November Roundup

Winter is no wet blanket to a busy month of free-wheeling fun. Action is hot from bleachers to duck blinds

A MANTLE OF SNOW may blanket November's NEBR ASK Aland, but Nebraskans aren't in hibernation. Far from it. Rocketing pheasants and ducks are luring hunters from the fireside into the field by the thousands for a crack at some of the nation's best mixed-bag hunting. Outdoor spectator sports are going great guns, too. Stadium seats are filled to capacity, despite the white stuff, as NEBRASKAland's gridirons continue to bang out top-notch pigskin thrills.

State trophy citations will be awarded lucky deer hunters who bring home a big mule deer or whitetail buck during the November 6 to 14 season for Boone and Crockett records are being pushed by Nebraska trophies. An increase in the deer population has let the Game Commission liberalize regulations and issue a record number of permits. Bow and arrow sportsmen can hunt all month with the exception of the nine-day rifle deer season.

NEBRASKAland HOSTESS OF THE MONTH VICKI LEE LIVINGSTON NEBRASKAland's pigskin spectacles reach fever pitch this month as the state's gridiron gladiators exchange final blows. Our November hostess, Miss Vicki Lee Livingston, keeps things hopping along the sidelines, too, as she invites you to share a month jammed with football thrills, chills, and cheers. The daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Leslie E. Livingston of Kearney, Vicki Lee is a junior at Kearney State Teacher's College where she is majoring in physical education. A 1963 graduate of Kearney High School, Miss Livingston was 1964-65 Phi Phi Phi Sweetheart and the 1965-66 K Club Queen.

For the third straight year, NEBRASKAland pheasant hunters have the nation's longest season with 93 days. November is smack in the center of this explosive action. Old John Rooster will be dodging shot from hundreds of closet cannons this month as the excitement booms along.

Quail hunting gets into the full swing in November. The darting speedsters are even more numerous than last year and excellent shooting is ahead for the gunner quick enough to pull a bead on the brown bombshells. Cottontail hunting, always a favorite for thousands of gunners, hits full speed this month. A light snow will normally draw the bunny hunters out in full force to work draws and brush piles.

Omaha will host a massive exhibit November 5-7 when the Midwest Antique Show comes to the Gateway City. Another Omaha event is the National Editorial Association's meeting scheduled for November 11-13.

This month Broken Bow, central Nebraska city of 3,500, has more going for it than a parrot in a peanut factory. It will host the Fifth Annual One-Box Pheasant Hunt during the first week in November. Expert hunters and champion shotgunners will be on hand for the highly-publicized event. The annual Hereford-Rama is also on tap there at the same time. Keglers will compete in the Broken Bow Bowling Tournament the final three weeks of the month.

Waterfowl gunners have a big slice of the month to scan the skies as ducks and geese bolt down from the cold north. The big push of puddlers is expected to shove across NEBRASKAland before the November 28 closing. Honker hunters can blast away until their season halts December 15. Squirrels add sportive variety to the game bag for sportsmen have all month to pepper the bushytails.

The famous Cornhuskers of the University of Nebraska, preseason pick to lead the nation's footballers, buckle down to stump for blue-chip victories on the Big Eight pigskin circuit. Kansas comes to Lincoln, November 6, for a crucial clash and the Oklahoma Sooners romp onto the Memorial Stadium turf on November 25 for the last Husker home game. Bob Devaney's squad is seeking a fourth straight bowl bid again this season.

Wild turkeys will scramble for high ground the first week of this month. Six special areas offer hunting from October 30 to November 7. Gobblers and hens are fair game.

Dozens of snappy NEBRASKAland bands strut their stuff in the State Marching Band Festival at Lincoln's Pershing Auditorium on November 13. Rollicking amusement is in store for theater goers on November 20 when the Kosmet Klub presents its annual Fall Show, also at Pershing Auditorium.

Some say this is the most beautiful and bountiful month of the year. All will agree that Nature displays a kaleidoscope of seeing and doing during its 30 days. The crisp excitement is typical of the free-wheeling fun that waits in NEBRASKAland, when November invites all to come for a day, a week, or a lifetime. THE END

WHAT TO DO Sept. 18-Nov. 5 and Nov. 15-Dec. 31—Management Units Archery Deer Season October 20-November 28—State-wide Duck Season October 30-November 7—Special Areas Wild Turkey Season 1-3—Kellogg Center, Lincoln Farm Credit Banks' Seminar First week—Broken Bow Fith Annual One-Box Pheasant Hunt First week—Broken Bow Hereford-Rama 5-7—Omaha Midwest Antique Show 6—Lincoln Nebraska vs. Kansas, Big Eight Football 6-14—Management Units Rifle Deer Season 1 1—Plymouth Vets Day Program and Blue Rock Shoot 12—Omaha Nebraska Motel Association 1 1-13—Omaha National Editorial Association 1 3—Lincoln Marching Band Festival 20—Lincoln Cornhusker Kennel Club Show 20—Lincoln Kosmet Klub Fall Show 21-22—Lincoln School Boards of Nebraska 25—Lincoln Nebraska vs. Oklahoma, Big Eight Football Last Three Weeks—Broken Bow Annual Bowling Tourney 29-December 3—Kellogg Center, Lincoln Association of Methodist College Ministers Entire Month—State-wide Pheasant Season Entire Month—State-wide Goose Season Entire Month—State-wide Squirrel Season Entire Month—State-wide Rabbit Season NOVEMBER, 1965 5  

SPEAK UP

FLIPPED FOR BARNEY—"I have just read your delightful magazine for the first time, and you did well by my favorite writer and producer, Col. Barney Oldfield in the August issue. We have done eight radio series ventures together since 1956.

"Last year's 'Operation Moonstruck', on the physiological aspects of putting a man on the moon, ran on 611 radio stations in this and 22 foreign countries. Through the series I won numerous awards, including the Air Force Association Citation of Honor and McCall's Magazine's Golden Mike.

"Mr. Oldfield is not easy to work for, however, as the series required that I become the first woman passenger in a supersonic jet, endure weightlessness, frictionlessness, three times gravity on the same centrifuge as Ham, the astronaut monkey, experience senselessness in the hypodynamic tank, and 'baking' five minutes in an oven set at 250 degrees Fahrenheit. After this, he once introduced me to an audience as a half-baked beaut. I don't know about the last part, but the first part of that description was apt. I must say that not every woman would go through all these hoops and still approve of the one who did it to her, but I do!"—Del Vina Wheeldon, Cincinnati, Ohio.

OLDFIELD—"Your story about Col. Barney Oldfield failed to mention that he has just been elected to the USO Board of Governors representing the public at large. This is an organization which has worked since 1941 on troop morale in our Armed Forces, and is continuing to do so. Barney has been on our publicity committee since 1956, and he's about to be involved in our 25th anniversary ceremonials February 4, 1966. I might say his 'public at large' designation is not idle, as he is 'at large' most of the time."—Edward M. Kirby, Director of Public Relations, United Service Organization, New York.

AIR WAVE—"Your fish and game program on outdoor Nebraska is heard each week over Station KXXX in Colby, Kansas. It's one of the very popular features over this station, and to me, a native Nebraskan, one I try never to miss. Congratulations' "—Grace Welsch Lulgen, Colby, Kansas.

Each issue of NEBRASKAland carries a listing of times "Outdoor NEBRASKAland of the Air" is broadcast, and the stations which carry it.—Editor.

LOST VIZSLA—"I received a letter from some farm people who live about 75 miles from Alliance. They have a Hungarian vizsla dog which strayed to their place around last Christmas. They have tried to find the owner but have had no luck.

"They say the dog is A-l, but that he doesn't fit into farm life and they want to find his owner.

"I am writing you to ask on behalf of the numerous vizsla owners in Nebraska to write a small piece in your magazine in an effort to find this dog's owner. I own one myself and I and all the vizsla people would be indebted to your magazine for your help.

"The dog has a tattoo in his ear, and may have come down from South Dakota. Also, we had loads of hunters in northwest Nebraska last season."—Nick M. Dafney, Alliance.

If any of our readers can help Mr. Dafney locate the vizsla's owner, please contact him or NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska.—Editor.

SNAKE STRIKES BACK—"In the January, 1965 issue you have an article, 'Bowed Rattlers'. You speak of the 'fantastic accuracy' of Dick Mauch. Dick may be a very proficient archer but a weaving snake's head is a tough target at any range. I discovered 65 years ago in Nebraska that if you shoot an arrow at a coiled rattler and come within reasonable striking distance, you will probably hit him in the head. This is not because of 'fantastic accuracy' on the part of the bowman, but because the snake strikes out at the arrow. As one man put it, 'The both of the two of them meet'!

"I enjoy NEBRASKAland very much. Keep it up."—Vern L. Clark, Whittier, California.

SPREADS THE GOOD WORD—"I am a subscriber and reader of your magazine. I've been a hunting addict since early childhood. I'm now 92, and still enjoy hunting magazines.

"I keep a younger brother now living in California posted on hunting, since he occasionally comes to Nebraska for some shooting during his fall vacation. I also mail him my copy of NEBRASKAland after I've read it.

"I read about the sora rail in the magazine, and wish you would write a story about the snipe."—O. H. Johnson, Norfolk.

The snipe has been an occasional visitor to the pages of NEBRASKAland. He will undoubtedly appear again, along with the host of other wild denizens of our outdoor scene, though no specific snipe story is in the works at this time.—Editor.

NEWS FROM STATESIDE—"I have been reading NEBRASKAland for about six years. As far back as I can remember, my folks back home have always had a copy of it in our cabin out at Harry Strunk Lake in southwest Nebraska near McCook.

"Your magazine is like a newspaper to me and my buddies over here in Korea. It is looked for in the mail as much as a letter from home.

"Thank you so much for sending it over here to 'Freedom's Frontier'."—A/3C Terry L. Dowling, Osan Air Force Base, Korea.

NOVEMBER, 1965 7

BAD DEAL ON TEAL

Lady Luck has a stacked deck against me when I make a bid for bluewings by Jack Margott NEBRASKAland

IF NEBRASKA ever opens a season on jinxes, I'm going to be first in line for a license. The bag limit better be generous for I've got plenty of squaring up to do with the hoodoo that bugged me during the special teal season. I would rather hunt ducks than eat and have many times. Since I live at Decatur on the banks of the Missouri River, I never lack for targets. Well, almost never. I collect at the Decatur-Onawa Toll Bridge, run a small marina, and operate a plumbing and heating business. Besides, I'm on the town board, so finding time to hunt isn't always easy but I manage.

My sons, Jim and John, are ardent hunters and know the Missouri like a book. They usually hunt with me but when I can't go, the boys often go out on their own. I couldn't get away during the opening weekend so they went out and came back in record time with their limits. Jim hunted hard since he had to leave for college and wouldn't get any more gunning until the Thanksgiving vacation. John is in high school and plays on the football team so his time is limited too. But he and I planned a mid-week hunt anyway. He's a good student and his teachers were willing to let him skip school for a day.

The jinx started working the night before our proposed hunt. John was hurt in football practice and ended up in the hospital. His injuries weren't serious but the. doctors wanted to look him over for a couple of days before releasing him. John was pretty blue about the whole deal but insisted I go hunting anyway.

"There isn't a thing you can do for me and the season is better than half gone now. If you don't go, you won't get another chance, so why don't you go and quit worrying about me," he argued.

He had a point so I went ahead with plans for a teal hunt. I tried on my waders and promptly ripped them. The river with its potholes, backwaters, and sloughs is ideal for sneak hunting and waders are almost a must if you are going to get into some of the out-of-the-way spots where the bluewings hide. But the water was still warm enough to wade without boots. I substituted an old pair of crepe-soled shoes for the ruined waders and was ready to go.

My metal joe boat was half full of water from an all night rain and it took me the better part of 15 minutes to bail it out. The outboard was balky from so much dampness and I had to baby it for another 20 minutes or so before it settled down to its usual purr. But even with all these troublesome delays I was anticipating a good hunt and a quick return with my four-bird limit.

"It's getting colder up north and the bluewings should be streaming in. I'll hit a few of my favorite potholes and sloughs, pick my shots, and get back in time for breakfast," I told myself. My unseen jinx must have smiled at such confidence.

Weatherwise, things looked pretty good. There was a stiffish wind coming in from the north. The sky was gray and sullen and off in the distance I could hear the mutter of a tired thunderstorm. It was a day for bluewings to shelter up in the protective potholes and sloughs to escape the elements. I knew of an island with a couple of secluded potholes on it so I headed north on the Missouri.

