FEBRUARY Roundup

FEBRUARY WILL BE a glittering month in NEBRASKAland—from the frosty sparkle of snow in the moonlight to the sequined costumes of Ice Capades skaters and the array of stars and personalities appearing on Nebraska stages. Except for the adventuresome hard-water fisherman, it will be a month of indoor activities.

Everyone is invited to a Grand Tour, when the Ice Capades troupe appears at Pershing Municipal Auditorium in Lincoln, February 8 to 13. Beginning with a "Night on the Town," the precision skaters will take the audience to romantic places in seven production numbers.

The haunting beauty of Japan is engraved on ice in "The Night of the Thirteenth Moon," the tale of a Japanese princess and her prince. Then it's to the Paris of the 1890's, "When Paris Was Young." For the children there's a stop "At the County Fair," where vegetables square dance, and a scarecrow comes to life with hilarious antics. The tempestuous Spanish ballet, "Bolero," flashes in fiery rhythm. Then, the Grand Tour ends with a dazzling finale in uNew York's Got It," with a tour of Kennedy Airport, Rockefeller Center, and the World's Fair.

It's a star-studded month in NEBRASKAland. Great names in show business and the fine arts fill the calendar. Nebraska Wesleyan University in Lincoln leads the way with its Great Plains Fine Arts Festival, "University and the Arts," February 11 through 20. Most events will take place in the modern, well-equipped auditorium and Fine Arts Center which will hold open house for the public on February 13.

Mrs. Edith Elder, Wesleyan alumnae, will attend the opening session on February 11. The auditorium's Edith Elder Art Gallery is named in her honor. Erskine Caldwell, noted author, will hold a two-day Great Plains workshop for writers, February 12 and 13.

A dance workshop, directed by Margaret Mains, will be held February 14 and 15. Nelson and Neal, a piano duo, will hold workshops February 17 and 18, then appear in concert on February 18. Howard Hansen, a native of Wahoo, and presently director of the Eastman School of Music in Rochester, New York, directs the Lincoln Symphony Orchestra in a special performance on February 20, to bring the festival to a close.

Musical entertainment in NEBRASKAland runs the scale from the blues to "protest" folk singers, and flamenco guitar. Singer Johnny Mathis opens February 5, in Lincoln's Pershing Municipal Auditorium. The strains of flamenco music played by guitarist Carlos Montoya bring a Spanish atmosphere to the University of Nebraska Student Union, on February 15.

The tempo changes to foot-tapping, country style singing with the Grand Ole Opry. The country-music group appears at the Omaha Music Hall on February 18. Giving way to a "blue" mood, Pearl Bailey sings at the Omaha Music Hall on February 22. Broadway show tunes bring to life the excitement of opening night as Earl Wrightson and Lois Hunt sing in concert at Pershing Auditorium that same evening. Bobby Dylan, whose songs protesting war and the harsh ways of the world led to a revolution in folk-singing, sings his message to the audience at Omaha Music Hall on February 26.

Theatre and orchestral concerts complete an active month of evenings out. "Mary, Mary," the riotous comedy of marriage and divorce, opens February 1, at Lincoln Community Playhouse, and runs through February 6. The Omaha Orchestra will perform February 14 and 15 in the Joslyn Museum of Art in Omaha, and the Julliard String Quartet will appear there in a program of chamber music on February 20. The Vienna Boy's Choir sings at the Omaha Music Hall on February 19.

University of Nebraska co-eds take the stage for the annual Co-ed Follies show at Pershing on February 25.

Basketball is in the limelight throughout the month, as cagers fight for winning scores in district and area tournaments. Class B, C, and D high school teams compete for places in the state championships during district tournaments the last week of February. Some of the area conference battles will be staged in Henderson,. Wauneta, Humphrey, Lyons, Kearney, St. Paul, and Dorchester. College basketball fans have the chance to see the University of Nebraska in action against the University of Iowa on February 12, the University of Missouri on February 19, and the University of Colorado on February 21.

The masters of the basketball, the Harlem Globetrotters, cram comedy and basketball into an evening's entertainment when they display their antic abilities in Omaha's Civic Auditorium on February 15. All-star wrestlers hit the mats February 5 and 13 in the Omaha Auditorium, and February 16 in Pershing Auditorium. Golden Glove boxing tops the bill February 11 and 12 in the Omaha Auditorium.

While outdoor sportsmen wait for spring, they can visit the Omaha Sports, Vacation, and Travel Show February 19-27, in the Auditorium to eye all-new fishing, hunting, and camping equipment.

From performing arts to fine arts, NEBRASKAland offers a kaleidoscope of February activity. Japanese contemporary art goes on display at the FEBRUARY, 1966 5   Josyln Museum of Art in Omaha, February 27, through March 24. A Photography Invitational at Sheldon Memorial Art Gallery in Lincoln features works by 77 leading photographers from throughout the nation, who were nominated by teachers, critics, and professional photographers.

Conference dates are important on the February NEBRASKAland calendar. A Wheat Belt Merchandisers convention is scheduled for February 6 to 10 at the Omaha Civic Auditorium, and the Nebraska Jaycees hold their quarterly conference at Columbus, February 10 to 12. Among those at the Nebraska Center for Continuing Education in Lincoln are the Nebraska Town and Country Church Conference, Elementary School Principals Conference, and Farmers Union annual conference.

Stars in the February skies will have to compete with sparkling talent on Nebraska stages during this shortest month. Cold winds blow outside, but indoors, a NEBRASKAland variety show of stars, sports, and speakers flashes throughout the Valentine month. THE END

SPEAK UP

MORE GAME—"As I see it, if we don't stop sending out literature to everyone in the United States, there won't be any wildlife. I hunt birds every year and the past few years, I've seen less and less.

"You can't expect to keep the hunting good forever when you beg people by the thousands to come in and shoot them off. I am still able to get a few birds, but you can't make me believe they aren't getting fewer and fewer."—Paul Laverack, Beaver City.

Contrary to your conclusions, hunter-numbers rather than game have declined in Nebraska. In 1964 there were approximately 185,000 licensed small game hunters in the state; and this is about average for recent years. As far back as 1946, there were over 220,000 licenses issued in this state. The state is not being over-run by hunters, resident or nonresident. Hunting pressure is down.

You speak of a decline in wildlife, but the contrary is true. For example, more than 17,000 deer were harvested in Nebraska in 1965. Ten years ago we had few deer and very few antelope in this state. We now have large herds and take more deer and antelope than at any time since pioneer days. We are hunting wild turkey for the first time in this century. Ten years ago we didn't have any wild turkey.

You refer to bird hunting and say "birds" are declining because of nonresident hunters. The truth is that nonresidents are not a big factor in the harvest of birds. They represent less than 15 per cent of our hunting pressure. Eighty-five per cent or more of our hunters are residents of Nebraska.

When you say "birds',' you undoubtedly mean the quail, the pheasant, or both. The 1965 quail crop was the best since 1959, and 1959 was the highest quail population Nebraska has seen in half a century. On the average, we have more quail now than at any time in 50 years.

That leaves only the pheasant. Pheasants are not as numerous as they were 25 years ago, and for good reason. Pheasant production fluctuates with weather and habitat, and both weather and habitat vary from year to year, and especially over long periods of time. Today's habitat is POOR as compared to 25 years ago, and this is especially true in your part of the state.

Hunting does not determine pheasant populations in Nebraska. All the cocks ever taken in any Nebraska season are surplus to reproduction needs for the pheasant. This is true regardless of fluctuations in bird numbers or hunting pressure.

No one expects a farmer to keep a rooster for each hen in his barnyard chicken-flock, but some people think we should do so in managing ringnecks. The pheasant is fully as polygamous as the barnyard chicken; in fact they both belong to the same family of birds. Nebraska's hunting-take never goes below a ratio of one cock to three hens, yet one pheasant rooster to fifteen hens is adequate for all reproduction purposes. The pheasant cock is such a canny and elusive bird that hunters never can kill enough cocks to modify reproduction in the wild. We end each Nebraska season with a large surplus of roosters still unharvested. These birds just go to waste for they can't be stockpiled.

The pheasant is no different than quail, grouse or other game birds when we harvest both sexes across the board. Any Nebraska harvest of the pheasant hen is sharply restricted; far more so than with any other game bird. Very few, if any, nonresidents are here in January when the pheasant hen is legal game. In short, hunting has no significant effect on pheasant populations, any way you figure it.

The critical factor in our pheasant habitat is cover, permanent cover. Where we have permanent cover, we have pheasants. Where permanent cover is absent, so are the pheasants. "Soil bank" acres we all hunt; pastures we do not hunt.

Why? Because soil bank covers produce pheasants, pasture cover does not. Neither does corn, milo, alfalfa, or other crop acreage. Nesting success depends on permanent cover, and nesting success is what determines pheasant population in Nebraska.—M. O. Steen, Director..

MEMORIES—"I just received your August issue. The story about the Omaha and Winnebago Indian Powwows caught my eye immediately. I grew up in Winnebago near the powwow grounds, so this issue reminded me of many visits to these Indian ceremonies.

"I am a resident of New York, but I still receive your magazine, which is eagerly read as soon as it is received.

"People out here always ask me what there is to do in Nebraska, and with the help of your wonderful magazine, I can tell them all they want to know. If they want more proof, all I have to do is show them a copy or two and they are convinced.

"The color section is the first part I turn to, and it has not disappointed me yet.

"Thank you for publishing a fine magazine each month. They always remind me of something I did when I lived there just a few years ago."—David W. Niebuhr, New York.

THE BERRIES—"The article, 'Price of a Shoe' in your July issue interested me. Mr. Thorp stated that he ate wild currants which he found along the Snake River. This is a fine berry which is scattered throughout Nebraska.

"Recently my wife made a currant pie which we found to be a real NEBRASKAland treat. Receiving your fine magazine every month is another fine treat which we both enjoy."—Paul M. Laveroch, Beaver City.

EXPEDITION FOR TROUT

ON KEENAN and George Ellington puffed across the sand to the rim of Fairfield Canyon, north of Wood Lake, Nebraska. The two hip-booted Valentine men topped a hump of sand, put down their fly rods, and sat down to reconnoiter the wide, abrupt slash through the domelike hills. The area was at the peak of its final desperate orgy of color before fading into September brown. Brilliant reds and yellows dominated the scene that sprawled toward the horizons. It was the time of harvest and ripe wild plums were scattered on the ground beneath the thickets.

George scooped up a plum and sucked it. "I've got to hand it to you, you knew right where to go. That is White's Crossing." He pointed to a stark slide of sand which promised an easy route to the bottom.

"Just stick with me and you'll go places," Don quipped. "When I was a kid, I worked at that ranch a few miles back. The place where I was born used to sit at the head of this canyon, above the falls. I've caught many a trout there."

George nodded, picking up his bamboo rod. "If we're going to catch some today, we'd better get going. You've done so well so far, you can lead the way even though there's no way to go but down. I would probably manage to get lost, somehow."

Ellington is a city Sandhiller and leaves the navigation to his partner when it comes to two-track trails. Besides, Don knows many of the landowners around Valentine, and has worked for several of them. Both anglers are good friends, and make many fishing trips together.

The idea for the Fairfield trout expedition was born one lunch hour. Don works in a department store in Valentine, while George sells shoes in a shop next door. The two often get together over coffee or lunch to plan their fishing ventures. Schlagel Creek, Merritt Reservoir, and the Niobrara River were their main targets last spring and summer. Fairfield was a pace-changer. The creek is an unknown quantity when it comes to fishing for it is largely dependent on the weather. A sudden, localized gully washer can transport virtually the entire fish population into the Niobrara River, leaving it up to the state to restock the Fairfield.

"I don't think the Fairfield got any rain that Valentine didn't," Don mused, as the two anglers slid the last few yards to the canyon floor. The stream eddied past, growling into a rapid around the next turn. Grass along the bank stood straight and tall, giving no indication of recent high water.

