APRIL Roundup

COME RAIN or come shine, spring has arrived in NEBRASKAland. Nebraskans will be decked out in new apparel to greet the Easter morn. Yes, spring has come, a catalogue of exciting activities for all.

NEBRASKAland's seven-month racing season will get off to a fast start, when the gates fly open and jaunty thoroughbreds run for the roses on March 30 at Grand Island's Fonner Park. Spirited champs of the turf will show their mettle and track-side experts can get rich and go broke all in the same day at the parimutuel betting windows. Some of the best horses in the racing circuit will be entered in the 27 days of competition. Races will run every day through May 5, although the track will be dark Good Friday and all Mondays except May 3. There will be plenty of fast-flying action at Fonner Park's %-mile course.

Folks at Alma will celebrate the coming of spring with their annual Tulip Festival, April 30 and May 1. For those with a lazy bones' yen, Friend will be the place to be April 18 for Spring Fever Day.

On April 19, the Shrine Circus will come to town for a six-day stand in Lincoln. At Omaha, fancy skating will be the attraction at the Ak-Sar-Ben Ice Follies, April 20 through 25. Pretty girls and more pretty girls will vie for the title of Miss Fort Sidney Days at Sidney on April 3. Still more, attractive Nebraska lasses will compete for top billing in the Miss Auburn Pageant April 25.

Variety will be the byword in NEBRASKAland for April. While prime cattle are on display at the Heart of Nebraska Angus Show and Sale at Broken Bow, March 29 through April 1, the Grand Ole Opry gang will swing in Lincoln April 1.

Fairbury will host the Blue Valley Beef Revue April 24 and Omaha will keep tempo for the Midwest Conference of Musicians, April 24 through 26. Drama and music still play a prominent role on the NEBRASKAland scene this month, but sports action will quicken pace. Stock cars will zoom into action throughout the month and on through the summer at Kearney. Nebraska Wesleyan University players will don the greasepaint and present Oliver Goldsmith's "She Stoops to Conquer" in Lincoln, April 28 through May 1.

Footlights will come up for tne Lincoln Community Playhouse production of "All the Way Home," April 2 through 11. Rock hounds will have their day, when Gordon holds its Stone Age Fair (rock show to the uninitiated), April 23 through 25. Another rock and mineral show is set for sometime during the month at Hastings.

Track action moves outdoors again April 13 with the Ed Weir Invitational Track and Field Meet in Superior. At York, young musicians will compete in the State Class B Music Festival, April 22 through 24. Global problems will come in for discussion April 7 and 8 at the Conference on World Affairs at Kearney.

All-Star wrestling will provide plenty of rough and tumble mat action in Lincoln, April 6 and 21. Country western music star, Johnny Cash, will appear in Lincoln, April 23, followed by the swinging Dick Clark Show, April 29. The Kosmet Klub will present "The Unsinkable Molly Brown" on April 10 in Lincoln.

From April Fools' Day to the very last hour of April 30, NEBRASKAland will vibrate with fun for all and all for fun. Be sure to join in.

HOME ON THE PLAINS

LIKE THE once-common covered wagon and buffalo, the sod house has all but disappeared from the West. But in Paxton there's a top-notch tourist attraction that graphically remembers this nearly extinct trademark of the prairies. Strategically spotted on U.S. Highway 30 west of town, the unique attraction beckons all who would come in and view firsthand how life was lived when the West was young.

Owners of the Sod House, Mr. and Mrs. Kelvey Frey, have collected over 900 major items for the four-room "soddy", an authentic replica of the famous shelters that once dotted the NEBRASKAland prairie. From the old-fashioned stove and its buffalo-chip fuel to the trundle bed in the attic, the eight-year-old soddy is chock-full of furnishings, tools, and household items of the pioneer era. There visitors will discover such objects as a 75-year-old barber chair, spinning wheels, butter churn, washing machines, and baby buggies. Gun, arrowhead, and fossil displays are special features. Antiques, saddles, war relics, Indian mementoes, pictures, farm implements, and many other relics of the West are on display, a collection of Americana that's hard to beat anywhere.

As you browse through the Paxton Sod House you can't help but think of the times when life was much simpler and far more strenuous in NEBRASKAland. The parlor has an old organ, a stove built for both heating and cooking, and a roomful of rustic fixtures emitting a comfort missing in today's extreme furniture.

The bedroom is festooned with a number of old-time objects, but the gracious old bed with its seven-foot-high headboard dominates the room. An 1872 model, it came to western Nebraska straight from the factory. It was loaned by Mrs. Daisy McCaig of Paxton. The loft-like attic is accessible by ladder. There, you'll discover a trundle bed that is especially meaningful to Mrs. Frey, since she used it when she was a girl. So are many of the other items. Many were used by her parents and grandparents.

The Freys came naturally by their interest m the sod house tourist attraction. Mrs. Frey's father, W. H. Simmons, was reared in one, and her mother went to school and taught in such a rustic structure. Her husband's 6 OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland mother, Mrs. J. W. Rose of Moorefield, was born in such a soddy. Probably one third of the items on display came from their parents. Other material was either bought or donated.

Except for such concessions as the pop machine in the curio shop and display cases in the museum room, the Paxton soddy carries a complete pioneer atmosphere. Even the outdoor settings follow this motif. In the 80-yard space between the structure and U.S. 30, wagons, buggies, farm machinery, fences, windmill, and horse tank are right out of the homestead era. Electricity is a departure of necessity, but even the lights are adaptations of the old kerosene lamps and lanterns.

Although the hand-powered tools and awkward utensils conjure up visions of hardships and hours of toil, the visitor can't help but sense the warmth and friendship that must have flowed through those early soddies. The Freys found this same spirit when they decided to put up their attraction in 1957. Ranchers, businessmen, and Paxton townsfolk helped build the famed soddy.

The Freys and their neighbors went back 100 years in time to build their structure. In the early days there were no railroads to haul in finished lumber. On the dry-land plains the only building material available was the virgin sod. Frustrations nettled the Freys, just as it did the homesteader. Sod is hard to come by in this day of plowed cropland, and pastures have lost much of their native grass sturdiness. Ray Jorgensen, who farms south of the Platte, finally came to the rescue. The sod there proved perfect for construction.

Constructing a sod house is an art as well as an exacting process. The Freys had to obtain a special plow with a depth gauge. It undercut the soil to just the right thickness. The sod was plowed in a continuous furrow, and then cut into three-foot lengths. After it was hauled to the construction site, it was laid similar to the way bricks are put down. Usually the walls of a sod house were three-foot thick. The Freys had to settle for a two-foot thickness because of the fraility of the sandy sod of that area.

But even with this hedge in specifications, more than 110 tons of earth went into the building. As layer upon layer of sod went on and the low-slung shape of a soddy started emerging, it became apparent that Paxton was indeed going to have an exciting tourist attraction. After volunteers got the walls up, Frey and two hired men put on the roof, ran the cement for the floor, and plastered the walls.

The Paxton Sod House, the only one in Keith County and one of the few left in Nebraska, was built as a climax to the Freys' long-time interest in historical items. They had been collecting relics for several years.

"Collecting started as a hobby with us," noted Mrs. Frey. "Then we decided to go all the way. When the old folks start telling the young people about the old days, they'll have something to refer to."

More than descendants of the pioneers have seen the tourist attraction. Every summer, visitors from all over the country and over a dozen foreign countries stop by to view this impressive link with NEBRASKAland's pioneer past. The next time you travel U.S. Highway 30 make sure to save time to see the Paxton Sod House. You'll be glad that you did.

the TRUTH ABOUT FISHING

ASK A SEASONED, dyed-in-the-wool, sure-enough fisherman why he fishes and you're likely to get a snort of indignation. Who would think to question the rightness of fishing? Fishing is blend of art, science, skill, luck, magic, plus sheer pleasure of removing the fish from his habitat to yours.

Now that its importance has been established, go back to the question. Honestly, now, why do you like to fish? One is likely to get almost as many answers as there are fishermen—or would-be fishermen. Yet there must be some reasons the "compleat angler" shares with his fellows of the piscatorial fraternity. Why don't you take inventory? Try to decide what there is about the lake and stream that exerts that magnetic pull on you.

Does the chief attraction lie in the spirit of high adventure that is a part of a fishing trip? There is that keen sense of expectancy that brightens the eye and quickens the step. It replaces that vacant stare which indicates a touch of fishing fever. The advance preparations, the before-dawn rising, the keen enjoyment of that hearty breakfast in the wayside restaurant and the brags and banter all contribute to the adventure.

Excitement mounts as one tries to keep from breaking into a run as he nears the hole where the big ones lie. Indeed, it never leaves a man until the last cast is made, for just often enough a good fish is caught on the last cast.

Does your pleasure in fishing stem from the enjoyment of the varied beauties of nature that provide the OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland setting? Perhaps a cascading stream, a shaded brook, or the blue-green depths of the lake spell the attraction. Undoubtedly, many a fisherman hooked by his own sport just naturally likes to get out where wildlife grows. The rattle of the white-collared kingfisher, the squirrel nervously clawing his way around a tree nearby, and the splash of the striking fish all add to the pleasure. Yes, a man can observe a cross section of nature in action while he is sitting in a boat or wading a stream.

Maybe the thrill is making fishing skills an art. The satisfying "chug" as the lure hits the water, the picture of the fly delicately settling exactly where you want it, and the gentle exercise of manipulating your favorite rod are most rewarding. Just as the golfer loves the sight of a ball soaring down the fairway from a good, clean drive, so does the fisherman take pride in handling his equipment skillfully.

Fishing skill means wisdom, too. wisdom that comes from knowing the fish. This includes some knowledge of his temperament, appetite, dwelling place, and actions. A good fisherman handles his fish well because he knows what kind and about how large he is. Yes, there is satisfaction in meeting a cagey bass or trout on his own terms, outwitting him, and bringing him in.

There are those who fish for that moment when they feel the strike, set the hook, and start the battle. Acually playing the fish, whether he be trout, crappie, bass, or spunky bluegill is the part of the fishing drama that no true follower of Izaak Walton would omit. To see a bronze-backed smallmouth emerge in a shower of spray, to hear the slender line sing its own tune, and to watch the rod bow sharply in response to those bulldog rushes—that is the greatest of thrills.

To mention the tantalizing odor of fish frying in the skillet and the delicious flavor of those beauties cooked just right is another reason for good fishing. Part of the proof of the fishing is in the eating. There are those who say they love to catch fish, but they don't care to eat them. Maybe the task of cleaning fish stands between these anglers and the enjoyment of eating. If they don't like to eat them, even when someone else cleans them, they deserve only sympathy. Being "fish-hungry" is one of the forces that pulls a man toward fishing waters.

There is still a delicate question to be answered and answered truthfully. Do you like to fish so that you can brag about your catch to your friends? This could be called reporting to your friends, sharing information, or answering their questions. Chances are, however, that you will direct some publicity, in a modest sort of way, to any fishing triumphs you may have had. Not too often does a man dwell on the small size of his catch or how small the one was that got away. This is not to imply that fishermen are liars, just a matter of terminological inexactitudes.