There is one spot on the island that seems to have an unusual attraction for bluewings. It is a little pond, well hidden by cattails and hard stem. It always pays off for me during the regular duck season and Jim had said it was full of teal. I was pretty sure I would spook a flock of the early migrants and down a couple on the flush. The survivors might swing back and give me another go before they took off for good.

Even with all the rain, the river was down and I couldn't get in as close as I wanted to. I had to wade a hundred feet or so and got wet early in the game. The hoodoo was already throwing curves but I didn't know it.

My sneak was a good one and I was in on the ducks before they realized it. A big flock of web feet exploded from the tiny pond and climbed for the sky but they were all wood ducks and illegal. I was turning away in disgust when a loner came out of the rushes. It was a teal but he caught me off balance and was NOVEMBER, 1965 9   well up before I could swing on him. My hurried shot missed but he curved around and offered me a dandy chance for a second try. I just about pulled the trigger loose from my autoloader and nothing happened.

BAD DEAL ON TEAL Continued

In my hurry to get going I had picked up a box of low base shells and my shotgun wouldn't function through the fire, extract, reload cycle without adjusting the selector. I hand jacked a new round into the chamber but the teal didn't come back. The wood ducks made a couple of sweeps to aggravate me and then took off for parts unknown. It might have been imagination but I believe I heard a sarcastic chuckle right about then.

Wet, cold, and angry at myself, I went back to the boat and poled it through the shallows. Four shells dropped out of my pocket and plunked into the river. There wasn't a prayer of finding them in the murky water so I forgot about them.

"A poor beginning often means a good ending, or so they say," I consoled myself. My jinx must have laughed out loud at that remark.

A careful sneak on the next slough proved fruitless so I cranked up the outboard and headed for a backwater about a mile away. The putt putt purred away for a few minutes and then went wild. It wouldn't stay in gear. The bolt holding the shift linkage had worked loose and it had no forward speed. I thought about trying reverse and crawdadding my way to the marina but the strain on the motor would ruin it so I discarded the idea and decided to fix the linkage if I could.

All I had for tools was a beat up pair of pliers but I finally got the plate off the linkage cover and found the loose bolt. It was mighty tight quarters but I managed to tighten the bolt about a thirty-second of a turn each time with the pliers until it held.

"If I can start this thing in gear, I'll go back to the marina, fix the linkage right, and go out and kill me some ducks," I promised myself.

The jinx had a different idea. I have a habit of shifting the outboard into neutral before starting it so automatically I dropped the lever in the no-go slot before pulling the cord. The strain was too much for the shaky linkage. It let go at once and I had the whole exasperating job to do over again. I was soaked 10 NEBRASKAland to the skin and plastered with river muck before I got moving.

Limping back to the marina I got a break. Two bluewings were resting on a mud bar and I saw them before they saw me. Beaching the boat, I pussyfooted through the marsh weeds and was on them. I got one with my first shot, hand fed the cantankerous autoloader and dropped the second for a delayed double.

I should have quit when I got home but my dander was up and I was going to get a limit of teal come hell or high water. A socket wrench fixed the linkage in a jiffy and I took time to grab a box of high brass shells before heading up river again.

North of Decatur, Blackbird Creek empties into the Missouri. This sluggish stream has a series of pockets and cutoffs and is usually a hot spot for waterfowl when the big river is a little rough. I've killed plenty of ducks on the creek and there was a chance the teal might be loafing on its tree-shaded channel.

"All the teal can't be holed up in Iowa. There must be a few ducks around here even if the migratory birds haven't come out of the north. I'll hunt every darn slough and cutoff from here to Sioux City and sooner or later I'll find them," I vowed.

There are probably 20 sloughs between Decatur and Blackbird Creek and I hunted them all. It was hard work slogging through the mud and weeds to each one of the hideaways but I was determined to spook a few birds. Before I got to the mouth of the creek my determination and energies were oozing away at an alarming rate.

The payoff came just south of the creek. I had checked a backwater and was resting before heading for the boat when a flock of bluewings zoomed out of nowhere, swept over my head, and were gone before I realized what was going on. No doubt the web feet made my jinx an honorary member of The Society to Stamp Out Duck Hunters after that little caper.

Blackbird Creek produced some ducks. In fact a lot of ducks. All of them illegal. There were wood ducks, mallards, and a sprinkling of mixed breeds, but not one blue speedster. I hung around for quite a time but no teal crossed my sights so I finally gave it up and headed home.

On the way back there was a slough that I wanted to hit. It is in behind some pilings and beyond a stone jetty. To reach it I had to tie up my boat, crawl around the pilings, sneak over the jetty, work my way through the hard stem, and get over an old sandbar to gamble on a long-range chance. It's a difficult place to hunt and the ducks seem to know it but I was anxious to limit out if I could and wasn't going to overlook any bets. The sun was low and I knew I had to score soon or not at all.

Unthinking, I tied my boat to a piling without snubbing it up close. The slough was just as barren as all the rest so I made my way back to the jetty. Pausing for one last look, I caught a glimpse of my boat bobbing downstream. It looked like it had slipped its moorings and was floating away. I whirled, my sodden shoes slipped, and I came down hard on the stones.

For a long 30 seconds I didn't think it was worth the effort to get to my feet and after I did get up I knew it wasn't worth it. My back and lower ribs felt like someone had worked them over with a sledge hammer. Ironically, my boat was securely tethered to the piling and had merely floated out to the end of its mooring line.

Enough was enough and I knew it. I hobbled over the jetty, got into the boat, and went home. A full day's effort had produced two bedraggled bluewings and a full limit of bad luck. After a hot shower and liberal applications of liniment I was feeling better until the phone rang.

"Hey", came the voice of a hunting buddy from Tekamah. "How come you didn't come down here and hunt with me? The place is full of teal. There are bluewings in the road ditches, on the farm ponds, just about everywhere. Why, they're even flocking up in the puddles. Man, you could have killed your limit down here in 15 minutes easy."

I heard a strange, strangling sound in the room. My jinx was laughing himself to death. At least I hope he was. THE END

SIDNEY-DEADWOOD TRAIL

Miners gold buys wholesale murder in the West by Warren Spencer

THE SHOTGUN BLAST jarred the drowsing passengers into reality as the Sidney-Deadwood stage jolted to a halt in the heart of NEBRASKAland's Pine Ridge. Peering from the open windows, the travelers saw the driver sprawled on the ground near the front of the coach, blood gushing from a gaping wound in his side. A masked rider, a smoking shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm, stood over the dying man. Four others, all masked and armed to the teeth, quieted the wild-eyed team.

Terror struck again as the stage door burst open and the trembling passengers were dragged to the ground by the masked raiders. Expert hands fleeced the victims of their valuables as two of the dry gulchers rifled the strongbox lashed to the top of the coach. The box was soon emptied and its contents stuffed into waiting saddlebags. Satisfied with their haul, the bandits ordered their victims into the coach and slapped the driverless team into a gallop. Jogging to their waiting horses, the robbers mounted up and vanished into the yawning canyons of the Pine Ridge. The infamous Sidney-Deadwood Trail had another hold up and killing to its credit.

The 270-mile trail from Sidney, Nebraska, to Deadwood, South Dakota, had long been a thriving attraction for cutthroats out to make a fast buck, but the action really exploded when gold was discovered in the Black Hills of South Dakota in 1876. The cry of gold was sired by one of Colonel George Custer's scouts when he tumbled out of the saddle in Sidney with news of the strike. It was echoed and re-echoed by every man jack west of the Missouri River. Gold fever brought ruffians from all over the territory spurring into Sidney for their take of the diggings. As the "Hills' " nearest rail center, the shipments of gold flowing into Nebraska kept the town in a constant roar.

Sidney's gambling houses and saloons multiplied overnight and all did a booming business. The sound of continuous revelry in its sin bins rolled across the plains from dawn to dawn. Shoot outs were second nature to the frontier town's leather-slapping population. Most arguments were settled by blazing six-guns with the slower owl hoots planted six feet under Boot Hill's well-tilled sod. But, Sidney didn't live by lead and whiskey alone.

Local shipping flourished. New freighting firms sprang up like spring mushrooms. Plodding bull trains snaked across Nebraska's wind-swept prairie day and night. Prospectors in the mining camps to the north needed supplies, and Sidney's shippers intended to see they got them, at a price. Prices skyrocketed and shipping rates were outrageous, but eager miners were willing to pay well for their pleasures. Old businesses prospered and new ones grew bigger.

"Shotgun" freighters began making the long trek up the trail to the wide-open tent cities. Independent shippers, they were willing to transport anything to the mines in hopes of making a killing. One intrepid shot gunner loaded his wagon to the sideboards with cats in Sidney, and in Deadwood, some 270 miles later, he collected a small fortune for his cargo. There was no end to the possibilities for anyone with a little imagination and the guts to see a venture through, but not everyone was willing to put in the long hours and grueling work needed to make his fortune.

Holdups became as common along the Trail as the all-night faro games in Sidney's saloons. Marauding gunmen such as Sam Bass, Joel Collins, and "Doc" Middleton took their toll of the travelers. No stage was safe from the ravages of these raiders as they swept down out of the hills to line their pockets with gold. If there was any argument about their authority to tax the travelers for the use of the Trail, a bullet ended the dispute, and bullets were plentiful. Everyone who traveled from Sidney to Deadwood found a certain amount of risk involved, but some devised safer ways than others to meet the perils.

Prospective travelers found the freighting bull trains much safer than stagecoaches. Any outlaw who valued his neck wouldn't tangle with a tough and ornery bull-whacking crew.

Murder came wholesale on the Trail in its prime. Hardly a day went by without at least one prospector betting his life against his poke and losing both. But, whether the victims were a gold-laden stage headed for the railhead or a lonely miner out for a drinking bout in town, the holdups and dry gulchings continued.

Robberies were annoying to everyone, especially the stage companies. Any losses they suffered, they had to stand, and the drain on their profits got mighty heavy. The looting went on and on until it seemed that it would never end, until Luke Voorshees decided to stop it.

Voorhees, the Sidney manager for the Gilmer and Salisbury stage lines, came to the end of his rope. Declaring war on the desperados, he posted a $1,000 reward for anyone caught tampering with one of his stages. And, if the reward wasn't enough to discourage the outlaws, Luke had something else up his sleeve that he thought would turn the trick. Seasoned gunmen Jesse Brown, Scott Davis, Boone May, and Billy Sample, were imported as cures for the epidemic of murder and mayhem. All were blinding fast with Judge Colt's equalizers and the notches on their gun butts were more than just decorations. With these salty hombres on guard, would-be robbers stopped to think before looting the goldladen stages. But, there was one thing that Voorhees hadn't considered. A bandit had to eat, and the only way he knew of making a living was with his six-gun. The holdups continued.

As a last resort, Voorhees, several deputy marshals, and a detachment of troopers from Camp Robinson, now Fort Robinson, raided every known hideout along the Trail. The lawmen rounded up 15 suspects, convicted 14, and stashed them away with long jail terms. By then word had spread that the Pine Ridge wasn't healthy and most of the desperados hightailed it out of the country. But, a few were too slow and when Voorhees caught up with them, they stretched hemp without the formality of a trial. But cottonwood justice wasn't the only answer to the lawlessness.

Gilmer and Salisbury's head office had a more refined solution to the problem. They really brought up the heavy artillery when they put "Old Ironsides" on the Trail. A new Concord coach, Old Ironsides sported a %-inch steel lining. Only narrow slots were left for air and light, and the windows were virtual portholes. An 800-pound safe, strong enough to resist the efforts of all but the most dedicated holdup man, rested in its steel-lined belly. Even the roof was armored to prevent any enterprising bandit from trying a topside entrance.

Before long Old Ironsides was making regular runs from the diggings to Sidney with from $100,000 to $200,000 in raw gold securely bolted in its hold. As an added measure, six of Voorhees' sidekicks rode shotgun. For three years, the rolling vault cut deep ruts into the Nebraskaland sod without (continued on page 51)

NOVEMBER, 1965 13

Sun Burned FISHING

by Bill Vogt

I KNEW IT was time to start fishing when a trout slapped at a small snake cutting a diagonal across the water. Before we could reach the hole in the Snake River just below Merritt Reservoir, a woman stepped out of the brush. One cast with a bushy dry fly and she was tied to a rainbow. The fight was short but fierce. Her trout was about 14 inches long.

