SPEAK UP

SHUTTERBUG—"I am sending a picture that I captured on my own camera. To me, it is equal to some of the best. The picture was taken a few feet from the back door of my home, 10 miles north of Atkinson on Brush Creek. It was shot last spring. The water never freezes here but runs freely regardless of how cold the weather. It is a beautiful sight when the temperature is right. The steam rises, causing frost particles to gather on the shrubbery around the edge of a spring, truly a magnificent spectacle." — Mrs. Merrill Anderson, Atkinson.

SMOKED CARP—Many NEBRASKAland readers have requested a recipe for smoked carp since W. H. Vodehnal's letter appeared in the July magazine. We are happy to publish this one and invite our readers to send in some of their own.

Smoking is a simple process, and can turn even the lowly carp into a gourmet's delight. Oak, apple, hickory, and cottonwood can be used to create smoke, with a hot plate for heat. Chips and sawdust may be purchased commercially.

Clean and wash fish from 3A to IV2 pounds, or cut larger fish into uniform pieces. Place the fish or pieces in a cold salt brine for 24 to 36 hours. Smaller fish may take only 12 to 18 hours. Brine is made by adding IY2 cups of salt per gallon of water. Use enough brine to cover the fish.

After removing meat from brine, wash in clear water and dry. Now, place fish in smoker on a rack or on hooks. If on racks, turn every hour for evenness. Smoke at 150° to 200° temperature. Smoking may take from several to 12 hours, depending on the size of the fish. After the fish are removed from the smoker, they should be kept where air is circulating.—Editor

NEBRASKAland ON WHEELS— "I thought you might be interested in our idea of advertising Nebraska in our own small way. We have seven fold-down camper trailers which we rent out every summer. As we repainted them this year and couldn't get the original name decals for them, we decided to name them "NEBRASKAland". These camper trailers travel all over the United States and even to Canada.

"We are very fond of this kind of camping ourselves. My wife and our two daughters and myself are out in one whenever we have a chance. We have visited a lot of the lakes and camping areas in Nebraska. Two years ago, we took a two-week vacation by camper. We never left Nebraska and camped at a different site every night.

"Also I would like to know how I could get my service station lined up as a-NEBRASKAlander Tourist Station. It sure sounds like a good idea, and I think we could be of service. We are called upon for plenty of information at the station."—Bob Hanna, Lincoln.

There is a meat company called NEBRASKAland and a flag company called NEBRASKAland. We invite our readers to tell us of other ways the name is being utilized.

Tourist-related businesses which participate in the NEBRASKAlander Program become salesmen for the state. A $20 fee covers expenses for a year's membership.

Participants receive a supply of vacation literature for distribution, a one-year subscription to Travel Talk, a biweekly newsletter of state and national travel trends, a one-year subscription to NEBRASKAland, and appropriate emblems for display. Applicants for this unique tourist information program must meet certain standards and must pass a NEBRASKAland test based on information furnished to them for study.—Editor

NEBRASKAland invites all readers to submit their comments, suggestions, and gripes to SPEAK UP. Each month the magazine will publish as many letters as space permits. Pictures are welcome.—Editor.

AUGUST Roundup

It doesn't take a race regular to pick Nebraska as a sure winner this month. Racing, rodeo, and revelry are way ahead

IN AUGUST, Nebraska families, ordinarily reserved and peaceful, suddenly pulsate with excitement. Mom prepares her taste-tempting home-baked bread but warns, "Hands Off!" Pop collects his prized corn that outgrew any of his neighbor's while sister ties in the last stitches to her embroidered hand towel and Junior scrubs down "Old Rosie", his show Hereford. Little Joe cracks open his piggy bank and everyone is ready for the county fair.

Fairs existed in ancient as well as modern times. In the Middle Ages, fairs were specially privileged and chartered by princes and magistrates. In the United States, state and county fairs had their origin at Pittsfield, Massachusetts, in 1810. The concept of fairs spread along the Eastern seaboard and with the opening of the land to the West, across the United States. By the beginning of the Twentieth Century, there were permanent annual fairs in every state and territory. But fairs are not all the August activities in NEBRASKAland, for the firemen at Friend are going to spark up the town on August 3-4 with a firemen's picnic. A parade is set for 6:30 p.m., August 3.

The second annual Pine Ridge Gun Collectors Show is August 6-7, at the City Park Pavilion in Crawford. The old hands of yesteryear will collect their frontier guns, Indian artifacts, and items of the Old West to display. Next to the pavilion are camping facilities so that visitors can enjoy western atmosphere indoors and out.

On August 6-7 the Fifth Annual Nebraska Czech Festival whirls into action at Wilber, the Czech Capital of Nebraska. Tagged the Mardi Gras of the Midwest, the festival attracts thousands of visitors.

A new event in Nebraska is the First Neihardt Day, at Bancroft, August 7, to honor John G. Neihardt, Nebraska's Poet Laureate. The 85-year-old master of narrative verse claims that Bancroft was the Nebraska town that brought out the best in him. A Black Elk Pageant to be presented in the evening is based on his book, "Black Elk Speaks".

The Annual Dodge Day is August 14, and includes something for all ages. There will be a swim meet, baseball game, carnival, rides, teen hop, and Kiddie Parade in the evening.

The "Echoes of the Oregon Trail" pageant August 21 at the Rock Creek Pony Express Station in Fairbury will recreate the courage of the pioneers.

Lincoln is winding up the summer season of Thoroughbred Horse Racing August 6. Columbus follows on the heels of the Lincoln meet, beginning August 9 through September 5 for 21 days of pari-mutuel horse racing. There are 8 races daily, 9 races on holidays and Saturdays. No racing Sundays or Mondays, except Labor Day, September Fifth.

Nebraska's "Big Rodeo" at Burwell, August 10-13, has a special attraction for early morning risers: Everyone who owns his own plane is invited to a fly-in breakfast at the Burwell Airport, where they can park their "ponies". Breakfast will be followed by free transportation and tickets to the RCA-sanctioned rodeo. Camping facilities are available.