The partners each put on brass-bodied spinners and let the current sweep the (continued on page 51)

THE SHALLOW VICTORY

NO ONE SAW the opening of the epic battle but many witnessed its tragic climax. It started in a secluded glen, south of Comstock, Nebraska, when the late-October sun was but a promise in the east. Only the trampled undergrowth and the hoof-scarred turf can tell the real story but this is how it might have been.

Two deer stood in a tiny clearing. One, a dainty white-tailed doe, the other, a massive five-point buck. The buck, his neck swelling with the approaching rut, moved toward the doe, who shyly encouraged his advance. Suddenly, the buck stopped, his nostrils flaring at an unexpected but familiar scent.

A smaller buck bounded into the clearing and it was plain he was spoiling for a fight. One look and the bigger stag knew that here was a worthy opponent, an interloper who would not hesitate to challenge him for the favors of the female. Like himself, the stranger was a five-point, his hard and polished antlers sharp with menace. For a minute, the two rivals eyed each other while the doe, sensing trouble, headed for safety.

A wary circle, a snorted threat, and the two champions closed. The initial charge sent the interloper reeling and his foe lunged forward, his antlers low and level for the killing thrust, but the smaller buck was battle wise. He caught the charge on his own rack, heaved, and sent his adversary sprawling.

Both were on their feet in a flash, ready to resume their head-to-head attack. The sharp clash of antlers echoed through the glen as the two animals reared up, razor-sharp hooves searching for the vital jugulars. For a long minute, two gladiators were suspended in mid-air, their hardened muscles straining for the quick advantage that would put an end to this deadly ballet. A shift in balance and both went down. They were up again, each attempting to break off and parry for another opening but they couldn't. The force of the last collision had interlocked their antlers.

Animosity forgotten, the two battlers struggled to break away but the lock was too strong, their horns too hard. Bound together, the pair struggled across the clearing in their bizarre tug of war. Somehow, they wrenched their heads around until both animals were side-by-side. Hitched in this macabre span, they raced into an adjacent alfalfa field and the awakening world of man.

At 7 a.m., farmer Erich Ritz of Comstock was going out to work on his land when he spotted the bucks. As he watched them, railroaders, Harland George and Benard Kowlaski saw the tangled gladiators from the tracks as their section car passed the scene. Harland recognized the place as the Hollis Reckling farm. He telephoned the Comstock News for a photographer who in turn notified Conservation Officer Gerald Woodgate of Ord.

When the photographer arrived, the deer were on the east side of the field. At the approach of the camerman's car, they turned north and ran along the fence. From time to time, the two warriors would leap into the air in a vain struggle to separate but to no avail. One terrified bound put the inside buck over the fence and his unwilling partner had to follow. Vaulting another fence, the badly frightened bucks found themselves in a narrow lane between Reckling's cattlepens.

In utter panic, the two sought to escape but one end of the lane was blocked by a gate. The other end was sealed by the cars of the rapidly gathering spectators who had come to see this elemental struggle between two monarchs of the wild.

In a desperate effort, the deer recrossed the fence and worked their way into a drainage lagoon. Their furious 14 NEBRASKAland struggle churned the icy water into a muddy froth but the strain was telling on each. Their magnificent energies sapped by the cold water, they settled down, apparently resigned to their fate.

Hollis Reckling's father, Bill, waded into the lagoon and managed to drop a rope over the two beasts. The spent deer were hauled to the bank and attempts made to pry apart their antlers. When that failed, a saw was obtained to cut away part of the larger buck's rack.

Completely exhausted, the animals were quiet as the men sawed through the ivory-hard horns. Finally, the job was done but neither deer could move. After a time, the larger buck struggled to his feet, gathered his meager strength and walked off on wobbly and uncertain legs. His opponent did not recover. Sprawled on the ground, the smaller buck fought for life but the thread was too frayed. For almost an hour spectators used artificial respiration on the stricken animal but in vain. The deer was dead.

The crowd scattered, convinced that the final chapter in the tragedy was written but there was more to come for nature had not yet closed the account. For almost a week, the surviving buck hung around the Comstock area but it was evident that he had paid a terrible price for his shallow victory.

Broken in spirit and strength, exhausted by the long ordeal, and partially shorn of his antlers, the buck seemed to have lost his fire and vitality. He lost his natural fear of humans and did not flee when one approached. It is doubtful if he ate or drank and appeared to be suffering from water in his lungs. His eyes were lacklustre and his once-proud bearing was weak and whipped.

His body was found in a milo field not far from Comstock, its pathetic remains but a caricature of the magnificent animal who ruled the glade just a few days before.

It is so decreed that the strong shall prevail over the weak but when two gallant antagonists meet face to face, even nature in all its wisdom cannot always select the victor. THE END

WONDERFUL WORLD OF FEBOLD

Febold strode out of his new soddie on the banks of the Dismal River and surveyed the NEBRASKAland prairies. The brawny Swede stretched and yawned, and the nearby cottonwoods swayed with his breath. Legend has it that Febold Feboldson was a big, big man. And everything he did, he did in a big, big way. In fact, his feats have almost become gospel across mid-America. For generations, tales of his exploits have echoed across the Great Plains, for what Paul Bunyan is 16 NEBRASKAland to the North Country, Febold is to the prairies.

It was a new country and Febold was alone when he first came to the Dismal. But, as he gazed across the rich land, he knew it would be settled, and that one day cattle would graze by the thousands there. But, enough of daydreaming, there was work to be done and it had to start with a cabin.

The legendary Swede rolled up his shirt sleeves and set about his task. He strode to the river's edge and began swinging his mighty axe. In a few minutes he had cut all the timber he needed. Then, Febold cut and sawed and pieced and placed. A cabin began to take shape. By nightfall his chore was completed. A spanking new home sat on the banks of the Dismal—the first cabin in architectural history with abasement.

Like other big men, Febold had a voracious appetite. One time, after being cut off from his fellow man for many months, Febold drove (continued on page 54)

TWO DEER HUNT

GEORGE JAMES has a surefire formula to get deer hunters in the mood for some fast action. He knows just the exact words to send blood pressures rocketing and anticipations soaring.

"We counted 155 deer here on the fields last night about sundown," George informed us. "The big bucks don't seem to be running with the does yet, though," continued the Crawford rancher, "but there are some fork-horns and three-pointers in the bunch."

It was 15 minutes before dawn as the pickup started to drop hunters along the fringe of the stubble field. Paul Colburn, Seward insurance executive, along with Aage Petersen, and Francis Zimmerman, both of Battle Creek, Nebraska, were the last of the party to take positions along the tree-fringed field. Aage runs a creamery while Francis is also an insurance man, working out of Battle Creek.

The three men had been hunting together on the James Ranch for three years. They often have as many as six or eight guests, some coming from as far as Scarsdale, New York. The 1965 season in the Pine Ridge area offered the hunters two permits instead of the usual one. Paul, Aage, and Francis had two each and they wanted to take 18 NEBRASKAland a doe and a buck from the ample herds that roamed the Pine Ridge. The eerie light of dawn began to creep across the stubble as Paul glassed it for deer.

"There are seven out there in the middle," he whispered, "it's too dark yet to see if any are bucks."

Looking through the glasses I saw the deer. They were nervous, for their exit route to the hills was cut off and I'm sure they sensed the hunters who had moved in between them and safety. The sun began to creep over the eastern horizon. Our deer bolted for the edge and then slammed to a halt as they came face to face with a blocker. Not to be detoured from their refuge, they swung northward along the line and then bounded between two of the hunters. We hadn't seen them all well enough to tell if any were bucks or not. "Must have been does," Paul said quietly, "or those guys would have shot."

Guns were booming in the distant hills as the 1965 deer season got underway, but all was silent on the stubble field now void of deer. Evidently most of them had seen our approach and slipped into the hills under cover of the darkness.

"Well, that didn't work too well," George said, as he came up in the truck. "Let's head for the hills and see if we can walk them out."

Picking up the hunters in three vehicles, we left Soldier Creek Valley and wound our way eastward into the Ponderosa-covered buttes and canyons.

Topping out on the ridge we began dropping hunters into each canyon. They would wait 15 minutes for everyone to get in place and then back to the valley.

"Some view from up here," Aage commented, "There's Fort Robinson, Smiley Canyon to the west, and our destination a mile below us".

Paul, Francis, and Aage took the far north end of the drive and began the descent. Staying along the fringe of cover the hunters worked cautiously downward, pausing to FEBRUARY, 1966 19   glass the edges of timber and watching the open valleys for movement.

A rifle shot cracked from a canyon to the east; at least one of the hunters had jumped a deer. Paul paused, scanning an opening 100 yards below him. Fifteen minutes passed as he waited in hopes the hunters would move deer.

A rattle of rock, and a doe crashed into the opening and bounded for the shelter of the trees on the far side. Paul let her go.

Another shot blasted through the silence, as the hunt moved slowly down the canyons. Two hours after the hunters had left the top they were gathered again on the bottom. None had seen a buck. Two had taken shots at does and both scored. My three companions were still looking for their first buck.

After eating an early lunch the party moved into the hills on the west side of Soldier Creek. It was nearly 1 p.m. by the time the hunters were in position along the top. The jumbled canyons wound their tortured way far below us into Soldier Creek Valley. This was the type of country that demanded a good scope on a flat-shooting rifle, as the hunter will see deer moving across the canyon, 400 yards away. Paul was using a .243, with a 4X scope, Aage, a .30/.06 with a 4X and Francis, a .30/.06 with similar optics. All were excellent rifles for the job at hand.

The drive was almost a half hour old before Paul and I heard any shots. Using his two-way radio, one of four, which the party used to keep the hunt moving, we found out that someone had dropped the first buck, a fork-horn mule deer.

Ridge by ridge we eased deep into the ravines pausing often to glass a distant hillside. We saw two does looking back down the ridge, evidently eying a hunter who had 20 NEBRASKAland interrupted their afternoon rest. A half hour later we came face to face with a doe and her fawn as we rounded the lip of a ridge. The rest of the way down was uneventful save for a volley of shots from the far south side of the drive, which we learned later missed a good four-pointer.

It was nearly 4 o'clock by the time the hunters were assembled again. "Let's post around the stubble fields for the last hour of shooting," George suggested. "The deer should be coming into feed and we might score on a buck or two."

Everyone was in his selected place 15 minutes before sundown. Paul and I were along the west side of the stubble while the rest of the group anxiously waited along the northern perimeter.

A doe and her fawn trotted out to the edge, 100 yards from us, paused for a brief moment, then moved into the field to feed. The other hunters were out of sight to the north and we jumped as a rifle boomed, once, twice, and then after a third shot, silence. Minutes ticked by as we waited. The doe and fawn were far out in the stubble now and showed little reaction to the shots.

Five minutes before shooting time ended another shot ripped the silence of the valley and then in the hush of the twilight we moved out to join the group and see what they had bagged. Francis had a most unique story. He and Aage had been doing the shooting. Both had decided to take a doe and had cut down on two that had walked out 75 yards from them. The two inspected the deer and Francis found he had a buck without horns. After looking at the base of the missing antlers we judged that he had carried a small rack and had somehow, perhaps in sparring with another buck, lost it.

Leaving the two deer for the moment, the hunters sat down and waited. Twenty minutes later, Francis shot his second deer, a young doe.

Sunday, the second day of the season, dawned with a cold, damp fog hanging eerily over the valley. We were once again along the field before daylight, but the deer had left upon our approach.

Paul hadn't cracked a cap yet so he decided that on the next drive he would try for his doe. The creek bottom was our next target. Blockers dropped in ahead of the drivers as the push began. The cover along the creek, dense with cottonwood and elder, offered a good spot for the deer to lay up in during the day. George informed us that a good number of whitetails are found along the stream and he had seen two or three good bucks during the late summer.

Paul headed for a hogback overlooking a draw that coursed up into the surrounding (continued on page 50)

BOOM-BOOMING GROUSE

LIKE, MAN THESE are the diggingest chickens you've ever seen! No, it's not just boy meeting girl, but boy grouse meeting girl grouse. And when that happens, hang on to your feathers because the swinging set of the bird world is hep to stage a show.