My partner and I looked at each other, puzzled. Then it was a toss-up who got there first as the lady angler sauntered on downstream, her canvas shoes sloshing and her fly rod held at a jaunty angle.

I tossed out a big grizzly hackle and watched expectantly as the current carried it under a cut bank.

We were looking for sizzling action at Merritt Dam. We found it, too, but it wasn't exactly the kind we wanted

Five or six trout rushed the fly, and one took it. I got the hefty feel of him before the fish shook the hook.

"Look," my companion said in a hoarse voice. 'There must be 20 of them."

Numerous trout leisurely finned back and forth in front of us, but aside from an occasional half-hearted slap, there were no serious takers. Ron Strozdas, who had agreed to try Merritt with me, headed further downstream. The ebullient Ron was familiar with NEBRASKAland fishing. Before he took a stay-at-home job in Liberty, Missouri, he was a traveling salesman and Valentine was one of his stops. Whenever he could he gave the creeks and lakes a good go and had scored mighty well. After settling down he kept up on Nebraska's angling prospects and for the past several years has reserved three days for a fishing jaunt to the north central part of the state. He's never been skunked here and neither one of us wanted this trip to be the spoiler.

NOVEMBER, 1965   Sun Burn FISHING continued 16

I tried a wide assortment of lures, looking for a winning combination that Ron could duplicate. I flipped dry flies, wet flies, streamers, and tiny spinners. An unwary dragonfly swooped to the surface and a good rainbow hit him with a solid smack. Grasshoppers might do the trick, I decided, and grabbed one from a nearby weed clump and impaled him on a No. 10 hook. The hopper struggled when I dropped him on the swirling water. A trout struck and cut capers in the clear stream. I worked the scrapper in toward shore, but he promptly took off with bait, hook, and half of a tapered leader. Bemoaning my luck, I hunted up another of the jumping critters. I fished that hopper to a soggy frazzle, but the trout vetoed my efforts. A tremendous splashing downstream directed my attention to Ron. He was fast to a fine fish.

"Help me get him in. I left my net in the car!" he called.

I ran to help as the fish cartwheeled in a tight circle, kicking up a froth of water. Gradually the trout weakened and I literally pounced to bring him in.

"He'll go three pounds," I chuckled.

"Four," Ron corrected me. He hooked a pocket scale under a gleaming gill. The scrapper registered 2V2 pounds, which proves that anglers' enthusiasms and estimations are not to be trusted.

We snapped a stringer onto the fish and glanced at the sky. The sun, slamming into the early-morning coolness, was becoming uncomfortably hot. After another hour's fruitless casting, both of us decided the trout, isolated in pockets by the temporarily low water, were hook educated Hoping that the area below the dam would pick up later, when its level rose with release water, we took Ron's prize back to the car using a wooden styl that was installed to ease the crossing of a fence.

Our car was almost too hot to touch, so we opened the door to let it air out a bit. I drove to the road which leads to Merritt Dam. Crossing the top of the structure, we saw no fishermen either on shore or in boats. Apparently the fish were seeking cooler water. My partner and I elected to drive farther down the lake and try some trolling. We turned around and retraced our route across the face of the dam.

The dam is named for J. M. Merritt, a former superintendent of fisheries for the Nebraska Game Commission. He played a key role in establishing a statewide plan for stocking fish. Merritt hoped one day to see an impoundment on the Snake to supplement the lakes around the Valentine Wildlife Refuge. The late Ernest A. House of Valentine (continued on page 51)

NOVEMBER, 1965 17

PAY AS YOU GO RECREATION

Here is prize for Nebraskans and other Americans in the space race. Congress and Unicameral are sponsors By Dennis Black Outdoor Recreation Specialist

NEBRASKANS AS WELL as all other Americans are in a space race. Not against the Russians but against themselves. Each year more and more people are discovering the pleasures of outdoor recreation, but space for these activities is continually dwindling. Although the problem was long evident, a solution was not. The Land and Water Conservation Fund Act, passed by the Congress of the United States in 1964 is the best answer yet devised.

This act creates a national fund from which appropriations will be made to provide outdoor recreation opportunities at federal, state, and local levels. It gives Nebraska, as well as other states, a chance to acquire and develop areas of high recreation potential before they are lost to other uses or become prohibitively expensive. This act runs for 25 years and is designed to meet outdoor recreation needs until the year 2000.

Basically the program is a pay-as-you-go-proposition. Every federal dollar must be matched by one from the state. The U. S. funds come from nominal admission and use fees for certain federal recreation areas, the net proceeds from the sale of surplus government-owned real property, and the existing national tax on motorboat fuels. Nebraska's share of the federal kitty for fiscal 1966 will be more than $1 million. In future years the annual allocations will be increased. This income is divided, with 60 per cent of the federal take going to the individual states. The remaining 40 per cent is retained for federal acquisition efforts. A special formula slices the state grants, five ways. Two-fifths will go to 18 NEBRASKAland each of the states on share and share alike. Three-fifths will go to the states on the basis of their recreational needs.

The 1965 Unicameral designated the Nebraska Game, Forestation and Parks Commission as the official agency to administer the program and watch-dog the expenditure of funds. Future success of the plan in Nebraska hinges on the state's ability to match grants.

This year's Unicameral hiked the state cigarette tax by two cents a pack. The senators earmarked 35 per cent of the increased revenue as matching monies for the federal grants. However, no funds for outdoor recreation development will be available from this source until early 1966 because the first $600,000 is allocated to the state office building fund. In fiscal 1966, when the plan gets rolling, Nebraska will have about $2 million to work with. The cigarette tax backs outdoor recrea- tion development until 1967. After that its revenue will revert to the general fund. Thereafter money from this source will no longer be dedicated to the program unless the legislators so decree.

But having the money available and spending it for a public swimming pool in Podunk Center are two different things. Before Uncle Sam parts with any money, he insists on certain requirements. The Game Commission had to submit a comprehensive state-wide plan to qualify for the federal grant. This plan was submitted to the Bureau of Outdoor Recreation's regional office in Denver for review. From there the 120-page plan went to Washington for final review and approval.

Drawing up the comprehensive plan was a tremendous job. Trained personnel worked on it for months. A careful analysis was made of Nebraska's population growth by regions and of the social and economic factors which contribute to the burgeoning demand for outdoor recreation. An inventory of all dedicated and undedicated outdoor recreation resources on federal, state, and local levels was made. Even private facilities were studied and incorporated into the plan.

Following the analysis, an evaluation of needs was made for lands and facilities that will be necessary to meet present and future demands. Basically, the study showed that Nebraska has a rapidly increasing clamor for water-oriented activities, also that demands for all significant outdoor recreational activities here are growing at a greater rate than the population.

Nebraskans are well aware of what the Land and Water Conservation Fund Act can do. More than 90 communities, ranging from tiny Arthur with 165 people to sprawling Omaha, have filed declarations of intent to participate in the program.

But submission of proposals does not mean that Arthur or Omaha has a magic wand that taps a flood of state and federal greenbacks for pet projects. There are certain musts that have to be met. All proposals must have merit and be in accord with the statewide plan. Even after state acceptance, local plans must get federal approval. The political subdivisions must have the resources to meet their share of the costs. A priority system is necessary to meet Nebraska's most urgent outdoor needs, and a blueprint for establishing these priorities has already been established in the state-wide plan. Many requirements must be met, but state and federal approvals, financial resources, and priorities are the main hurdles facing the state's political subdivisions.

The 1965 Unicameral did an outstanding job in laying the groundwork for Nebraska's participation in the Land and Water Conservation Fund Act. The senators approved LB 26, which provides matching money through a tax on cigarettes. Passage of LB 485 authorized the state to receive federal monies and established a Land and Water Conservation Fund in the state treasury. It earmarks 60 per cent of the federal allocations for state projects and 40 per cent for those submitted by political subdivisions. It also authorized the Game Commission to make state grants-in-aid from this cigarette-tax revenue of 25 per cent of the cost of approved projects submitted by political subdivision. The Game Commission's Director has publicly commended the 1965 Unicameral for its legislative accomplishments and performance in outdoor recreation and conservation fields.

Nebraska's formula for local participation in outdoor recreation development sounds complicated, but in practice it is fairly simple. For example, mythical Bear Tooth, Nebraska, has a $100,000 project which has been approved by the state and federal agencies. Uncle Sam will grant Bear Tooth $50,000 and the state, through the Game Commission, will chip in with $25,000. It will be up to the Bear Toothians to come up with the remaining money. Bear Tooth can thus have a $100,000 swimming pool, recreation lake, park, or other recreational facility for an expenditure of only 25 cents on each dollar of cost.

All our needs for outdoor recreation will not be satisfied overnight. There is much hard and challenging work ahead, but Nebraskans have never side-stepped a challenge nor shirked hard work. It's a cinch that, in the next 25 years, Nebraska will be one state that saw a golden opportunity, and reached a golden goal through wise planning, creative thinking, hard work, and cooperative effort. THE END

CHADRON ODYSSEY

by Sheri Hronek

MEG HAD VISIONS OF a vacation with horses, cliffs, and giant pine trees, but especially horses, at Chadron State Park. But her Dad gave thumbs down to the idea. Undaunted, Meg started a campaign to convince her father.

She wrote the park for all the literature on Chadron, and a large manila envelope bulging with the asked for information was quickly returned. Meg proved an able persuader and in August, she, brother Denny, sister Beth, and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Don Dobson of Ames, Iowa, with trailer in tow, came to Chadron and stayed for nine days that passed too quickly.

"I'd traveled through other states around here and got the idea that western Nebraska was a desert," explained Don who, reflecting on his daughter's campaign, admitted that she was right.

Scene of their odyssey was the 1,500 acres of prairie, pines, broken ridges, and buttes in northwestern NEBRASKAland that makes up the park. Approaching NEBRASKAland the play spot from the south on Highway 385, the Dobsons saw the sandstone buttes rising from the prairie like giants awakening from a slumber beneath blankets of grassland. As they watched, these giants merged with the prominent pine-covered hills that give the Pine Ridge its name. Night and day the fragrant scent of Ponderosa pine permeates the air.

The splendor of the Pine Ridge weaves a spell on the Dobson family. Here a 12-year-old proves to be a prophet

A camping site beneath shade trees next to the corral was the ideal spot for horse-loving 12-year-old Meg. The Dobsons set up camp and began preparations for the busy days that began at 6 a.m. Even so it was hard for them to find enough time to do everything and to get to bed, weary and exhausted, at 8 each night.

The fisherman of the family, Denny, who celebrated his tenth birthday at Chadron, soon discovered the park lagoon. Out in a boat with the family or standing on shore, he cast and reeled in and cast again, concentrating on his bobber riding the water. Entranced with the fishing the boy stared at the lagoon as if to hypnotize NOVEMBER, 1965 21   the worm snatchers below. "I caught some bluegills here and we got some more up at the Chadron Reservoir," he exclaimed.

CHADRON ODYSSEY Continued

Meg joined in the fishing and the worm-losing, too, but as Don put it, "She never catches as many as Denny." On shore even Beth, 2, got into the act. With rod and bobber she enthusiastically and repeatedly threw out and then pulled in her line.

"She doesn't get a hook," Don explained, "for the self-preservation of the family."

Amid the huge weeping willows that accent the sleepiness and peacefulness of the lagoon, the park visitors spent a lazy day on the lagoon rowing and enjoying the quietness of the water.

When they were feeling more rambunctious, the nearby cliffs offered breathtaking climbing and hiking. Markings on the stones and small cave-like crevices seemed to echo with memories of a long-forgotten time and people. Climbing along narrow trails, Denny and Meg spent many hours exploring and scouting the area. Along the side of the cliff, a calm little stream trickled over rocks and fallen branches, conjuring up images of Indian and pioneer drinking from a watering hole.

Each day when the swimming pool opened, Denny and Meg began their trek up the hill.

"There's the rock chimney way behind the pool and trees. It's really pretty," Meg exclaimed, enjoying the surrounding rock formations as she walked.

The rest of the family soon joined the youngsters for swimming races and piggy-back rides on Dad. From the bathhouse, the swimmers were face to face with the 22 NEBRASKAland beauty of the pines on the rugged ridges and the rolling hills. Under blue, open skies the kids splashed and dove.