Regardless of your main reason for fishing—even a blending of all the above reasons—the fact remains that this ancient sport is one which all can enjoy. As my wife sometimes hears, all the effort and expense put into fishing is repaid by the recreation that results. Any fish that I bring home add up to clear profit.

NEBRASKAland's TRACKS TO DESTINY

RANKED AMONG the great moments in the winning of the West was the Union Pacific's bold bid to link the Missouri River and Pacific Ocean with a twin ribbon of steel. One of the real engineering achievements of all time, the mammoth undertaking played a dramatic role in taming the wilderness beyond the big river.

There were those who believed that such a great adventure would be sheer folly when it was first proposed. Ahead was the supposed "Great American Desert," a hostile and uninhibitable land unfit for cultivation. But there were also the dreamers, men who could see the wilderness prairie blossom into the bread-basket of the country if made accessible and properly nurtured.

Such a man was GrenvilJe M. Dodge, a young civil engineer assigned to find the most promising railroad 10 route to the setting sun. He looked no farther than the beckoning Platte River Valley. Here was the great natural highway to the West, a road taken by Indian, mountain man, and pioneer.

Seeing the way and getting there turned out to be two very different matters. Although agitation for a transcontinental railroad had been gathering steam for years, the necessary congressional legislation stayed bottled up in Congress. The problem was largely sectional. The South pressed for a southern route. Northern interests naturally feared trusting such a valuable property to a section of the nation that talked secession. They were much more interested in a northern route, perhaps linking the thriving young community of Chicago with the Oregon Territory. Congress talked and businessmen pleaded, but nothing was accomplished throughout the 1850's.

The Civil War brought a speedy solution to the fight over routes. In 1862, President Lincoln signed an Act of Congress authorizing the building of a transcontinental railroad. On December 2, 1863 a little group of officials braved the cold Missouri River bottom lands at the settlement of Omaha. Here they broke the ground for the building of the Union Pacific Railroad. Speeches were made, a small crowd cheered, cannons on either side of the river boomed, and the project was under way. Or so it seemed. Financial difficulties were immediate. Investors shied away from the new enterprise in impressive numbers. Of the first 2,000 shares of stock offered, seven were sold, and it was 1865 before the first rail was laid.

Chief engineer for the vast building project was the young visionary who proposed the Platte River route. Dodge pushed the building with intensity, and 30 miles of track were laid the first year, taking the bright iron bands almost to Fremont.

Momentum picked up the following year. By the time snows brought a halt to construction, the rails stretched out 305 miles from Omaha. Winter quarters were established in a triangle of land that lay in a fork made by the north and south branches of the Platte River. When the crew arrived, only prairie dogs were there to greet them. Within three weeks almost a thousand people called the bustling new town of North Platte home. Prefabricated buildings with numbered sections had been constructed in Omaha and shipped to end-o-track there.

As the rails moved west a whole series of small communities had sprung up along the way. Valley, Central City, Lexington, North Platte, Ogallala, and many more came into being. Other towns within a short distance   such as Grand Island and Kearney pulled up stakes and moved over to be next to the railroad.

As a population getter for the Nebraska wilderness, the railroad was extremely effective. In 1860 Nebraskans numbered only 28,841 and most of these were concentrated in Omaha and along the Missouri. By 1870 the population had more than quadrupled to 122,993.

No chapter in American history is more dramatic or colorful than that which deals with the construction of the Union Pacific across the plains of Nebraska. General Dodge remarked that ''every mile had to be run within range of a rifle" for fear of Indian attacks. Famous western figures like Buffalo Bill and Major Frank North played important roles in the railroad's construction. Cody had a contract with the Union Pacific to supply buffalo meat for the hard-working construction crews, and supply it he did. The valiant Major North led his famed Pawnee Scouts through the dangerous job of furnishing protection from Indian attacks.

Tracklaying gangs working across the raw prairie were out of bed and through breakfast by daylight. Surveyors, graders, and bridge builders had preceded them and ties had been laid in place. Rails were then brought up to the end-o-track on an open-truck car. A single horse was used to draw the car as the rails were unloaded.

Once the wheels were blocked, five men moved up on either side, seized a pair of rails, and pulled them over the front of the car. The foreman shouted, "Down!" and they were in place. The rails were quickly checked for the proper spacing and the horse-drawn rail car moved ahead. Next, spiking crews moved in, and the staccato sound of the 10-pound sledges broke the prairie stillness.

By midsummer of 1867 the rails had reached and founded Cheyenne, Wyoming, and on May 10, 1869, the last spike was driven at Promontory, Utah. During the next 20 years, the Union Pacific expanded within Nebraska and the other states, buying up smaller lines and building branches to better serve the growing population.

The Homestead Act had gone into effect in 1863. With the close of the Civil War, thousands of eager 12 OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland young pioneers began to flood the new state. Union Pacific had received land grants from the government as an aid in financing their construction. Now railroad agents in the East began to sing the praises of Nebraska to all who would listen. They talked of the land of golden opportunity, rich fertile soils just waiting for the plow. European agents began vigorous promotional campaigns. Special immigrant trains were scheduled to take propective settlers out for a look at the offerings. Hotels were established to house them while they pondered their choice. As special inducements, anyone settling down and purchasing land was offered the price of their rail fare to apply on the down payment.

State officials joined in the campaign to lure settlers. In an attempt to explode the myth of an uninhabitable land, a professor at the University of Nebraska went so far as to propose that "Rainfall followed the plow". He said that as the sod was broken, the newly opened earth would naturally attract more precipitation. All of these promotional efforts paid off handsomely as Nebraska's population blossomed from 122,993 in 1870 to slightly ever a million by 1890.

Then came the drouth years and financial panic. Rainfall hadn't followed the plow, and the economy of the state suffered a serious blow. Farms were ruined and businesses failed. Not the least of Nebraska enterprises to encounter difficulty was the Union Pacific itself. At one of the largest foreclosure sales in history, the railroad was sold to a syndicate headed by E. H. Harriman.

Harriman lost little time in rebuilding the vital lifeline. He spent millions for modern equipment. Curves and grades were improved, and steel bridges began to replace the old wooden trestles. Harriman put the railroad on a solid foundation, and that started it on the way to becoming one of the most.modern and efficient railroads in the world—a position the company enjoys today. Headquartered in Omaha, U.P. employs 8,360 Nebraskans with a payroll of over $55 million. Its crack streamliners and fast freights link Nebraska with the world. The railroad is still pioneering, only now in modern railroad techniques. It owns some of the most powerful diesel locomotives in the world. With single units delivering up to 5,500 horsepower, today's long-haul freights are often powered with combinations totaling over 15,000 horsepower. Union Pacific has pioneered the use of gas-turbine-electric locomotives recently. One of the largest industry-owned microwave communication systems links Omaha with Los Angeles and Pocatello, Idaho, and it will soon stretch to Portland. An IBM 7080 data processor, occupying several floors of the Omaha headquarters, processes everything from payroll checks to inventory records.

Nebraska's own Union Pacific Railroad, while looking back on nearly a century of service to the West, is ready for an even bigger part in the future.

CANOE TRAILS

IF YOU'RE becoming bored with your brand of boating fare, it's time for a change to a fast-paced sport that is as old as the Indians and exciting as a wilderness stream. Your conveyance is the canoe, a streamlined craft that can whisk you to watery vistas of adventure quicker than it takes a motorboat buff to make a ramp launching. You needn't be a navigational expert, river roustabout, or athletic Eagle Scout to qualify. Canoeing is as easy as floating a log, and when used with common sense, as safe as a rocking chair if you are aware of the dangers.

NEBRASKAland is laced with thousands of miles of rivers and streams, making it a natural for this exciting sport. From the rushing Snake River to the lazy Platte, Nebraska abounds in waterways just waiting to float you into the enchanting realms of nature. Practically any river will accommodate you. Of course, you might have to do a bit of carrying, dragging, or leading your craft over natural and man-made obstacles.

The Blue, Elkhorn, Platte, and Niobrara rivers offer long, steady forays. With canoeing, however, the trip doesn't have to be from one place to another in one long flotation. Remember, this is a light craft just made for carrying. When an obstacle comes up, you lug the rig around it. This sport is for the folks willing to do a little work. Those that don't have a yen to use a few muscles should stick with the motorboat and the confinements that go with it.

One look at the map will drive home the fact that NEBRASKAland was made for the canoeist. Practically all waterways are canoe worthy if a person doesn't mind portages. This even includes such narrow twisters as the Frenchman and Medicine in southwest Nebraska. Those who have viewed the sandbar speckled Loup, Elkhorn, and Platte rivers may question their capacity for a craft of any kind. But the buoyant canoe proves indifferent to such shallow problems.

In the St. Paul area the Loup is a favorite. The Middle Loup, beginning at the Nebraska National Forest and flowing on past Dunning, is an eye-opener in fish-watching or catching. This stable stream fed by underground springs has catfish big enough to make a Texan do a double take.

Allowing for portages, including long Lake McConaughy, a canoeist can take the Platte from where it enters the state west of Scottsbluff all the way to the Missouri. Once in the rugged Missouri, you'll have to know the rules of the road and steer clear of river barges with their dangerous undertow and wake. Current-swirling pilings can also cause complications on the big river.

Those who really want a change of pace should travel up to Atkinson and canoe down the broad Elkhorn to its junction with the Platte near Ashland. The Calamus River from State Highway 7 down to Burwell offers a winding cruise of some 40 scenic miles that would intrigue the most sophisticated sailor. The Niobrara offers an unforgettable trip from the entrance to the Niobrara Game Refuge on down to Springview. Those portions of the Snake and Niobrara that border the national forest southwest of Valentine are also ideal canoe trails. The Dismal, although shallow, offers a lot of good canoeing, notably around U.S. 83 near the south side of the Nebraska National Forest at Halsey.

For the beginner, the Blue River is well suited. It's neither too deep or fast with no riffles or falls. The canoeist should consider such other southeastern waters as the Nemaha.

Barring the Snake River with its white-water stretches, canoeing isn't a dare-devil sport in NEBRASKAland. There are some safety points that should be remembered, however. High winds are to be avoided. Floating down the winding Calamus during the summer, for example, could be troublesome. A brisk southerly wind from its low banks against a long narrow canoe can upset even a well-balanced rig. Other streams offer this same kind of problem when the wind is blowing.

Rocks are the biggest problem for the canoeist. These can generally be spotted by the cupping whitecaps. Not all whitecaps are obstacles, however. In some fast-moving streams, the white water may indicate the crest of the current. The canoeist who knows the ropes will find these crests and ride them, using his paddle like the rudder of an airplane.

Canoeing is a warm-weather sport. Spring is a favorite time since rains put most rivers in good shape. Fall is also good since winds are diminished and the irrigation season is past. Many farmers pump water from rivers for their crops and irrigation districts also divert water during the growing season. Incidentally, there are a few irrigational canals that might look like ideal canoe trails. They aren't. It's illegal to use them and also unsafe. The low bridges (continued on page 50)

HELLER IN SKIRTS

SQUINTING HIS eyes to recall, the old-timer hooked his thumbs over his belt and curled his wrinkled fingers around imaginary six guns. Belligerently, he thrust out his chin and started talking:

"So you want to know about Goldie Griffith Cameron, eh? Well, let me tell you, young fellow, she was the gol darndest gal who ever sat leather. Why, she was half man, but all woman. She could ride better than any woman I ever saw and better than half of the men in Nebraska.

