan for footgear

THE DEER HUNTER who wastes the hide of his trophy denies himself a lot of comfort and pleasure. Any commercial tannery will convert a deer hide into soft buckskin for less than five dollars, and even a small skin is sufficient for two medium-size pairs of Indian-style moccasins that feel mighty restful on your feet.

Moccasins need to be tailored to the owner's feet for ultimate comfort. Oddly, no "right" or "left" exists in the moccasin world; a single pattern serves for both. Like tires on your automobile, you rotate moccasins from foot to foot for even wear.

Here's one style that's easy to make. It is patterned after those of a wood-dwelling tribe, though some modifications of the original are incorporated in the design.

Make a pattern by folding a piece of heavy cloth, which when folded, is three inches wider and longer than your foot. Place your foot one-half inch from both the fold and toe end, and trace around the foot, leaving the same one-half inch margin. Now wrap a tape measure around your foot at the instep. Transfer half this measurement to the pattern at the instep, measuring out from the fold. Using this width as a guide, continue tracing around to the back of the foot. This wider measurement is for the cuff.

Cut out the pattern and form it to your foot for a size check. It should be snug, but not tight. The finished "moc" will stretch some. Make any corrections, and transfer the pattern to the leather. Use sharp shears or a knife to cut out the blanks.

Thread a pair of needles with either carpet or shoemaker's thread, well waxed. Cut a thin strip of leather as a welt strip, and sew the toe seam starting at the sole area and working up to the instep. In making this seam, gather the leather very slightly every stitch to flatten the toe area. Push each needle through the same hole from opposite 22 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   sides to make a double stitched seam and whip the seam several times at the instep to finish it off. Trim the excess welt strip off close to the stitching.

Slip your foot into the toe pocket, and mark the heel seam by pinching along the leather with your thumbnail. The vertical seam need not be welted, but the short one at the base of the heel must. You'll note the toe may not be smooth fitting. Don't worry, buckskin molds to the foot.

Trim off the excess leather to within one inch of the heel point. About three-fourths inch up from the bottom, draw a line three-fourths inch long at right angles to the seam. This will form a short seam at the heel base.

Sew up the vertical seam first to the base of the cuff, using an overcast stitch. To prevent the raw seam appearing on the inside of the cuff when it's finally folded down, turn the leather and finish the seam on the opposite side. Now flatten the heel, put in the short welt strip, and finish the short heel seam.

The Indians designed their moccasins to be worn with the rough part of the seam outside, so the inside would be smooth to the feet. You'll likely want a smoother appearance outside, so turn the leather inside out, fold down the cuff, and you're done.

To get more mileage from the sole, since these wear out rapidly, cut an extra sole from the excess buckskin and cement it to the bottom of the moccasin with cloth patching cement. When this extra sole wears through, peel it off and put on another.

If you prefer to dress it up a little more, you can fringe the cuffs, and add an extra strip of leather over the toe seam. The Indians beaded this strip according to their individual totem. However you finish your moccasins, subsequent wearing will make you an enthusiastic fan of this piece of footwear from our nation's past.

THE END NOVEMBER, 1963 33

Sports Service stays open the year-round to provide you with the best service. In fall it is your hunting headquarters, in summer it is your vacation headquarters. SPORTS SERVICE Kingsley Dam Ogallala, Nebraska

Fine accommodations and expert guide service for hunters BigHillCamp Ponca, Nebraska Phone 9F12

SWANSON LAKE

Menu of varied fun doings dished up at Republican spa

LESS THAN 100 years ago the lush Republican Valley was the scene Lb of Indian wars over centuries-old hunting grounds. Here too, vast herds of buffalo roamed before their final extinction by the white man's Sharps rifle.

Today the scene is more tranquil. The war whoops of Sioux on the warpath have been replaced by squeals of children swimming along the sandy shores of Swanson Reservoir. And the sound of Sharps has changed to the boom of shotguns getting in on some of the finest waterfowl hunting to be found.

Located three miles west of Trenton, Swanson Reservoir Special Use Area is one of five large impoundments along the Republican River system that has turned southwest Nebraska into a recreation haven. Swanson was constructed in 1954 as a Bureau of Reclamation irrigation project with the Game Commission getting recreational rights in 1955.