A five-day Fort Sidney Days celebration and Cheyenne County Fair begins August 21 with a big rodeo. The Saddle Tramps, a riding club from Cheyenne, Wyoming, will hit the dusty trail to Sidney to take part in the first three days of the celebration. On display will be nearly 200 head of cattle, groomed to gleaming perfection by members of 4-H Clubs. A parade on August 22 will climax the event.

Salt Creek Wranglers will hold their fourth show of the season on August 27. Action will get underway at 5 p.m., at the Rodeo grounds, one mile south of Pioneers Park in Lincoln. Following the last show in October, awards will be presented to the high-point man, woman, and child who have accumulated points by participation in the five shows.

North and South High School AllStars meet in the annual Shrine Football Game in Lincoln, August 20. This late-summer event at the University of Nebraska Stadium gives Husker fans a head start at picking out their favorites for the 1966-67 season.

The Omaha Symphony Pops Concerts at Peony Park are sure to be favorites also with music lovers this summer. The season wraps up with three concerts on August 3, 10, and on the Seventeenth.

Ak-Sar-Ben Coliseum in Omaha will open its doors for a free Old Time Band Concert, August 7 at 7:30 p.m.

Free-wheeling fiddlers will have their day, August 28, in Brownville when music lovers come to town for the big Country Music Contest and a day chock-full of fun and frolics.

Young people, ages 6 through 19, will begin August 1 to study dramatic art under the leadership of Roland Reed, managing director of Lincoln Community Playhouse.

A dramatic performance already perfected is the play, "Beauty and the Beast", by Jesse Beers, Jr., to be performed at the air-conditioned auditorium of the Maude Rousseau School in Lincoln, August 3-5. Performances are at 1:30 p.m., with a final evening performance, August Fifth.

The State Hereford Tour begins at Howells August 15 for a visit to Hereford herds in north central and northeast Nebraska.

Again in Omaha, August 15-18, is a second big outing for the family at the Ak-Sar-Ben grandstand.

Heading west this time, the spotlight is on Crawford, just short of the Wyoming border. The 1966 Northwest Nebraska Rock Show, August 19-21, may see the city pavilion turn into a pile of rocks.

Back at the Capital City, the new sky show at the Ralph Mueller Planetarium is "Birth of the Solar System" which begins on August 30. All in all, a hot time lies ahead.

THE END 6 NEBRASKAland

For your home or office NEBRASKAland COLOR MURALS

Capture the beauty of NEBRASKAland with this wide assortment of photographic masterpieces. New from the cameras of NEBRASKAland Magazine Photographers, these giant 38V2" x 58" murals will match any decor. Make perfect gift too. Show your colors. Decorate your home, office, or place of business with NEBRASKAland Color Murals today. Send your check or money order to: NEBRASKAland Murals, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68521.