"When she rode with Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, you know—Bill Cody was that fellow who started rodeo out in North Platte—well when she rode with him that purty little gal was one of the stars. Another thing, Goldie got married in the saddle right in New York City. Yep, she exchanged wedding vows with a hard-riding cowpoke right there in Madison Square Garden in front of all those bug-eyed Eastern dudes. A preacher fellow from Brooklyn tied the knot up right and proper.

"Goldie got stoved up a few times but that never stopped her. She rode back in the days when rodeo was rodeo. You know, she's probably the only gal in the world to ever ride a horse up the steps to Grant's Tomb. She did it in New York when she was with Bill's outfit. Goldie was a real heller in her day."

The famed Goldie Griffith Cameron, bronc-riding star of Buffalo Bill's show was until recently genial proprietress of a cafe in Nederland, Colorado. But in her salad years, Goldie was all the old-timer said she was and then some. A cherished saddle tells the story of Goldie's riding skill. She won the elaborate rigging for "sticking" the mean ones at the Walla Walla, Washington rodeo in 1915.

Even before that Goldie had plenty of experiences on the hurricane deck of a bronc. She got her first real bad bruising while she was with the Wild West Show. The gutty gal had a part in the big Indian battle scene when someone fired a blank in her pony's ear.

The rawhide fell apart at the seams. He bolted across Madison Square Garden toward the Fourth Avenue exit, sending Goldie spurs over curls into the front row boxes. She hit so hard that the audience thought she had cashed in her chips. They carted Goldie over to Bellevue Hospital and patched her up the best they could. Two days later, the gritty cowgirl was back in the saddle to say her marriage vows with Harry Walters, a handsome young cowboy who was riding in the show.

Reminiscing, Goldie still gets a charge out of describing her horseback ride on Fifth Avenue. The New York City fathers nixed Colonel Cody's big opening parade to advertise his show. Bill wasn't the man to take a refusal from Eastern dudes. He rounded up the whole troupe, decked them out in their fancy duds, and led them up the famed streets. There was no law against sight-seeing. That was the day she rode up the steps to Grant's Tomb.

She was still riding with Cody when she broke her leg. It wouldn't have happened if she stayed on top of a horse. Instead, she went ladylike and let herself be talked into riding the Deadwood Stage in the famous hold-up scene. Goldie was on the seat with the driver when the stage's front wheels hit a rut. The coach went over, spilling its occupants all over the landscape. Six went to the hospital, but Goldie was in the worst shape. Colonel Cody reportedly cried when he heard of his star's accident.

A trick-riding and roping act put 15 stitches under Goldie's blonde locks in Seattle. She was a member of the Lucille Mulhall's Girl Rangers on the Pantages Vaudeville Circuit when it happened. Miss Griffith had the finale, a bucking horse act that always brought down the house. One night she rode through a low stage door and forgot to duck.

Between rodeo, vaudeville, and the popular Wild West Show, Goldie and her husband were busy touring the country. They hit the big rodeos and many of the smaller ones. At Cheyenne's Frontier Days, Walters won the World's Championship Bronc Riding event. At Salinas, he became one of the few cowboys to ride the infamous "Cyclone" until there was no buck left in the maverick bronc. A few malcontents claimed Walters had the advantage of a breast strap which hampered the explosive black horse. Later, Walters said he had ridden worse buckers, but never one with Cyclone's unique back motion which unhinged the saltiest of bronc busters in quick order.

Goldie looks back at the early days of rodeo with nostalgic delight. She thinks the old-time go rounds were more challenging and entertaining than today's watered-down versions of the grueling sport.

"There weren't any 10-second rules and you learned to ride your spurs," she contends. "Horses bucked more naturally without these new-fangled flank straps."

She and her husband drifted along separate trails and later Goldie remarried. Her second husband was Tim Cameron, an A-l rodeo rider and bulldogging champion. They followed the circuits for a time and then went ranching in Colorado. Tim passed on a few years back and Goldie left the spread to open her cafe in town.

Casual visitors find it hard to believe the grand-motherly Goldie was once a star performer in the arena and on the stage. When Goldie relives the old days, and her voice starts rising with the excitement of her recollections, visitors know the old gal has crammed a sizeable chunk of living in her long life.

She's taken her lumps in and out of the saddle, but she wouldn't have missed a day of all the thrills and spills for anything. If she could spin the clock back, she would do the whole bit again. The old-timer is right, Goldie was a heller.

DANCE OF THE CRANES

FEATHERED DANCING stars perform every spring for visitors to NEBRASKAland's Platte River Valley. Each year in the broad flood plain of the mighty river, over 150,000 sand-hill cranes stop during their northward migration to go through the mysteries of their courtship ritual.

Easily visible to visitors in the areas around Elm Creek, Overton, Hershey, and Grand Island, the majestic birds gather in flocks covering a section of land at times. Standing wing to wing, they begin the leaping, wing-flexing dance.

NEBRASKAland's Platte Valley boasts the area of greatest concentration during the spring migration. Truly a wonder of nature, the annual arrival and exotic courtship dance are sights well worth the small effort involved.

At early morning, the birds leave the roosting area near the river and move out in pinioned V formations with as many as 100 cranes in each wing of the V. At the peak of the morning break up, there will be well over 100,000 dancers treading the air to the feeding grounds along the valley

A long-legged, long-necked, gray bird with a bald red forehead, the crane is often confused with the great blue heron. However, the heron flies with his neck "tucked in." The crane, on the other hand, extends his neck and long legs in sustained flight. With his powerful wings outstretched, he appears like a flying cross.

After a breakfast of waste grain, mice, insects, and grubs, the cranes settle down to dance and loaf. A visitor standing off and viewing acres of 40-inch-tall birds all leaping, flapping, and performing sees a real treat.

Cranes gather in large flocks to loaf, court, and dance during the greater part of the day. Not all flocks dance at once, so while one flock is quiet, the touring bird watcher can move a short distance and come upon another flock actively tripping an avian fantastic.

Perhaps the most awe-inspiring view of all is at dusk when the flocks begin to gather at the river roost. From miles around the huge V's stream across the twilight sky until the air is filled with the sound of thousands of cranes resounding over the ancient courting grounds.

A bonus that would be worthy of the trip itself, is the presence of 70,000 white-fronted geese. This is the largest single gathering of these fairly rare geese in the central flyway. They, along with tens of thousands of other waterfowl, make the mid-Platte River Valley a mecca for nature-loving visitors.

TURKEY LOVE CALL

OUR TURKEY-hunting plans started long before the season opened. I first got the idea of giving the NEBRASKAland gobblers a go after reading a newspaper announcement of the state's initial spring gobbler season. I sprung the idea on my Iowa hunting buddies and they bought it. We counted the days until our hunting applications were accepted.

The group included Dugan Winey, who works for the Denison, Iowa, Municipal Utilities; Howard McMinimee, OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland Denison postal clerk; Joe Molony, steak-house operator, of Harlan, Iowa, and myself, manager of Olson's Bakery in Denison. The four of us have hunted and fished all over the map for the past 10 years, but this was our first try at turkeys.

Nebraska's turkey explosion has been little short of fantastic. The state's initial stocking was made in the Pine Ridge near Crawford in early 1959. The first fall season was held in 1962. Resident hunters took all the permits and racked up a 50 per cent success score. Another fall season was held the following year. Nebraska's first spring gobbler season, limited to morning hunting only, was open from April 18 to 26.

Finally, the applications were opened to nonresidents and we were in. Since none of us had any turkey-hunting experience, we played it smart and did some background reading on the subject. While researching the subject, we purchased a turkey call and a turkey-calling record. Once each of us had become adept at the art we ordered three more calls. Nebraska requires a hunter to have such a "come on" for the spring season.

Dugan volunteered his camper and two tents, one for Howard and me and the other for stowing gear. The camp wasn't the fanciest, but it did keep the rain out. Since Joe runs a steak-house we didn't have to depend upon our fishing and hunting skills to keep the larder filled. We didn't know anyone at Crawford, so Howard and Dugan left Thursday night to spend Friday in town trying to line up a place to hunt. They talked to conservation officers, ranchers, and everyone else they could corner. In all of the hunting trips we have made, we never found a friendlier, more co-operative bunch of people. Eventually our group wound up hunting Nebraska National Forest land, since most of the ranches were already filled with hunters.

The Crawford Chamber of Commerce sponsored its first annual World's Turkey Calling Championship the day before the season opened. None of us figured we had much talent, but we were long on guts. When the "gobbling" was all over, Dugan placed sixth, Howard, fourth, and I came in second. Assured that the judges liked our calling, even if the turkeys might not, we accepted our prizes and got ready for the opener.

Our first day was pretty much of a bust. The wind was hitting about 30 miles an hour and the pines seemed empty of turkeys. We did find a couple of old tracks along a creek but that was all. While beating our brains out trying to find the birds, they may have been looking for us. Saturday morning a grader operator in the Crawford City Park, where the calling contest was held, reported seeing 44 of the big birds.

On Sunday, Dugan and Howard hunted one area while Joe and I combed another. We spent a couple of hours watching a creek, and Joe went south while I headed west. My partner climbed a rocky knob and came on two toms about 100 yards away. Since Nebraska limits turkey hunters to 10 to 20-gauge shotguns loaded with Nos. 2 to 6 shot, he had to get closer.

Joe tried to "cut them off at the pass", but he couldn't get down the rocky outcropping fast enough. All he could do was watch the turkeys through his field glasses and make sounds like a gobbler with his call. The toms gobbled back a few times, but continued on their way. I heard the same toms and tried to get in the right position at the right time. Neither of us was fast enough, however, and the birds got away without a score.

After the blank, Joe and I went back to the car and started looking for our companions. We crossed a ford and spotted a red pickup. Some boys in the truck told us they had spotted a flock. The men were circling the butte while the others on the road were watching the birds. We moved up on the ridge just in time to see the two men jump their prey. They got one but the other 11 sailed into another canyon like a covey of quail. Joe and I ran back to the car and drove above them in an attempt to head them off.

As I came down a rocky ridge, a big tom ran down a point on my left. I studied him for a few seconds and then my reflexes took over. I raised my shotgun and blasted a small pine tree. The old tom peeled off, tipped sideways, and left. We hadn't scored, but we had cracked the ice by seeing turkeys and everyone was more enthusiastic that night.

Monday, Joe had a date with a big tom at the same water hole. Dugan and I held out for the canyon where I had seen the turkeys, and Howard voted to walk.

Joe rigged a blind at the edge of a meadow and waited. His calling brought a response and he and a big tom exchanged love calls over a ridge for a suspense-filled hour. Joe peeked behind him and was eyeball to eyeball with a gobbler only 18 feet away. By the time Joe got to his knees, the tom was moving out, but a charge of No. 6's rolled him end over end. The bird lit running and flew through the (continued on page 55)

IT'S SPRING !