Nebraska's Sand Hills are among the largest of the grouse world's dance halls in the continental U. S. A. Twice a day, just before sunrise and sunset, sharp-tailed grouse and prairie chickens get in the groove to dance out their strange rituals. To the observer, the dances are a combination of the frug, hopscotch, and whatever else is "in." It's hilariously similar to some of today's modern ballroom dancing.

Scientists aren't really sure just what triggers the birds' high-stepping strutting, but one factor is probably lengthening daylight. Minor dancing occurs during the fall and winter, but with spring, activity builds up to a crescendo, culminating in the mating ritual.

Despite some similarities, each species has its own distinctive performance. The sharptail makes a hooting or cooing sound while standing in the open or on a fence post. His purplish-colored neck sacs are inflated, and the sound sometimes carries half-a-mile. A prarie chicken's vocal performance is a hollow, three-noted booming emanatnig from the voice box and amplified by the orange-colored air sacs. The ventriloquistic effect of the notes can be heard for over a mile

Courtship dancing starts about 45 minutes before sunrise as the males take up their positions, preferring the center of the circle where the hens will come after hanging around the edge.

The sharptail thrusts his head and neck forward, and the wings out with the tips curved down. The tail stands erect, vibrating sideways with a whirring noise. Suddenly, the bird springs from his crouched position, rushes forward or dances in a circular movement with short, very rapid stamping steps. Just as suddenly he will stand tense or squat down.

Co-ordination is spectacular. At times, all the birds are passing back and forth and around one another and then suddenly stopping as if on signal. It's like a huge square dance without a caller or fiddler.

Occasionally, two birds pair off for "combat." Wings and tail spread, they rush at each other on a full-speed collision course. At the last possible instant they stop short, almost beak to beak, and try to stare each other down. Finally, one backs off, making a quick pass at his sparring partner as he does so. Sometimes, he will jump into the air a few feet and then abruptly run off at an angle.

Unlike the sharptail, the prairie chicken claims his special booming ground. Dancing activity is individual although many birds perform at the same time. The show opens with a short run and a sudden stop, followed by footstamping and pivoting. During this fancy footwork he erects tufts of feathers on his neck and inflates the orange air sacs, letting loose with his booming sound. He will then jump a foot or more into the air, all the while uttering a wild mixture of cacklings, and sometimes twisting his body in the air. He may then lower his head and charge a nearby cock, sometimes exchanging a few, usually harmless blows.

Although the dancing and booming will go on for a while after mating, the end result of this activity is more grouse for NEBRASKAland hunters. This is one of the few states where both species can be bagged. THE END

NEBRASKA'S JET SET

ITS FOUR JETS whining an increasing crescendo, the big plane climbed the "hill" and leveled off, 28,000 feet above the green and brown mosaic of eastern Nebraska. Gradually, the wail of the great engines subsided and I realized that we were approaching the speed of sound. Lou Ell, Game Commission photographer, and I were on our way to Fairbanks, Alaska, guests of the Strategic Air Command on a flight to Eielson Air Force 26 NEBRASKAland Base, deep in the interior of our 49th state and not very far south of the Arctic Circle.

Dwindling in the far distance was Offutt Air Force Base at Omaha, the home of SAC and the nest from which our mighty bird had flown. Sometime that night, our KC-135, named El Toro, the Moron, would rendez- vous with a high-flying bomber in the lonely polar skies and transfer its cargo of jet fuel to the thirsty war plane. In minutes, thousands of gallons of the highly volatile liquid would flow through the "boom" in the tail of the tanker and feed new life and energy to the bomber's powerful engines. When the job was done, the two planes would separate, one to resume its ceaseless vigil of the skies, and the other to land at Eielson AFB.

Captain Gerald Berger, New York born pilot of El Toro, the Moron, made a final check of the instrument panel, loosened his shoulder harness and seat belt, and turned to me in the jump seat located between and slightly behind the pilot and co-pilot.

"I guess this beast is going to fly. Get 'Boom' to get you a cup of coffee for this is going to be a long flight, about 6 1/2 hours," he said.

"Boom", T/Sgt. Ronald Bruecher, left the cockpit, held a paper cup under a steaming urn until it was filled with strong black brew, and handed it to me. At the aircraft commander's nod, he filled another cup and passed it to the veteran pilot.

Sergeant Bruecher is the boom operator on board the KC-135. It is his job to transfer fuel from his tanker FEBRUARY, 1966   to the other plane in an air to air refueling mission. When not working the boom, the veteran airman from Alabama keeps an eye on his plane, assists the flying officers, and generally looks after things. "Sort of a stewardess in fatigues," as he describes himself.

Besides the pilot and co-pilot, two other men made up the regular flying crew, the boom operator and the navigator. First Lieutenant Thomas Young of California was our co-pilot on this flight while the navigation chores were handled by First Lieutenant B. W. Boswell of Maryland. He was working under the watchful eye of Captain William Lee, a Pennsylvanian and instructor navigator. Lee, a dry humorist, had an easy-going manner that hid his genuine love for the mathematical complexities of aerial navigation.

Besides the flight crew and the regular ground crew assigned to the plane there were about 35 Air Force and Army men returning to their duty stations in Alaska. Along with fuel and passengers, the El Toro was carrying a sizeable cargo of luggage and military gear. The KC-135 tanker is a big airplane, big all over. From the tip of its black nose to the tip of its jaunty, high swept tail, it stretches 136 feet, 3 inches. It stands 41 feet, 8 inches high, taller than a three-story house. Fully loaded, it weighs 297,000 pounds and each of its four big jets give out more than 12,000 pounds of thrust. The plane is the workhorse of SAC's far-flung operations.

SAC is a highly trained and powerful air arm of this nation's military might. From its Offutt headquarters this vast and dedicated military force makes \Nebraska the defensive hub of the free world. Offutt's underground command posts are the nerve centers of a global organization that keeps men and machines on constant alert. From them stream the aerial strategy that keeps the free world safe from aggression. SAC has two missions. In peacetime, it is a powerful deterrent to communist aggression. In wartime, SAC will destroy the enemy's war-making capabilities.

Bolstered by giant planes, guided missiles, and surrounded by highly sophisticated electronic gadgetry, SAC is, in the final analysis, an organization of people—people dedicated to securing and preserving the American way of life.

It takes a special breed to measure up to SAC's standards. From the lowest ranking airman to the lantern-jawed man with four stars on his collar, SAC's personnel stands tall. They display their competence without bravado, their accomplishments without pretension. They are confident they can meet any challenge and it takes only a few minutes association with any one of them to accept and share this confidence. SAC's people are professionals in the truest definition of the term.

This esprit was evident as El Toro, the Moron, now identified as Pelt 21, for communication purposes, bored 28 NEBRASKAland through the afternoon sky. With its black nose pointed north, the plane's four jets pulled the 297,000-pound bird through the air with seemingly effortless ease.

The flight crew exchanged friendly insults with the ground crew as the plane sped along on the flight to Alaska. It was a seven-day mission and where the airplane goes, so goes the ground crew, for it is their responsibility to keep the tanker operational at all times. These youngsters, many of them hardly out of their teens, talked knowingly of such places as Guam, Spain, England, Paris, and a thousand other exotic spots which are mere names on a globe to us groundlings. To them the whole world is an apple on a string.

Although the KC-135 was now on auto-pilot, Captain Berger and Lieutenant Young were busy. Their eyes ranged over the complex instrument panels, for these sensitive dials and gauges (continued on page 52)

THE TRUSTY 28

THEY SAID IT couldn't be done. Everyone from spectators up to production manager Bud Morgan had argued and then shaken their heads in despair when comedian Phil Harris would have no part of their disbelief. He had brought his 28 gauge shotgun and, by jingo, he was going to use it on Nebraska's pheasants.

Now with a rooster jumping up on his right, he brought his little 28 to his shoulder and let it do his talking. His shot missed but the snickers from a few spectators were quickly quieted when he shot again. The escaping pheasant tumbled to a waiting shorthair.

"In all my years of watching some of the most brilliant passes and runs on the football field, I have never seen a finer exhibition of timing and co-ordination," exclaimed television sportscaster Curt Gowdy, one of the hunters.

Harris, Gowdy, and Norris "Tuffy" Goff, the Abner of the "Lum and Abner Show", a radio favorite of a few years ago, were hunting the northeastern Nebraska cornfields for the crafty pheasant. Following them were cameramen, a sound engineer, director, production manager, and a ton of equipment. The American Broadcasting Company had arranged the hunt for its opening show, of the "American Sportsman" series.

Ever the comedian, Harris kept the production company roaring with his witticisms during the week-long hunt. But he showed the doubters he is as handy with a scattergun as he is with quip. With his skeet-bored 28 gauge, he consistently stoned the pheasants.

An experienced quail hunter, the Californian found the roosters tempting targets. During the first two days of NEBRASKAland 31   shooting, he didn't miss a bird to the chagrin of the hecklers who good-naturedly took his "a 28 gauge won't kill it" after each hit.

But Harris wasn't the only one full of surprises. Nebraska's pheasants had a bag of tricks for the Beverly Hills resident. One day, west of Hartington, one of their maneuvers put the hunters in shock. The cocky flock, estimated at 200, calmly idled along the road. Verbose Harris spoke for everyone when he bellowed, "they are as thick as chickens!"

With his trusty 28 gauge, he trudged the fields each day, accompanied by Goff, Gowdy, and their Nebraska host, Burrell Bourn, a Lexington dog handler and game farm owner. Bourn, in his bright red and black plaid hunting jacket, Alpine hat, and gray-flecked beard, was a colorful addition to the show.

In the unusually warm October sun, Harris led the pack through unpicked corn, determined to get the sly ringnecks. The boom of the gun and the racing shorthairs repeatedly told nearby skeptics he and the roosters were making connections.

The trio walked the fields again and again to give cameramen time to get all the necessary shots. They ignored the hovering helicopter taking the high angle shots as they concentrated on Bourn and his dogs who flushed the birds. The walking didn't bother Harris a bit. "After a lifetime of hunting, I still enjoy the walking, even when the shooting isn't too good," he said.

Whenever he got the chance Harris took off on his own for a private go round with the roosters. As he slowly walked through the cover, he inevitably scared up birds and picked them off.

An uncanny radar system seemed to direct the former band leader to the birds. One scene took the trio through 32 NEBRASKAland soil bank with no birds. Everyone headed for cars to try another spot but dead-eye Harris turned back and ambled through the field. A few steps, and a rooster exploded from the brush. The 28 gauge did its work. Another cock flew high to escape the approaching hunter, but to no avail. At the edge of the field, a third tried a low level escape and ended up dead. In 15 minutes Harris had bagged three singles from a "dry" field.

Harris managed to prove the skeptics wrong even with the rugged film schedule. Each morning, the party left Norfolk, the home base of the hunt, at 7 a.m. to be on location in Hartington and Newman Grove by 9. The cutoff time was usually 4 p.m. when the light began to wane.

For these men, the camera shooting schedule madsense although scenes were filmed completely out of sequence. One day they might be filmed leaving the field and then asking Mrs. Leo Gillespie of Meadow Grove for permission to hunt on her farm. Editing and splicing brought a smooth continuity to the show which was televised January 23rd. The Game Commission plans to purchase copies of the film and will make these available for free showing throughout Nebraska.

ABC had selected the three hunters because they could be counted on to make the show an enjoyable one for the television viewers. Nebraska's foxy pheasants, too, could be counted on to be as cantankerous and tricky as ever. The hunt was tailor-made for a sportsman like Harris, who taught the rooster as well as the doubting Thomases a few lessons in wing shooting.