ORDER YOURS TODAY! $ 7.95 EACH When ordering, please order by mural number, M-l, M-2, M-3, M-4. Allow three Weeks for delivery. 8 NEBRASKAland WHAT TO DO August 1—Bloomfield—Knox County Junior Rodeo 1-3—Fairbury—Jefferson County Fair 1-22—Lincoln—Classes in Dramatic Art, Community Playhouse 2—Cambridge—Horse Show 2—Randolph—Community Fair 2-3—Bertrand—Rodeo and Fair 2-5—Fremont—Dodge County 4-H Fair 3—Omaha—Omaha Symphony Pops Concert, Peony Park 3-5—Lincoln—"Beauty and the Beast", Maude Rousseau School 3-6—McCook—Red Willow County Fair and Rodeo 3-6—Pawnee City—Pawnee County 4-H Fair 4-5—Harrison—Sioux County 4-H and Quarter Horse Show 4-6—Beaver City—Furnas County Fair 4-6—Osceola—Polk County Fair 4-6—Harrison—Sioux County Fair 4-6—Deshler—Thayer County Fair 4-6—Bladen—Webster County Fair 5—Lincoln—University of Nebraska Summer Commencement, Pershing Auditorium 5-6—Grand Island—Central Nebraska Quarter Horse Show 5-7—Bassett—Rock County Fair and Rodeo 6—McCook—Red Willow County Auto Races 6-7—Oshkosh—Little Britches Rodeo 6-7—Crawford—Pine Ridge Gun Collectors Show 6-7—Wilber—Fifth Annual Nebraska Czech Festival 7—Bancroft—First Neihardt Day 7—Omaha—Old Time Band Concert, Ak-Sar-Ben Coliseum 7—Kearney—Rustler's Quarter Horse Show, Buffalo County Fair Grounds 7-10—Benkelman—Dundy County Fair 8-9—Atkinson—Annual Hay Days Celebration 8-10—Hartington—Cedar County Fair 8-10—Chappell—Deuel County Fair 8-10—Elwood—Gosper County Fair 8-10—Falls City—4-H Fair and Horseplay Days Celebration 8-11—Fullerton—Nance County Fair 8-11—Holdrege—Phelps County Fair 8-12—York—York County Fair 9-Sept. 5—Columbus—Horse Racing 10—Omaha—Omaha Symphony Pops Concert 10—Hemingford—District Dairy Show 10-12—Nelson—Nuckolls County Fair 10-13—Wayne—Wayne County Fair 10-13—Burwell—43rd Annual "Big Rodeo" 10-13—Orleans—Harlan County Fair 11-13—Hayes Center—Hayes County Fair 11-13—Minden—Kearney County Fair 11-13—Dunning—Blaine County Fair 11-14—Hebron—Fort Butler Rock and Gem Show 11-14—Leigh—Colfax County Fair 12—Craig—Community Picnic 12-15—Loup City—Sherman County Fair 13-14—Hebron—Rodeo 13-15—Ogallala—Rodeo 13-15—David City—Butler County Fair 14—Terrytown—Plains Quarter Horse Association Annual Show 14—Dodge—Annual Dodge Day 14—Falls City—Falls City Open Horseshoe Tournament 14—Cambridge—Horse Show 14-15—Battle Creek—Annual Calf Show and Barbecue 14-16—Franklin—Franklin County Fair 14-16—Humboldt—Richardson County Fair 15-16—Howells—State Hereford Tour 15-17—Ogallala—Keith County Fair 15-17—Ord—Loup-Valley County Fair 15-17—Auburn—Nemaha County Fair 15-17—Kimball—Banner County Fair 15-17—Spalding—Greeley County Fair 15-18—Chambers—Holt County Fair 15-18—Omaha—Second Family Show, Ak-Sar-Ben Coliseum 15-19—Hastings—Adams County Fair 16-18—Concord—Dixon County Fair 16-19—Beatrice—Gage County Fair 17—Omaha—Omaha Symphony Pops Concert 17-20—Weeping Water—Cass County Fair 17-20—Chadron—Dawes County Fair 17-20—Wahoo—Saunders County Fair 17-21—Lincoln—National A. A. U. Men's and Women's Swimming and Diving Championships, Woods Park Pool 18-20—Spencer—Boyd County Fair 18-20—Thedford—Thomas County Fair 18-21—Grand Island—Hall County Fair 18-21—Culbertson—Hitchcock County Fair 18-21—Stanton—Stanton County Fair .18-21—Pierce—Pierce County Fair 19—Springfield—Sarpy County Rodeo 19-20—Omaha—North Central States Institute 19-21—Crawford—Northwest Nebraska Rock Show 19-21—Valentine—Cherry County Fair 19-21—Scribner—Dodge County Fair 19-21—Tecumseh—Johnson County Fair 19-21—Madison—Madison County Fair 19-21—Bartlett—Wheeler County Fair 20—Lincoln—Shrine Football Game 20-23—South Sioux City—Dakota County Fair 21—Fairbury—"Echoes of the Oregon Trail" Pageant 21—Madison—Madison Downs Quarter Horse Show 21-23—Geneva—Fillmore County Fair 21-25—Broken Bow—Custer County Fair 21-25—Fort Sidney Days Celebration and Cheyenne County Fair 22—Syracuse—Otoe County Centennial Committee Barbecue and Princess Otoe Pageant 22-24—Eustis—Frontier County Fair 22-24—Seward—Seward County Fair 22-25—Aurora—Hamilton County Fair 22-25—Syracuse—Otoe County Fair 22-26—Kearney—Buffalo County Fair 23-25—Lincoln—Lancaster County Fair 23-25—Arlington—Washington County Fair 24—Hemingford—District Dairy Show 24-27—Lexington—Dawson County Fair 24-27—Springfield—Sarpy County Fair 24-27—Walthill—Thurston County Fair 24-28—Ralston—National Pony League World Series 24-28—Imperial—Chase County Fair 25—Thedford—Thomas County Quarter Horse Show 25—Trenton—Farmers—Chamber of Commerce Rotary Joint Picnic, Swanson Lake 25-27—Lewellen—Garden County Fair 25-28—Hemingford—Box Butte County Fair 25-28—Clay Center—Clay County Fair 25-28—Waterloo—Douglas County Fair 25-28—Stockville—Frontier County Fair 25-29—St. Paul—Howard County Fair 25-28—Crete—Saline County Fair 25-28—Gordon—Sheridan County Fair 26—Auburn—Industry Education Day 26—Stapleton—Logan County Quarter Horse Show 26-29—Oakland—Burt County Fair 26-30—North Platte—Lincoln County Fair 27—Winside—Horse Show 27—Arnold—Nebraska Quarter Horse Show 27—Lincoln—Salt Creek Wranglers Horse Show, Rodeo Grounds 28—Harrisburg—Nebraska Old-Time Fiddlers First Anniversary Celebration 28—Republican City—Saddle Club Horse Show 28—Omaha—SAC Concert 28—Brownville—National Old-Time Fiddlers and Country Music Contest 28-30—Bloomfield—Knox County Fair 28-31—West Point—Cuming County Fair 29-30—Omaha—Ak-Sar-Ben Annual Quarter Horse Show and Sale 29-31—Albion—Boone County Fair 30—Laurel—Annual Barbeque and Dixon County 4-H Calf Show and Sale 30-Sept. 1—Central City—Merrick County Fair August 1-Aug. 6—Lincoln—Thoroughbred Horse Racing, State Fairgrounds August 1-Aug. 7—Winnebago—Centennial Indian Powwow August 1-Aug. 8—Macy—Indian Dancing, Sunday afternoons August 1-Aug. 14—Omaha—Dwight Kirsch Exhibition, Joslyn Art Museum August 1-Aug. 29—Lincoln—"Nebraska Nights" Sky Show, Ralph Mueller Planetarium August-September—Alliance—Stock Car Racing, Alliance Speedway August-September 5—Kearney—Boys' Training School Dancers, Sundays

THREE-DAY DRIFTERS

Missouri River float trip yields more rain than shine, but motely crew of modern adventures takes it all in stride

FIVE OF US had vowed to make the trip come rain or shine and we were sure having plenty of the former as we slid two 16-foot johnboats into the swirling current of the Missouri River for the start of our 55-mile float trip. It was a day when sensible men seek the shelter of home and fireside. A cold, wind-driven rain from the north was lashing the river and driving the moisture-laden clouds through the ominous sky like galleons on the Spanish Main. We pulled our foul weather gear around our rain-drenched faces, kicked the engines to life, and headed downstream into the teeth of the weather.

We were a diversified crew as we began our voyage at Aten Resort just below the Gavins Point Dam in northeastern Nebraska. J. W. "Doc" Carlson, Crofton veterinarian, and Conservation Officer Dick Turpin of Ponca manned one of the 16-footers that was powered by an 18-horsepower motor. The other johnboat was pushed by a smaller 9 V2-horse engine so Jerry Spawn, a Crofton druggist, went it alone in the slightly slower craft. John Schuckman, the conservation officer at Crofton, said he could stomach a writer-photographer so he kept me company in the third boat, an aluminum runabout. For the next three days a druggist, a writer-photographer, a veterinarian, and two conservation officers would make like river rats. John would guide us for the first leg of our trip along the Cedar County line, while Dick's knowledge of the river would be the law once we passed into his Dixon County territory.

by Gene Hornbeck

Heavily laden with gear and food, the boats plowed into the heavy waves. Ahead of our little flotilla was the Yankton bridge now veiled by scudding clouds. Beyond, lay the uncertainties of weather and myriad channels of the Missouri River.