YESTERDAY NEBRASKALAND slept under a blanket of white and the prairies were snared in the icy grip of winter. Now the time has come to remove the drab covering. Gently a new season touches the land with a magic wand. Sometimes with growling protest and sometimes with silent disdain, Winter retreats, as even he must succumb to the charms of Spring. Once more the land is free.

Like Sleeping Beauty, NEBRASKAland drowsily stirs from a deep sleep at the kiss of Spring. Under the tender caress of the season, lethargy is abandoned, as life and sound and color return to the plains. In her warm embrace, NEBRASKAland vibrates with the miracle of rebirth. From the tiniest insect to trophy buck, from mundane sparrow to majestic eagle, from slightest blade of grass to highest tree, from smallest creek to mightiest river, from lowly meadow to lofty bluff, the earth throbs with the promise of fruition.

Spring with her many enchantments reigns again. At her command the earth and all its creatures come alive once more. Spring is here. You can see, feel, hear, taste, and sense her presence. Come along now with OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland and pay tribute to the Queen as she holds court over the land.

WHEN THE ICE recedes and again becomes a part of the river from whence it came, Spring is truly abroad in NEBRASKAland. Streams climb their banks with the overflow from winter's sudden demise. Only in the first days of her return is there the crush and rush of breaking ice to sound the trumpet of Spring's arrival. Just as suddenly as it began, it subsides. All is as before—placid and serene. But there are a few vast alterations. A freshness fills the land and air and water, while the rainbow raiment of the season replaces the drab overcoat of Winter. She has blessed the fertile land, and it is ready for the plow. It will bear fruit, and man will profit from his toil. NEBRASKAland is bright and new and good under the warming rays of the season.

THE LAND suddenly begins to blossom. From border to border, NEBRASKAland seems to hum as Spring moves swiftly to her task of gilding the countryside. Trees sprout tender buds. Prairie grasses glow in luminous, verdant greens. Crocus and daffodil are first to peek out from the so recently frozen earth to adorn the land with enticing pastels. Soon all nature follows suit.

Apple and plum trees erupt in a cascade of blooms. Thousands of waterfowl create majestic silhouettes against the sunset sky, as once again they wing northward. All nature and all NEBRASKAland are caught in the magic gossamer web woven by her artistry.

Placid pools reflect the glories of Spring as she clothes NEBRASKAland with vivid reds, gay greens, and subtle pastels. All this she crowns with pearls of morning dew at break of day. Ever so lightly, tiny raindrops rinse away the last vestiges of harsh winter with the baptism of Spring. Bathed by the gentle showers, toweled by soft breezes, and refreshed by the radiant warmth of the sun, every living thing basks in the exhilaration of new life.

NEW LIFE comes to NEBRASKAland as still another gift of Spring. Like a motherly Cupid, Spring sends her shafts into every nook and cranny. With a prick from her arrows, all creation goes a courting. Regally plumed cock pheasants guard their harems. Eager young whitetails clash with heavily-racked old bucks. Robins seek a sheltering bough to build their nests. Soon, a colt will frolic in the sun, fledglings will chirp in the trees, and nature will glory in her offspring.

IT'S TIME now to Pause and to enjoy the wonders the season has brought to NEBRASKAland. Although toil we must, there is still time for play. Cast your line in a rippling stream. Bend down to sniff the wild flowers. Take time to really see the sunset. If you look close, you can almost glimpse eternity. Spring has made her annual visit to NEBRASKAland, and once again has made it fresh and clean and whole.

GRAND ISLAND

FRENCH TRAPPERS called the big island in the Platte he lie Grande. This "Grand Island", the stopping-off point of all those who traveled West, was destined to become a hub of commerce. Today, that destiny is fulfilled, and the booming city on the Platte looks to an even greater role in growing NEBRASKAland.

The earliest settlement at Grand Island was made in 1857 by a group of sturdy, frugal, industrious Germans from Davenport, Iowa, under the leadership of William Stolley. These hardy emigrants set down roots on the banks of the Platte near the big island and set about tilling the fertile soil. They braved Indian raids and nature's forces and even built their own fort—Fort Independence. It was over this structure that the Stars and Stripes first flew over Hall County.

Later, when the Union Pacific pushed west, Grand Island's settlers moved buildings and all just north of their first settlement to take advantage of the railroad. Located strategically on the broad Platte Valley, Grand Island was destined from the very first to become a center for travel and shipping. Wagon trains following the Overland Trail got supplies here and the Pony Express set up a relay station at the site. Modern-day engineers followed the pioneers' lead, junctioning three federal highways in the up-and-coming city. Railroaders had long recognized its strategic location, and for many years it was the only town in NEBRASKAland served by two transcontinental lines. At one time in its infancy, promoters even speculated that the nation's capitol might be moved to the growing community, because of its key location near the geographic center of the country.

Surpassed only by Omaha and Lincoln in population, Grand Island boasts with pride of its "Third City" status. Recipient of the "All America City" award in 1955, the county seat of Hall County serves a wide trade area. Industry, agriculture, transportation, and tourism combine to make it a thriving, bustling metropolis.

The first Nebraska municipality to receive the All America City award, Grand Island attributes its success not to the obvious tangibles, but rather to intangibles— mainly the attitude of her citizens. Active and interested 38 OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland people have contributed time and energy to create a community to be proud of.

Citizens who work together also play together, and there are plenty of facilities for recreation. Some 13 city parks and playgrounds covering 130 acres, plus Stolley State Recreation Area get heavy usage. Tiny Fort Independence, built by the first settlers, is still standing on the grounds of the Stolley area.

Traditionally, NEBRASKAland's racing season kicks off at Grand Island's exciting turf meet at Fonner Park. This year is no exception. Thoroughbreds will run for the winner's circle for 27 big days, beginning March 30.

Tourist center, industrial center, agricultural center, transportation center, recreation center—all are a part of that special element that has made Grand Island an All America City. It is a combination of all these things, plus the incentive and drive instilled back in 1857, when William Stolley and 30 German emigrants halted their teams and decided that this was the place to build a city.

KILLER ON THE LOOSE

IT IS RARE indeed that wildlife scientists find themselves faced with an issue involving insecticides and wildlife. There is a growing demand on every hand that there be set down a clear and simple statement of the net impact these chemicals have upon the fauna of the land. At the same time factions, who fail to see or understand the breadth of the matter, issue firm pronouncements of indictment or blessing. It is time that all parties realize that an honest appraisal cannot possibly treat collectively several hundred chemicals and as many species of insects, birds, and mammals.

The problem is basically one of chemistry in some of its more complex forms, superimposed upon a wide array 40 OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of problems in toxicology, population dynamics, physiology, etc. The best thing to do at this stage is to study objectively all the scientific information that is available for a given chemical or group of chemicals, then interpret it in the context of the accepted principles and facts.

Unfortunately, the facts related to many of the pesticides are incomplete, permitting no more than the most preliminary conclusions of the net effect each will produce under a given set of conditions. With certain chemicals, however, studies have been under way for several years and the picture is beginning to form. One such group is the so-called chlorinated hydrocarbon insecticides, which include compounds such as DDT, aldrin, endrin, dieldrin, toxaphene, benzene hexachloride, heptachlor, and chlordane. While the knowledge available still does not enable one to predict with certainty what their net effect will be, there are ample facts to prompt grave concern and even alarm over the use of these persistent insecticides.

Chlorinated hydrocarbons possess certain characteristics which need to be mentioned in some detail. They are important because they have significant bearing on life as it is known today.

First, these chlorinated hydrocarbons are able to resist chemical breakdown. Following application they may retain their toxic qualities for many years. As an illustration of this extreme stability, one chemical of this family, dieldrin, placed in the soil beside house foundations to protect against termites, retained its toxicity 14 years later. In this particular case, persistence was a point in its favor. But it shall be seen later that this stability is the underlying factor in some very serious problems encountered under more conventional use.

The chlorinated hydrocarbons are readily incorporated into the fat of animals. In this way they are stored in the bodies of animals that survive as well as those which are killed. This makes it possible for chlorinated hydrocarbons to be passed from one organism to another. This phenomenon, plus chemical stability, created an unforeseen problem on the Michigan State University campus. In an attempt to check the spread of Dutch Elm disease, DDT was sprayed on the foliage of the campus' elm trees to control elm bark beetles which carried the disease organism. These leaves in due time fell to the ground and decomposed into leaf mold which carried the DDT. Those earthworms which consumed this material retained the DDT in their bodies, but were not killed. Robins which ate the worms were killed, however, and the resident population of these birds almost completely disappeared.

Not only are these pesticides passed from one organism to another, but greater and greater concentrations of the chemical can occur with each transfer. Such was the case in California's Clear Lake where a chlorinated hydrocarbon used around the shore to control mosquitoes resulted in the water containing .02 parts per million of the chlorinated hydrocarbon. Plankton in the water concentrated it so that they contained 25 times this level or .50 parts per million. The fish in the lake utilized these and other organisms for food, resulting in levels ranging from hundreds to thousands of parts per million in their fat. The grebes which fed on these fish were killed. This process of concentration is called biological magnification.

Chlorinated hydrocarbons may be stored in the fat of an animal for a considerable time with no outward indication of adverse effect. In time of seasonal stress, however, these fat deposits will be used. When this occurs, the chemical is released from the fat so it can enter into the body functions. This was apparently a factor in the Lower Mississippi fish kills which have occurred each year since 1960. After very intense studies it was demonstrated beyond any reasonable doubt that chlorinated hydrocarbons, principally endrin, were responsible. Each year these die-offs occurred as the water cooled with the coming of winter. It is under these conditions that animals begin to utilize their fat reserves. Incidentally, endrin is the most lethal poison of all the chlorinated hydrocarbons currently on the open market.

Animals may be affected by chlorinated hydrocarbons in many ways, only one of which is death. They may develop lowered vigor, and loss of muscle control may result. While these may not kill directly, the affected animal is much more susceptible to the many hazards which it meets daily. But most alarming of all is the fact that the animal may be incapable of normal reproduction. This result can occur following doses of chlorinated hydrocarbons too small to produce any observable symptom. In studies of penned quail it was shown that DDT fed at the rate (continued on page 52)

HANGING THE SADDLE TREE

WITH A LUSTY reputation left over from the days when it was trails end for hard-riding range-hands and lean Texas longhorns, Ogallala has little trouble backing up its claim as the Cowboy Capital of the West. Such memory stirring tourist attractions as Front Street and Boot Hill Cemetery back up this claim as do some exciting rodeos. And if further evidence is needed, it could be found in a 45 by 30-foot shop which turns out some of the best custom-made saddles in the country.

The ramrod behind this saddle-building operation is George "Wes" Feusner, a onetime ranch hand who found his calling on the producing, not the riding end of a saddle. Right now he's busily putting the finishing 42 OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland touches on 13 trophy saddles. These will be awarded to the lucky winners of the National High School Rodeo, an event destined to call national attention to Ogallala and Wes in August.