Name your pleasure and Swanson has it. White bass, crappie, and catfish lead the angler's parade with northern pike, walleye, bluegill, and perch also coming in for plenty of action. Two concrete boat-launching ramps make getting your rig in the water an easy job when you're ready to take on lunkers.

The palette-shaped lake is eight miles long and two wide, just west of the dam. Numerous canyons run off from the lake, giving secluded swimming, fishing, and picnic spots. The shore line slopes gradually, making Swanson's sandy beaches ideal for swimmers.

In all, there are 4,974 acres of water and 3,957 of land, adding up to 8,931 fun-filled acres of enjoyment. The concession stand has boats for rent in addition to food, bait, and other necessities. There is a shelter house at the south end of the dam and boat-launching ramp nearby with a camping and trailer area. Another concrete ramp, shelter house, and picnic ground are on the north shore along U.S. Highway 34 A camping area will be developed at Swanson soon.

From these starting points, anywhere on the lake is just a matter of minutes for boaters. Fishing for crappie and   white bass is good all over the lake. Hot spots are along the face of the dam. Both species can be finicky and the angler who is being shut out can often start bringing them in quickly by moving a few feet along the dam in either direction.

Walleye and catfish are also taken in good numbers. Walleye fishing is best in rocky areas near the dam, either by trolling or bank fishing. Catfish are found most frequently in the upper end of the lake.

At the upper end of the reservoir you'll find one of the largest great blue heron rookeries in the state. There are around 30 active nests there. These big birds are the largest wading species found in the state, next to the sandhill crane. They make their nests in the large drowned-out trees near the water's edge.

When the cottonwoods surrounding the lake begin to turn yellow and red in the fall, hunting takes over. Pheasant hunting in the surrounding area is outstanding. Habitat plantings in recent years have upped nesting and shelter areas, boosting the ringneck population to new highs.

Waterfowl, principally mallards, find Swanson an ideal stopover. Construction of private blinds is allowed. As is the case with many reservoirs, Swanson doesn't freeze over until late in the winter, giving plenty of shooting opportunities for avid duck and goose hunters throughout the season.

Deer grow big in this country. Mule deer are predominant with some whitetails found in this combination grazing-farming range. Access is no problem, both on the area and the surrounding countryside. Deer can be found in the rough hills to the north as well as the gently-rolling plains in the south.

Many families have found Swanson so attractive for summertime fun they have leased land from the Game Commission and built cottages. Additional land for this use is still available along the south shore.

A wind that would be little more than a breeze anywhere else can turn the big reservoir into a sea of whitecaps. Just as quickly, however, it returns to a glasslike surface. When the ice breaks up in the spring, the restless waters often shear trees off like match sticks. But these are minor distractions compared to the year-long enjoyment of Swanson's complete accommodations.

Whatever your taste in outdoor recreation, Swanson has much to offer. Kids can have a ball swimming, picnicking, looking for arrowheads, and water skiing before returning to the camping area for a restful night's sleep. No matter what your pleasure, Swanson adds up to great outdoor fun.

THE END

Motel Accommodations HUNTERS and Guide Service For FISHERMEN We are prepared to provide you with motel accommodations and guide service for all types of hunting and fishing this fall and winter. This will include, duck, pheasant, goose, and deer seasons. When the ice fishing is ready we will notify you on request. For further information and rates write or call: Lakeway Lodge Lazy K. Motel—Armstrong Guide Service 918 North Spruce, Ogallala, Nebraska Phone 284-4004

NEBRASKAland's BEST MIXED-BAG HUNTING Cambridge is located in the heart of NEBRASKAland's pheasant country. It offers you the best in mixed-bag hunting. For your limit in pheasant, quail, ducks, and fall fishing, try Cambridge. For a list of fine accommodations, guides, and many more services, write to CAMBRIDGE Chamber of Commerce Cambridge, Nebraska Minnick Hardware Hunting & Fishing Supplies Hunting & Fishing Permits Cambridge Moiel On US Highway 6 & 34 All units air conditioned Corkey's Place On the Lake Modern Motel Units Fishing equipment Bait - Boats Gamble Store Hunting & Fishing Permits Full Line of hunting and fishing supplies 75 Years in Cambridge First National Bank Member FDIC Jacks's Champlin Service Gas - oil - ice - minnows Hiaii's Cafe Lunches and meals Cambridge State Bank Every service available Member FDIC Martin's Dairy Creme East edge of Town Near park and swimming pool Cambridge Co-Op Oil Co. AAA service Motor boat oil - white gas Trenchard Service Station Phillips 66 gas & oil Motor boat supplies