After several hours of swimming, a short jaunt brought them back to the camp site to dry, change and await the horses. At 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. Meg and Denny hit the trail. Meg learned each horse's name and rode each of the 15 mounts at the park. For her, this was the highlight of the trip. Back in Ames last spring, after seeing pictures of the park in a brochure from her father's company, she and her brother went out each night for night crawlers and sold them to a service station at 20 cents a dozen. When it was too late for them, Dad did the hunting and became adept at it.

From the apple tree in the backyard, they picked crab apples and sold these. As they worked and saved, their goal grew closer—to save enough money for twice-a-day rides at Chadron State (continued on page 52)

the CALL OF THE WILDCATS

UNTAMED AS THEIR namesake, the Wildcat Hills in the panhandle of western Nebraska display a lofty disregard for the civilization that surrounds them. They are as primitive and unchanged today as they were 200 years ago when the white man first viewed their craggy summits.

In the next 14 pages, NEBRASKAland brings you some of the scenic treasures to be discovered in the Wildcats. There are many more. All are well worth the time and effort required to explore these durable remanents of a geological upheaval that racked the earth some 40 million years ago.

The Wildcat Hills are actually two ranges diverging westward in a lazy V from a once-common origin. Pumpkin Creek Valley separates the two escarpments. The northern leg of hills has the more spectacular geological formations. In the south there are some unusual and interesting views but they are widely scattered.

Courthouse and Jail Rocks, south of Bridgeport, are considered the eastern anchors of the northern range. Massive Scotts Bluff and Dome Rock guard its western ramparts. In between there is an array of buttes and pinnacles, canyons and coulees.

Nebraska's panhandle is the setting for a primitive and unchanging face of the West  

CRAZING HAS long been the mainstay of the Wildcats but a newcomer is threatening to shunt the Hereford and Angus aside. Oil has been discovered in the shadow of the buttes and many a remote slope now echoes to the creak of pumping rigs.

Creaking pumpers and bawling beeves are but interludes in the isolated splendor of the Wildcats for the hills have enduring strengths and formidable defenses to foil the push of progress.

The Wildcats without their conveniently located gaps and passes may well have stopped westward migration for another generation or two. These breaks allowed the immigrants to penetrate the hills and emerge on the high tablelands. Modern state and county highways follow such historical channels as Redington, Hubbard, and Wright Gaps, Mitchell and Roubadeau Passes.

Today's traveler needs only a dash of imagination and a glance to see the prairie schooners of old toiling through these portals in the wall of the Wildcats.

26 NEBRASKAland   28 NEBRASKAland     32

MANY OF THE Wildcats' finest formations are off the beaten path. A horse or strong legs are needed for close-in exploring. Since much of the land is privately owned, permission is required. Twin Mounds, five miles south of Redington, can be seen from High- way 88, but a trail jaunt on the Miller Ranch brings their beauty into sharper focus.

 

WIND AND water erosion is responsible for the massive sculpture of the Wildcat Hills. Millions of years ago, the area was highland born of natural upheavals and the volcanic ash from the then new Rocky Mountains. Gradually, the high plain leveled away but harder deposits resisted the chisels of time to create the fantastic forma- tions that delight geologist and casual visitor.

Nature is still carving and shaping the hills. This natural bridge, slightly west of Highway 71 and visible from Pumpkin Creek Road, has deepened about eight inches in the last five years. The finger on the top turret has drawn away from its parent within the past generation. Someday it will crumble and the butte will be an infinitesimal step nearer oblivion.

34 NEBRASKAland NOVEMBER, 1965 35  

THERE ARE numerous ways to see the wonders of the Wildcats. An 87-mile drive beginning at Courthouse and Jail Rocks, west on Highway 88 to Highway 71 and north to Gering, then east on Highways 91 and 26 reveals their overall splendor. A stop at the Wildcat Hills Recreation Area unfolds an impressive panorama.

For close-range exploring, a horse is almost a must since many of the formations are in remote areas with no access roads. Hiking is a rough walking and hard climbing proposition.

But no matter how you explore the Wildcat Hills, it will be an unforgettable experience. THE END

36 NEBRASKAland

HUNTER WITH A TROWEL

He tracks the ghosts of another era. Graves and ashes contain legacy left by early Pawnee, Arapaho 38 NEBRASKAland

YOU CAN CALL Max Wendland of Arapahoe a hunter even though he is armed with a trowel instead of a gun or a bow. Max works for the State Highway Department, but on weekends he hunts Medicine Creek and the Republican River for Indian artifacts. These areas, once the tribal territories of Pawnee and Arapaho, are fertile hunting grounds for the archaeologist.

The Arapahoe-based archaeologist is strictly an amateur, but over the years his collection has grown until it is one of the best in the area. The digging bug bit Max when he was 14. He started with the usual arrowheads, but soon expanded his collections to include pottery, scrapers, bone needles, and other mementoes of by-gone tribesmen.

Max's avocation has had its minor setbacks. "I was about 15 when I dug up the remains of an Indian brave. I took the skeleton home for my collection, but mother just about blew up. She made me take my warrior right back where I found him, pronto, and from then on her enthusiasm for my digging cooled," he recalls.

Max likes to dig around Medicine Creek after a hard rain has washed away the top soil and exposed the flint chips and clam shells which are clues to ancient fire pits. These pits were the Indians' garbage disposal units and yield everything from charred buffalo bones to perfectly formed and obviously unused arrowheads. Wendland can tell whether the Indians used buffalo chips or wood for fuel just by looking at   the ashes. "Buffalo chips leave a much lighter ash than wood," he explains. Clams were an important item on the tribal menu and broken shells in a pit are indications that some interesting finds may be waiting.

HUNTER WITH A TROWEL Continued

Most of his keepers are found three or four inches below the surface. Max is extremely careful in his digging, sifting every trowelful of soil through his fingers. Moles and gophers are probably two of his biggest headaches. These burrowers often scatter important finds all over the landscape with their tunnels. The Arapahoe archaeologist rates these pests No. 1 enemies in his attempts to reconstruct Indian pottery.

Max has six "vases" in various stages of assembly, with one over half done. He lacks the key shards to finish them and only time will tell if they will ever be 40 completed. It may take one more dig or another 25 years to find all the pieces he needs. "I may never find them, but half the fun is in the looking," he says.

Grain grinders are interesting additions to Max's collection. Squaws used these stone pounders to grind corn into meal. Some of the grinders are broken and chipped, but even so they are easy to identify. Their large size and smoothness are dead giveaways. Willows are always worth a probe when looking for Indian artifacts, and one of Max's better arrow points came from one clump.

"It was lying underneath a sapling with a lot of chips scattered around. I've often wondered what happened to the maker. It's a cinch that something must have happened to interrupt his work. Surely, he wouldn't have just walked away and left it. But, you can't daydream too much about your finds or you won't have time for digging," Max cautions.

Even though he doesn't waste much time thinking about the backgrounds of his prizes, there is one arrowhead that always sparks his imagination.

"I once uncovered a skull and this arrowhead was imbedded in it. What a story that point could tell. It's pretty hard for me to say that one particular item in my collection is a favorite, but this one comes mighty close," Max said.

The flint point measures only about one inch in length by.one half inch across, but despite its size, it is a deadly weapon.

Excavation plays an important part in Max's hobby and a few years ago it led to one of his biggest discoveries. Flint and shells on the surface indicated a camp site, but he had no idea of its size or contents. The archaeologist began to dig and soon realized that he was on to something big. When he finally finished, he had unearthed a massive, oblong shaped council house. Most of the tribal houses in the area range from 12 to 14 post holes in size. This one sported 26. Each of the rotting posts rested on a stone buried beneath it.

Wendland thinks these foundations may have had some religious significance for their ancient builders. Bone needles, awls, arrowheads, and scrapers cluttered the site, with each of the treasures in near perfect condition. The 16 by 30 foot structure had an overlapping doorway which could be shut to keep out intruders or bad weather. Its yield contributed greatly to Max's collection.

As the years go by and more and more artifacts are recovered, the hunting grows leaner but Max is confident there will always be some left to lure future searchers.

"This country was the favorite hunting and camping grounds of Indians for centuries and no culture can vanish without leaving traces of its presence behind. I don't think we will ever recover all the artifacts of the past but I do think they will be harder and harder to find," he predicts.

Browsing through Max's artifacts is a lesson in NEBRASKAland history. Few of Wendland's artifacts are mounted. He keeps them in a large, well-worn trunk. Max hopes to mount them in display cases, but lack of time has kept him from doing so. But, whether the artifacts are mounted or not, Max can recall every one of them. He remembers when and where each was found, and if there is an interesting story connected with one of them, he remembers that, too. Though Indian artifacts make up a large part of his collection, other finds are equally interesting.

Max once discovered several .56 caliber rifle shell casings lying about an old Indian camp site. Evidently some long forgotten buffalo hunter sat on the ancient mound while he cut down the shaggy beasts on the surrounding plain. A recovered .38 caliber reloading tool recalls the days when white-topped Conestogas lumbered across the open prairie bringing settlers and a new way of life to the frontier. Animal teeth, bullet molds, and mini balls all help to round out Max's treasures and preserve a part of NEBRASKAland's early West.

The state's Indian heritage is fading, leaving thousands of questions unanswered. Today, amateur archaeologists like Max Wendland are probing the past to find some of the answers. Thanks to them NEBRASKAland's colorful history will never die. THE END

THE PRECIOUS FEW

My time and luck were running out when the 13-pointer hit for the ridge

FIGHTING BACK an impulse to take an off-hand shot at my first mule deer buck in three days of fruitless tracking, I eased into a sitting position and flicked off the safety. Just as the scope's crosshairs settled ahead of the buck's chest he disappeared behind the spur of a canyon wall.

Frantically, I clawed and scrambled my way up the side of the spur. Fifty feet up, I had a clear view of the grassy slope to the crest of the ridge. The buck broke from a clump and made for the top. I hurriedly slipped into a prone position and fired. My prize was just 10 yards short of the ridge and safety when I squeezed the trigger. He dropped in his tracks, a bullet through his spine. I felt a fierce exhultation when the buck went down, for he was the successful climax of a tough and often frustrating hunt.

For three days my hunting mate, Dennis Tracy, and I had crawled the aimless maze of game trails along the steep walls of the canyon-slashed Pine Ridge. Above us, Ponderosa pines stood sentinel duty while down below, Wolf Creek twisted and tumbled through its endless course. From here, the lazy water inched its tortured way through deep cuts in solid rock to White Clay and on down to the White River. Throughout the hunt my brain was rebelling at the possibility of going home empty-handed for the first time in three years of hunting.

Dennis, a county deputy sheriff, and I had driven up from Omaha to the hauntingly beautiful Pine Ridge for our annual foray against the elusive and wily mule deer. These spooky, unpredictable creatures, with the mule's long ears and a Pogo-stick, stiff-legged bounce seem to live and act like their cousins, the whitetails. On more than one occasion I had seen mule deer with whitetail masks in this region, where the two species share common habitat, and once shot a deer with antlers that were definitely those of a mule deer's, but had the shape of a whitetail's.

Instead of living the gregarious existence of most mule deer these long-eared canyon critters are like ghosts. They are seldom seen, except in the dim light of early dawn or late dusk.

We saw deer signs everywhere during our three days' sleuthing along canyon walls. In similar hunts during the two previous seasons I had learned that the secret of taking mule deer here was to "still hunt". This involves cautiously and very quietly edging along the game trails that etch canyons, in the hopes of spooking a mule deer out of the sparse cover.

During our three days of dawn to dusk walking, Dennis and I had seen hundreds of deer on the alfalfa-covered canyon tops, but we weren't there to shoot just any deer. I believe in trying to get one under the most 42 NEBRASKAland difficult conditions, with just enough woods and enough open space to give me the kind of long shots I like. And difficult conditions we had.

by J.A. Brownrigg

Each taking a side of this rough canyon, we were working it out slowly, stopping four steps for every two we took, hoping to jump a good buck from his bed within the range of either of our scope-sighted .30/06's. I had seen too many of these canyon country bucks crossing the ridge to safety, a quarter-mile or more ahead of a careless walker to take any chances. The key to success, as always, was silent stalking.

To any observer above us, the scene could have hearkened back to the days when the Indian pitted his wits, and sometimes his life, in the ceaseless rivalry of this grim, silent arena. The only difference now was weapons. The arrow had given way to bullets.

Standing there thinking about a buck so hard I could almost taste him wasn't going to put one in front of my scope's crosshairs, however. Lengthening shadows, as the sun headed for its inevitable date with the horizon, weren't helping either. Cautiously, we moved on.