These saddles, hand-tooled with endless swirls of artistry and two-toned by a special process known only to Wes and his wife Betty, will bring to over 500 the number the couple has made since setting up shop in Ogallala. Since that May 1, 1958, opening they have yet to catch up on orders.

When the oval stamp of "Sandhills Saddlery" is impressed on one of Wes' finished products, the customer has a saddle made to order. He might be a Keith County rancher or an Illinois gentleman farmer, but the fit will be as unique as the man and mount.

Wes turns out only six saddles a month. His is a painstaking art, combining a unique creative talent with the hardiness only a strong pair of hands can supply. This craftsman can freehand designs as easily as he shapes lifeless leather into meaningful forms. He visualizes in his mind what the finished saddle will look like while making out the order sheet. Then he has the patience and skill to wield the round knife and needles hour after hour as he cuts and sews each section of the saddle meticulously in place.

Wes has spent most all his working life in the custom saddle business. Born and raised on a farm near Huntley in south-central Nebraska, he started repairing and making saddles in his early teens. After high school he went to work as a ranch hand and continued to develop his special talent. Moving to Denver, WTes served a two-year apprenticeship under H. H. Heiser, one of the best saddle makers in the business. He then spent seven years in another Denver saddle shop before heading out to Ogallala on his own.

The ranch country was made for Wes and his talents. Although there's a general boom in pleasure riding, ranchers are still his best customers. Many want their saddles to fit them and their horse in a personalized way, a job the factory could never accomplish.

"Every saddle is different," explains Wes. "That's the reason people come to us."

Custom saddle making means putting together some 31 different pieces. The rig begins with the "tree", one of the few parts that Wes doesn't fashion. This foundation comes from a factory in Utah and is made of ponderosa pine covered with rawhide. This provides the ground seat and can vary from a low-and-swinging style to high-and-narrow, depending on the customer.

Although saddles differ according to individual fits, there are three basic styles. One is the roping tree with the swell, the front section under the horn, rounded and smooth to allow free movement for the rope. Another is the cutting-horse tree. Here the swell is squared and concaved to provide leg grips for the cowboy as the horse turns and pivots. The third is the all-around tree, its swell combining qualities of the first two. This style gives the wrangler a high swell to lean against and offers some degree of leg grip.

Half of the heavy-duty saddles that Wes makes are for team ropers of the rodeo circuit. Steer ropers are also good customers. Since he once roped himself, Wes has donated a saddle to the top calf roper of the Nebraska State Rodeo Association the last six years. He's also made the seven trophy saddles for the association during this period.

Though most customers know the kind and size of saddle they want, some will take a fitting. Wes has different sized trees and saddles for them to sit in for this. Sometimes a customer will bring his horse for measuring. Ordinarily this (continued on page 50)

DEER HUNTING FOR THE BIRDS

IF THE BLUEJAY hadn't scolded me I might never have seen the buck. Alerted by the noisy bird, I squatted down, trying to see through the tangled brush. The whitetail was across the river, nonchalantly loping along, his mind on other things besides hunters. Unless I spooked him, he would cross directly in front of me at less than 300 feet. Excited by his size, I didn't pay particular attention to his rack at first. Flowing into the prone position from my uncomfortable squat, I tried to line up the cross hairs on his shoulder.

A bothersome weed was directly in front of me, blocking the sight. I shifted ever so slightly and forgot to breathe, as the buck continued his purposeful lope. The woods and fields were suddenly very quiet. I could hear my heart pounding and wondered if the approaching buck could hear it, too. Finally he cleared the offending weeds and I was on him. The tawny shoulder stood stark and clear in the 4x scope, as I applied that last bit of pressure to the trigger. The semi-automatic .30/06 bucked and roared and I lost the target. In the excitement I was almost sure I heard the "whomp" of the bullet striking flesh and bone.

In that isolated spot beside the Big Blue River it was hard to realize that I was less than 20 miles from my home in metropolitan Lincoln. It was even harder to believe that my buck was the 27th deer I had seen in less than three days of hunting. The 1964 season was the first that I had ever hunted this close to home, and as later events proved, the best.

My brother, Gene, and I decided to forego our annual trek west for deer when we learned that some big whitetails were roaming the Blue River bottoms. We applied for permits early and both of us got licenses in 44 OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland the area. I knew some of the farmers, so finding places to hunt around Seward and Beaver Crossing didn't present any problems.

Before the season Gene and I talked to some of the locals and learned that at least one mammoth buck was in the area. One resident claimed that he had spooked a whitetail with a rack so wide that it ticked the cornstalks on either side as he fled down the row. Others confirmed that several big bucks were around. We figured in all that smoke there must be some fire. I was mildly optimistic that both of us would score before our week-long hunt ended.

The first morning we headquartered at the Ed Tennipoir farm one half mile east of Ruby. Ed had fixed it up for us to hunt his neighbor's land, too, so we didn't lack for plenty of range. It's typical farmland around the river with lots of corn and milo to keep the whitetails fat. The river itself is fringed with cottonwoods and willows over a thick undergrowth of weeds and brush. It's an ideal spot for whitetails, but difficult to hunt.

A morning fog was rolling over the bottoms when Gene and I started out, and it was close to 7:30 before it burned off to give us some seeing room. I heard a couple of distant shots and was encouraged. At least somebody had run into some action. Walking through a cornfield, I spooked a doe and her fawn, but that was it. After an hour of pussyfooting, I gave up and sat down. Another doe walked within 30 feet of me and minced off into the underbrush unaware of my presence. I looked for a buck to be following her, but nothing appeared. Gene joined me about midmorning with a plan.

A bend in the Blue is called Hell's Half Acre. It's a wild tangle of underbrush, thorns, and vines. So thick, it is almost impossible to penetrate. Few hunters even try to give it a go. If you are careful and take your time, you can work through it, although visibility is limited to only a few yards. Gene suggested we hunt it like we hunt for pheasants. I set a course about 75 yards from the river and he moved over another 50 yards to my right. The two of us beat our way through the tangles, hoping to spook a buck. We did scare up one doe and right after her six more "baldies" hoisted their flags and vanished into the brush. Neither of us saw a thing with antlers.

We cleared out of the thick stuff and still-hunted the surrounding fields and woodlots for most of the day without much encouragement. Gene did shoot a coyote, but outside of the yodel dog, there weren't any targets. It was in the shank of the afternoon, when I flushed two quail beside a small stream. I was watching the "bobs" when I saw a three-point buck clear a nearby fence and vanish into some standing corn. We didn't get a chance to shoot, but both of us were pretty confident the buck would "hole up" in the corn. Gene and I gave it a good hunt but didn't raise him.

Separating, we took up stands to wait out the rest of the day. I was hardly settled when three shots shattered the silence. I was confident that Gene had scored. After waiting a while to see if the shots spooked anything, I started toward his stand.

Gene was bending over a plump three-pointer when I reached him. As we dressed out his kill, my brother brought me up to date on the events leading to his score. He had just settled down when he saw the buck sliding over a plowed field that joined the far edge of the corn. The first shot from the .280 had plowed into the deer's neck, but it was too low for a stopper. The next was a miss, but the third round proved a killer.

I hunted all day Sunday and drew a blank. My blood pressure went up and down like a Yo-yo every time I spooked does and fawns, but I didn't see a thing with ivory between its ears. My earlier resolve to look for a trophy buck was getting mighty thin, and I decided that on Monday I would try for the first buck I saw.

Monday morning was a replica of Sunday. I still-hunted a big circle and saw plenty of does and fawns but no bucks. I was coming back toward Ed's house when I heard an unusual sound. Somewhere behind a thick clump of brush something was browsing. I called on all my skill to circle the clump and find out what all the commotion was about. The closer I got, the more certain I was that I was getting (continued on page 52)

CREEL OF CARE

ENJOY LIFE but be alert for accidents. This warning was made to order for the fisherman. Although fishing is one of the most pleasant sports, it can become the most hazardous to the careless outdoorsman. Broken bones, knife cuts, fishhook punctures, poison ivy and oak, insect and snake bite, and sunstroke are just a few of the afflictions that can mar a fishing trip and require first aid to prevent serious problems.

First aid is defined as the immediate and temporary care given before the doctor arrives. Mindful that accidents know no holidays, the wise fisherman will give first-aid gear as much priority as his favorite lures.

Some not-too-poetic but very practical rules should be a part of every angler's lingo. "When the face is red, raise the head" is a standing rule for sunstroke or heat 46 OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland stroke. "When the face is pale, raise the tail" is the procedure for fainting, shock, and heat-exhaustion victims. "Bind it as you find it" should be remembered for broken bones.

Cleanliness is the first order of business in first aid because infection is the chief danger. Unclean care of the wound is more dangerous than no treatment at all, except in the case of serious bleeding. First aid should begin with washing with soap and running water. A sterile gauze pad should then be applied directly on the wound and then bandaged. If it is gaping, close it by pressure, then tape it closed.

On puncture wounds, the kind that come from careless casting or the spiny fins of the bass and catfish family, first encourage bleeding by mild pressure. Blood can serve as its own antiseptic and flush out impurities. Put an antiseptic such as mild solutions of iodine or Merthiolate down into the puncture. This shouldn't be done on fresh cuts because of the scar tissue that can result.

The angler should be prepared for the possibility of a gas lamp exploding or upsetting. For small first or second-degree burns that could result, place a sterile gauze over the injured area and bandage snugly. A good ointment may also be used. For third-degree burns, cover well with sterile dressings. Remember flesh that has been burnt will also be free of living germs. The main objective is to keep the injured area from becoming contaminated. Some practitioners advocate splashing on cool drinking or sterile water to reduce the pain.

Fishermen always run the chance of getting bitten by a variety of critters. Aside from pain and shock, the two dangers of warm-blooded animal bites as well as other puncture type wounds are tetanus and rabies. Shots should be taken for them as soon as possible after a bite. Tetanus is a danger in all wounds in Nebraska because of the large number of cattle and horses. It is caused by a germ found in manure and can get into the injured area through dirt. First, wash the wound thoroughly with warm running water and soap. A mild antiseptic can be applied by use of a gauze pad. Two per cent solution of iodine is very good. Apply a sterile dressing and find the animal so he can be placed under observation for rabies.

The bite of a nonpoisonous snake should be washed with soap and warm, running water. If the skin is broken, a sterile compress can be applied after an application of a mild solution of iodine, Merthiolate, or alcohol. A poisonous snake bite will show two puncture marks. All muscular activity should stop. If the bite is in an extremity, tie a band above it to slow the circulation. If available, an ice-pack can be applied to the bite.

A bite from even a poisonous snake is seldom fatal but always painful. It is accompanied by prolonged illness if immediate attention is not given. This makes a snake-bite kit mandatory in the angler's gear. This is especially true in the spring and fall when rattlers are congregating on their way to or from hibernation.

Insect bites and stings are usually more irritating than harmful. However, there is a wide range of insects here, and some can attack with a vengeance. First aid begins with washing the swollen, red, or painful area with soap and wrater and applying antiseptic. If itching continues, apply liberal coverings of calamine lotion or a paste of baking soda and sterile water.