"I think we'd better head for the other shore," John said, as spray pelted over the rail into his face. "We can follow it to stay out of some of this wind."

"Can you imagine what Lewis and Clark must have gone through from the time they started up the Missouri?" I offered, ducking a bucketful of water. "This weather will at least give us' some idea, John said, grinning at my drenched expression.

This stretch of the river is one of the few unchanged by man. It is very much the same today as it was when Lewis and Clark boated their way north to open a gateway to the West. Shortly after they made their journey up this great "highway of the plains AUGUST, 1966 11   trappers moved in to reap the area's bountiful harvest of fur. They, in turn, were followed by the fortune seekers.

The steamboats wrote another interesting chapter in the river's history as they battled the changing channels to bring trade goods north from St. Louis and other ports to the developing West. Too often, the boats met disaster in the muddy waters of the Missouri. We would travel a stretch of river where the stern-wheeler Western was crushed by ice and sunk in the vicinity of Yankton and where the Kate Sweeney, whose crew was killed by Indians while hiking to Sioux City, went aground above the Vermillion River. According to War Department records from 1897, at least seven paddlewheel steamers have gone down in the stretch between Yankton and Ponca.

Earlier, we had planned on floating this first few miles of the trip, but the weather had washed out the idea. Even under the best of floating conditions we couldn't have averaged more than five miles an hour. With the upstream wind buffeting us it was impossible to move downstream without power. Mile after mile the outboards kicked along. We passed the mouth of the James River as it came in from South Dakota and wound our way on down to St. Helena Bend, where the shallower water forced us to pick our way cautiously over the sandbars. The rain never stopped.

A soggy four hours later, Dick waved us up to join him. "I have to get ashore and dry out," the officer said shivering. "This parka isn't keeping the dew out. It's only straining the water and I'm about frozen."

"You're some explorer," John kidded. "The pioneers didn't even have rain gear and they made it."

"I can believe they made it," Dick retorted with a chuckle, "but I bet they had sense enough to stay under cover on a day like this."

We cut off the river into the mouth of Bow Creek, jumped ashore, and hurriedly built a fire to dry out. Elm, cottonwood, and mulberry trees offered some protection against the disagreeable weather as we huddled around the blaze. Dick stripped off his soaked parka and shirt and hung his sopping clothes near the fire. Except for wet necks, our rain gear kept the rest of us dry. It must of been an oversight that the conservation officer had loaned his good parka, which I'm sure he thought his worst, to a fortunate photographer.

Before long, Doc was scooping up a potential pot of coffee from Bow Creek. While camp equipment was drying we got the coffee steaming and consumed a full pot. The "Java" made the job of pitching our four two-man tents easier. We faced the "pup" tents toward the fire to get as much heat as we could and utilized the extra tent to keep equipment and supplies dry. Our gas stoves and a wire grate worked well for cooking a supper of hamburgers, potatoes, and coffee. It was easy to prepare, yet it couldn't have been more heartily devoured than if it had been a gourmet's delight.

After we ate, Dick and Jerry were especially anxious to get fishing for these are the waters of the giant blue catfish. The St. Helena bottoms now hold the state record for big blues with a 79-pound monster caught by Ralph Jones. Dick and John warned us not to expect any outstanding fishing because the cold weather was keeping the water temperature down. Even so, all of us were silently hoping our set lines would catch a monster cat. We baited with minnows, stink bait, and big nightcrawlers and left the lines until the 12 NEBRASKAland next morning. Rigging our outfits, we fished the mouth of Bow Creek but all any of us caught was a six-inch bullhead. Discouraged, we called it a day and crawled into our sleeping bags.

The next morning was little better weatherwise, but we were still determined to get in more fishing than our first day had provided. Misty rain was still falling as we ran the eight set lines. None of them had been touched. By late morning, the day showed no sign of clearing so we stayed close to a crackling campfire. However, during the afternoon, we ventured out into the wet to try for sauger.

"The sauger are through spawning," John informed us, "and are dropping back to their summer haunts. Best place to try for them is along the edge of the sandbars where the water drops off into a hole. The water is usually riffled, making it easy to locate the drops."

Running upstream, we picked a bar where the water shallowed out to about a foot and then dropped off to five feet or more. We rigged our spinning rods with a two-hook setup and baited with minnows. On the Missouri, an angler has a good chance of latching on to channel, blue, and yellow cat, plus sauger, walleye, and practically all species native to the state except trout.

Dick and John anchored to our left along the bar. Minutes later, I looked over my shoulder to see Dick's rod bending and the water splashing. A silvery flash broke the surface and Dick hoisted a one-pound goldeye for us to see. This silver tarpon-like fish is always a good fighter on light tackle, but this one gave up easily on Dick's heavy equipment which was more suited to deep channel fishing. Bites were frequent, but we had trouble setting the hooks and concluded that the fish were either small sauger or goldeye. Jerry and John proved our speculation correct when both netted small sauger that were nearly identical in size. We caught a few more sauger in the nine-inch class and several goldeye before heading back to camp.

Cans of steaming stew fortified with stick-roasted hot dogs filled the bill for chow that evening. The weather showed promise of clearing and our spirits were a little lighter as we sat around the campfire. However, it wasn't my night. I had started to mention something about fishing for walleye and sauger but instead created two new species—"salleye and wauger" I had to live with that "boo-boo" for the rest of the trip. The coyotes were also in higher spirits, at least judging by their howls. However, they were distant company, and the only visitors which honored us were some cattle which aimlessly (Continued on page 56)

BULLFROG BLAST

Valentiners short on power, long on aim in Merritt Reservoir hopper hunt. Boss of pond loses to personal vendetta

THE BOSS OF the pond was giving Wes Gipe fits. Three times, the Valentine hunter had had the big bullfrog dead in his sights and three times the fates had intervened. Now the old rascal was booming out a challenge, taunting his adversary to try again.