We were just coming out of our last canyon, and I could see the wide, grassy swale at the top, when a sudden movement caught my eye, on my side of the canyon and about 200 yards ahead of me. Dennis' persistent stalking had paid off. Although my partner was probably 500 yards to my left, he had bounced the buck from his bed. The old mossy horn had crossed to my side, hurrying to get over the ridge and safety.

Just a few minutes later, though it seemed like an eternity at the time, he was mine.

My buck weighed 205 pounds field dressed when I checked into an Omaha locker late the next day. His antlers, sporting 13 points by eastern count, were the largest I'd ever seen in hunting Nebraska, Wyoming, and Colorado. They lacked only conformity to be up there among the best Nebraska heads.

Three years and three wily bucks, all shot in dim light and at long ranges, have taught me that the Pine Ridge and surrounding country holds the finest mule deer hunting anywhere. Padding along its needle carpeted game trails, high on the steep walls, you feel that you are among the precious few men who have ever come this way. Perhaps the last ones had to hunt much more quietly than we did or go hungry. THE END

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland proudly presents the stories of its readers themselves. Here is the opportunity so many have requested —a chance to tell their own outdoor tales. Hunting trips, the "big fish that got away", unforgettable characters, outdoor impressionsall have a place here. If you have a story to tell, jot it down and send it to Editor, OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln 68509. Send photographs, too, if any are available.

PADDLES ON THE PLATE

Young canoeists learn that even a familiar river holds adventure

OUR SMALL CAMPFIRE whipped into an eerie dance as the wind gusted along the bank heralding rain. The youngsters darted for the protecting pup tents as the first big drops slammed down, blotting out the gleaming ribbon of the Platte River. A vivid bolt of lightning was followed by a rumble of discordant thunder.

Rain beat on the tents with tiny fists, but the members of Explorer Post 179 of Elm Creek were secure. The scouts had that special brand of confidence that comes with experience. Earlier, two 50-mile treks down the Calamus River had taken out the kinks and the boys knew how to cope with any emergency. They were well-prepared for anything the Platte could throw at them. The broad shallow river courses near their homes, and they were eager to take up its challenge and apply the knowledge gained on other float trips as well as have some fun on this close-to-home river.

The members of the float team were Mike Haberlan, Jim Mitchell, Monty Knobel, Karl Skinner, Gary Keim, Randy Sear, and Kent Beavers. I am the post's advisor. The post is sponsored by the Elm Creek Public Schools. The Platte trip, 35 miles by road from Cozad to Elm Creek, is about 60 miles by water. It was one of a series we planned to open new vistas for canoeists. Just to prove we could do it we put in our three canoes shortly after 6 p.m., on the evening of the storm.

A little thing like rain could never dampen the enthusiasm of these voyageurs. But the brief howler did dampen the fire. After an hour the storm dragged itself off and the canoeists emerged from cover to revive the smoldering wood. As we resumed our positions around the comforting glow, talk stopped after a few minutes. We listened to the mournful hoot of an owl and the song of a coyote voicing his defiance at the retreating storm. Before we knew it, it was time to hit the sleeping bags.

Morning comes early on a camping trip, and everyone was up by six. After the troops downed heaping plates of scrambled eggs and canned chopped ham, the gear was packed and we were floating toward our next objective, the Darr bridge.

The Platte ran smooth and fast and carried enough water to float the three canoes in good shape. As we cruised along quail and pheasant called, and blue jays screamed an encore. A cardinal flashed his brilliant red 44 NEBRASKAland through the green of the trees. Clouds, reflected in the water, gave an illusion of seclusion and peace that belied the fact that the Union Pacific Railroad and busy U.S. Highway 30 were not far to the north.

We had set a guesswork schedule, hoping to reach the bridge by noon Saturday. With the help of the river, our guess was good. We pulled under the bridge at 12:15 for a lunch of bean soup and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We didn't waste any time because we had mapped out a long haul for the day. Our next stop would be a diversion dam between Overton and Lexington. We pulled away just in time to pass two canoeloads of floaters who were making a run from Darr to Lexington. The river, for the most part, had good channels, some about as wide as a canoe. Others covered about half the river. Gary Keim was riding pilot most of the time, for he has a built-in "radar".

When we reached the Lexington bridge late in the afternoon, we felt we were behind schedule, and that it would be pure luck if our party pulled into Elm Creek before dark on Sunday.

In spite of our rush, we had to take time out for a coyote. Randy, Gary, and (continued on page 54)

THE FISH HUNTERS

Fame is a fleeting thing in this exciting sport. Records are often shattered by a single shot

THE BIG BASS swam in the sun-warmed shallows of one of the sand pits at Ray's Valley Lakes. The archer slowly made his way down the high bank. He knew from experience that the slightest misstep or sudden motion would send his prey off in a swirling cloud of sand. Carefully drawing back on his 61-pound bow, the hunter sighted below the fish and fired. A long finger of line whipped from the spool mounted on the bow. The struck fish blasted toward deeper water, but the homemade spring-steel-barbed point held. Moments later the archer dragged his struggling largemouth up the bank.

Tom Kelley, had just put himself in the bow-and-arrow record race. The 25-year-old archer from Omaha, took his four-pound, five-ounce prize to a Game Commission officer for weighing, and submitted the catch for a record. The April 29 catch opened a new page in the Nebraska's archery record book, maintained since 1960. But just 10 days later, Robert A. Meeks, of Omaha, scored with a six-pound, six-ounce largemouth, also at Ray's, shattering Tom's tally almost before the record was entered.

Robert tells it this way:

"It was the first time I'd ever shot a fish, though I'd used a bow before. I was casting for bass with lures when I saw several bass feeding on smaller fish down where a tree went into the water. Borrowing a bow from my brother-in-law, I moved up on my prize. But, each time I approached, the fish swam away. I waited there a while, and one of them came back. He was outlined against a patch of white sand. The bass was about four feet down when I shot, the arrow going in near the top fin."

The tyro bow fisherman also bagged three other bass, topping three, four, and five pounds. The three-pounder was the first fish Bob ever pushed a point at. The soft-spoken young man was modest about his record, almost regretful because he had topped a veteran bow fisherman.

Any prospective archer-angler could learn a lot from Tom Kelley. He is no novice at the sport, and is anxious for bow fishing to come into even more prominence, though he has already noticed that more and more archers are taking their bows to water.

Asked what tips he would give a beginner, Tom stressed the importance of refraction. This gives a false image of a fish in the water. To help beat the problem of glare, Tom wears a pair of Polaroid glasses.

"They help me distinguish fish from shadows, and I can see deeper into the water," he said. "Refraction NEBRASKAland isn't so bad when your fish is still, but the least little bit of motion throws you off. I shoot under them, a trait that throws me off when I practice for the deer season.

"In the approach, I try to get up on a high bank where I can look down into the water and get a sharper angle for my shots," Tom continued. "It's like looking down into a goldfish bowl. More targets are visible, and an angle shot seems to have more penetration. I move down the bank nice and easy. If a man steps around a tree or log too fast, all he'll see is a cloud of sand as the fish takes off."

"I started shooting rough fish in the fall of 1958," Tom commented. "The first year was tough."

Tom has noticed that when a carp heads out, he's usually gone for good. On the other hand, bass will often come back and circle a few yards from where the archer first spotted him. The Omaha bowman has proved he can hit cagey carp on the first go round. He's tallied up an impressive list of scores in the rough-fish bracket, including a 22-pound buffalo and numerous carp breaking into the 10-pound class. He thinks it's at least as hard, probably harder, to get a fish with a bow as it is with a conventional line.

Another record-holding archer, Ron Meyers of Lincoln, prefers the spookiness of the rough fish for real sport. He has stuck to the nongame bruisers for the entire 10 years he's been blasting fish with the bow. In 1961, Meyers pinned down a 29-pound carp at Alexandria Recreation Area in southeastern Nebraska. The record stood until June 13, 1964, when Mike Agosta, a former Omahan, sank an arrow into a 36-pounder. Meyers still stands tall in the record book, however, with a 15-pound, 8-ounce gar shot at Linoma Beach near Ashland July 1, 1960.

"Our party was in two boats," recalls Ron. "We were crossing two islands when we saw the big gar. I shot from 25 or 30 feet, and got him in the middle of the head. He tore across the lake for about a half hour, dragging the boat behind. At one point, our craft tipped to one side, and water was coming in. Reuben Worster, who was rowing, kept yelling at me to cut the line. We finally worked the gar to shore and dragged him up the bank. After landing the lunker we shot another arrow at him, but it just bounced off his armored hide."

Ron does most of his shooting at Linoma Beach, where archers are restricted to rough fish. He does make the rounds of several dams along the Blue River, however, and relishes fringe waters of flooded areas. Ron says a man will get fish if he's willing to go into the edges of flooded fields, especially where the water crosses a road. He has seen some huge fish swim over a road in water just a few inches deep.

The Lincoln archer doesn't use the Polaroid glasses Tom Kelley finds so valuable. He trained himself to look into the water instead of across the surface. This way one sees fish as darker objects. Ron gauges the refraction by watching bluegills or other smaller fish, but noted that refraction varies with light and silt content.

Like Kelley, Ron will sometimes climb a tree to spot fish. He prefers a boat for his approach, letting the craft drift with the wind while he stands scanning the water. A 72-pound-test Dacron line is his choice for his bow reel, and he stresses the importance of getting good equipment from a reputable dealer.

This champion bowman has topped his own 29-pound carp with a 32-pounder, and still has his eye on the record book, both on the new carp mark and the 35-pound record in the buffalo category. This lunker was taken by Leonard Woodrum of Garland at Linoma Beach last May.

Nebraska's archery record book is always changing, and draws no limits as to age or experience. Ten-year-old Jerrold Edwards of Bridgeport bears witness to this. Using his birthday bow, he shot the state-record rainbow trout, a 6-pound, 1-ounce, beauty taken from the Platte River. Young Jerry zeroed in on the 24-inch fish from a bridge over the river while he was on a family outing May 7.

The record book is never closed in Nebraska and sometimes new entries are made before the ink on the old has dried. No matter what your age or experience, grab a bow and head for the water. Here records are made for breaking. THE END

WHERE-TO-GO

Lyons City Park

LYONS CITY PARK at Lyons occupies a part of historic and picturesque northeast Nebraska. This 20-acre park provides both resident and traveler with room for camping, picnicking, or just plain loafing.

The level, tree-covered tract of land on U. S. Highway 77 includes an up-to-date bath house and a swimming pool that Lyons citizens claim is the largest in northeast NEBRASKAland. Carved out of the prairie 50 years ago by the townspeople and donated to the city by them, the park, on the west side of town, has water, electricity, and rest rooms for overnight camping.

Young and old delight in the lazy lagoon. Bullheads, bass, and carp share its waters. An island in the middle of the lagoon offers a kitchen for public use. Its gas stove makes cooking easy. Besides the kitchen there is a band shelter. A bridge is the only access to the island since boats are not allowed on the lagoon. Another public kitchen and an outdoor barbecue are located on the main shore. Tables make picnicking and camping comfortable propositions. A nearby pavilion is open for evening roller skating and an occasional dance. To the south, a lighted ball diamond hosts summer baseball and softball.

With Lyons in the center of a historic area, the traveler can find, within a 50-mile radius, many attention-getters for weekend or day excursions. To the west lies Norfolk with the largest livestock auction market in the world. Located in the Elkhorn valley, this community was born in 1866 when 44 German families from Wisconsin were attracted by its rich land. Norfolk's parks include the 55 acres of Ta-ha-zouka park and zoo, Johnson Park's sunken gardens, Central Park, and a historical museum.

Southwest of Lyons is Columbus in the valley of the Loup and Platte rivers. Modern day trails converge on the city, known as "The Crossroads of America". It is the junction point of U.S. Highway 81, the Meridian Route from Canada to Mexico, and U.S. Highway 30, the Lincoln Highway from New York to California.

This pioneer town was the setting for the start of Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show in the 1880's. Its Pawnee Park displays one of the earliest steam engines used on the Union Pacific Railroad main line. Named for the Indians who originally owned it, the park covers 80 acres of woodland along the Loup River south of the city. Markers honor the pioneers who followed the Oregon Trail and point out the location of the old North Fork Ferry.

Fremont State Recreation Area beckons from the south. This easily accessible lake complex attracts a variety of sportsmen for camping, boating, water skiing, swimming, and fishing. Open the year-round and a short distance from 20 fresh water lakes, Fremont is always a popular spot.