A little bottle of baking soda is a good item to have in the kit. It can be added to water and given to a burned victim. Compresses and such standard items as bandages and antiseptics are important accessories. Toss in a pair of side cutters somewhere. They will come in handy for clipping the gig off a flesh-imbedded hook so it can be led back around. Don't forget soap in the kit for cleansing wounds.

Contact with poison oak, ivy, or sumac can run up the demand for soap and water in quick order. When the symptoms of red skin, watery blisters, and violent itching announce the problem, wash thoroughly with thick soap suds and wash further in the hottest running water possible. Then apply liberal amounts of alcohol or calamine solution.

When that fish knife goes awry while digging out a stubborn hook from the big one or even while cleaning him, be ready to take care of the wound, since bleeding can be serious. The first thing to do is to expose the cut so it can be seen. Then clamp on a compress, first by hand, then secure by bandages. Next elevate the injured part. If direct pressure (continued on page 53)

BIRD'S BEST FRIEND

HUNTING was excellent on Ollie Wolff's 160-acre farm in Johnson County. It wasn't the birds' fault we weren't getting our limits; the blame, if there was any, lay with Ken Johnson and myself. We were having a lousy day, and no matter how much game the two of us flushed, we couldn't hit the north end of a quail going south.

As I let go with a shot, Ollie almost tumbled on the frozen ground. "Now I know how you get all your birds," he roared, as he doubled in laughter. "Somehow, you manage to cripple the 'bobs' and your dog brings them back alive."

Painful as it was to admit the fact, Ollie's observation was accurate, at least on this particular hunt. I had fired a total of 17 shots and downed 3 birds, all of which my Brittany spaniel, Duke, brought home after wild chases through the brush.

It was a chilly 15-degree morning when we climbed out of the car after the drive from Lincoln. Ken, Ollie, and I started the day by tromping a creek bottom that ran between two milo fields. It was an ideal location for quail, but apparently the cold weather and light snow had forced them into heavier cover.

We moved out of the bottoms and worked a slope covered with native grasses and sprinkled with cedars and cottonwoods. As the three of us combed the patch, I began to realize that Ollie must have had wildlife in the back of his mind when he laid out his farm.

Technicians would call the slope an "odd area." Translated into everyday language, this means an area 48 OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland subject to erosion, difficult to cultivate, marshy, generally out of place. Ollie planted the grass and trees here because this particular piece of land is a poor and hard to cultivate. He said that the land could be cropped, but the soil would wash away, so he decided to turn it over to wildlife. He felt that they could make much better use of the land, and cover was planted to help them along.

Cover or no cover, I was beginning to wonder whether the bobs had taken off for parts unknown. The slope hadn't produced any birds for our game pockets either. Ken did manage to flush a pheasant, but that rooster was running scared and my partner couldn't have downed him with a howitzer.

Next, the three of us decided to work a grassy waterway that came out of a pasture to the east and ran along the edge of a cornfield. It was planted in native grasses such as big bluestem, little bluestem, and switch grass. Our trip was beginning to look more like a sight-seeing excursion than a quail hunt, but I found Ollie's obvious interest in the welfare of wildlife refreshing. He mentioned in passing that the waterway not only carried surplus water from the cornfield, but also gave pheasants and quail a roosting spot.

As I whistled my dog closer, Ken practically tripped over a covey of quail. The birds flushed so suddenly they caught me flat-footed. It took a moment to catch my breath, but I finally leveled off on a single. Much to my dismay, I watched the bird fluff and drop from a shot from Ken's 12-gauge. I almost squeezed the trigger anyway, just to hear the gun go off.

We trailed the covey into a pasture, but Duke could only nose out one bird. When I flushed a bob in front of my dog, it blasted toward Ollie. Quick on the uptake, our host fired and collected his first tally. I still hadn't used a shell.

Finally we gave up on that covey and tried a soilbank field heavily planted to switch grass. Ken muttered that we probably wouldn't find any birds there because it wasn't next to a grain crop. Ollie just raised an eyebrow. Apparently Duke didn't agree with Ken, for he suddenly wheeled on point. But at that moment, the birds moved and the dog flushed them before we could get into firing position.

After working that covey for about an hour, we decided it was time for a break. We plopped down to rest, discuss some strategy, and analyze the obviously excellent habitat on the farm. I was curious to know just what had been planned for wildlife on this 160 acres.

"I really haven't done as much as you might think," was Ollie's ready reply to my query. "The only work done to any extent was the tree planting, and that was just good soil conservation. A little milo is left standing for the birds, just in case of heavy snow. Beyond that, though, I haven't done much. Actually, wildlife is compatable with the rest of our farming operations."

I mulled this over for a bit and realized that Ollie wasn't really telling the whole story. The waterway where we flushed our first covey was planned to include varieties of grasses that could serve wildlife as well as the farm.

The soil-bank land we had hunted may have been planned for soil conservation, but it, too, included grasses that would make good nesting and roosting cover for birds. The tree area on the slope was designed for soil-erosion control, but it also provided winter cover.

An Osage-orange hedge that we fought our way through earlier served as a fence, field divider, an erosion-control measure, and (continued on page 55)

SADDLE TREE

is an outdoor proposition, but one ornery cuss went so far as to march his steed right into the shop. Wes now has a life-sized Fiberglas horse in the shop. In addition to challenging any intruders, it's also used to give customers the feel of their new saddle.

The leather used comes from tanneries in California and the south. Steer and cowhides from these areas have fewer brand marks. Each hide has about 20 square feet of leather about a quarter-inch thick and is tanned from the bark juices of oak trees to hold its shape.

Wes uses patterns to block out individual pieces of each saddle. Once they are cut, they are wetted to get the exact size and shape. This wetting is done in an airtight box that drives the moisture equally through the leather. Wetting is important for hand fitting the leather to the tree. Although each piece is put on wet, it has to be dry before sewing. There's plenty of needlework in saddle making. Some is done by a harness stitching machine, but most of the sewing is done by hand.

The Ogallala craftsman puts about 20 hours in on each saddle he makes. This doesn't count the time involved in the wetting and drying sessions. He has three or four outfits under construction at the same time. Although the saddles are functional and rugged, the fancy isn't forgotten. This is where hand tooling comes in. The process involves drawing intricate and flowery designs on the leather freehand, then carving them into permanency with a swivel knife. A full-flowered saddle represents about 20 hours additional work.

Another specialty of the Fuesner shop is two-tone coloring. These brown-and-tan saddles are created by a special mixture which Wes and his wife worked out themselves and other shops have tried to copy.

Wes is one of those rare merchants who can get by without advertising his wares. Rodeos, stock shows, and other gatherings of horsemen all serve to make his product known. Wes figures the product sells itself. Once a cowboy sees his work, he's anxious to get his order in. Probably one of the best testimonials to his craftsmanship is the set of hand-tooled luggage made for Jack Brainard of Rochester, Minnesota. This noted judge and horse trainer is easily recognized wherever he goes by the $700 worth of artistry in leather performed by Wes. The Ogallala shop does all kinds of leather work, ranging from chaps to dress belts.

Custom saddles are still the bread-and-butter product of the shop. These cost anywhere from $50 to $100 more than factory jobs. But this hasn't discouraged their demand. Custom saddle business is booming.

"Many old-time saddle makers claim business is better than ever," Wes said. "The boom started back in 1944 when times started getting better and people had more money. More folks started buying horses for pleasure, more horse clubs were formed, and rodeoing became one of the hottest sports in the nation. It didn't take long for the riders to get fussy about what they had under them."

Wes sells his custom-made saddles for $200 and up. A plain rig goes for about $210 and a flowered job for $250. Some extra fancy saddles have run as high as $500. Anything over this price gets decked out with silver trim.

Though the business is good, the trade goes begging for cratfsmen willing to devote the skill and patience demanded. States like Texas and Oklahoma, and to some extent, Wyoming, Colorado, and California, still have quite a few custom saddle men. In other states they are as scarce as buggy whip makers. Nebraska has four custom-saddle shops.

"This is one job that takes a lot of patience," says Wes, whose yearly output probably exceeds the work of the three other Nebraska saddle shops combined. "We have two boys, 13 and 16, and darned if we can get them interested in the work. Fortunately, we have a good helper in John Prestes. He has been with us almost two years. John does all the repair wrork and there's a lot of that. He also makes the cinches, covers the stirrups, and makes halters. The last fellow we had got to be pretty good, but he figured he had enough after three years."

When a saddle leaves the Ogallala shop it's ready to ride. The stirrups are shaped and the leather and fenders fit the rider's legs like a pair of tailor-made trousers. Special attention is given to the rigging since that holds the saddle to the horse. Like other parts of the saddle, it varies according to the horse and rider. There is little squeak in the Ogallala shop's saddles as compared to factory outfits that are put together dry. Once Wes has made the saddle, he undoes all the parts that he can, oils them, then puts them back together again.

Wes keeps orders of every saddle he makes and this pays off. Two years ago a South Dakotan had a saddle made. Just recently he ordered four more.

South Dakota along with Iowa, Minnesota, and Illinois gobbles up a lot of Wes' saddles. Unlike the western states, these areas are at a loss for custom saddles. Wes figures there's no better place to order them from than his shop. Spotted strategically in the Cowboy Capital of the West, it just naturally produces some of the finest saddles this where the West begins state has ever seen.

CANOE TRAILS

and steep banks can be death traps.

A canoeist can run the risk of trespassing if he gets too foot-loose. You're all right as long as you are in the craft, but as soon as you go ashore or even step into the stream you are technically a trespasser if on private property. If you plan to make a landing on private property during your cruise, make advance arrangements with the land-owner.

Although somewhat rigorous in physical demands, canoeing doesn't separate the men from the boys. It joinsthem. This sport is made for father-and-son outings. Canoeing has centered around Scouting activities for years, but is now spreading to other groups.

The cash outlay for canoeing is minimal. Less than $100 will pay for the craft and another $10 sets you up with car-top carrier. You will need Coast Guard approved life jackets or seat cushions for each person in the canoe. A bailing bucket or sponge is also required. A white light will be necessary if operating at night and a first aid kitis advisable.

The reward of canoeing is in the adventure it offers and not necessarily the kind that comes from shooting rapids. You'll explore enchanting, out-of-the-way retreats that only a canoe can reach via the flowing waters.

A TOWN by ANY OTHER NAME

THOUGH YOU might not realize it, you've probably been to Fairview, Plum Creek, or Lancaster. These are the original names of NEBRASKAland communities that most people have visited or driven through many a time. For one reason or another, many cities have changed their names. This month OUTDOOR NEBR ASK Aland will test your powers of deduction to figure out the former names of these well-known Nebraska communities.

As a sample, Ravenna in Buffalo County was once known as Beaver Creek. We'll give you a few clues to help with your search, although some of the matches could give you trouble. Others are not quite so hard. Fort Childs got its second name from a general. So did McPherson, until the Union Pacific came along and changed it to that of a railroad man.