Their stay in Nebraska was no disappointment. Californian Harris, Goff from Palm Beach, Florida, and Gowdy from Wellsley Hills, Massachusetts, had a real run for their money. Harris summed up the trip with "Nebraska, you're almost as beautiful as my wife Alice." THE END

LAND OF WINTER

WINTER IN Nebraska is a tingling zesty experience, filled with the pure joy of being alive. This season of cold and snows brings a lift to the soul and a sparkle to the eye as it covers our rich, lush land with a mantle of velvety white.

The very earth itself has a muted message to all who will listen. A message that says, "I have been busy too long. Busy with seeding and sprouting, growing and harvesting. Now I must rest. It is your turn to pick up the pace. There is help a coming with water and wind, snow and a tinsel of ice, but this is your time to be doing and you are on your own. Make the most of it."

From farm and home and city street, Nebraskans respond with alacrity, for there is a sense of urgency about this season that cannot be denied. Young and old alike want to create, to compete, to try, to accomplish, to savor to the fullest, the pure joy of being alive. Even the animal world responds to the invigoration of the season. The snow is stippled and scrawled with the records of its comings and goings. Fat beeves and placid, plodding horses shake off the lethargy of seasons past and show a frisky eagerness that is both ludicrous and   revealing, for Winter touches all with its compelling magic.

It is the young and the young in spirit who appreciate Winter the most. This is the season when young Michelangelos in mittens and stocking caps sculpt masterpieces of snow with all the vigor and imaginative energies at their command. Even the oldsters cannot resist the fascination of building, shaping, carving, and molding the pliable material which for want of a better name we call snow. Winter is a time when a man becomes a boy to recapture again the thrill and excitement of speedy sled runners on a glittering slope.

Of all who appreciate and enjoy Winter, probably none feel its exhilaration more keenly than the ice skater, for skating becomes more fascinating and irresistible amid the splendid solitude of a farm pond or an isolated lake. Adept or inept, no skater can long refuse the inviting combination of glassy ice and sharp steel. There is nothing else in the world of sport that quite equals the wonderful satisfactions, the thrills of individual accomplishments which belong to the skaters. They need no musical accompaniment save the wind in the trees and the low-key lisp of narrow blades to wheel and spin and glide in wild abandon—and sometimes fall for even the best skaters cannot outguess the slick and often-hidden snares of ice in the raw.

To discover the season at its best, nothing can surpass the simple pleasure of a walk in the country after a winter storm. A sense of tranquility, the charms of the strange and unfamiliar are at every hand for snow is a great alchemist with the power to transform even the most mundane into the new and unusual.

Greenery takes on a new vividness, a new value in Winter. A significance that is tinged with admiration by all who see it for this season of white is not kind to growing things. An evergreen tree or a bold and jaunty yucca becomes a study in defiant beauty while the rest of the green world is sleeping and obscured.

And it seems that nature itself responds to those rebellious spirits who stand undaunted above the snow, scorning its blight. Nature clothes them in ermine and adorns them with diamonds of ice. Even the pale, weak sun touches them with its most brilliant beams to give them sparkle. Few can fail to appreciate the pristine beauty and the geometric perfection of green and white that greet the morning after a fresh snowfall.

At times, Winter is a bit too enthusiastic in Nebraska, spreading its bounty of snow and cold with too-lavish a hand but then contrite, the season more than makes up for its extravagances with double and even triple portions of all its greatness. If this state was a land of no Winter, all of us would be a little poorer in spirit and a bit less alive. THE END

BEHIND THOSE SWINGING DOORS

IN OGALLALA where the old Texas Trail ends and three major highways fan out to the far corners of the country, a mighty legend stalks the streets of this one-time rowdy cowtown. It is legend spawned by the likes of the infamous Sam Bass and other owlhoots who operated out of Ogallala during the 1870's. The West and its drama lives on and on in Ogallala's Front Street, an attraction for visitors from everywhere.

Ogallala's Front Street is a living example of what can be done with a good idea, public spirit, and old-fashioned ingenuity. Today the sprawling development stands as proof to the growing potential of tourist promotion in NEBRASKAland. It is the result of private investment by five local businessmen and their stockholders but the project required the support of nearly every resident in town to become reality.

The organizers needed as much foresight as a wagon master ramrodding his Conestogas across the plains. A dozen Texas Rangers couldn't match their savvy in rounding up- support for the idea.

One morning, banker Bill Olson, newspaperman Jack Pollock, veterinarian Darlan Rezac, and two newcomers 38 to Ogallala, Gary Padley and his father William, met over coffee and envisioned a project to make use of the vast store of western history available. At the same time, they had plans to develop a unique tourist attraction. Stan Smith was hired as manager and co-ordinator.

Their plan was to recreate on one entire city block the buildings and landmarks that stood on Ogallala's main street in 1875, including the once-lurid Crystal Palace Bar with a tamed-down version of its original entertainment. In the summer of 1964, a jail, land office, barber shop, museum, hotel, funeral parlor, general FEBRUARY, 1966 39   store, and saloon rose from the dust along U.S. Highway 30 to become one of the nation's most novel enterprises.

In the corral out front, the promoters fashioned an authentic stagecoach sturdy enough to haul kids for a 50-cent ride up to famed Boot Hill, the site where many a tinhorn and crook of the West came to rest with his boots on. The cemetery, the planners thought, would serve as a good historical companion to one of the biggest features of their attraction—the Cowboy Capital Historical Museum. It was intended from the beginning to give visitors all of the western lore, history, and shenanigans they wanted and then some to create a bona fide drawing card at Nebraska's "city of the year". What they wanted to avoid was a business that "took" people.

What they got was a captivating creation that attracted over 100,000 people in three months last summer and sired a handful of allied industries that promise to pump new money into the local economy and provide more jobs for the townspeople.

"We didn't want just a tourist trap," recalls Jack Pollock. "What we tried to build was a true attraction that would incorporate the cowboy's museum and tell something of the fine history here."

Typical of early wild-west buffoonery in the Ogallala of another day were nightly "girlie" shows at "Crystal Palace Bar", as Big Alice and her court performed in front of pop-eyed rawhides. This feature of the rowdy past has been preserved, too, at Front Street. During the summer months "dance hall" girls swing their costumes to the tinkling of a player piano while a folk singer eulogizes colorful figures and events in ballads singular to western Nebraska.

"Cowboy's Rest" is a counterpart in decorations to the Palace but is designed for kids—from 8 to 80. Featured here are real buffalo burgers and sarsaparilla, a contrast to the redeye served up in the Palace. Both old "saloons" share the stage for after dusk shows. Kids get a rare treat at each performance when the local "sheriff" invites all on stage to receive honorary deputy badges. These evening hoedowns are the only entertainment not free on the grounds. All else is open to the public with no "general admission" fee.

Public spirit and enthusiasm for Front Street is apparent at almost every turn in this town of 4,250. Publicity pamphlets are distributed to potential customers each day at motels, hotels, restaurants, and service stations. Thus a "captive" audience is turned into possible visitors. Often, the invitation to stay an extra day in town is accepted. With every carload of guests remaining an extra day, another $32 filters out to weave itself into Ogallala's economy.

The acid test of public support of Front Street came in 1963. When the incorporators fanned out in every direction seeking buyers for $25,000 worth of common stock and $75,000 of preferred, there were many tense 40 NEBRASKAland moments. At times, the paper pushers wondered if they had heard things right. At the idea's inception, vocal support boomed out solid approval of the plan, but the promoters discovered it was easier for many to say yes at a meeting than to dish up money when the company's treasurer sought support.

But Front Street's financial drive was a success. Stockholders came up with the chips to put the attrac- tion solidly on its feet and onto the street. Every penny of the corporation's capital stock was accounted for when the subscription drive was over. One final hitch was the only thing that stood between dream and reality at the site. Additional financing was soon required but the Small Business Administration solved the problem with a "booster" loan to complement the original capital investment.

Banker Olson underscores the importance of public support in any tourist promotion project. "You must have the solid support (continued on page 51)

LEOPARD FROG

IF FROGS AND toads ever hold a beauty contest, the leopard frog, Rana pipiens Shreber, will be the top candidate, for this common amphibian is among the most handsome of all the hopping clan. If he doesn't win the beauty contest, this pond dweller can enter the animal Olympics and do right well for he can jump about 13 times his own length.

The leopard-frog has the widest distribution of any North American amphibian. He may be found in both clear and muddy water, in shallow ponds or deep ones, in springs, creeks, or rivers, and in the mountains or in the lowlands.

This harmless hopper is better known than other frogs, not only because of his wide distribution and greater numbers, but also because of his habit of traveling considerable distances from his pond. This is generally the frog you meet in fields and orchards.

Frogs have done much to help man in his educational or scientific activities. It was the exposed nerve in the dissected leg of a dead frog which resulted in experiments for the transmission of electric current by Galvani, a pioneer in the study of electrical impulses. Because frogs are easy to obtain, and their different systems can be traced readily, they are frequently used for studies in comparative anatomy. Medically, the live frog is of use to the gynecologist.

In addition to man, a host of other animals prey on frogs. Aquatic rats, mink, weasels, and skunks find them 42 NEBRASKAland delicious morsels. Fish, wading and diving birds, aquatic turtles, and water snakes also consume large numbers.

But in spite of so many casualties, the populations remain about the same from year to year, barring major catastrophes such as floods or prolonged droughts. This is due partly to the very large number of eggs laid at breeding time—from 2,000 to 3,000 eggs from a single female in one season. Even if a tenth of them survived, we would have a veritable "plague of frogs".

Breeding occurs in the early spring, soon after the animals have emerged from hibernation. Eggs are laid in the water, usually among aquatic vegetation along the shore. After being externally fertilized by the male, the eggs receive no attention from the parents. Hatching is completed in about six days following fertilization depending upon the water temperature. The young stay in the tadpole stage for 2 1/2 to 3 months at which time metamorphosis to a frog takes place.

The leopard frog is a cosmopolitan diner. He will eat most animals small enough to be seized and swallowed. Insects, earthworms, and spiders are frequent sources. Very few wild animals die a natural death from old age, and the leopard frog is no exception. As soon as he becomes less alert through aging he falls prey to the hungry animals who like frog meat.

Although his days in the wild are numbered, this leaper makes a colorful contribution to our outdoor scene. For that he deserves our well wishes. THE END

A BITE OF VENISON

EVEN WITH VENISON steaks, chops, roasts, spare-ribs, and deerburger, a hunter's palate may yearn for a more varied menu. Especially since NEBRASKAland riflemen have harvested over 100,000 deer since 1945. Anyway you slice it, that makes a whopping heap of venison.

This cry for variety put Verain Faltin of Howells, Nebraska, into the deer sausage business. A butcher, Faltin's first request for deer sausage came in 1953 from Frank Petricek, Jr., and the late James Drahota, Sr., two well-known sportsmen in the area. Petricek and Drahota described the taste they wanted, and Faltin set to work gathering his ingredients for the sausage.

The 41-year-old butcher didn't realize what he was letting himself in for. For 25 years, he has been Mr. Meat Market in this small town in northeast Nebraska and he knows about all there is to know about meat. With that   kind of a background, venison sausage should have been a snap but it wasn't. Verain had to work at it to come up with just the right combination of meats and spices.

Sausage is usually made from parts of the deer that are not considered choice. But the entire deer can be ground up if desired. After skinning, the deer is cut up, ground, and stuffed into either beef or hog casings. And when you've seen one casing, you have definitely not seen them all. Hog casings, used for Polish sausage, are narrow and tubular, while beef casings make a round, rainbow-shaped sausage. A summer sausage casing is straight.

One-third of each pound of deer sausage is pork fat. This fat is added to make the venison more juicy and give it a better flavor. As most hunters are aware, venison by itself is somewhat dry. But, many Nebraska butchers agree that the finest eating deer in the country come from here.

A mixture of spices, which Faltin guards as jealously as any gourmet chef, is the key to the sausage mix. Spicing the sausage has to be played by ear so to speak. It certainly is not a tongue-tasting operation, as uncooked meat cannot be tasted to correct the seasoning. Wise cooks and butchers also know that strengths of spices varies greatly.