Another neighbor of Lyons, to the southeast, is Omaha with a full slate of things to do. Among the places to see are the Mormon Cemetery, Ak-Sar-Ben sports events, Gateway City Trail, Joslyn Art Museum, and Boys Town.

The winding Missouri River to the east features fishing and boating and plenty of sight-seeing. Reservations of the Omaha and Winnebago tribesmen in the northeast are homes of the Indians who once a year trade whiteman's garb for the buckskin and beads of another time to stage their colorful powwows and tribal reunions.

North of Lyons, Ponca State Park offers 500 acres of camping, picnicking, and hiking. Playgrounds, a swimming pool, and comfortable cabins complete the Ponca picture. On State Highway 9, near the Missouri River, the park is an ideal spot for fishermen.

For a night's rest before hitting the trail or for a lunch stop on the way to one of the area's scenic spots, Lyons City Park is a mighty hard place to top. THE END

48 NEBRASKAland

JUST DUCKY

Divers and puddlers are not puzzlers when quacker fanciers zero in on this quiz MATCH THEM UP Ruddy Green-winged teal Canvasback Baldpate Lesser scaup Shoveler Mallard Gadwall Blue-winged teal Redhead

WITH GUNS AND DECOYS ready, NEBR ASK Aland waterfowlers are heading for the blinds. A willingness to endure wind, water, and cold pushes these hardy hunters to pursue their favorite quarry, the duck.

Be you an experienced hunter or a beginning bird watcher, the 10 waterfowl pictured here may cause you identification troubles. In the fall many of the once-gaudy drakes take on the drabber appearances of the hens. However, they do retain a few characteristics to use in identifying your particular target. Wing markings are usually good references. Take this armchair hunt and bag your limit.

The webfeet have two major divisions. The divers and the puddlers. Divers, common to Nebraska, include the small, well-known ruddy who is identified by his short neck and bill. Largest is the canvasback, with his sloping forehead and elongated bill forming a straight line; while the redhead can be recognized by his more pronounced forehead. The white contrasting area on the speculum, a patch on the lower half of the wing's middle part, marks the scaup. A real speedster, he comes readily to decoys.

Among the puddle ducks, the mallard, with two white wing bars on each side of his speculum, is the biggest and the most popular with NEBRASKAland hunters. Runty blue-winged and green-winged teal are close seconds. Second largest of the puddlers pictured here is the pintail. His pointed tail and long neck make him a cinch to identify. Another common marsh dweller is the baldpate, named for the white spot on his head.

A shovel-like bill is a dead giveaway for the shoveler. Another medium- size bird, the gadwall, is noted for the white spot on the trailing edge of his wing.

Now, see if you can hit a bull's-eye and identify these 10 ducks, either at home, on a Sand Hills lake, in the cornfields, or on the open rivers while seeking these elusive flyers. Answers are on page 55. THE END

The Sidney-Deadwood Trail

(continued from page 13)

losing an ounce of gold. But its luck finally ran out when a hungry bunch of rawhiders pulled the Brinks job of their day.

On September 28, 1878, the driver and his escort rolled into the Cold Springs Canyon Station, about 30 miles southwest of Deadwood. Cocky and careless over their unblemished record, they dropped their guard, and the outlaws found the chance they had been waiting for. Charging out of the hills, they pried open the vault and escaped with $45,000 in dust and nuggets. But, their success was short lived. The strong arm of the law nabbed them before they had time to enjoy their new-found wealth. Most of the loot was recovered, and those who surrendered were handed long jail terms. Those who didn't bought a one-way ticket to Boot Hill.

Easy pickings were over along the Trail for these frontier free-loaders. Voorhees, madder than hops over the Old Ironsides job, staged another raid on the hangouts in the Pine Ridge and rounded up another batch of suspects. The last raid virtually put an end to thievery on the Trail, and the surviving outlaws set up shop elsewhere. But, this highway of crime didn't have a corner on all of the excitement.

Sidney got in on the hoorah with its great gold robbery. The incident gave the townspeople plenty of talking fodder for a good many years. One evening the stage rolled into town just as the last train of the day was pulling out. Four gold bars, valued at $80,000, were transferred from the stage to the freight room at the express station for safe keeping. The station agent bolted the door and stepped out for a bite to eat. When he returned all that was left to remind him of the treasure was a hole sawed in the floor.

Roaring with rage, stage officials called in Union Pacific Railroad Superintendent, Robert Law, to investigate. He asked ace railroad detective, James H. "Whispering" Smith to give him a hand. Together they narrowed the list of suspects to four including the station agent, an ex-sheriff named McCarthy who owned the Capitol Saloon in Sidney, one of his bartenders, and a barber named O'Flanagan.

Smith suspected McCarthy as the brains behind the job and made no secret of his suspicions. But, the jury didn't buy the detective's charges, especially when the railroad dick wanted to string McCarthy up to the nearest telegraph pole. They didn't cotton to thievery, but they thought that Smith was taking the whole thing a bit too hard. After all it was only a gold shipment. But, one thing led to another and finally Smith was able to swing enough votes and McCarthy was jailed. The former sheriff was brought to trial, but there wasn't enough evidence to convict him and he walked out of court a free man.

Later the gold was found buried in a U.P. coal pile, but little was said about it. Some of the town's disreputable characters hit on the scheme of selling the supposedly still missing bars to the uninformed Sidneyites. Several bogus bars were cast and the ruse was under way. The reception wasn't too favorable, however, and the venture was abandoned, but not before one of the fake bars found its way into the basement of the Capitol Saloon. Years later when the saloon burned down the sham was found. Today it rests over the door of the express station in Sidney as a constant reminder of the lawlessness which once reigned in the panhandle town.

After that it was all over but the shouting for the Sidney-Deadwood Trail. Railroads were taking over mighty shipping industry, and the mother lode of the Black Hills petered out. By 1881 the flood of travel over the Trail had dwindled to a trickle. No longer did the rumble of endless bull trains and the creak of heavy stage- coaches echo across the prairie. Soon the grass was hiding the time-worn ruts. But, though the Sidney-Deadwood Trail is no more, it will live forever in NEBRASKAland's colorful history. THE END

SUN-BURNED FISHING

(continued from page 17)

later took up the push for a reservoir. His idea was to establish an irrigation for the region. Largely through his efforts, the project was launched by the Bureau of Reclamation. The lake was opened to fishing last November. This spring, it erupted into an angling carnival of fighting rainbows that is still the talk of the area and the regret of those who missed out when the action was at its peak.

The face of the dam stretches across the Snake River about 25 miles southwest of Valentine. Nestled in a sea of hills, the lake comes as a surprise to the stranger. There are few clues that it is even there until the last hill is crossed, for the scenic road seems to pull the motorist deeper and deeper into the encircling hills. After the route crosses a bridge over the Snake, it parallels the gleaming white irrigation gutters. These concrete arteries of life-giving water fan out from the impoundment across the sunbaked landscape. Tourists have found the reservoir campsites a pleasant stopping place. On this August day, there were many of them.

Being a curious cuss, I stopped to talk to a tourist family, lolling in collapsible chairs under an awning in front of their camping trailer.

"Any luck?" I hailed.

"We got 10 this morning, the man of the family answered, rummaging in an ice cooler. He hefted a plastic bag of rainbows between 12 and 20 inches long.

'We caught them all in the river below the dam. Not much doing right now, though. I guess it's too hot to fish. It's 106 by the thermometer." He gestured toward a half-circle of boats drawn up snug against the shore.

We climbed back in the car and headed around the lake. The dam holds a sizeable puddle of water, about 2,900 acres worth. Another several miles brought us past another campsite where the campers lounged under awnings, like the first family we had visited. "Looks like they're smarter than we are," I laughed as we drove past.

Ahead of us, dead trees raised defiant heads above the water. The blacktop road shimmered ahead, undulating over the Sand Hills. To one side, irrigation pipes shot sprays of cooling water upward, their drops cascading down in a mist. We turned into one of those innumerable pairs of tracks that pass for roads through the hills.

I eased our rig down to the water and we launched the boat. On our way back to high ground parking space, the car's radiator hose blew free with a hiss of steam.

"Might as well leave it," I sighed. "Nothing can be done with it until the engine cools. Besides, it came off at the clamp and shouldn't be too hard to fix. Anyway, there is plenty of water to refill the radiator."

We climbed aboard the boat, cast off, and whipped past a half-submerged tree. The small craft brought us steadily closer to the far shore. When it looked like we were in the main channel, I throttled down to a crawl. Ron tied on a small French-made spinner, and I rigged up a "cowbell".

Cowbells are ungainly lures which consist of a string of spinners of varying sizes. Interspersed red beads lend a festive touch, and some fishermen call them "Christmas trees". I topped NOVEMBER, 1965 51   the conglomeration off with a night crawler, and a weight to drag the whole thing down to the cooler depths.

Ron flipped his lure out, and we settled down to watch our spinning rods bob to the throb of the motor. The hot sun drew out the sweat and our water jug grew steadily lighter. Ron's old camouflage shirt darkened with perspiration. Neither of us would part with our shirts, however, for fear of a scalding sunburn. Suddenly my companion jerked his rod back. His "I got one!" was unnecessary, for the slender fiberglass was bent in a tight bow. The fish slashed off at an angle, then reversed course. Ron bore down and steadily gained line. My partner had the odds stacked in his favor, for there was no convenient snag for the fish to wrap around. The Missourian worked the fighter toward the waiting net, and soon a nice rainbow struggled in its mesh. The trout weighed in at better than a pound, and was every inch a fighter.

After the fish was secured, I lowered a rope with a rock on the end to get some idea how deep the water was. The hemp slithered over the side for what seemed like a long time.

"It'll go about 30 feet," I speculated when I finally retrieved the rope. We cranked up the motor and began trolling again. Shadows were beginning to play over the hills as the afternoon wore on. A couple of white-fronted geese sliced air overhead. Scanning the shore, I saw two deer standing in the shallows. The lake seemed to come to life as the sun made a beeline for the horizon. A chorus of bullfrogs greeted us from a shoreline indentation where an occasional fish splashed.

We headed for the cove and my rod snapped downward with a heavy strike. But the fish let go just as the motor died. The boat drifted into the small bay, and Ron pulled in a small fish.

"Green sunfish", he commented, dropping his catch into the water. "I've got one, too," I grunted. "We've hit a school of them."

Ron reeled in another as the little fellows proceeded to tear into our offerings. We caught and released fish after fish until we tired of the sport. They were even game for a tiny gold unbaited hook.

With the motor running wide open, we cut over the glassy water to our waiting car. Once ashore it took only a few minutes with a pair of pliers and a screwdriver to fix the hose. We filled the radiator with our water jug and started back to the main road.

The cool air from the opened windows fanned our sun-branded hides while the lake stretched beside us in muted silver. It had been a congenial partner. I told my companion the fishing would have been much easier just a few weeks before. But Ron shook his head and grinned his satisfaction.

"You know," he drawled, "I'll be back here again next year, about this same time. This country really gets to a man. Everything is so wide-open, with plenty of elbow room to move around. And I've got no kick on the fishing. We caught enough to keep it interesting, in spite of the heat".

"Just make it a little earlier," cautioned. Ron had not seen Merritt trout on a spring rampage. THE END

CHADRON ODYSSEY

(Continued from page 23)

Park. And ride they did. Out through the wilds with pines, cones, yellow sunflowers, and purple gentians painting the scenery, they rode on the supervised jaunts in the mornings and in the afternoons, bumping through the draws and over the hills. Tree branches, dead from the horses rubbing against them, littered the trail side and moss blanketed the area.

"With the trail rides supervised, we don't have to worry about the kids when they go out," Don noted.

Nancy and Don tried the trail one day. "Getting back over the fence after getting off the horse proves what you are," Nancy grimaced.

For Meg, who became an old hand around the corral, the stiffness lasted only a few minutes. Don rode Tony, "a conservative horse but that's the way I like them". Even Beth became a cowgirl. Riding on Don's horse, she held onto the reins until her fingers were white and yelled "Oh no!" as they hurried down a hill. But she beamed with joy whenever she got another ride.

When not riding, Meg stayed at the corral, watching the horses and talking to the trail supervisors.

"The kids are over there from early morning until they close at night bothering the park personnel. But these people are nice all the time," Don said. So nice that Denny shared his birthday 52 NEBRASKAland cake with the two wranglers who told Danny he was their favorite guest.