"I'm going to clobber that frog if it takes me a week," Wes vowed, trying to pinpoint the amphib's exact location.

"The way you have been shooting, a week won't be long enough. Next time, bring your 12 gauge and stand close," Dave Kime teased.

"I haven't seen you volunteering to try him," Wes retorted. "If I can spot him this time, he's going to lose a pair of legs real sudden like."

"Speaking of volunteering, I have done all of that I'm going to. In six more days I'm going to be one of Uncle Sam's nephews, so this will probably be my last frog hunt for a long time," his younger companion replied.

The pair was on an early-season frog hunt along the shallow backwaters of Merritt Dam, a huge irrigation impoundment located south of Valentine, Nebraska. They were using a .177 CO., rifle and a pair of spring-powered "air" pistols. Normally, they prefer .22 rifles, but the big lake was busy with anglers and boaters so the boys substituted the pellet guns to avoid the possibility of a dangerous ricochet.

Preparations for the hunt started that morning when Dave, who lives on a ranch a few miles north of the dam, called Wes and hinted that it was a good day for frogging. Gipe, who runs a service station in town, agreed, so the hunt was set up for 2 p.m. It was an almost-perfect afternoon for frog hunting. A morning wind had polished the sky to a gleaming blue and then subsided to a mild breeze with just enough push to ripple the big lake into little whitecaps and temper the blistering sun. The ground was hard and dry so Dave 14 NEBRASKAland drove right down to the shore and parked his car just above the waterline.

The southwest shore of the big lake is indented with hundreds of little coves, tiny bays, and pockets that make ideal basking areas in these shallows to form an almost-solid carpet of greenery an inch or two below the surface of the water. Although, frogs are masters at protective camouflage, Wes and Dave knew what they were looking for and could easily distinguish the dark "bumps" that were frogs from the stubs of water-killed weeds, driftwood, and other edge debris that dotted the moss.

"Any size limit?" Wes inquired.

"None. I'm going to shoot anything that has hind legs beyond the pollywog stage," Dave answered.

Frogs were thick in the first cove, so the hunters selected two promising-looking hoppers and homed in. Dave was using the rifle while Wes, who wanted to see what the pistols could do, carried one of the handguns.

A tiny geyser of water followed the soft "splat" of the CO/ rifle as Dave fired. His target gave a startled "urk" and half hopped, half swam across the matted moss, to dive into the deeper water. Wes hurried his shot and missed by a comfortable margin. There was a brief flurry of leaping forms as the other frogs caught the cue and splashed to safety.

"They must be survivors of last season," Dave mused, staring at the now-tranquil surface.

"Have to get closer," Wes agreed. "You figure out a way to carry these pellets for quick reloading? I could have shot at one on the run if I could have reloaded quick enough."

"Sure. Carry them in your mouth. See." Dave puffed out his lower lip, displaying half a dozen of the hour-glass-shaped pellets.

"A snoose-eater's trick," Wes laughed. "Let's move on and hit this place on the way back. The frogs should be out again soon."

The next shallow was bumpy with frogs so the hunters sprawled out on the sand above the waterline and inched forward. Dave risked a shot at 30 feet, missed, wormed up another six feet, and tried again. At the splash of the pellet, his hopper settled a little deeper in the water but didn't submerge. Wes, using a two-handed hold on the pistol, tried a shot at 15 feet. His intended victim "urked" and immediately submerged, spooking half a dozen of his nearest neighbors.

Dave's croaker was either brave or foolish. He paid no attention to his fleeing buddies. This time, the Sand hiller took a little longer to find his sight picture. At the shot, the frog gave one convulsive leap and limply sprawled in the moss. The youth dashed into the water and scooped up his prize.

"Got to get them quick or they sink into the moss and get lost," he explained as Wes started kidding him about his retrieving technique.

"I kind of like this CO/ gun. It doesn't blow a frog to kingdom come or spook every one in the pool when you shoot," Dave commented, shoving another pellet into the rifle.

"This pistol hasn't got enough power to stone a frog. I hit that last one real good but he got away. Guess we will have to take turns with that long gun," Wes complained.

As they talked, a reverberating "jug-o-rum" interrupted them. The sound seemed to come from a little backwater bay about 100 yards ahead of the hunters but between the wind and the mutter of the big lake, it was hard to pinpoint the exact location.

"A Granddaddy. Let's see you get him," Dave exclaimed, handing the rifle to Wes.

They made a careful approach and hunkered down close to the water's edge, hoping the frog would bellow again but everything was quiet. None of the "bumps" on the moss looked big enough to be the old-timer.

"Rascal knows we are here", Dave breathed. "I wish he would sound off so we could locate him."

Several other frogs looked respectable, so after a careful scan of the water, Wes decided that the big fellow had submerged. He picked out a target and let fly. The frog sagged, kicked for a second or two, and settled into the moss. Two or three others silently submerged but the rest seemed unaware of their colleague's fate. The service station operator reloaded the rifle and handed it to his companion. Dave took his time and drilled another frog right between the eyes. That was enough for the other hoppers. They got the message and quickly submerged.

Wes got up to retrieve the kills and a big bullfrog exploded in front of him. The Valentiner made a futile effort to grab the croaker but the frog was too quick.

"That louse was right under our noses. No wonder we couldn't see him. We were looking too far out", Wes grumbled as he picked up the earlier scores.

They waited for a while, watching for the telltale ripples that would indicate an emerging frog but after AUGUST, 1966 15   five minutes Dave got impatient and suggested they move on. The boys decided to take eight frogs apiece instead of the legal limit of 12. Both agreed to count the big hopper as a bonus if they could get him.