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MASSACRE

(continued from page 13)

the stone faces of wizened warriors. Young braves tore their hair out in handfuls to relieve their despair. A great wailing went up to fill the wilderness Nebraska sky, so loud that Williamson rode a mile away to escape the pitiful wake.

In the morning the Indian agent returned to round up his charges and get them on the long trail to Genoa. The Pawnee refused to return to the canyon of death, leaving the remains of almost 100 of their brothers to the wolves.

Once the hunting band reached Plum Creek Station (now Lexington) they were loaded in freight cars and hauled back to Silver Creek. There they were met by the rest of the tribe to make the last sorrowful leg of the trek home. The Pawnee that returned to the reservation would never fight again. Massacre Canyon had taken all of the fight out of them. By 1875 they gave up all lands in Nance County and rode south to Indian territory, leaving the land of their forefathers forever.

Victory was sweet for the Sioux. Though they had violated all treaties when they moved south of the Platte to hunt, they went almost unpunished. Their losses during the rout were surprisingly small. They later returned 11 captured squaws and children and were asked to give $10,000 of their annuity funds to the Pawnee, but this was small enough payment for the victory that was theirs.

Williamson returned to Massacre Canyon that fall to bury the dead. With the help of four men from Plum Creek Station, he began the grisly task early in the evening and finished before dawn. A Sioux war party was on the loose, and the agent preferred to keep his scalp intact.

At one spot in the canyon of death he found the charred remains of several children tied together. Evidently they had come through the battle unscathed only to meet a horrible death by torture. At another spot the Sioux gathered lodge poles together, piled Pawnee on top, and set the pyre on fire. At each place where the canyon narrowed the empty eyes of those that had fallen stared blankly at a wilderness sky.

Today a great stone shaft marks the spot where the bloody battle occurred. Just off U. S. Highway 6 near Trenton, it tells the story of the last great battle of the two Indian nations. From the shaft you can walk down into the valley of death. Listen closely and you can still hear the war chant of the Pawnee squaws echoing up from the canyon. Massacre Canyon is as it was then, an epic part of Nebraska's rich western heritage.

THE END NOVEMBER, 1963 37

LAUGHABLE MOMENTS

by Bill Burke Mirthful antics of rod and gun by Bill BurL bring smiles when seasons close

EVERY SPORTSMAN has a stock of memories to draw on when things are slow. Maybe I'm a frustrated comedian, because my favorite hunting and fishing stories from years past are about the often comic efforts of greenhorns afield in Nebraska.

I can still picture a childhood chum's excitement over his first fish. It was only a small crappie from a smaller lake, but it looked like a monster to him. He kept hopping up and down on the warped boards of our rickety old dock and finally went through. His spirits weren't dampened, though. In water to his waist, he kept up his victory dance.

There's another "first" that never fails to bring a smile. Dad and I were introducing a newcomer to Nebraska to the rich pheasant country around Albion. We'd spent a discouraging morning in the corn, and were just about to call it quits, when a volley of shots exploded in the heavily wooded draw where our guest was working. When we reached him he was smiling happily, holding aloft his first "pheasant", a badly mangled crow. Dad and I soon discovered that our nimrod had no idea what a pheasant looked like.

"Oh," he replied when we told him, "I've seen lots of those this morning, but I thought they were some kind of chicken."

This reminds me of the native Chicagoan we escorted near McCook some years ago. He was dressed for action in spotless white coveralls and a tall crowned fireman's cap. He had the proportions of a beer barrel and the eyesight of a mole. But he was game.

If the rest of us waited long enough after coming through a field of tall corn, he was sure to come out, sooner or later. Everything interested him, since it was his first time on foot in spaces wider than Chicago's Union Station.