After the last ride, the Dobsons built a campfire. "We spend a lot of time building a fire," Nancy laughed. With that accomplished, she and Don relaxed. Beth dozed on her mother's shoulder while the other kids roasted marshmallows. The smell of burning wood drifted through the cool night air as they huddled around the fire.

Don broke the night's stillness. "Notice no telephones ringing. And no radio or television. We don't miss them a bit."

For the kids it had been a full day—and for the parents, too. "While the kids are out riding or swimming, we rest and get ready to keep up with them when they get back," Don said.

Staring into the blazing fire, they reflected on their camping adventures. For Nancy it was still a vacation in spite of the little housework that had to be done. As for keeping house, "I don't have to do much of it. I have no schedule. If the beds don't get made, I let it go at that. At home if they weren't made, I'd be a nervous wreck," she grinned.

Her husband, who was reluctant about the trip in the beginning, was impressed with the park. "It's ridiculous it's so inexpensive. I don't know where you can go for less money, 50 cents a night per car, and have as much fun."

"And the wood is free. We've never found that before. Most places you have to pay for it," Nancy added.

"The people are so nice," he replied. "We went into Chadron to get Denny a straw cowboy hat. They were packed away at this time of year. But the sales girl went down to the storeroom to get some for us."

Close to civilization, the Dobsons went to the drive-in one evening and did their shopping in Chadron, nine miles to the north. "Nine miles isn't anything at all. There's no traffic and good facilities. And prices are non-tourist prices," Don explained.

And he added, "I can't get over how green it is here and how beautiful it is up on the trail. And I like the way they water the roads to keep the dust down, dump the garbage cans, and clean the fireplace everyday. They've never done that at any other place we've been and we've camped a lot."

"The park has been full but it's spread out enough so no one is really close," Nancy remarked. During the week the Dobsons spent at Chadron, the park had more campers than at any other time in the past four years.

With plenty of room for campers and 16 cabins, the park is open May 15 to September 15 for overnight guests and day visitors. The rest of the year the park is open to day visitors, hunters, and picnickers. Visitors to the park have come from almost every state in the union and from several foreign countries.

With an eye on future campers, Chadron State Park paved its main travel NOVEMBER, T965 53   roads this year and a multi-purpose building was finished. This complex will be used barrack-style for groups staying at the park or can be converted into six cabins and a storage area.

Would Meg like to come back to NEBRASKAland and Chadron next summer? "I'm going to try to talk Dad into it," she said. And according to Dad, "We'll be back. The kids are planning on it." THE END

PADDLES

(Continued from page 45)

Kent saw the varment on a sandbar, sitting on his haunches, howling. Kent answered and by moving quietly and slowly the boys approached until they nearly reached the animal. The game ended when the yodler suddenly realized he was talking to the wrong breed of critter and took off at a lope. Mike, the president of the Post, took advantage of the lull to strike out on foot to see if he could determine our exact location. He ran about a mile down a road paralleling the river, but returned without any information.

Monty and I took the lead as we swept into some deep, fast water near a steam plant. We saw a deer on the other bank, and motioned to the other canoeists. The buck indulged his enlarged curiosity and let us get close before he spooked. It was getting late but we still had good water so we left the animal crashing through the brush and went on. We couldn't see the diversion dam, but the sky was putting on a threatening face and darkness was coming on so we decided to pull into shore and camp.

Unpacking didn't take long because we traveled light. We had four pup tents and each boy had a change of clothes and a sleeping bag. Our cooking gear was just essentials, a grill and a trail kit. But what we lacked in the refinements we made up in food. Eight paddle pushers can consume a lot of chow. Camp chores were rotated but we made sure that Randy Sear drew the pancake detail, for he was a real hot cake artist.

The tents went up in a jiffy, while fires were built against the evening chill. We ate TV dinners, the boys assuring me this was simply a concession to weight instead of a dodge to avoid cooking. The owls and coyotes took charge of the night and we turned in just as another transient spring rain pelted down.

Sunday, eight dry campers emerged for a 7 a.m. round of bacon and pancakes and a hurry-up packing job. The Platte had dropped and we were still short of the dam, or so we thought. Our calculations showed about 14 miles of shallow water for the last leg of the trip. Monty and I were in the lead when we rounded an island, and there was the Overton bridge. It was a real morale booster, for the bridge indicated we were about an hour ahead of schedule. It was only 11 o'clock. Later we found 54 NEBRASKAland out the dam we were seeking was actually south of the river.

We bid the Overton span goodbye and slid through a smooth, deep channel which ran between the islands. Low, grassy banks and clear water with a backdrop of foliage made an enchanting picture as we flashed along. We couldn't resist their invitation and went ashore for a quick lunch.

The food gave us new vigor as we pulled back into the current, but droves of carp slowed our progress. One of the boys jumped out of a canoe to try to outrace a carp. From then on, our trip went by short stretches, halting every time someone yelled "Carp". The boys would jump from the canoes for a race with the siphon-mouths, churning water as they tried to outdistance the fish. From afar it looked like the past and present were tangling in an Indian dance combining the twist, rock and roll, the hot foot, the sacrificial dance of the Pawnees, and some exuberant boys. When the fish disappeared, the boys would dash back to the canoes.

Prospects for staying closer to schedule brightened when we rounded an island. The broad expanse of the Platte stretched before us. We could see how the descriptive expression, "a mile wide and an inch deep", had originated. From that point on, we dragged and pushed the canoes from one channel to another. Often our craft would float only a few feet before running aground. Sometimes a channel would hold out for a quarter of a mile or more and we would pick up a little time.

At 4:30 p.m., we saw the white gleam of the Elm Creek bridge. It spurred us to renewed efforts. About three blocks from the bridge we found a channel which enabled us to complete our journey on the water, instead of in it.

Our schedule very nearly agreed with our actual travel time. We were just 45 minutes behind, carp, coyotes, deer, and rain notwithstanding. The boys held a rapid-fire caucus as we reached our goal. They had mastered the Platte, and already were looking for new conquests. So much fine water is available in NEBRASKAland that the main problem is selecting which stream to float. I know eight who will vouch for the Platte. THE END

Answers JUST DUCKY 1. Shoveler 2. Gadwall 3. Canvasback 4. Ruddy 5. Lesser scaup 6. Blue-winged teal 7. Redhead 8. Green-winged teal 9. Baldpaie 10. Mallard

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Buck-A-Roo. A motorist was traveling down the highway and stopped his small foreign car to permit several deer to cross the road in safety. Several does nonchalantly walked across the highway, but a big buck following behind took one look at the little car and charged. The driver sat helpless as the deer broke out a headlight and smashed the grill. It was almost as if the buck was venting his anger on the tiny auto for all the big cars that don't stop.—Pennsylvania.

Poor Risk. A game biologist reports that if quail could take out life insurance, they would have to pay $905 a year for a $1,000 policy, based on their mortality rate. Of 100 quail, only 82 will live one year; 15 will make it 1V2 years, and 2 just might last 3 years. Only one bob- white in 1,000 will live five years.—Oklahoma.

Object Lesson. Two fishermen caught littering were given a choice by the judge. The men could pick between a $200 fine each or cleaning up a quarter of a mile stretch of shore line. They filled a pickup truck with debris while lake officials photographed the opera- tion as a warning to others.—California.

Lockout. A lumber mill was forced to shut down. No, a strike wasn't in progress. It seems the game warden couldn't guarantee an odorless way of removing a skunk that was discovered asleep under a pile of birch bark. It was finally decided to wait for the skunk to wake up and hope it would leave of its own accord. The mill reopened the next day.—Maine.

Buck Shot. Two wardens were booking four men for spotlighting deer, when the supposedly dead buck suddenly came to life and escaped. The culprits gleefully shouted, "There goes your evidence boys." The judge took a different view, however. He assessed the four a total of $2,800 in fines, confiscated their guns, suspended their hunting licenses, and handed out 10-day jail terms.—California.

Homework. Throwing away a lighted cigaret in a no smoking forest area is a bad habit, the judge told a man. The judge also fined him $25, sentenced him to six months probation, and to write a 2,500-word essay on "The Foolishness of Throwing Cigarets in a Forest Area".—California.