BULLFROG BLAST continued

Their sneak-and-shoot technique was down to a science now, and by the time the boys had stalked and shot three little ponds, they had their 16 jumpers. At 10 yards or less the little .177 pellet was a deadly killer. Beyond that distance, its power rapidly fell off. Wes found he could shoot more accurately from the sit while Dave relied on the offhand and prone positions to rack up his kills.

Wes suggested they return to the old lunker's hangout and see if they could pick him up. As he spoke, a deep bellow drifted upwind.

"He heard you," Dave grinned, handing the rifle to Wes.

A lot of frogs had re-emerged during the hunters' absence so they pulled a careful sneak. Both were afraid that they would spook some of the smaller frogs who in turn would pass the scram word to old Granddad. The men pussyfooted up to the water's edge and hunkered down watching for their tormentor. The old boy was silent now, sensing that something was up. After a couple of minutes, Wes relaxed and turned to Dave with a questioning look. The youth shook his head and continued to scan the pool.

"Aruumph!"

The sound came so unexpectedly that both men started a little at its intensity. Wes tensed, focused on a particular spot, and raised the rifle. The splash of the pellet was close but not close enough. Almost disdainfully the old frog submerged but there was no swirl or commotion to indicate that he had moved out. Wes whistled in disgust and eased back from his cramped position.

"That son of a gun was four inches broad between the eyes. I can't see how I missed him", he moaned.

"You keep on exaggerating and if you ever do get him, you will tell everybody that he was as big as a yearling steer," Dave needled.

"Yeah. And I'll tell them that he was running full tilt across a blowout at 60 miles an hour besides," Wes answered.

They teased each other for a few minutes, half convinced that the big hopper was gone for good but still reluctant to call off the hunt. Neither man saw the frog emerge until he ripped off another stenorian bellow. Wes was too far away for a sure shot, but he chanced one anyway. He held high and pushed his luck but a vagrant puff of wind caught the pellet and drifted it to the right. Mr. Big "urked" and took off, spooking half a dozen of his fellows on the way.

Angry now, Wes took up his original position beside the water and vowed to wait his target out. A slow 15 minutes dragged by, made slower still by Dave's almost incessant teasing. Then Wes saw the humor of the situation.

"Two men who have hunted just about everything there is to hunt in the state being checkmated by a stupid frog. This is one for the books," he laughed. But better mood or not, Wes was still determined to settle accounts with his four-legged rival, so he continued to wait in spite of Dave's ill-concealed impatience.

A slight wrinkling of the surface and a shadowy form were the first tipoffs that Granddad was renewing the battle. Cautiously, the old frog settled on the moss and stopped with only the tip of his nose protruding above the water. Wes was tempted by the skimpy target but he decided to wait.

"Come up just a little more and you are mine," Wes pleaded as he watched the suspicious old croaker.

It seemed a long time but it was only a couple of minutes before the bullfrog decided that everything was O.K. He hauled himself higher on the moss and squatted on a tiny hummock. Wes could see the white throat of the frog swelling as the old boy prepared to sing out his authority. Cautiously the hunter raised the rifle and took slow aim. The splat of the rifle seemed unusually loud, but no corresponding splash followed the report.

Realizing that something was wrong, Wes retreated from the water's edge and eased back to the grass line above the sand. He opened the bolt, glanced into the chamber, and then twirled the rifle around to peer down the barrel.

"Pellet stuck, now what do we do?" he asked. Out in the moss, the old bull of the pond let loose with a taunting bellow. A few lesser cohorts chimed in 16 NEBRASKAland as though cheering the frog's narrow escape. Wes shook the rifle several times and then tried to expel the pellet by blowing down the barrel but it was no go.

"Darn it, I wish I could fix this gun," Wes gritted. It looked like the bullfrog had won the day until Dave came up with an ingenious solution to the jammed rifle. He twisted the little knob off his car's antenna, ran the tip section out, and inverted the rifle muzzle first over the slender rod. A steady pull on the gun popped the offending slug out of the breech. The Sand Hiller test fired the gun a couple of times and handed it back to Wes who took it and headed for the shallow backwater at a dog trot.

Back at the bay, Granddad was telling the whole lake about his adventures. About every 20 seconds he would let loose with a self-congratulatory boom that could be heard for half a mile. But hearing the frog and seeing him were two different things. It took Wes several minutes of cautious scanning before he finally located his nemesis. Dave kept up a constant rawhiding, trying to rattle his partner, but Wes took it in good grace.

When he finally raised the rifle, it was evident that the Valentiner was playing it for keeps. He took a long time in aiming before carefully squeezing the trigger. The tiny pellet caught the frog in mid croak and flipped him over. Wes was in the (Continued on Page 54)

Dave's constant rawhiding draws quick retort from rifle-packing Wes as pair take stock of kill. Frogs see no humor in exchange of quips

THE BOTTLE GAME

by Bill Vogt When it comes to fishing, Mac Campbell and Charlie Kemptar are game for anything, even jugging on South Loup

GINGERLY EASING his way along the treacher-out bottom of the South Loup River, Mac Campbell approached the snag-fouled "jug". He knew there was a submerged dropoff somewhere in front of him and he didn't want to find it the hard way. Still, he wanted to free the jug and get it back in business as a catfish catcher. His friend, Charlie Kemptar, had made this jug fishing bit sound easy but it wasn't turning out that way. Right now, Mac couldn't see a whole lot of fun in chasing wayward jugs across the South Loup but when it came to fishing, the Ravenna, Nebraska, rancher-farmer was game for anything. Charlie had proposed the May go at jug fishing as a switch from their usual hook and line expeditions and Mac had agreed to try it.

Preparations for the off-beat fishing spree were simple. Charlie, who owns a ranch-farm spread along the river, had gathered up a dozen plastic milk containers and sealed them up. The young men spray painted the cartons with gaudy colors for easy visibility against the dark waters of the river and then rigged them up with terminal gear. Two of the jugs carried two No. 2 hooks apiece while the remainder were outfitted with single hooks and a piece of scrap metal for sinkers. Names and addresses were inked on the jugs to comply with a Nebraska regulation. The law permits a total of 15 hooks, so the boys were legal on that score. Minnows and shrimp were the baits.