Although Faltin doesn't talk about his seasonings, most sausages contain the following spices in varying quanities: thyme, sweet marjoram, summer savory, coriander, pulverized bay leaf, and freshly ground pepper. These are obtainable at most stores but establishing the proper mixtures of spices and meat to give sausage its characteristic tang is mostly trial and error.

The meat is then cured and smoked, a combination process that preserves it and brings out that homemade flavor. For curing, the meat is placed in a plastic bag and hung in a chill room where the temperature remains at a constant 36°. After five days, it goes to the smokehouse for 20 hours. Faltin's smokehouse, a 5 by 16-foot brick structure, has four different racks. The top rack is about 8 1/2 feet from the source of the smoke. As the hours go by, the sausage is lowered to the six-foot level, then to the 4 1/2-footer, and finally to the 3-foot level. Natural smoke from Nebraska's fruit woods seals in the goodness.

Nebraska's steadily improving deer populations is putting the deer sausage business on the upswing as more and more hunters are discovering this new twist to an already tasty product. This winter, deer sausage is big business since rifle hunters bagged a record 16,987 deer for a new record. In 1965, Faltin processed 4,000 pounds of deer sausage. Nebraska's 96-day bow hunt kept butchers hopping until well into the new year. Although "homemade" sausage is a beguiling term, making it is a chore that is beyond the capabilities of the average hunter and housewife.

Hard-working days and long hours are the backbreaking prices the Howells' butcher pays for his sausage-making fame. Faltin's wife gives him a hand when the deer start streaming in. Gerald Vering, Faltin's uright-hand man," helps with the skinning and stuffing. This 220-pound young man can carry a 200-pound deer "like Tony Jeter throwing a block for Big Red."

Fried or broiled, deer sausage has lip-smacking goodness, especially on wintery mornings. The meaty aroma of frying venison is enough to warm hunter's heart and satisfy his stomach throughout a long day in the field.

Here's a tip to insure maximum flavor when cooking cased sausage. The meat should be pricked to keep the skin from bursting. This may not be necessary if you have added a small quantity of water to the pan at the onset of cooking, or if you have first blanched, dried, and floured the sausage lightly before frying. Even then, if the sausage swells quickly, prick it lightly before it bursts to give the meat greater protection and hold in the flavor.

Venison lends itself well to making "dry" sausage or salami. The special ingredient in this piquant sausage is garlic, with a capital "G." From a Czechoslovakian background, Faltin is known as the "Little Bohemian Butcher", a heritage which enables him to mix garlic and spices into the ground venison with a deft hand. The salami is then cured for five days and smoked for 20 hours, the same as sausage. Served cold, it is mouth-watering on its own. Slapped between thick slices of cheese and rye it makes a sandwich with gustatory authority.

Dry sausages may be kept indefinitely in a cool place. For this reason, they have the nickname of "summer sausages"—although they are available the year round. Once the sausage casing is cut, the smoked or cooked sausages can be stored in a refrigerator for about a week. Semidry and dry types will keep for two weeks or more.

Another varied and tasty meat from deer is dried venison. Processed much like dried beef, it comes from the round. Soaked in salt brine for 10 days, it is then cured for 10 days, and smoked for 20 hours. The finished product is sliced thin or "chipped". Its tasty smoke and salt flavor is an epicure's delight.

You won't always find Faltin behind the meat counter, however. He, his wife, and their six children are a real "family of hunters". Faltin recalls it was a "great day" when his sons, David, 9, shot his first cottontail, and Mike, 12, bagged his first ringneck.

It is a sure bet that the Faltins, deer riflemen themselves, know the score when they say deer sausage is tops on their list. One bite and you'll agree. THE END

WAY TO A BULLHEAD'S HEART

TWELVE WATER-FILLED tanks bubbled and boiled from the pressure of an air compressor. In one of them, a bullhead eased out from the shelter of a length of tile. Her red tag indicated she was a female. Slowly she nosed toward a tube at one end of her aquarium as Senior Biologist Earl Kendle watched. This one test couldn't prove anything, but added to the hundreds already done and those to be done, it might show a definite trend. The 34-year-old researcher glanced at his watch and rose to cut off the pump. The 15-minute test was over.

A bullhead in another tank sulked in his tile, unaware that water from his environment, along with whatever secretion he might give off was now mixed with water in one of the other 11 aquariums.

Kendle's brainchild is an experiment to determine whether male bullheads give off an attractant that draws female bullheads, or vice versa.

Nobody has learned much about such a substance, yet. If bullheads are as attracted to it as Nebraska Game Commission fisheries researchers hope, a valuable new tool will be placed in the hands of fish managers, and anglers will be big winners in the long run.

Words like "chemo-attractant", "pheramon", and "sex attractant" have already been coined, though the existance of such a substance in relation to fresh water fish is not yet proved. It is not as easy to detect as Chanel No. 5, but it could be something on the same order. Whatever it may be, researchers hope that "that certain something" which melts a bullhead's heart can be located.

Kendle launched the project last June at the Game Commission's research laboratory in Lincoln. He designed much of the equipment himself. Basically, the setup during the tests involves 12 fish, a male or a female per test tank. At present, the fish are paired in an effort to hasten sexual maturity. Water samples are transferred from one tank to another through plastic tubing, to test reactions of fish in the tank on the receiving end. The various tubes all lead to a homemade pump. At the pump, the tubes branch into a series of innerconnected "Y's." This permits movement of water among the aquariums.

Common sewing thread spools are an important part of the mechanism. The spools are arranged as rollers on a rotating drum. The plastic pipelines pass over the spools. Pressure of the rotating spools squeezes the tubes like a tube of toothpaste, forcing the water through.

When the spool pump is operated, water is moved from one tank to another, depending on which "Y" connection is left open. If a bullhead in the receiving tank shows a definite interest in the intake tube, he will swim over to it. This could indicate the presence of an attractant.

If such a substance can be found, isolated, and duplicated, it could be utilized in several ways, playing on the reproductive instinct. Love-sick bullheads of one sex might one day swim after his or her heart's desire, only to wind up in a trap! Such traps would be effective in removing surplus fish. Or a quantity of attractant dumped in a small body of water could so confuse the fish that they would be unable to locate the object of their affection. Thus it could be an effective birth control device. Another possibility is a bait additive. Perhaps the complete angler of the future will tote an assortment of phials neatly labeled "bullheads", "bass", or whatever.

Bullheads were selected for the Nebraska experiment because over-population is an important problem. Also, the bullhead's nocturnal wanderings require a keen sense of smell. He must be aware of his environment without having to see it. The bullhead can live and reproduce in highly turbid ponds where visibility is limited.

Spawning conditions are necessary to bring out the most response to the presence of the suspected attractant. These are difficult to duplicate in the laboratory, but the difficulty is not a serious obstacle. Kendle hopes to obtain some wild spawners this spring and extract fluids from the fish for use in the test tanks.

When asked about results of the tests to date, Kendle hopes for the best without committing himself, any good researcher's prerogative. "Let's say I am optimistic an attractant is involved, or I wouldn't have started the whole business."

Whatever the findings, yea or nay, the experiment cannot be counted a failure. If it turns up an attractant which man can duplicate, the advantages are obvious. If not, it's another step toward knowledge of nature. Meantime, only the bullheads in Kendle's tanks know and they aren't telling, yet. THE END

TWO DEER HUNT

ridges, a likely exit for a spooked deer.

We had hardly stopped the jeep and stepped out when a big mulie doe flashed across an opening, heading for the draw. Paul eased his rifle into the ready position at the flash of movement. A rustle of leaves and the doe stopped as she caught our scent.

The rifle slid to Paul's shoulder, the deer a diffused outline in the bottom of the brushy draw.

"I'll try her," Paul whispered. "I think I can get through into her shoulder."

The .243 cracked and I watched the animal spring forward in two great leaps, then sprawl headlong to the ground.

"Well, that takes care of one license," Paul said a little shakily. "Let's get her hog-dressed and go get that buck." The bullet had done its work well, the hit had been a little behind the shoulder and had come out just behind the first rib.

With a half mile of creek remaining to hunt, we again swung ahead of drivers. The fog was lifting and the fall sun promised a warm day. I was 50 yards ahead of Paul as we hiked to the head of another draw leading from the creek bottom when I caught a flash of movement coming up a bank 20 yards away. I froze breathless as a big four-point whitetail stepped into view. The buck stood looking over his shoulder towards the drivers.

Camera useless in the dim light, I turned slowly to try to get Paul's attention. The buck still hadn't seen me. If I could just get the hunter to look toward me. Step by step he came up the trail. Swinging his head the buck caught me waving frantically at Paul. He tensed, his nostrils flared, and then he bounded up the hill and was gone. All Paul saw as I finally yelled "buck" was a white flash as the deer topped out over the ridge.

Bemoaning our fate at missing a chance at the buck, we waited as the drivers along the creek pushed toward us. Two whitetail does almost ran over us as we stood, silently watching the runways that led past our vantage point.

Francis had the unique experience of seeing three white-tailed bucks together as they flashed past him in the creek bottom. Permits filled, Francis could only watch as the trio cut up a draw and headed for the high country of the Pine Ridge. Aage had only a glimpse of a little mule deer buck and couldn't get a shot. A whitetail doe fell to one of the gunners. It was his first deer and after congratulations and stories of the bucks that posed for photographers and guys without permits we took a break for lunch.

The afternoon found us back along the western canyons where we had been the day before. George and Paul teamed up and they began a hunt into the canyon that we thought the big whitetail had run into. Francis got the job of driving the jeep and I headed north along the western perimeter of the hills and took a stand overlooking a broad canyon.

Two does came bounding down the ridge about 400 yards away and headed for the bottom of the canyon. A hunter appeared behind them, then disappeared into a stand of second-growth Ponderosa. A slight wind was coming up out of the ravine as we watched a flock of pifion jays fly into a pine below us, their eerie calls breaking the silence of the hills.

Twenty minutes passed, a whitetail doe bounded up below our vantage point, winded us, and vaulted into the concealment of the pines. Glassing the sidehill, across the canyon, I picked up some movement behind a clump of cedar.

"Three deer across the canyon," I whispered, Aage swung his scope on them.

"Can you make them out?" he questioned.

"I can see their heads pretty good and they look like baldies to me," I said. "Wait a minute and we should see them, one of the hunters is coming up just north of them and I'll bet they head up the canyon."

Watching the deer, I saw them pick up the hunter, freeze for a moment, and then race along the hillside up the canyon. The three were does. "Another one," Aage said excitedly. "Fifty yards behind them." I swung the glasses back and saw a big buck trotting on the trail of the does.

"How far is he?" Aage questioned. "I'll guess a strong 400 yards. Might as well try him. I'll keep the glasses on him and watch the shot just in case you miss."

"In case I miss," Aage muttered with a grin. "I'll touch off just as he hits that open patch ahead. Don't panic if you don't see the bullet hit as soon as I shoot, he's so far away it will take a minute or two for the slug to get there."

The blast of the .30/06 jolted me as the 150-grain slug whizzed its way across the void.

"Two feet behind but dead center," I coached. "Lead him a little more."

The rifle crashed again, this time, I couldn't see the strike of the bullet but the buck showed no sign of being hit. The third shot kicked dirt on the buck's undercarriage as he disappeared into a dense clump of second-growth pine.

"That second shot could have caught him," I offered, "but I didn't see him flinch at all."

"The drivers have all gone past us now," Aage said, "let's hike around the rim and come down from the top. If I did hit him, we should be able to pick up some sign."

Thirty minutes later we were looking over the clump of pine where we had last seen the deer and after a close inspection concluded the shot had been a miss. It was a long chance shot but with rifles in the class that Aage was using a hit was almost certain to mean venison for the meat pole.

Hunting our way down the ravines to the bottom we heard a number of shots coming from the direction of George and Paul. A pair of does went rattling up the canyon to the west as we neared the bottom. Francis was waiting for us in the jeep and he told me that Paul had his buck down along the east ridge and had called on the radio to see if I wanted pictures of it.