OUTDOOR Nebraska proudly presents the stories of its readers themselves. Here is the opportunity so many have requested—a chance to tell their own outdoor tales. Hunting hips, the "big fish that got away", unforgettable characters, outdoor impressions—all have a place here. If you have a story to tell, |ot it down and send it to Editor, OUTDOOR Nebraska, State Capitol, Lincoln 9. Send photographs, too, if any are available.

This fellow's main problem was that he'd never fired a gun before. Try as I might, I couldn't get him to shuck his gun empty before climbing into the car. Things finally came to a head late in the afternoon of the first day. He was sitting in the middle of the 38 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   front seat, gun stock between his feet, excitedly describing a run-in with a rabbit, when one of the old hands in our party asked him if he'd cleared his gun.

"Sure," he explained. "See?" Throwing off the safety catch, he pulled the trigger. The ear shattering blast blew a hole in the roof the size of a half dollar.

Most hunters have witnessed attacks of that dread disease, buck fever, or watched as novices banged away at detached bird heads suspended on sticks and slyly spotted around the edges of a haystack. But a little more elaborate hoax was pulled on an unsuspecting hunter while on a duck hunt.

We had a new man with us that morning as we drove up to the little frame store where we buy our supplies. I think the newcomer would have received kinder treatment if he hadn't gone out of his way to impress us with his skill. We knew better. Inside he asked for shells, but before the proprietor could wait on him, one of our party interrupted to remind Daniel Boone to get the oldest shells available. The practical joker knew that some pretty ancient supplies were in the back room. But he didn't expect to sell his bill of goods so easily. The beginner paused, looking puzzled.

"Sure," we chimed in, "get some of that old stuff. You buy well-aged bottled goods, don't you? It's the same with shells. The older the ammunition the bigger the bang."

Shooting was pretty good that morning with teal and mallards coming in at a good clip. But it was hard to draw a bead and laugh at the same time, as buckshot from the freshman's gun plip plopped in the water a few feet in front of his gun.

I can't let myself off the hook when it comes to embarrassing memories. There was the usual quotient of yanking safety-latched triggers, "shooting" empty guns, and casting sinkers off and away into 20 feet of water.

In all fairness to the novice, it must be said that sometimes he outclasses the old hands. When he does, it's usually written off as beginner's luck. But on occasion it's more than that. I think the best illustration of this was an early morning walk over the crest of a low hill to a duck blind beside a small lake near Broken Bow.

Our novice took one look at the water and informed us it was covered with ducks. We grinned and with polite condescension told him all about decoys. But he wasn't silenced. All the noisy way down the hill he stuck to his claim. We were still laughing when the "decoys" rose in a swarm and escaped without losing a feather.

Everybody has to begin fishing and hunting sometime. And it's a cinch that the beginner appreciates help, not snickers. But after the season's over and new seasons have come and gone the memory of those first goofs becomes fair game. Then there's never a limit on laughs.

THE END NOVEMBER, 1963 39

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MERRIAM'S

(continued from page 15)

greeted us. We worked through the rugged canyons most of the day without so much as a fleeting glance of a turkey.

There was one bright spot, however. Late in the afternoon I traded in my shotgun on a .30/06 at George's pickup. Soon after, I spotted a small mule deer as he made his way out of an alfalfa field and dropped him with one shot. But even this didn't buoy my partner's spirits. Harry was ready to head home.

The temptation was great, but I wouldn't give in. I had come out here to shoot a turkey as well as a deer and I was going to get one, no matter what. Jim Tische, Lincoln newspaperman, was at the ranch and offered to join me the next morning.

Over a country-style breakfast the next morning, we decided to forget the roosting spots and other places that had been combed for the first two days. Soldier Creek seemed like a good prospect to us. On the way there Jim and I decided that he would walk the bed of the stream while I covered the top of the canyon. The sun was taking the chill off the night air as George drove us to the hunting site, promising to pick us up in two hours.

I started slowly along the edge of the rim, watching for the telltale sign that a turkey was nearby. Jim was doing the same below, stopping occasionally for a better look. Knowing how acute a turkey's hearing is, we walked as silently as possible. When I circled around side canyons, Jim slowed his pace, waiting for me to catch up.