They intended to fish a three-mile stretch of the river by setting the jugs adrift and then following them down current. They made arrangements with Mac's father to pick them up when they finished the drift.

Charlie's four-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, dragged out her prized possession, a bright orange life preserver, as- soon as she got wind of the trip. To avoid the young lady's ire, the fishermen agreed to take a boat, which they could pack with minnow bucket, seine, and Elizabeth. Pushing it along, they found it served very well for a floating bait platform, and a convenient place to sit down when they took a breather. The little girl was more than happy to scoop a fat chub or quillback from the bucket when it was needed, but she steered Charlie Kemptar, right, and Mac Campbell chart an intercept course to kidnap a catfish cargo from bouncing yellow jug clear of the overripe shrimp. Trips to the bait supply were frequent, for the jugs often hung up on snags and had to be pulled free at the cost of the come ons.

This stretch of the South Loup tends to be shallow in the center, and deep where the current sweeps along the banks. Unfortunately, the jugs often snagged up in the deep places.

Mac interrupted his approach to the snagged bottle to squint against the afternoon glare. A jug in advance of the others was cutting across the current. "Got one on that lead float," he called to Charlie.

His companion lifted the cement block anchor out of the craft and dropped it behind the boat. "We'll just have to wait. I don't feel like running through water today," he answered. "Anyway, we better get some more shiners." He reached into the small craft for the seine.

"Shiners, shiners, shiners," the small girl passenger echoed.

"I think she means bait, not your eye," Charlie laughed. Mac's swollen eye, jabbed by a branch the day before, was something of a joke between the two friends. Charlie variously attributed his buddy's black eye to a redhead or blonde.

Mac turned to parry his married friend's remark when sand began to sweep from underfoot. Slowly he 18 NEBRASKAland backed toward safer ground, towing the jug through the chocolate-colored water of the river.

"Where are you going, Mac?" the other fisherman asked. "I think you're shrinking. Look at that high water mark around your waders." Mac's waders were wet to within a fraction of an inch of the tops.

"Got to watch this stuff," Mac grinned. "That current eats the bottom right out from under you if you stand still long enough." He splashed through the midstream shallows and latched on to the other end of the minnow seine.

Both men strained to drag the net through the fast water bordering a sandbar. Bits of debris pulled at the net, slowing their progress, but the pair put their backs into it and slid the seine onto the bar. Fifty or more small minnows flopped and glistened on the mesh, but Charlie and Mac zeroed in on about a half a dozen two-inch shiners and three larger quillbacks. The fresh bait would be a good supplement to the rapidly-diminishing shrimp.

Mac waded back to the boat with the minnow bucket while his partner rolled up the net. Lizzie counted the minnows while her father's crony selected a shrimp from the package on the seat and carefully peeled off its bony covering. Mac baited the rig he had just retrieved, AUGUST, 1966 19   and sent it sailing into deeper water along the shore. It skated past the jug suspected of having a fish on, and slowed as its weight settled.

THE BOTTLE GAME continued

Campbell headed for the motionless bottle. Gingerly he tested the line for resistance before hoisting up a two-pound channel catfish.

"First blood," he yelled to Charlie. "He's no whopper, but he sure towed this float around. Not a bit of fight left in him." The triumphant angler returned to the aluminum boat.

"Look at that green float along the south shore," Charlie advised as they wrestled the boat around a bend. "I'll bet anything there is a fish on it. A few minutes ago, it.was way out front, and now it's hanging back."

"Watch it, that's a deep hole in there," cautioned Mac. "As I remember it drops right down, 15 feet or more."

Charlie stretched his arm and clutched the line. "I was right about this one. He's pretty good! About as much pep as a sack of potatoes, though. He's been on a while. I will guess he weighs three pounds or better."

Elizabeth began fussing to get out of the boat as her two "partners" strung the fish. Charlie is a firm believer that a youngster raised near a river should know the stream. He figures the best way to get acquainted with it is to wade right in, so he lifted the child from the boat. With a stalwart man on each arm, Elizabeth splashed downstream, laughing at the extra attention. Gradually, her smile faded as the water deepened. She glanced anxiously at her protectors, then indicated that the boat wasn't so bad, after all. Charlie swung the youngster to his shoulder and strode upstream. He lowered her into the security of the boat and hauled in 20 NEBRASKAland the anchor. Holding the stern with one hand, he guided the rowboat downstream, watching the colorful jugs.

Two jugs started acting strangely. One zipped across the current while the other stopped, started, then stopped again. There was nothing the men could do until they caught up with the bottles, and the river made for slow going. By the time the anglers reached the first jug, the fish was gone and the hook was bare.

"That's the breaks of the game," Mac said, sinking the barb into a quillback and tossing the bottle upstream for a rerun. "It's sort of frustrating seeing these things with fish on, then catching up just in time to bait up and try again."

Charlie slid onto the boat as he answered. "I don't know about you, but I'm getting a little tired. I think I'll ride a while. This is great fishing for a change of pace, but my legs can feel it. The jugs should all hang up around the next bend where the current cuts in toward the brush beyond a long shallow stretch."

Carefully the juggers skirted a deep run before the current pulled around a blind corner. Away from the sheltering line of trees, the wind had a straightaway at the broader shallows. The jugs gained speed with the added push. Three bottles drifted onto a bar, but the others raced into a mass of tangled brush.

Charlie and Mac had their work cut out for them. The brush bordered a deep hole, and it was necessary for Mac to climb aboard the boat while Charlie pushed the bow into the branches. Mac laid the bottles on the aluminum floor as he worked them free. Four of the lines needed rebaiting.

Mac did the honors with minnows and shrimp while Charlie lit out for the other jugs.

"Hey, how about this one?" Charlie held up a squirming channel catfish. "He's one of those gold-colored ones we catch every once in a while along this stretch. I don't know what causes the color variation, but I have never seen any like it any place else." He unhooked the pan-sized cat and lifted the stringer.