Fairview was named by the Lincoln Land Company in 1882, then along came another general and upset that applecart. Medicine Creek should be enough of a hint all by itself to put you on the right track there and the same goes for Lancaster. Antelopeville will take a little figuring, but the precinct where it is located still bears the Antelope tag.

North Fork got tangled up with the post office department and ended up with another name through no fault of its own. Blue River City should name itself if you just think a moment. Webster's Town is a little harder, but the big show held there every year might give you some idea. Enough clues. You're on your own. Happy sleuthing. You'll find the answers to this community quiz on page 54.

FOR THE BIRDS

close to a whitetail. My prize turned out to be a black Angus calf.

After visiting with Ed, I started another walk-and-watch swing toward the river. On the way I jumped another batch of does and fawns. A few minutes later I heard the bluejay.

The buck made one mighty bound at my shot and was in the midst of another when he crumpled. I waited for a 10-second lifetime to see if he got up again. He never stirred. Looking at him through the scope I was impressed by his rack, but still didn't believe it was a possible trophy. I was tempted to wade the river right there, but the water was deep and cold. Backtracking for a quarter mile, I crossed at a narrow spot.

As soon as I got up to the buck, I knew he might nudge the record books. He had 11 points, 5 on one beam and 6 on the other. His rack did not confor; i to the typical whitetail formation. Instead of flaring forward and then back, it flared straight out and then curved in.

I dressed my prize out and studied the effects of the 150-grain slug. It had entered behind the foreleg, ripped through the ribs, and tore off the bottom of the buck's heart. The expanded slug was laying against the far ribs. It had been a quick and merciful kill, and I was thankful for the hours I had spent on the rifle range and at the loading bench.

The buck was just too big for me to handle, so I headed back to the farm for help. We loaded him in a pickup and hauled him to Beaver Crossing for a weigh in. Field dressed, my whitetail sagged the scale at 284 pounds. Since I wanted my family to see him, I took the whitetail into Lincoln without processing him. They were as thrilled as I was over my giant.

There is a 60-day shrinkage period before I can have the rack officially measured for possible listing in the "Records of North American Big Game" compiled by the Boone and Crockett Club. The same rule applies for the Nebraska "Big Game Citation". I'm fairly confident my trophy will earn state recognition, although there is some question if it qualifies as a typical whitetail rack because of antler conformation. Since the head is at the taxidermist, it will be late in the spring before I know for sure.

Some of my friends claim deer hunting is for the birds. They are right. If it hadn't been for the quail, it is doubtful if Gene would have waited out his three-pointer. And if it hadn't been for that cantankerous bluejay, I probably wouldn't have been ready for my once-in-a-lifetime trophy.

KILLER LOOSE

of 1 ounce in 624 pounds of feed resulted in a 25 per cent reduction in the fertility of their eggs. The young hatched from these eggs failed to survive even on insecticide-free diet. Similar results have been found in tests involving the ring-necked pheasant.

To the wildlife biologist, impairment of reproduction ability carries a far greater threat than death of those same individuals. A healthy, vigorous population has the capacity to withstand natural losses, but a partial loss of reproduction capacity may be catastrophic. A species can be exterminated if a substantial portion of the population is incapable of reproduction. This very principle is being used to eradicate certain insect populations.

Although conscientious efforts may be made to apply only recommended amounts and only on specified areas, these materials are transported and concentrated by natural phenomena. Air and water currents, soil erosion, animal mobility, and predation make it virtually impossible to treat only insects on a designated tract. Chlorinated hydrocarbons are now being found in remote areas of the world, places where no applications have ever been made.

Not all of the illustrations regarding chlorinated hydrocarbons need to be drawn from other states. In the south-central part of Nebraska, eggs gathered from pheasant nests showed sizeable concentrations of dieldrin and of DDT and its metabolities. In southeastern Nebraska, channel catfish in the Little Nemaha River were found to contain four chlorinated hydrocarbons in substantial quantities. These were DDT and its metabolities, aldrin, dieldrin, and heptachlor. It must be assumed that these chemicals came from agricultural applications on the Little Nemaha River watershed.

In the light of these and other facts, it is obvious that chemicals of this group can go far beyond their primary role as a bug killer. They have the definite capacity of poisoning the environment and affecting the creatures that live in it, including man himself, and to do so over long periods of time.

Fortunately, this is not true of all insecticides. There are many that do not hold the long-time threat of the chlorinated hydrocarbons. The Game Commission believes that the implication is very clear. Why gamble with disaster in the future when effective control of insects can be accomplished without taking such a dangerous risk?

There are insecticides that are very effective, but which are not chemically stable over long periods of time. Most of the organic phosphates, for example, are deadly on application, but soon undergo chemical change which makes them nonlethal. The Game Commision does not oppose the use of such insecticides when necessary to save crops.

Desirable wildlife may be killed on the application of such poisons; in fact it is difficult to use non-selective poisons without killing some forms of life man wishes to to preserved. Such losses will normally be replaced by reproduction, usually in one year. This isn't the danger the Game Commission fears and it grants that a reasonable risk is necessary in meeting the problems of modern agriculture.

Chlorinated hydrocarbons should not be used unless and until proven safe. There are some who contend these poisons can be used unless and until proven unsafe. To this the Game Commission replies that it is unnecessary to gamble with chlorinated hydrocarbons; that the stakes in such a gamble are so great that no Nebraska farmer or rancher should take that risk. Dairy farmers in some areas across the nation have already been put out of business by chlorinated hydrocarbons. The evidence indicates that long-time results may be disastrous in other fields as well. Certain of these poisons can be passed from the soil to the plant and 52 OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland then to the animal. There is no known antidote for environment made unsafe through the use of these poisons.

The Game Commission fears and opposes the use of the very stable insecticides because their continued use is far more dangerous to wildlife, and because it is convinced such use is a risk Nebraska agriculture should not take. That is why it opposes the use of the chlorinated hydrocarbons. Whatever temporary advantages they may offer as insecticides, the long-time risk of their continuing use on the crops and lands of Nebraska is, the Game Commission believes, a gamble Nebraskans should not take.

CREEL OF CARE

and elevating fail to stop bleeding, use one of the pressure points between the wound and the heart. If serious bleeding persists and as a last resort, apply a tourniquet. Keep the victim quiet and do not give him stimulants. Serious bleeding can come with bone fractures. If there is heavy bleeding from a vein or artery, stop the flow of blood before caring for the break.

With breaks, remember the rule to "bind it as you find it". In treating fractures the objective is to keep the bone ends from moving, which may call for a splint of some kind. This can be done with rags or strips of clothing wrapped around boards or sticks. A blanket by itself makes a fair binder and just resting on a cot will suffice for a broken arm. It's advisable to put something cold on the fracture to keep the swelling and throbbing down. This also reduces the possibility of shock.

An injury opens the way for shock, a condition that comes on when a person is so upset that his circulation is effected. Sips of coffee or tea provide good stimulants if the person is conscious. He should be kept only warm enough to prevent shivering when in such a condition.

Mouth to mouth respiration should be familiar to everyone who takes up angling. Known as rescue breathing, it is the use of a person's breath to revive someone who is unable to breathe for himself. The air you exhale is not spent but contains enough oxygen to save a person's life. You use this breath by tilting back the head of the victim to open his airway and blowing through his mouth or nose. This is done about 12 times per minute.

First aid by its nature deals with the physical, but the psychological enters in. That's why you should keep an injured person from seeing his wound. In many instances nature will play its part by numbing the pain. Exert a steadying influence on injured person and never talk about the seriousness of the injury.

One of the biggest psychological aspects comes from carrying the first-aid kit. It's like the policemen whose very presence evokes proper behavior. By just having the first-aid kit on those fishing trips, you will be reminded of that old adage that has always proved "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure".

State Capitol Color Slides

The same outstanding color photography that appeared in the June and July issues of OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland is now available in 35 mm color slides This unique set features 33 slides each depicting a different view of the interior and the exterior of the State Capitol.

Tour this amazing architectural masterpiece in living color from your favorite easy chair. See every magnificent detail that took weeks to photograph Everv Nebraskan will be proud to own this rare collection. It would also make an excellent gift for those away-from-home NEBRASKAlanders. Start your own NEBRASKAland slides collection. Order this and all future slides featuring the best of OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland color sections. The supply is limited. To avoid disappointment, get your order in early.

SPEAK UP

TEACHER TAUGHT—As a fourth grade teacher in the Stratton Public Schools, I'm always looking for helpful material on teaching Nebraska facts, history, and places of interest.

One little girl brought several articles and pictures from OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland. The material taught me the value of the magazine so please find $5 enclosed for a two years subscription.—Helen Ekstrum, Palisade.

WE GOOFED—"I bought a copy of the January issue of OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland and to my disappointment found an error in the identification of the Nebraska Czech Queen of the Year. You had her identified as Barbara Fisher instead of Bonita Faye Krula. Miss Fisher is the Wilber Czech Queen while Barbara is the Nebraska Czech Queen".—Mrs. Joseph Krula, Schuyler.

We are sorry about the mix up in identification. Our sincere apologies to all concerned and particularly to Miss Krula.—Editor

BOOSTER—My parents, grandparents, and a great grandfather came to Omaha in 1868 so I'm a real Nebraska booster. I bought seven copies of the magazine and sent them to pen friends in England, Netherlands, Ireland, and Scotland. Also, to some friends here in the United States.

I have a friend in Indiana whose husband set tile in our Capitol Building, so she was very glad to get the two copies about the Capitol. My parents knew Dan Freeman and his wife and had slept in their sod home.—Mrs. Marie Goldsrnith, Omaha.

LIKES CARTOONS—Received my December issue of OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland. It sure is great, especially the calendar. I also enjoyed the quiz on "Foot Patter".

Why did you have just one cartoon? I usually leaf through the magazine and read them first as they are really funny, but this time only one and not so funny. — Avalon Beauty Shop, Columbus.

Space limitations in the December issue of OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland prevented us from publishing more than one cartoon. Glad you like our selection though and more cartoons will appear in future issues.—Editor.

WELL PLEASED—The December issue of OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland is a humdinger. I bought all the remaining copies the newsstand had and sent them to relatives in other states.

Where are all the sauger and walleye? There are none in the river this year.—A. Z. Vondracek, 814 E. Twelfth Street, Schuyler.

Fishery technicians point out that sauger and walleye populations vary according to stream location, changes, activity, weather, and other related influences. There are fair numbers of sauger and walleye in the Platte, but finding them is sometimes a problem.—Editor.

GRAVE LOOK—I am a descendant of the Nebraska strong man, Antoine Barada. Does anyone know where his father, Count Micheal Barada is buried? I often visit Antoine's grave in Barada, Nebraska, and would like to learn more about both him and his father. —Marvin Murphy, White Cloud, Kansas.

Can any of our readers help Mr. Murphy in his quest for more information?—"Editor.

LOVE CALL

trees for a complete getaway before Joe fought himself out of the blind. When Joe got back to the car he was so low his chin was scraping his boots. All of us were pretty blue as we drove down the road to find Dugan. We crossed the ford and there he was, grinning and lugging an 18V2-pound gobbler. He had quite a story.