The sun climbed higher in the southeast and the day became warmer as we continued our slow, wandering walk. We signaled with our hands from time to time to quicken or slow the pace. I began to think our idea wasn't so good after all. In an hour and a half we hadn't seen a thing.

Miles went by in monotonous regularity, and the scenery below became more alike with each step. At first I thought it was my imagination. Every bush, fallen log, rock, and bit of cover was beginning to look like a turkey. Glancing ahead about 25 yards I saw a Merriam's. My eyes snapped back into focus as I tried to see if it was the real thing.

There it was for sure, a turkey peering over the top of the canyon rim. I stopped, two days of frustration disappearing, and pulled the shotgun to my shoulder. The bird turned away to escape down the steep canyon wall when I let him have it with a blast of No. 4's.

My shot echoed through the canyon and brought my weary legs into action. I hurried to the rim as the turkey tumbled down the canyon. This one wasn't going to get away, I promised myself, as I started sliding down the steep incline to claim my prize. The bird hit the creek bottom and lay still. I ground to a halt practically on top of him, the small avalanche of my descent following behind.

I sat there for a few seconds, too winded to even claim my prize. Jim rushed up, anxious whether his 69-year-old hunting partner was still in one piece. He had heard the shot and now saw the bird, but even that didn't satisfy him.

"Are you all right?" he asked quickly. "I thought it was a freight train coming down the slope."

The weak grin on my face told the story. Two days of frustration were over. I had my turkey. It was a wonderful feeling. The dulling ache in my legs was gone. I felt 10 years younger and the seering sides of the canyon seemed less steep as I started back up. In my elated frame of mind, the climb was a breeze.

I was surprised to see Harry waiting for me as I reached the top. In whispered tones he told me how he, George, and Perry had spotted a flock in the next canyon on their way out to pick us up. After a hurried discussion, it was decided that Jim and I would go back down to the canyon floor and work along the creek bottom while the rest high tailed it to the sighting. From there they would scan the canyon while we, they hoped, would work the birds their way.

The five of us blanketed every bit of cover, but the birds seemed to have evaporated. Having zeroed once again, Harry and Jim were ready to call it quits. Both vowed that they would return again.

My prize weighed in at a respectable 12Vz pounds. He was a tough hombre to get but delicious when my wife, Vera, served him up two weeks later! The drumstick was tender—even better than a domestic.

Harry and I have our turkey permits for this season and are more than ready to match wits with Merriam's. There's no talk about easy shots. We're prepared to work like the devil for our birds. But we're smarter, too, and set for a battle of wits with the'toughest target in the Pine Ridge.

THE END 40 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA  

notes on Nebraska fauna ...

SNOW GOOSE

by George Schildman Assistant Project Leader, Game

NOTHING MATCHES the sight of a flock of snow geese streaking down out of the north ahead of the icy blasts of winter. Trailing out in long V's, they herald another hunting season in Nebraska. By mid-October the main flight has made the 2,000-mile trip from the breeding grounds in the Arctic, and once rested, moves out to the warm climes of the Gulf.

The lesser snow goose, Chen hyperbarea, is one of the more abundant species in the Central Flyway. Chen is the Greek word for goose and hyperbarea from the latin word meaning, "beyond the north 42 OUTDOOR NEBRASKA   wind", which suggests the bird's Arctic nesting grounds.

Black-tipped wings and snow-white body make this Arctic dweller impressive visitor to Nebraska panorama of fall waterfowl

Averaging between five and six pounds, an adult is snow white except for black wing tips. The last 10 long primary flight feathers are a contrasting pure black. Except for being slightly larger, the male is identical in appearance to the female.' His head and breast are commonly splotched with rusty orange stains caused from iron concentrations in some northern waters. The pinkish bill is heavy and stout with a dark "grinning patch" on the side where the bill comes together. His feet are a dull pinkish color with black claws. Juveniles sport a plumage the first autumn of gray mixed with some white.

Like other species of wildlife, snows have their share of common names. Canadians from western provinces frequently refer to them as "wavies" while some from the western and southern parts of the United States call them white brant.