We followed the jeep trail out to the edge of Soldier Creek, cut back to the south, and saw George waving us over along the edge of a small ravine.

"Best buck I have ever shot, Gene," Paul said, showing me a big four-point buck.

"From the sound of the shooting," Aage kidded, "he must have been moving faster than the one I shot at."

"Wasn't moving at all," George said with a grin, "but the shooting wasn't all Paul. In fact he only fired once. You have to blame me for the barrage. I threw three rounds at a fork horn across the canyon and it jolted this fellow out just down below the ridge here. He pulled a typical mule deer antic and stopped to see what all the noise was. Paul dropped him with one shot at about 75 yards."

"It was a lot easier shot than I had at the doe this morning, I'll say that," Paul added. "Fact is, it was downright easy."

With other appointments to keep, I had to leave the three hunters and their party that evening. Aage had three more days to bag his buck. Paul and Francis along with others in the pary who had filled would do the leg work for those who hadn't. It had been an exciting hunt for both writer and hunters. I have hopes of returning to the Pine Ridge next year armed with rifle and two deer permits. I know there are plenty of deer and I have an 50 NEBRASKAland appointment with a granddaddy whitetail. I hope to keep fit somewhere in the canyons along Soldier Creek Valley. THE END

SWINGING DOORS

of the citizens," Olson advises, "before you can go into anything like this."

Money spent by tourists is new money and it doesn't take long for the butcher, baker, or barber to notice a louder ring in the cash registers. Ogallala merchants claim that every single dollar is spent 17 times in their community and ten tourist families each night for three months bring more than $100,000 into the area.

Henry Hagge, manager of the Ogallala Chamber of Commerce, is in a position to know the economic impact of Front Street on the town. He calls the structure "the most outstanding thing for a tourist attraction that we could ever have."

"This has helped all of the cafes, motels, hotels, and service stations in town, and all of the people who cater to tourism will tell you they had a record year after Front Street was built," Hagge said.

He takes particular note of the motel industry. "All units filled up faster last summer than at any time in history and by 5:30 or 6:00 p.m. a traveler didn't have a ghost of a chance to get a room," the Chamber of Commerce manager reports.

Although the promotion group traveled to such far-away places as Boot Hill, Kansas, and Louisville, Kentucky, to obtain ideas and information for the wild-west spectacular, an important element as a family attraction was not overlooked. A gift shop and souvenir store for women was written into the plans and today the "Ogallala House" even includes an oldtime general store with all its traditional trappings. A "post office" handles cards and letters for folks back home.

This venture from the beginning was destined for big time, and to prove it, the show daddies feature such popular talent each night as Karen Hansmeier, Miss Ogallala and Miss Nebraska, and pert Nebraska Wesleyan vocalist, Sally Runge. The shindigs were so popular last summer that a new seating arrangement was necessary to expand the capacity of the Palace to more than 125. Ushers are very careful to put the kids into a front-row seat where they can closely watch the "shoot out" performances.

Front Street managers are tooling up for the anticipated 1966 traffic. Visitors filed through at an approximate rate of 70 every hour from June 1 to August 31 last summer, and total attendance for the year was estimated at over 100,000.

The payroll isn't big enough yet to demand Wells Fargo protection but it is large enough to be competitive with resorts at established areas across the nation. With 32 people on the books, the weekly divvy runs to close to $1,750. Next season, employment is expected to reach 38, according to manager Stan Smith.

Even though most of the history on display here is symbolic of the old Texas Trail days, another "trail" is influencing the attraction, too. Businessmen all up and down the NEBRASKAland vacation highways know that when Interstate Highway 80 is completed in 1972, only strong attractions will swing the tourist off the high-speed ribbon. So Front Street is drawing on virtually every known method of promotion in an attempt to popularize the site and establish an early nation-wide reputation.

Crime, infamy, rawhides, and gamblers of years ago made an indelible impression on the land. But Ogallala and Front Street promise to make even a bolder mark on the country. Already, Ogallala is one of 24 cities in the United States under consideration for All-America honors and Front Street is a part of that distinction.

It's all proud testimony of the public spirit, enterprise, and courage that Nebraskans are showing for developing their vast tourism potential. THE END

EXPEDITION

flickering lures around dark holes and submerged branches. Don slopped through the knee-high water and headed upstream. George elected to fish each hole thoroughly, leaving Don to hop, rapid-fire from snag to snag. He knows from experience that his wiry companion, though shorter, can set a killing pace. Don's bright red jacket with "Valentine Volunteer Fire Department" printed on the back disappeared in a tangle of brush.

George took his time, dipping and raising the lure, moving it slowly through the water. He could overtake Don at will, since straight line distance is several times shorter than the fisherman's walk on the twisting Fairfield.

Don fished as always, with intense concentration. His erratic pace consisted of a pause here, a slow trolling walk there, and a near-sprint past unlikely spots. A promising log jam red-flagged his patience, and Don strode to it, easing carefully to a point above the spot where a sheet of water rolled over a branch. He dropped the spinner upstream and let it sweep past him. The heirloom bamboo rod arched sharply as the line fouled. Don eased off and twitched the hook free from an offending twig. A small trout, apparently spooked by the shadow of the rod, streaked to the security of a hole. Don dumped the lure again and guided it into a dark recess under the snag. A big brown trout stuck his nose out, batted the lure to test it, then retired. The encouraged angler worked the lure through the hole several times, but the obstinate brown resisted temptation. Snorting with disgust, the volunteer fireman headed for the next hole just as George heaved into sight.

Don shook his head to the ex-marine's "any luck?" "There's a nice brown in that snag, but he isn't buying today," Don replied, taking a breather. George laughed, "I'm not doing so well, either. All that walking and not a sign of a fish. Boy, they sure are spooky or just aren't there. I know a retired G-Man from Omaha who doesn't do anything but fish. He came to Valentine once to try his luck for trout, but claims he won't come back because he hates to fish for anything smarter than he is."

"Well, I guess I like the country here as much as the fish," Don replied. "When a fellow once gets the taste of sand in his mouth, he never wants to leave. Well, what do you say? Shall we go up by the falls at the head of the canyon? There's a big hole there I used to fish, years ago. We've had enough rain to pack the sand so we can drive pretty close."

The pair rose and started up the steep wall. White's Crossing, which years ago eased wagons through the canyon, lay about three miles by water, two by land.

Struggling up the steep canyon, George paused for breath. The red jacket fluttered above him, then stopped as Don waited for his friend. The stocky salesman gathered his energy, then climbed to the ledge where Don was perched.

"Phew, it looks prettier when you don't have to climb," George signed. "Who would ever guess all of this was hidden in the hills?" He scanned the scene.

The canyon wall fell away sharply below them. The other wall, equally steep, threw back echoes of color as the two friends absorbed the brilliant beauty of the fall foliage.

Climbing was easier as the slope gentled into sand hills. But the long FEBRUARY, 1966 51   walk back to the car told on both men. Loose sand dragged at their clumsy hip boots as they trekked to the waiting car. Each downhill grade was only a brief reprieve before the next climb. Finally, they could see the automobile, parked in the shade of some lonely trees.

At the vehicle, they caught their breath, climbed in, and Don set a course over back roads, through gates and pastures. George, riding shotgun, was elected by virtue of his position to open and close the innumerable gates.

"Fairfield Creek runs in a Y," Don explained. 'The north leg has two falls, the south branch one. We will give it a whack on the north fork. There's a bridge above the falls, and there are some good holes along the whole stretch—at least there were when I last fished it, several years ago."

The car bounced over the wooden bridge and kept on until the road dissolved into gullies. Don pointed to a cleared spot. "My home used to stand right there. When I was a boy, I would often hike down to the second falls and fish a deep hole there. I caught my share of trout at the spot." Don shrugged into a heavier jacket to keep out the rising, chilly wind.

His appetite whetted, George pulled out his fly rod and jointed it. "Sounds good to me."

A hundred yards or so below the bridge George connected with his first fish of the day. "Oh, boy. We've hit pay dirt," he cackled. But his joy was short-lived. The splashing stopped abruptly, and he ruefully hoisted the dangling spinner.

"Let's move on to the first falls," Don suggested. They could hear roaring water downstream.

The falls drop about five feet into a churning melee of white water. Both Valentine men waded carefully, for the rocks were slippery.

Don's rod curved. "Finally, I've got a little brown," he called. The fish tore downstream, pushed by the current. He leaped and scooted toward a hole. "No, it's a rainbow," the fisherman amended. He played the trout carefully, not wanting to lose his first.

The 12-incher flopped when Don swung him into shore. He looked up just in time to see George fast to a fish and struggling toward better footing. "Lost him!" George exclaimed.

Their hopes up, the two men combed each hole to the second falls. They paused to observe the thundering water. Fairfield Creek rumbled over an undercut lip to fall about 20 feet. Below the falls, troubled waters swirled around a dark, deep basin.

"Well, let's have at it," George called after a long, appreciative look. The two partners descended the steep cut, slipping and sliding in the loose soil. But, the pair failed to raise a fish. They rested and watched the impressive falls in silence for a few moments before working up the slope to the car.

Don walked briskly across the high table above the falls. He turned to wait for his companion, and doubled up in laughter. George was squatting before an old stock tank, woefully dipping his spinner over the rim. "Guess this is more my speed," the olive drab-clad figure called. "Where now? The view was worth the trip, but I suppose we've fished the best places by now. Or do you have another spot lined up?"

"One more chance," Don grinned. "We'll try the headwaters south of here. The creek winds through a meadow, and there are some deep runs. There is another bridge. If this stream has been stocked this year, that is probably where they dumped them."

Seven miles of dodging sand blowouts and obstinate cattle landed the two at the bridge. Don restrung his rod and paused to look at a distant blowout-in-the-making. A tail of sand, whipped by the ever-present Sand Hills wind, waved above the horizon.

Don headed upstream, the other fisherman down. Both were sticking to spinners. They'd caught enough fish on the big blades on past trips to have confidence in their lures, if they could locate some fish.

Fast water near the falls ran yellow with leaves and debris, but there was a portion that was slow and dark with depth. Don's fifth cast drew a strike and resounding splash. A rainbow about a foot long cartwheeled into the air, then grabbed for water. The line whipped briefly at an angle. Then Don reared back and swung the fish into shore.

Another fish and still another followed as the grinning Don made his way around the many-cornered meander. Brush caught at his clothes, and dense thickets slowed his progress but he kept on, even though the water was too deep for much wading. Before calling it a day and dismantling his rod, Don raised and creeled a rainbow from a promising pocket near the wooden bridge.

George stood by the automobile and tipped an empty creel. "Well, this time it was my turn to get skunked. Next time will be yours. Anyway, I enjoyed the scenery."

As the road unwound the last few miles into Wood Lake, both agreed it had been a successful trip, then lapsed into silence. For Don, it was a home- coming, a visitation to scenes of boyhood memories. George's eyes gleamed with the discovery of the Fairfield's several faces and the vivid fall colors.

George broke the silence. "You know, I wouldn't recommend this trip to a man who only wants to kill fish. You have to go through a lot to get there and you've got to hunt for the trout. But I would come again, just to see Fairfield Creek."

The car rolled on through the brown hills, which have an appeal of their own in any season. The anglers were content with their day's accomplishments. They had some fish and had enjoyed the blazing riot of fall scenery that lay behind the hills where Fairfield Creek wends its picturesque course. THE END

JET SET

are the electronic eyes and ears of the plane. A continuous chatter of radio communications was dinning through their earphones as the two men kept contact with ground stations, far below.

As the jet crossed the invisible boundary between the U. S. and Canada, Lieutenant Young reported the exact minute and position of entry. From somewhere on the ground a very British voice acknowledged Lieutenant Young's message. "Thank you for your courtesy, have a good flight, Pelt 21."

"Thank you, we will," returned the co-pilot.

Lieutenant Boswell, seated at a small desk surrounded by navigational and communications equipment, worked on his maps and charts. Finally, he turned away and suggested I look down.