After we had separated, Dugan had climbed to a high meadow where he heard turkey talk. He finally located the direction and got as close as he dared before trying to call. He picked a spot about 50 yards below the ridge and hid. With his camouflage suit, face net, and gloves he was almost invisible in the small pines.

Soon a big torn walked out and Dugan raised his gun. At the movement, five or six other turkeys started gobbling behind the anxious hunter. The big torn stepped back to see what all the ruckus was about and Dugan let him have it. The gobbler rolled and went down again at the second shot. He came back up and ran straight at the waiting hunter who tried for a head shot with his last shell at 20 yards. The torn spun around at the blast and rolled down the hill with Dugan in hot pursuit, trying to reload as he ran. The bird was about done, and the hunter cornered him in a ravine and finished the job.

The next day the roads were a mess and hunting the high pine ridges was out. It was a break for us when Dr. Vernon Rockey of Crawford, the winner of the turkey-calling championship, invited us to a ranch he hunted. We walked umpteen miles in three inches of new snow without cutting a fresh track, and Joe gave it up and headed toward the car.

At the lower edge of the trees he saw a flock feeding before they spotted him. Joe flopped down in a cowpath and worked as close as he could before highballing them with his call. Nothing happened. The turkeys went on feeding, but it was apparent they were working farther away from him. Joe decided to risk another call. He reached for his squawker and discovered he had left it back at the spot where he had tried his first highball.

Joe took a chance and tried a mouth call, and the gobbler thought it was the real McCoy. The bird fanned out his tail, drew up his wings, and went into a challenging strut. When he was broadside to the waiting hunter, Joe cracked the cap on a No. 4 Magnum. The 21-pound turkey went down and flopped into the brush. Joe lost him for a moment and then fired the finisher.

The roads were still bad on Wednesday, so we returned to the ranch and hunted the only creek in the area. We waited for several hours but never saw a thing. That afternoon, Joe and Dugan pulled out for some fishing on the way home, but Howard and I stuck it out.

Thursday dawned bright and clear but very windy. Howard, Dr. Rockey, and I went back to the forest lands and after hunting the canyons for a time, I picked out a likely looking spot beside a creek and sat down. Presently, Doc came along and suggested coffee and sandwiches so we hiked out to the car.

I glanced over the top of the station wagon and saw a big torn walking the ridge toward the road. I grabbed my gun and crawled to the rear of the automobile to watch the big gobbler cross the road out of range. I knew he was too far but I wanted to shoot so bad I could taste it. Doc got his call working and the torn answered, but he continued to feed toward the creek. When he was out of sight we tried circling, but it was no good. The gobbler must have watered on the move and continued straight over the next ridge on the other side of the creek. That was it except for a half-hearted attempt on Friday when it was so windy we couldn't hunt.

Howard and I had broken camp the night before but it wasn't our own idea. The wind got so strong that Doc Rockey worried about our tent and came up to invite us to spend the night in his basement. We declined the offer, but 10 minutes after he left the tent blew down. That was enough to send us running to Doc's basement.

After the Friday hunt, we picked up the two dressed turkeys that had been checked out, grabbed a bite to eat, bade everyone in Crawford goodbye, and headed for Iowa. We had eight days of outdoor camping with good companions and seven days of matching wits with a worthy opponent. It was a fine hunt that would grow better with the passing years. As for the turkeys that got away, they'll be bigger and fatter, and we'll be back to NEBRASKAland to get them.

BEST FRIEND

to stop snow to build up moisture on adjacent fields. It also gave wildlife a travel lane and escape route.

Finally, I querried Ollie about food for wildlife.

"No problem there," he answered. "Our farm machinery has not progressed to the point where we can harvest all of our corn, milo, and wheat. All of that waste grain left in the fields oecomes food for game. However, we do leave some standing as an emergency supply."

We worked a few more loners from the soil bank, and I blew great gaping holes in the air. But, I remained birdless almost to the end. Ken wasn't doing much better. He fired 16 times to collect five bobs.

On the way back to the car, Duke pointed a small covey in a fence row. Pellets filled the air and two more bobs were added to the bag. As it turned out, Ollie won marksmanship honors for the day. He limited, taking his 6 birds with 10 shots. I claimed it was the extra-special shells I'd given him.

On the drive back, our host mentioned a watershed lake that will be constructed in the creek bottom next summer. It will cover about 35 acres of the bottoms that we had just hunted. He ticked off some of the wildlife plans he has in mind for the lake.

"The dam and lake will be fenced to keep livestock out, so they won't interfere with fish spawning," he said. "We'll probably run a tube to a tank below the dam to water the stock. It's kind of like killing two quail with one shot."

"Won't fencing the lake be an expensive proposition?" I asked. But, Ollie saw it differently.

"It's cheap in the long run," he pointed out. "A fence not only insures a good water source for the cattle, but it could prevent us from losing some stock that might break through thin ice in the winter. It will keep the beeves from damaging the dam itself. Livestock can gouge into a structure and leave it wide open for erosion. Besides the fence could possibly prevent disease from spreading from one animal to the whole herd."

Ollie may have been thinking basically about what was best for his stock, but he was also indirectly considering future fishing, swimming, and what the water will mean to the wildlife on his farm. It may have become second nature, and he may not even realize it, but he is working his plans and plantings to fill not only the needs of his farm, but those of wildlife as well.

Near as I can tell, Ollie has come close to having his cake and eating it, too. Actually, the game on his farm isn't in too much danger, especially when he hosts guests like me who end up shooting holes in the sky.

Good Business. A good many jobs are created in Colorado by sportsmen's dollars. The State realizes $102 million each year from big game hunters, exclusive of the amount spent for hunting permits.—Colorado.

Timber! When a tree is torn apart by lightning, it literally explodes. Moisture within the tree is turned instantaneously into steam by the intense electric heat.—Minnesota Volunteer.

Stool Pigeon Deer. Their deer friends might consider it a bit sneaky, but several deer, trained by specialists of the Arizona Game and Fish Department, are being used to gather detailed information on their wild brethren. The captive deer are first taught to load in and out of a truck voluntarily. When taken into the field, the animals are released and allowed to feed at will. Their trainer, a research biologist, uses a tape recorder to make notes on what vegetation is available, what the deer eat, how much they consume, and what they pass up. When the deer have satisfied their appetites, they return to the truck and climb in. Since these tame deer apparently feel insecure in the woods by themselves or with wild deer, they stay close to the observer and so far have not run off. For obvious reasons, however, the feeding observations were not conducted during the hunting season. —National Wildlife Federation Conservation News.

Washing Water. Cleaning up the state's water resources has cost municipalities and industries in Georgia $50 million during the past seven years.—Georgia Water Quality Control Board.

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry. Food is the biggest item in the average vacation budget. A survey conducted recently showed that 31 per cent of the money spent goes for food, 29 per cent for housing, 26 per cent for transportation, and 14 per cent for entertainment.—Washington D. C.

To Water a Nation. Approximately 300 billion gallons of water are used each day in the United States.—The Humble Way.

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

WHOOPING CRANE

OF THE GREAT myriad bird life which either resides in or migrates through Nebraska, none has captured the imagination more than the whooping crane. This majestic giant of the avian world has been near extinction for the past several decades but has managed to maintain a most precarious foothold.

Known as Grus americana in scientific circles, the whooping crane is the tallest bird native to North America. He is more than five feet tall and has a glistening white plumage which is accentuated by black wing tips. He wears a red crown, and there is a black mustache-like area of feathers across his cheeks. His 58 OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland long bill is olive gray or brown with a gradation into flesh color near the base.

Other Nebraska birds which are sometimes mistaken for whooper include the white pelican, the snow goose, the sand-hill crane, and occasionally the great blue heron. Both the pelican and snow goose are white with black wing tips but are much different in size, shape, and appearance, both in flight and on the ground. There is virtually no similarity between the big crane and the great blue heron. Color and size readily distinguish him from the sand-hill crane. As with other cranes, the whooper flys with neck and feet outstretched. In flight, the legs trail out beyond the end of the tail.

The whooping crane received his name from the call he makes. The sound has been described as a bugle-like ker-loo, ker-lee-loo. He has an extremely long windpipe or trachea which is partly coiled and encased in the breastbone. The call notes originate near the lung end of the windpipe and are amplified many fold as they pass out through the trachea. On wind-free days, the shrill calls can be heard for up to three miles.

Though weighing as much as 25 pounds, the adult whooper is extremely graceful in flight. He is carried aloft on wings which are more than seven feet from tip to tip. According to Robert Allen of the Audubon Society, when disturbed by humans, "they run forward, necks outstretched and huge wings flapping, and they are off the ground and hurtling away in ponderous flight."

Breeding takes place in a remote region in Canada's Wood Buffalo National Park. Here they have been able to escape the encroachment of civilization. In fact, it was not until 1954 that the nesting area was found. The nest is generally located in a big marsh. It consists of a heap of dead vegetation about 5 feet in diameter and 18 inches high. Generally it is found in shallow water ranging up to 1V2 feet in depth. A depression in the top holds the eggs. A nest normally contains two eggs which are olive or buffy, blotched with large irregular spots of brown.

Once hatched, the young mature quite rapidly. By fall, they are ready for the long flight south. The extended overland trip covers some 2,500 miles. During the migration, the big birds occasionally make a stop-over in the Platte Valley of central Nebraska. In October 1964 four whoopers — two adults and two young—landed for a five-day rest on the upper end of Lake McConaughy. Here they were able to rest and feed before continuing their flight to the Aransas National Wildlife Refuge in southeast Texas. During migration, whoopers generally travel as singles or in small groups of up to four or five birds.

Each year wildlife authorities carefully count the returning whooping cranes to determine the number of young that migrate back with the adults. This year 42 cranes, 10 of which were young of the year, were counted at the Texas refuge. This represents the largest number of whoopers recorded in recent years.

Birds that were hatched during the year are distinguished from the adults by their color. They are whitish, blotched with rust color. Sometimes the blotching is quite extensive over the body of the young. During the winter the big cranes feed and loaf. Their food consists of acquatic plants and animals. Frogs, snails, fish, insects, and other small animal life which occur in the marsh habitat become a part of the diet.

About mid-April the cranes get the urge to migrate north to the nesting grounds. During the migration, some occasionally stop briefly in the Platte Valley before resuming their extended journey. A few years ago during early May two whoopers landed on a small lake south of Ogallala. The area conservation officer, Loren Bunney, who probably has the state's record of whooper observations, watched them carefully during their Nebraska visit. After a two-day rest, the whoopers resumed their trip to the far north.

National attention was focused on the whoopers when their numbers became dangerously low. The population, which was estimated at about 2,000 at one time, dropped to only 18 known whooping cranes, and it was feared they would become extinct. The advancement of civilization and destruction of habitat together with killing by man placed too heavy a drain on the population.

Since being accorded complete protection, the whoopers' decline has been checked, at least temporarily. Because of their limited numbers, the odds are still against them, but there is still hope that the magnificent birds will be an exciting part of nature's scene for a long time to come.

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