Snow geese make up a large part of the spectacular spring concentrations in the eastern third of Nebraska each year. In late February when a few springlike days are intermingled with winter, the first flocks leave their wintering grounds in Louisiana and Texas. The first arrivals usually appear here in early March, noisy with the excitement of their northward travel to the breeding grounds, still some 2,000 miles and two months away.

Having completed the first big hop of their long journey, the snows will linger in the state for two or three weeks. By the third week of March, tens of thousands cloud concentration points along the Missouri River bottoms, the eastern Platte River, and natural fresh-water basins.

In the more easterly concentrations, blue geese comprise a substantial portion of each snow goose flock. The blue is a very close relative of the snow and is considered by some authorities to be only a color phase of the same species. Where the two birds occupy the same breeding grounds on South Hampton Island in Hudson Bay, occasional interbreeding results with hybrid offspring displaying some coloring of both parents.

During their spring stopover, snows add some additional fat, thanks to a twice-a-day feeding schedule. Each morning and evening they take off from their water resting areas to stuff their gullets with the abundant waste grain left in the corn and milo fields the previous fall by mechanical pickers.

At midday, in between resting, preening and swimming about, snows tip up and feed on the bulbs and rhizomes of aquatic plants from the bottom of the pond. The bill is stout and equipped with a hornlike nail at the tip. Its cutting edges resemble small toothed saws, capable of grubbing out the toughest of roots and bulbs. On the wintering grounds where a large concentration may come back daily to the same marsh to feed, the flock sometimes flatten a previously dense stand of bulrush.

By early April, the bulk of the snow geese have usually left the state. They arrive on the Arctic breeding grounds the first week in June. The site includes land from the mouth of the Mackenzie River to Baffin Island.

Unlike many species of wildlife, snows are believed to mate for life and are devoted to each other. Once mating occurs, the pair build their nest on the dry barren ground, usually near the water's edge. It is composed of grasses and by the time the usual clutch of five or six dull, creamy white eggs is laid, there is a thick lining of down which the female plucks from her breast.

Only the female incubates the eggs while the male stands guard nearby. Incubation requires about 22 days, the eggs hatching from the middle to the latter part of July.

Family ties are strong and last till after the parents and their young arrive on the wintering grounds. If you have an opportunity to watch a flock of snow geese alighting on a lake in the fall, you can see family groups separate from the flock just as they are about to light. Adults can be easily distinguished from the gray-colored young. Some flocks, however, are composed of all adult-appearing birds and family groups are not present.

Birds start arriving in the grain-producing areas of southern Canada in September. They feed in wheat and barley fields for two or three weeks before continuing their southward migration. The main flight usually arrives here during the middle part of October, a date that every sportsman waits with anticipation.