"There ought to be a little lake just off our port wing," he said. Sure enough, there it was and I marveled how any man, traveling at almost 600 miles an hour and tossed by high-velocity vagrant winds, could so accurately pinpoint a lake no larger than an oversized pothole.

Senior Navigator Lee had time to visit. A Pennsylvanian like myself, we talked of home for more than an hour until Lee changed the subject and started pointing out some of the interesting terrain features more than six miles below. We were over the Canadian Rockies now and the air was rough, so Captain Berger had climbed another 4,400 feet to escape the turbulence. From our vantage point, the rugged mountains had a surprising resemblance to Nebraska's Sand Hills.

"That space that looks like a white, four-lane highway between two peaks is actually a big glacier," Lee explained. "Don't let that smooth surface fool you, it's mighty rough, and I don't recommend it as a landing strip. See how far 52 NEBRASKAland above the timberline it is. Somewhere down there we ought to see the Alcan Highway."

The navigator looked at his charts for a second and then peered out of the window. "There it is," he exclaimed, pointing out a thin ribbon that wound around the flank of a towering peak.

"I wish I had my binoculars along," I sighed, staring down at the winding road.

"Next flight, I am going to bring mine so I can read the road signs and know where the heck I'm at," joked the chief navigator.

Lieutenant Young joined the conversation by pointing out that it was about 65° below zero at our altitude. He fingered a dial on the instrument panel that read Free Air Temperature and explained that it recorded temperatures in Centigrade instead of the familiar Fahrenheit. He had a conversion table which made the transition from one standard to the other.

Inside the jet it was comfortable, with the pressurized cabin protecting us from the extreme cold of the outside world. The windshields were clear and Captain Berger showed me the tiny wire sensors in the electrically heated windows.

Among the passengers was A/1c James Andrews of Benkelman, Nebraska. He was going back to duty at Eielson after a pheasant hunting spree in his home state. He and Lou Ell visited for a long time as El Toro, the Moron clipped off the miles. Jim liked his job in the Air Force but you could tell he was still thinking of the fun he had matching shotgun wits with the cackle birds at home. The other passengers slept, read, played cards, or talked, bored with the whole trip, for air travel was nothing new to these young men.

Major Leroy Peters, of Mitchell, South Dakota, a senior navigator, was returning to his post after leave in the South Forty Eight. As the flight settled into a routine, he started talking about his favorite subject, polar navigation. Although, he directed most of his remarks to me, it was plain that he was talking to student navigator Boswell at the same time.

"Even with all our electronic aids, navigation is still up to the man, for machines are not infallible. A man's judgment, self confidence, and presence of mind during an emergency are far more important than all of the computers, gyros, and other gear ever invented," he said.

Almost before I realized it, the big plane was slanting down, its jets throttling back to reduce speed. As the big tanker dropped, I couldn't see a thing through the heavy cloud cover, but the lack of visibility didn't seem to faze Captain Berger. Deftly, he handled the controls, nursing the plane through the foggy overcast, guiding its landing wheels to the 14,000-foot-plus runway at Eielson. We landed with a slight bump and taxied to our assigned slot on the flight line.

"Made it," grinned Berger, the concentration and fatigue of the long flight FEBRUARY, 1966 53   draining away as he made a final check of the airplane.

Due to time changes, it was only 2:30 p.m. at Eielson but the long Arctic night was already settling in. Major James Lindsey was waiting for us at the runway. In a Dixie drawl, he asked us how things were going in the South Forty Eight, a term that Alaskans use to describe the states within the continental limits. Eielson is located in a river valley which is much like the Platte Valley of Nebraska except for the dark evergreens that shroud the surrounding hills. We hit it lucky; Eielson wasn't very cold but Major Lindsey assured us that this was unusual. The week before it was 40° below.

As we toured the base, the officer filled us in on the Alaskan facts of life. Milk costs $1.05 a half gallon so most of the people use powdered milk. A bottle of coke is a quarter, good beer a dollar a bottle, and gasoline varies from 70 to 80 cents a gallon. Eggs sell at $1.50 a dozen and are not too plentiful at that. Base prices are slightly lower but not much.

"My biggest gripe up here is T.V.," the major said. "All of our programs are taped and sent up here about two weeks after they appear in the South Forty Eight.

"I'm a great football fan and it's a little strange to watch a football play by play that is two weeks old. Your Cornhuskers are doing right well, aren't they?"

We assured him that the Cornhuskers were doing right well.

Electrical outlets replace meters in the parking lots. It gets so cold in Fairbanks during the winter that cars must be kept warm. Most motorists use head bolt or dip stick heaters and whenever they park, they hook up the devices to the power outlets. Otherwise, their vehicles would never start. Fishing, hunting, trapping, skating, and skiing are the principal recreations in Alaska, with most of the base personnel being ardent big-game hunters. Practically every home on the base had the antlers of a moose or caribou on display.

That evening, Lou Ell and I visited Fairbanks. This modern city of 16,000 resembled Grand Island with its modern stores, plenty of parking areas, and a number of small but comfortable looking homes. At a restaurant we learned that the old Nebraska custom of keeping your coffee cup filled and refilled is observed.

The next morning, Major Vivian Lock took us on tour. He had lived in Lincoln for five years and his daughter, Bonnie, was a student at Doane College in Crete. We filled him in on Nebraska doings and asked a thousand questions in return.

SAC ignores the weather and no matter how cold it gets, the planes fly. To keep the birds ready to go at 60 to 65° below requires special skills, but the airmen at this remote base are equal to the frigid challenge. Everyone learns to live in the extreme cold, but it takes certain adjustments to cope with its ever-present deadliness.

Another KC-135 brought us home. This one was also named El Toro, the Moron, and had the radio name of Pelt 24. It was piloted by Major Loren Townsend, a native of Boelus, Nebraska. Lou and the major traded boyhood experiences during the pretake-off wait and discovered they had a few mutual acquaintances. We took off at 6:30 p.m. in the teeth of a howling snow. Flakes, the size of silver dollars, splatted against the windshield as the tanker roared down the runway and lifted into the white fury of the night. Within seconds we were above the squall and alone in the star-filled sky. The Northern Lights flickered farewell as the plane banked into a tight turn and headed south.

The crew was tired; they had flown a long, long refueling mission the night before and all of them were anxious to get back to Offutt and the normal routine. Boom operator, T/Sgt. Kenneth Miller, took us in tow, gave us a quick tour of the plane which was almost the same as Pelt 21, rebriefed us on the use of the oxygen masks in case the plane ran into trouble and lost its pressure, and then served us hot T.V. dinners.

It was too dark to see much of the ground as we roared through the night, but occasionally we could pick up the lights of a city far below. To pass the time Miller described some of his experiences with the Air Force. He had joined up in 1947, flew in Korea, and then transferred to SAC. "It's the best," he said simply. "It's the best."

Four and a half hours later we were slanting over Omaha and approaching the landing strips at Offutt. In two days we had traveled approximately 5,000 miles in 11 hours actual flying time.

As Lou and I walked to the car, I remembered Major Townsend's remarks of a few hours earlier. "I'm no flag waver, but the job we are doing has to be done and I'm happy to be a member of the team that is doing it. To be with SAC, you've got to do your job better than good and I get a great deal of personal pride out of that."

Nebraska and the nation shares your pride, Major, your pride and the pride of all the other people who wear the emblem, Peace is our Profession, with so much distinction. THE END

FEBOLD FEBOLDSON

to Plum Creek for supplies. After unhitching his 40-ox team, Febold headed for the saloon. There he tossed down a half-gallon of good red "likker". Then, he lumbered across the street to eat. He downed a huge plate of wild turkey eggs, a whole ham, a peck of roasted potatoes, a sizeable buffalo roast, a couple loaves of bread, and several gallons of strong coffee to wash it down. One such spree forced the local residents to go on short rations until the next freight outfit rolled in from St. Joe.

Febold liked Nebraska, but his first winter here tested even his great strength and resourcefulness. Snow, 10-feet deep, blanketed the whole western plains. Undaunted, Febold invented a snow-plow to open the trails and relieve the suffering Dirtyleg Indians, a disowned branch of the Blackfeet. The big Swede lassoed a herd of snow-trapped buffalo and hitched them to the plow. When the outfit arrived at the marooned camp, the excited Indians gave forth a sudden whoop. Thinking they were about to be slaughtered, the buffalo stampeded. They plunged madly through the drifts.

It was all Febold could do to hang onto the lines. But the shaggy beasts finally dropped from exhaustion near the Missouri River. On his way back to his cabin, however, Febold discovered his plow had been set a little too deep. When the snow melted, it filled the furrow and widened as more and more water poured into the mighty gash. As an eternal reminder of Febold's escapade, the river was called the Platte, which means, in Indian dialect, "t h e wagon-that-digs-a-ditch-in-the-ground" or so say the Dirtylegs.

Even Uncle Sam recognized Febold's fabulous talents. It was on a government project that Febold met Paul Bunyan. Federal authorities asked the two to re-establish the stage line between Nebraska and Kansas. This was just after Paul and Babe, his Blue Ox, had leveled Kansas. The state had been extremely mountainous, and Paul and Babe had turned the peaks over. As Paul had suspected, they were flat on the bottom. But, in the process, the two had accidentally erased the state line. This created a great deal of confusion, state pride being what it is.

Anyway, the two giants bent to their chore. Since neither of them could read or operate surveying instruments, they had to rely on their wits. Paul had to admit he had goofed in trying to plow a furrow from Colorado to Missouri. The channel filled with spring thaws and rainwater to become what is now the Republican River. Although the river is nearly parallel with the state line, it is too far north and too crooked in some places. Besides, the government did not want to use the Republican as a boundary, since they felt it would be unfair to the Democrats.

Finally, Febold admitted it was impossible to make a straight line without some kind of help. So, he experimented with eagles and bumblebees. After 15 long years, he succeeded in breeding bees as large as eagles. Febold hitched one of the giant buzzers to a plow and let him make a bee line for a boundary.

Meanwhile, Febold could not neglect his many other duties. He continued to battle the elements. Weather here is pretty unpredictable and frolics from steaming heat to bitter cold. One winter there was so much heat left over from summer that snowflakes melted in mid-air as they fell. That same winter, even 54 NEBRASKAIond the ground was a bit too warm to walk on. Febold felt sorry for the Dirtyleg Indians and fitted tbem all with moccasins. That set a style for the redmen, soon all Indians were copying the Dirty-legs. Moccasins were here to stay.

Even back in Febold's day, dude ranches were popular, and the canny Swede was not one to ignore a trend. He attempted .to convert his place on the Dismal into such a tourist attraction. He even originated a new kind of fishing. He refused to allow the use of hooks and lines. Since the Dismal was thick with dogfish, Febold merely had his patrons whistle. It worked very well. A short whistle had the dogfish clamoring to climb into the anglers' boat. However, if Febold felt someone was taking more than his share, he simply gave a quick blast under his breath, and the fish all leaped back into the river. Once in a great while, though, a sneaky fisherman would get past Febold's eagle eye with his overloaded boat. But, Febold didn't worry, because that type always whistled once too often and took one too many fish. The boat would sink, and the fish escaped anyway. Many fish stories can be told about Febold, but angling prowess was only one of his myriad talents. He was a great hunter, too.

One day Febold took his big , six-gauge shotgun to hunt along the Platte and bring in his winter supply of meat. The brawny Swede had only one load left when he spotted a bear on the river bank. Febold aimed and fired. But he had forgotten to take out the corncob that he used to keep the dirt out of the barrel. Naturally the gun exploded.

But all was not lost. Pieces of the barrel splattered in all directions. Flying splinters knocked down five geese winging overhead and a number of ducks swimming in the river. The explosion startled Febold, and he jumped backward trampling a bunch of pheasants.