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

Classified Ads: 15 cents a word, minimum order $3 Feb. '66 Closing Date, Dec. 1 BUSINESS OPPORTUNITIES EXCLUSIVE FRANCHISE. Amazing new liquid plastic coating used on all types of surfaces interior or exterior. Eliminates waxing when applied on Asphalt Tile, Vinyl, Linoleum, Vinyl Asbestos, Hard Wood, and Furniture. Completely eliminates painting when applied to Wood, Metal, or Concrete surfaces. This finish is also recommended for boats and automobiles. No competition. As these are exclusive formulas in demand by all businesses, industry and homes. No franchise fee. Minimum investment—$300. Maximum investment—$7,000. Investment is secured by inventory. Factory trained personnel will help set up your business. For complete details and descriptive literature write: Chem-Plastics & Paint Corporation, 1828 Locust, St. Louis 3, Missouri. JOBBER WANTED: For western Nebraska and other territories. Fast growing line of flies, jigs, spinners. Handcrafted in Nebraska. For information write SKITTER PRODUCTS, 205 South 15th, Norfolk, Nebraska. DOGS FOR SALE: Purebred midget-type grey English call ducks. Harold A. Johnson, Herman, Nebraska. 56 NEBRASKAland AKC BLACK LABRADORS. Spring and sum- mer pups, $50 up. Two fine dogs at stud. Few-started dogs. Best hunting and field trial bloodlines. Kewanee Retrievers, Valentine, Nebraska, Telephone 402-376-2539. CHESAPEAKE pups, champion-sired, champion stud service. Clyde Rigby, 1511 30th Street S. E., Cedar Rapids, Iowa. REGISTERED drahthaars, vizslas pups, started dogs, excellent hunters. Free folder. Frank Engstrom, Grey Eagle, Minnesota. A.K.C. American Water Spaniels, six months. $40. Just right for hunting this fall. M. B. Worley, 2604 South Royce, Sioux City, Iowa. AKC BLACK LABRADOR puppies. Whelped July 23, '65. Field champion bloodlines. Reasonably priced. Roy Stapp, Jr., Cozad, Nebraska. SPRINGER puppies, both colors. Registered. Largest quality breeder in the Midwest. Dave's Storybook Kennels, RR #3, Decatur, Illinois. Telephone 963-2247. A.K.C. REGISTERED Weimaraner pups. Exceptionally rugged and beautiful. Whelped August 3, 1965. From excellent hunting stock. Everett Squire, 6720 Lexington, Lincoln, Nebraska. BRITTANY Spaniel pups. Registered. Bred for gun dogs. Retrieve naturally. Hunt and Point young. $35. Robert Rathsack, Greenview, Illinois. GERMAN Shorthaired Pointer pups, whelped April 4, 1965. AKC championship bloodlines. J. H. Dunlap, M.D., 814 South 9 Street, Norfolk, Nebraska. Telephone 371-2175. HUNTING DOGS: German Shorthairs, English Pointers, Weimaraners, English, Irish, and Gordon Setters, Chesapeakes, Labradors, and Golden Retrievers. Registered pups, all ages, $50 each. Robert Stevenson, Orleans, Nebraska. GERMAN Shorthaired Pointer puppies. A.K.C, F.D.S.B. registered. Twelve weeks old, excellent hunting stock. Emery Holloway, 1118 Schmid Drive, Scottsbluff, Nebraska. 632-8337. FISH BAIT FISHERMEN: Catch all the white bass you want and your limits of sauger, walleye and northern. Use a white or yellow SKITTER JIG. Send $1.00 and receive two *4-oz. jigs postpaid. SKITTER PRODUCTS, 205 South 15th Street, Norfolk, Nebraska. ARKANSAS GIANT mealworms. The three-way bait. Use worms, pupa, or beetles! 400—$1; 1,000—$2; 3,000—$5. Postpaid. Jon-Bait, P.O. Box 600, Marked Tree, Arkansas, 72365. CATCH THE LIMIT. Imported fishing flies. Authentic design, effective results. Assorted, 20 for $1.69. 50 for $3.99. Excellent gifts. HAROLD'S, Dept. N-5, 2674 Marty Way, Sacramento, California 95818. ICE FISHERMEN: Nebraska grown Wax Worms. 75, $1.25; 250, $3; 500, $5; 1,000, $9; postpaid. Dean Mattley, St. Paul, Nebraska. HUNTING I WOULD LIKE to keep four hunters during pheasant, rabbit and duck season. 5% miles northeast of Wausa. Phone 11F23. Can have three meals. Will clean pheasants, 40fr each. Room and board $8 each. Reinhold Wiese, Wausa, Nebraska. PRIVATE ACCOMMODATIONS. Hunting for pheasants, rabbits, and squirrels. Four miles east, IV4 miles south of Bloomfield. Sleeping facilities, Meals, Guides, when available. Dress and freeze service for guests. Accommodate nine hunters. Raymond Paustian, Bloomfield, Nebraska. ATTENTION HUNTERS. Parkway Cabins one-half mile south of Chadron State Park. Entrance on Highway 385. Also some guide service. James and Connie Konopasek. LODGING FOR HUNTERS. Quiet, secluded, modern farm home in the heart of the pheasant country. Cooking facilities. Guide service available. Daniel D. Griffith, Carleton, Nebraska. HUNTERS' STOP. Duck and Goose, Pheasant and Quail. The very best hunting on 2,000 acres of milo and idle grass land with guide service. Modern home and cabin on the Little Blue river for fishing and vacationing. For reservations and information write to John Dondlinger, Hebron, Nebraska. Telephone 768-2292. EASTERBROOK Hunting Lodge. Your home away from home. Kitchen for your convenience. Beds for twelve people. Twin beds, $5 each. Double beds, $4 each. Write or phone A. H. Easterbrook, Arcadia, Nebraska. MISCELLANEOUS BE PREPARED—Repair now. Inexpensive, reliable service. Cameras, meters, binoculars. Send insured. Free estimate. Modern Technical Repairs, 550-C Westbury Avenue, Carle Place, L. I., New York. 11514. STONEGROUND CORNMEAL. Most complete line Health Foods. Many processed daily. Come see us or write. Brownville Mills, Brownville, Nebraska. NEW, USED AND ANTIQUE GUNS, send for list including Browning O & U's, Weatherby, Winchester, Ithaca, Colt, Ruger and others in stock for sale or trade. Send large self-addressed 10^ stamped envelope or stop in, Bedlan's Sporting Goods, just off U.S. 136, Fairbury, Nebraska. COLLAPSIBLE Farm-Pond Fish-Traps: Ani- mal Traps, postpaid. Free information, pictures. Shawnee, 3934-AX Buena Vista, Dallas 4, Texas. "STAKE A HOMESTEAD". Never a dull moment in this brand-new children's game. Be a sod-buster. Experience the trials of the pioneers. Learn homesteading history while you play. For grade-school ages. Good family game. Can you prove your claim? At leading stores, or write Woster Games, 906 Avenue D, Plattsmouth, Nebraska. $2.98 postpaid. 1965 CARS, $995. Fords, Dodges, Four-door, six cylinder, automatic transmission, heaters. Choice of color. 1964 CARS, $595. Guaranteed motor, transmission, rear end. Nationwide delivery. Free illustrated catalog, details. Write: ON-1, Consolidated Auto Wholesalers, 120 East 56th Street, New York 10022. KAYAKS, One-man, $16.50; Two-man, $22.50. Sailboat, $39. Exciting Sitka Kayak Kits known world wide for speed and safety. Assembled in one afternoon. Free pictorial literature. Box 78-N, Brecksville 41, Ohio. SAVE THAT TROPHY through taxidermy. All types of taxidermy work done. Lifelike mounts at reasonable prices. Also hides tanned for glove or jacket making. Livingston Taxidermy, Mitchell, Nebraska. SCUBA EQUIPMENT BOB-K'S AQUA SUPPLY, Nebraska's largest scuba dealer. U.S. Divers, Sportsways, Voit, Swimmaster, Scubrapro. Air Station, Regu- lator Repair. Telephone 553-0777. 5051 Leavenworth Street, Omaha, Nebraska. SKIN AND SCUBA Diving Certification Course. Starts early December. For registration and information, contact YMCA, 1111 West 4th Street, Grand Island, Nebraska. TAXIDERMY THE BEST in taxidermy. Mounting all kinds of specimens with life-like expressions and positions. Otto Borcherdt, Route #8, Lincoln, Nebraska. Telephone 488-8093. CUSTOM TAXIDERMY. Trophies mounted true to nature. Reasonable prices. John Reigert, Jr., 865 South 39th Street, Lincoln, Nebraska. Telephone 489-3042. When Writing to the Advertisers, Please Mention You Saw it in OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air SUNDAY KGFW, Kearney (1340 kc) 7:05 a.m. KTTT, Columbus (1510 kc) 7:30 a.m. KRGI, Grand Island (1430 kc) 7:40 a.m. WOW, Omaha (590 kc) 7:40 a.m. KVSH, Valentine (940 kc) 8:00 a.m. KXXX, Colby, Kan. (790 kc) 8:00 a.m. WJAG, Norfolk (780 kc) 8:15 a.m. KLMS, Lincoln (1480 kc) 9:05 a.m. KBRL, MeCook (1300 kc) 9:45 a.m. KODY, North Platte (1240 kc) 10:45 a.m. KIMB, Kimball (1260 kc) 11:15 a.m. KMA, Shenandoah, Iowa (960 kc) 12:15 p.m. KOGA, Ogallala (930 kc) 12:30 p.m. KFOR, Lincoln (1240 kc) 12:45 p.m. KCNI, Broken Bow (1280 kc) 1:15 p.m. KMMJ, Grand Island (750 kc) 1:40 p.m. KUVR, Holdrege (1380 kc) 2:45 p.m. KHUB, Fremont (1340 kc) 4:40 p.m. KNCY, Nebraska City (1600 kc) 5:00 p.m. KRVN, Lexington (1010 kc) 5:40 p.m. KTNC, Falls City (1230 kc) 5:45 p.m. KFAB (Mon.-FH.) Nightly MONDAY KGMT, Fairbury (1310 kc) 1:00 p.m. KSJD, Sidney (1340 kc) 6:30 p.m. WEDNESDAY KJSK, Columbus (900 kc) 1:30 p.m. KCOW, Alliance (1400 kc) 4:30 p.m. SATURDAY KCSR, Chadron (610 kc) 6:00 a.m. KOLT, Scottsbluff (1320 kc) 11:45 a.m. KAWL, York, (1370 kc) 12:45 p.m. KHAS, Hastings (1230 kc) 1:00 p.m. KRFS, Superior (1600 kc) 1:00 p.m. KWRV, MeCook (1360 kc) 1:45 p.m. KBRX, O'Neill (1350 kc) 4:30 p.m. KMNS, Sioux City, Iowa (620 kc) 6:10 p.m. KCOW, Alliance (1400 kc) 9:30 p.m. DIVISION CHIEFS Willard R. Barbee, assistant director Glen R. Foster, fisheries Dick H. Schaffer, information and tourism Richard J. Spady, land management Jack D. Strain, state parks Lloyd P. Vance, game CONSERVATION OFFICERS Chief: Carl E. Gettmann, Lincoln Ainsworth—Max Showalter, 387-1960 Albion—Wayne Craig, 395-2071 Alliance—Richard Furley, 762-2024 Alliance—Leonard Spoering, 762-1547 Alma—William F. Bonsall, 928-2313 Arapahoe—Don Schaepler, 962-7818 Benkelman—H. Lee Bowers, 423-2893 Bridgeport—Joe Ulrich, 100 Broken Bow—Gene Jeffries, 872-5953 Columbus—Lyman Wilkinson, 564-4375 Crawford—Cecil Avey, 228 Crete—Roy E. Owen, 826-2772 Crofton—John Schuckman, 388-4421 David City—Lester H. Johnson, 367-4037 Fairbury—-Larry Bauman, 1293 Falls City—Raymond Frandsen, 2817 Fremont—Andy Nielsen, 721-2482 Gering—Jim McCole, 436-2686 Grand Island—Fred Salak, 384-0582 Hastings—Bruce Wiebe, 2-8317 Hay Springs—Larry D. Elston, 638-4051 Kearney—Ed Greving, 237-5753 Kimball—Marvin Bussinger, 235-3905 Lexington—Robert D. Patrick, 324-2138 Lincoln—Leroy Orvis, 488-1663 Lincoln—Norbert Kampsnider, 466-0971 Lincoln—Dale Bruha, 477-4258 Long Pine—William O. Anderson, 203-4406 Nebraska City—Mick Gray, 873-5890 Norfolk—Robert Downing, 371-1435 North Platte—Samuel Grasmlck, 532-9546 North Platte—Roger A. Guenther, 532-2220 Ogallala—Jack Morgan, 284-3425 Omaha—Dwight Allbery, 558-2910 Ord—Gerald Woodgate, 728-5060 Oshkosh—Donald D. Hunt, 772-3697 Ponca—Richard D. Turpin, 2521 Stanton—Robert C. Oman, 439-2412 Tekemah—Richard Elston, 278R2 Thedford—John Henderson, 645-5351 Valentine—Elvin Zimmerman, 376-3674 Valley—Daryl Earnest, 359-2332 York—Gail Woodslde, 362-4120

WESTERN HARVEST MOUSE

This small creature has hands on his feet. Destiny allotted him a big role in thf ecological food chain NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA... by Ken Robertson Associate Biologist

WHAT THE western harvest mouse lacks in size, he makes up in numbers. This small, grayish tan rodent with the white underparts and feet is the second most abundant mammal in Nebraska. Only the deer mouse is ahead of him in the population sweepstakes. A handsome fellow, the western harvest mouse seldom exceeds six inches in length and usually averages about four. Half of this is tail. Relatively large eyes and ears give him an alert appearance. No heavyweight, this westerner is about as hefty as a V2 -ounce bass plug.

The harvest mouse belongs to the scientific family Cricetidae which contains the rats and mice native to the New World. His specific name Reithrodontomys, comes from three Greek words, Reithron—''groove", odous—"tooth", and mys—"mouse". This name refers to the characteristic groove on the face of each upper incisor. The presence of these grooves and the lack of oral food pouches distinguishes this little fellow from all other mice. His common name, "harvest mouse", comes from the animal being most commonly observed during haying and harvest.

A spherical nest about the size of a baseball is his home. The outside is formed of shredded grass leaves and stems and is patted and pulled into shape with the forefeet and teeth. Inside, the nest is very plush. It is usually lined with cattail or thistledown, milkweed floss or finely shredded grasses. With all this fine insulating material, the nest of the harvest mouse must be one of the warmest winter homes of any animal.

This cozy, year-round home is usually located in matted grass, bushes, or weeds. Occasionally it will be 58 NEBRASKAaland located from a few inches to several feet above the ground. Very seldom will the nest be built underground. Males and females share the same abode. The mice are extremely meticulous and spend considerable time cleaning and washing their faces and fur.

Breeding occurs during the warm months. The gestation period is 23 to 24 days and a litter averages 3 to 4 young. Several litters are produced each year. At birth the young are approximately ^-inch long and weigh about V^ of an ounce. The skin is pink and hairless and the eyes and ears are closed. At 8 to 10 days the eyes and ears are open and the teeth are emerging. At two weeks the young are fully furred and running about. When they are three to four weeks old, the young leave the nest to live on their own.

These small mice are active day and night, but feed mostly from dark until midnight. They climb grass stems and shrubs in search of food. Seeds of grasses and legumes are their primary food sources, but new shoots, fruits, and a variety of insects are also included in the diet at various times. Foods are generally consumed where they are found, but occasionally they are carried to the nest to be eaten or stored. Western harvest mice are active the year around and do not hibernate.

Water is of little consequence to the harvest mouse. Surface water is taken when it is available, otherwise moisture is obtained from the natural juices of plants and seeds. The harvest mouse is rather unique in that in tall, rank growth he is able to run for quite a distance along the tops of the grass, like a squirrel in a tree. This ability is partly due to the toes of the front foot bending back to the palm, allowing the mouse to grasp the stems with his "hands". The fourth and fifth toes on his hind feet give the rodent purchase for new holds.

Although the western harvest mouse is very plentiful, few people ever hear him for his voice has a very high pitch barely audible to the human ear. Pinpointing the sound is very difficult because of its ventriloquial quality.

The harvest mouse, plus other small rodents, are important links in the ecological food chain which starts with the earth and ends with the earth. Although he is small in size, his plentifulness makes him a most important food item for many of the larger land snakes, carnivorous mammals, hawks, and owls. A mouse population decline reduces the predator numbers.

Like many others of his kind, he is truly the staff of life for NEBRASKAland's more spectacular and less elusive animals. A diminutive member of nature's family, the western harvest mouse still has a destiny and a purpose. He fulfills them well. THE END

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