THE END 43 NOVEMBER, 1963

GIVE NEBRASKA for CHRISTMAS

... you can proudly present these beautiful books 1. TALES OF THE FRONTIER: From Lewis and Clark to the Last Roundup, selected and retold by Everett Dick. More than eighty stories illustrating different phases of frontier life in the land west of the Mississippi. $6.00 2. THE INDIAN WAR OF 1864, by Captain Eugene F. Ware. "His book suggests the grandeur of history . . . fresh, spirited, and delightful reading."? New Yorker. $1.65* 3. A CYCLE OF THE WEST, by John G. Neihardt. Five narrative poems about the land and legends of the American West. ". . . herpic and in-spiring literature."—Cleveland Plain Dealer. $1.85* 4. MAN OF THE PLAINS: Recollections of Luther North, 1856-1882. An exciting and authentic report on the Indian Wars of the '60's and '70's by a Nebraskan who saw it first hand as a member of the famous Pawnee Scouts. $4.75 5. CRAZY HORSE: The Strange Man of the Oglalas, by Mari Sandoz. ". . . There is the very smell and color of the traditional life of the horse-Indians in this book."—Atlantic Monthly. $1.65* 6. THE WORLD OF WILLA CATHER by Mildred R. Bennett. ". . . indispensable for everyone interested in Willa Cather and her work."— New York Herald Tribune. $1.50* 7. BLACK ELK SPEAKS: Being the Life Story of a Holy Man of the Oglala Sioux, by John G. Neihardt. "... a unique, realistic, and poetic understanding of a vanished ti and people."—Oliver La Farge. $1.50* 8. THEM WAS THE DAYS: An American Saga of the '70's, by Martha Ferguson McKeown "... a vivid, lusty, and very human narrative that reads with unit*'ling freshness and authenticity."—Chicago Sunday Tribune. $1.25* 9. PAWNEE HERO STORIES AND FOLK-TALES by George Bird Grinnell. ". . . reminds us that Indian hero stories and folktales are not just quaint relics of the past: they are a part of us all."—Maurice Frink. $1.65* 10. THE POPULIST REVOLT: A History of the Farmers' Alliance and the People's Party by John D. Hicks. A revolt which profoundly touched Nebraska written in a "thorough, sympathetic and spirited manner."—New York Herald Tribune. $1.75* 11. HISTORY OF NEBRASKA by James C. Olson "... a scholarly, balanced, richly-researched account written with a boldness and a certain wryness of wit that matches the subject."—The New York Times Book Review. $5.00 12. PINNACLE JAKE as told by A. B. Snyder to Nellie Snyder Yost. ". . . recalls vividly the true atmosphere of the cattle country of Wyoming, Nebraska, and Montana, during the late eighties and nineties."—Rocky Mountain News. $1.60* 13. REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN by Edgar Beecher Bronson. The evolution of a greenhorn puncher into an experienced old hand in western Nebraska is regarded as a classic of cow country literature. $1.50* 14. APRIL TWILIGHTS (1903) by Willa Cather. Brings back into print after nearly sixty years the complete text of Willa Cather's first published book. $3.50 $1.50* 15. NEBRASKA FOLKLORE by Louise Pound. ". . . priceless for Americana addicts . . . one gets that brisk tang of good neighbor talk, plus a whole course in folklore."-C/ncago Tribune. $4.50 16. NEBRASKA PLACE-NAMES by Lilian L. Fitzpatrick. When is a hill a butte? Who decides what to name a town? In this lively book names make news not only for Nebraskans but for all Americana collectors. $1.50* 17. ROUND-UP: A NEBRASKA READER ". . . gives the richness of Nebraska, for not only its native sons but for readers interested in deepening their awareness of the American scene."—Virginia Kirkus' Service. $5.00 18. MOLLIE: The Journal of Mollie Dorsey Sanford in Nebraska and Colorado Territories, 1857—1866. ". . . written with humor, candor and honesty . . . reads with freshness and immediacy more than one hundred years later."— New York Herald Tribune Books. $5.00 19. WESTERN STORY: The Recollections of Charley O'Kieffe, 1884-1898. ". . . If the best history is the story of people rather than a chronicle of events, here is History with a capital 'H' ... a fascinating book."—New York Times Book Review. $4.50 20. THE TRUMPET SOUNDETH: William Jennings Bryan and His Democracy, 1896-1912 by Paul W. Glad. "A well-written and challenging study of the vital era in American history."—New York Times Book Review. $4.75 21. HOSTILES AND FRIENDLIES: Selected Writings of Mari Sandoz. "... A happy and discriminating selection of fiction and non-fiction . . . deserves a high place on the season's Americana bookshelf."—Chicago Daily News. $5.00 22. END OF TRACK by James H. Kyner as told to Hawthorne Daniel. ". . . Kyner was a railroad contractor, and he worked at the end of track . . . His book is both a dynamic life story and a telling contribution to general knowledge of our country in the making."—The New York Times Book Review. $1.60* 23. OLD JULES by Mari Sandoz. "An amazing portrait . . . And she has given it to us as if she had cut it, like a sod, from the live ground."— New York Herald Tribune. $1.60* 24. FEBOLD FEBOLDSON: Tall Tales from the Great Plains compiled by Paul R. Beath. Among the liars of all time Febold is ". . . the most accomplished, the most unqualified, the most laughable." -Buffalo, N.Y. Evening News. $1.30* Titles marked with * are Bison Books, UNP's new quality paperbounds. Do your Christmas shopping with a pencil! Check your selections on this handy order form. Save postage by sending a check or cash with your order.