As he turned around, he slipped and fell into the river. In the process he netted nine catfish, a bass, and two snapping turtles. The corncob, which started the chain reaction, went through the bear and killed two owls sitting in a dead tree. The bear crashed against the rotted tree and broke it, spilling honey all over. The honey ran into the river and gave the fish toothaches. They came to the surface, and Febold easily caught them. A mishap turned into a grand stroke of luck. He had filled his winter larder with just one shot.

Febold was a peace-loving man, but he was most skillful with weapons, particularly the six-shooter. One time when he was visiting his nephew, he went hunting. Febold took a potshot at what he thought was a running coyote. Unfortunately, it was a man's hat. The dehatted hombre was most unhappy and demanded that Febold give him satisfaction. There was no other way to placate the stranger, so Febold reached for his gun. The gunman fired at Febold, and Febold fired back. Not wanting to hurt the other, though, the giant aimed at the speeding bullet. The two slugs met in mid-air and fell harmlessly to the ground. Again the man fired, again Febold repeated the performance. This went on until finally the stranger quit firing. He stalked up to the Swede and stuck out his hand. The stranger was Pecos Bill.

Febold made his last public appearance in Omaha. He attended a practice shoot, where other pioneers and trappers were all competing for prizes. Someone evidently had it in for the mighty Swede, however, and took all the shells out of his gun. Febold lost the shoot. In the noise and excitement, he didn't even notice the clicking of his empty gun. Febold was so chagrined at his failure that he dropped out of sight. Rumors of him and some of his extraordinary feats occasionally drifted back from many places, but Nebraska has seen the last of the legendary Swede. Febold is far from forgotten, however. Many more of his fabulous exploits are preserved for posterity in Paul R. Beath's book, "Febold Feboldson," published by the University of Nebraska Press.

Pioneer, strong man, great wit, frontier hero, marksman, and much much more. That was Febold Feboldson, the Nebraskan who topped all Nebraskans before and since. THE END

NEBRASKAland COLOR SLIDES

NEBRASKAland does it again! The fourth in a continuing series of 35 mm color slides features 30 fascinating closeups of Nebraska's beautiful flowers and hook-hungry fish. Excellent for biological and botanical studies, or for those special spots in your slide collection. Makes an excellent, unusual gift, too.

These are the newest additions to the popular series of outstanding pictures on the state capitol, scenic highways and the Badlands, and Brownville. Start your own valuable slide collection. Order this set and all previous sets today.

COLLAPSIBLE Farm-Pond Fish-Traps: Animal Traps, postpaid. Free information, pictures, Shawnee, 3934-AX Buena Vista, Dallas 4, Texas.

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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.

HUNTING DOGS: German Shorthairs, English Pointers, Weimaraners, English, Irish, and Golden Setters, Chesapeakes, Labradors, and Golden Retrievers. Registered pups, all ages, $50 each. Robert Stevenson, Orleans, Nebraska.

OLD FUR COATS restyled into capes, stoles, etc., $25. We're also tanners, and manufacture fur garments, buckskin jackets, and gloves. Free style folder. Haeker's Furriers, Alma, Nebraska.

LIKE SWEET ONIONS? New blue ribbon assortment 600 sweet onion plants with free planting guide $3 postpaid fresh from Texas Onion Plant Company, "home of the sweet onion," Farmersville, Texas 75031.

AKC AIREDALE pups, Champion bloodlines. Permanent shots, dependable, all around dogs for home, hunting, and show. Dixie Felton, Minden, Iowa 51553.

BAKE or boil a batch of decoys. Solid plastic Mallards, Bluebills, Redheads, Canvasbacks, Geese, and accessories. The original do-it-yourself decoy kit. Inexpensive, fascinating way to a large set of decoys. Send 25c for details. Decoys Unlimited, Box 69, Clinton, Iowa.

ICE FISHERMEN—Lively red wiggler worms, full of action! 600 for $3; quick service. T Huberty, 129 3rd Avenue S. W., Dyersville, Iowa.

HYBRID Red Worms hand picked: 1000-$3. 5000-$8, 10,000-$14; bedrun: 20,000-$20, postpaid with raising instructions, Brazos Bait Farms, Route 9, Waco, Texas.

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Cold Cures. Strange remedies have been prescribed for the common cold. Early American settlers claimed looking at the tip of your nose with both eyes was a sure cure. Others recommended a vinegar-soaked flannel cloth around your neck and bright red underwear next to your skin. Goose oil, greasing the chest with turpentine and lard, bear, goose or skunk grease, and standing on your head were other accepted remedies.—American Motorist

Of Mice and Men. The computer has met its match. A mouse got into the central control box of a pulp company's computer and proceeded to "write" pay checks many times the proper amount. The mouse is no more, but it took electronic brain technicians some six weeks and several thousand dollars to repair the mechanism.—American Free Farmer

Topples Record. A Colorado hunter has broken a 66-year-old antelope record with a single standing shot at 235 yards. The head measured 92 points, possibly the largest ever recorded in the 20th century. It now becomes No. 2 in Boone and Crockett Club listings. The old record was set in 1898.—New York

Miscreant. Colorado game officials would like to get their hands on a quick-thinking impersonator who posed as a game warden. Seems the man disappeared with a hunter's deer after the hunter had gone to town to settle a question about permission to hunt on certain lands.—Oklahoma

Frigid Frog. A Pennsylvania frog with a fast clock, figuring it was spring, came out on the ice on a warm sunny day for a croaking session. That night the temperature dropped to zero. Next day, game officials found the frog, frozen solid, still sitting on the ice.—Pennsylvania

Low Dog. In Old China, where they drink their tea seated on the floor before a very low table, the tiny Pekingese was once known as the Under the Table" dog.—New; York

Short Work. A Blair County, Pennsylvania, sportsman bagged his doe on opening day the easy way. Just as he rolled o'ut of bed to go to work, his wife told him to look out the window There stood five deer. Being a law-abiding person he pinned his license on his shorts, stepped out of the house, killed his deer, and in the same attire dragged the animal into the cellar. He then got dressed and went to work.-Pennsylvania

Winter Feed. Ice-fishing time is an excuse for a picnic in Pennsylvania. Four men were observed out on the ice with a large folding picnic table, four folding chairs, a large charcoal burner with grill, and enough food and spirits to feed an army. Nobody was fishing. They had driven 40 miles just to have a picnic on the ice.—Pennsylvania

If If Fits. Two youths who were fined for fishing in a state fish hatchery pond heard their lawyer offer additional punishment to fit the crime. He suggested that the boys' parents send them back to the hatchery to help with certain chores that would acquaint them with the problems of raising fish.—New Mexico

Death Dealer. More than a million persons die annually from poisoning, and "many needless deaths are the result of lack of respect for modern pesticides," the state medical association reports. "We forget that household pesticides used to wage war on ants, moths, roaches, flies and mosquitoes, can also take a toll in human life," the report warns.—Minnesota

Litter Flitter. So you don't believe litter is becoming an overwhelming national problem? "Each day New York City alone collects enough refuse to fill a seven-mile long train, and by the year 2,000 San Francisco will throw away enough refuse to cover a 50-square-mile area to a depth of 20 feet," the National Wildlife Federation advises.—Washington, D.C.

Wind in Time. A misguided bobwhite quail who crashed into a window was revived with "mouth to mouth" resuscitation by the home owner -Okalahoma

Odd Logic. A motorist who stopped after hitting a deer at 50 miles an hour argued that "The speed limit is 50 miles an hour, and I can go 50 miles an hour, deer or no deer." He was right, but the radiator, both front fenders, the hood, and the complete underside of the car were completely destroyed. Thinking he had the right of way probably cost him $600.—Pennsylvania

Right Church, Wrong Pew. A young couple stood in line for four hours to get a marriage license only to learn, when reaching the front, that the line was for permits to shoot extra deer during the hunting season.—Wisconsin

Up the Tree. A mother and son who investigated sounds in the nearby woods one night found about a dozen skunks surrounding a big tree, all looking up and making noises at the occupant. The object of their attentions was a bewildered coon.—Pennsylvania

WHERE-TO-GO

BENEATH A LOG cabin at Nebraska City, Nebraska, is a large cave. Named John Brown's Cave, it earned its fame as a station along the renowned Underground Railroad in the middle 1800's. Here, hundreds of weary runaway slaves took refuge during the day, waiting for night and an escape to the free North through a tunnel that opened in heavy brush, along a creek bank.

Now, 103 years after President Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation, heavy traffic still throbs at the door of the cabin and its underlying cave. Where once there was fear, there is now intense curiosity and interest. Thousands of NEBRASKAland tourists see to that every year.

Brown's Cave, located on the western lip of the city along State Highway 2, has been established for more than a quarter of a century as one of southeast Nebraska's most unusual tourist attractions. As tourism in the state has increased, so has attendance at this historic site. Owner George Lowe claims that the 1965 Sunday visitations were up more than a thousand per day over those of the previous year.

The area called John Brown's Cave is in reality, a 30-acre plot with the cabin and cave, a museum, a farm animal zoo, a picnic area, and a restaurant.

Lowe and his wife recommend that visitors devote at least a half-day to tour their station and the surrounding acreage with its natural spring creeks. Without adequate time, the Lowes explain that their guests might miss the winding trail that leads along a creek, through heavy timber, and up a gentle rise to Inspiration Point. A breathtaking view of the rolling countryside waits there, with parts of Nebraska City visible at every turn.

Located under the cabin, the cave, with several chambers and passageways, is large enough for visitors to enter for an inside view. Protruding from one of the inside walls is a hollow log, or "gum" as it was called. The other end extends through a bank to the outside. This was used as a ventilator by the temporary occupants of the digging. The top of the cave is several feet underground and the ceilings are arched and propped at frequent intervals by strong timbers. There are three principal chambers which are large enough to accommodate 12 to 15 persons at one time.

During the troublesome days prior to the outbreak of the Civil War, John Brown and his abolitionist followers aided hundred of slaves to escape from Missouri. Brown's Cave, built by Abraham N. Kagey, was said to be one of the many important stations in the runaway slave business, due to its strategic position at the edge of free territory. Ferries waiting at the banks of the Missouri River hustled the slaves into Iowa on their last-leg sprint for the free states, or Canada, and freedom.

Just as John Brown's Cave welcomed the visitors of yesteryear, Nebraska's hospitality is no less diminished today. The Executive Mansion, located just south of the State Capitol, and the home of the state's first family, is open to December 1, excepting holidays. Tours begin at 10 and 11 a.m., and at 2 and 3:30 p.m.

Far from being a strict showcase of pomp and ceremony, this home reflects warm comfort as well as quiet stylishness. The winding staircase just inside the front door joins the first level with the second, and marks that section of the mansion which is not open to the public. The first family's living quarters are located on the top level, but the entire ground floor is open to the public.

There are five rooms in all to be seen: —the State Drawing Room, Governor's Library, Butler's Pantry and Kitchen, State Dining Room, and Family Dining Room. A special welcome to all is extended at the mansion where every visitor is more than a guest—he is a friend. THE END

Editor's Note: Sources disagree on the background of John Brown's Cave. This article is based on the pamphlet, "John Henry Kagi and the Old Log Cabin Home." However, R. E. Dales in his "Otoe County Pioneers," claims the cave and cabin were originally on land owned by A. B. Mayhew and were not connected. He further states that there was never a Negro in the cave while Mayhew owned it, and that John Brown never visited the cave or the Mayhew place. Dales did point out that John Kagi did bring 14 Negroes to the house for breakfast once, and after they had eaten they left for the North on foot.

IN LIVING COLOR NEBRASKAland Scenes

Capture the beauty of NEBRASKAland with this wide assortment of photographic masterpieces. New from the cameras of NEBRASKAland magazine photographers. Select the scenes that match your decor from giant 38y2"x58" murals, 16"x 20" and 20"x 24" prints. Perfect for living room or den, office or place of business. The perfect gift, too! Each size features four different NEBRASKAland scenes. Mural series "M" only $7.95 each, "G" prints 75 cents each or set of 4 for $2.50, and "P" series prints $1 each or set of 4 for $3.50 postpaid. Order by number today from NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509.