After preparing their little flotilla for action, two weary juggers resumed their three-mile wade to where Mac's father was going to meet them. The wind continued to make a nuisance of itself until the next turn. Progress was slow because the jugs kept drifting into each other and tangling in the brush.

"You know, this would be a better deal later in the year," Charlie puffed, unhooking a snagged milk container. "We need a few good rains to sweep some of this debris out. The water is low enough, but I think the fish would be a little more co-operative, say, in June or July."

"Well," Mac sighed, "I know one thing. I think that following the jugs is interesting, but I'm not sold on it as an everyday proposition. It's pretty hard to beat bank fishing in the holes like that one where we caught that big one."

"There she blows!" Charlie cut in. "Look at that green jug work against the current. But we'll just have to sweat it out until we get there."

Obediently, the green speck held steady in a pocket between a sandbar and the shore as Mac stepped to a bar and walked over to the jug. He eased it up, and a big, splashing cat whipped water.

"This one has a little fight. He probably hasn't been on too long," he remarked as he carried the armload of whiskered devilment back to the chain stringer that trailed from the transom.

"Hold that stringer," Charlie called. "I have another one for our collection." He held up a double handful of fish for Elizabeth to inspect and got a gleeful smile in return from the bubbly little four-year old.

Before the girl finished examining the catch, Mac waded alongside with still another sizeable catfish. Though Elizabeth was thoroughly enjoying the expedition, she began looking toward shore for the elder Campbell and a promised drink of water.

"Ten more minutes, Lizzie," her father assured her.

"We'll start taking in the jugs now, as we come to them." By the time the pickup truck came in sight, another pair of catfish was on the stringer. The fishermen pulled the jugs as they came to them and piled them neatly with their strings tightly wrapped around them. As they approached the pick-up point they saw Mac's father, Bud, sitting near a snag, fishing from the high bank. "Now that's fishing," Charlie sighed. "He may not have as many fish as we do, or covered as much water, but he's having a good time."

"You should see him run setlines from horseback. If he didn't have a bad leg, though, he'd be right in here with us," Mac said, taking another look at the bank fisherman. "When it is all said and done, I'm not exactly sold on this jug business, either. But you want to know something? I wouldn't be surprised if we do it again some time."

THE END

THE HANGING JUDGE

by Bob Snow Dubious title was mostly public opinion, but Bill Gaslin used hemp if needed

AS THE SUN swept westward across Nebraska in 1875 its rays fell upon such raw cow towns as ^Ogallala and Sidney—towns where gambling, drinking, and killing were everyday events, and where fights between rival cattlemen, small ranchers, and rustlers were common. It was a time when you could walk down the dusty main street of Sidney and hear outlaws like Ben and Bill Thompson, "Bat" Masterson, "Grasshopper Sam", and "Eat-'em-up Jake" brag about how many men they had killed in the last six months. It was a time when the frontier marshals and judges had to be tough and one of the toughest was Judge William Gaslin, Jr.

In 1875 a constitutional convention created six judicial districts and a Supreme Court in Nebraska. The citizens of the fifth judicial district elected Gaslin to administer the law in the blood-and-thunder West.

When Gaslin was first elected, his territory embraced half the state, stretching from Custer County, north to the South Dakota line, and west to the Wyoming border. Although the railroad reached many of the seats of government, the 48-year-old judge could only reach 13 counties and the state's unsettled territory by horseback, buggy, or walking over a prairie that was scorched by the sun in the summer and was bleak and cold in the winter.

In many towns the courthouses were mere shacks furnished with wooden benches. A cheap iron stove provided the heat in winter. The rooms were stifling in summer and often crowded to suffocation by jurors, lawyers, witnesses, and spectators. Sitting in judgment behind the bench was the man who sometimes held his trusty Winchester in his lap and had a six-gun in easy reach. When he became extremely angry with lawyers he had the habit of blowing his nose quite violently.

Gaslin was not a tall man and on occasion was said to have come to court drunk. He had a round serious face and seldom joked. His hands were rough and worn from years of hard work, and the index finger on his right hand was missing, probably due to an accident while at sea.

The judge didn't believe in fancy duds, and on a hot summer day often wore a cheap pair of light slouchy trousers and a faded white shirt with the first two buttons unbuttoned and each sleeve rolled up. Unpolished shoes on sockless feet completed his warm weather attire.

He often convened court at 7 a.m., took an hour off for noon, then held court until 6 p.m. If necessary, sessions were held until midnight.

Judge Gaslin had no sympathy for lawyers less rugged than himself. In court he often became violent with lawyers and fined them for contempt, but in many instances the fines were never collected. Lawyers often charged that the frontier jurist at times was unjust and had made up his mind about a verdict before the case was tried. True or not, the judge ruled his court with an iron hand.

But if he was unjust, so were the times. The Supreme Court often threw cases back into his always-busy court on mere technicalities. Once when Gaslin was riding his circuit he came across a horse thief hanging in a tree near a bridge. As he rode by he muttered to a 22 NEBRASKAland friend, "Well, there is one conviction the Supreme Court will not reverse."

Out of his 278 cases heard by the Supreme Court, 151 were affirmed, 91 reversed and remanded, 23 reversed, 5 partially reversed, and 2 dismissed. The total number of cases Gaslin tried is not known, but in a time when there were as few as 50 dilapidated law books in a county, it is a tribute to the judge that only 278 of his cases were heard by the high court.

Juries in some instances would acquit ruthless killers and horse thieves, only to find first offenders guilty of minor crimes. In one instance a jury had acquitted several ruffians for rather serious crimes. Toward the end of the day a young boy was brought before the court and the jury found him guilty of stealing a horse which had actually been turned loose by its owner to die.

When the judge heard the verdict, he rose slowly from his chair, walked over to the boy, and in a violent voice said that the young man had apparently made a mistake, and that he evidently was not familiar with the ways of the West. If he had committed murder he would have surely gone free, but that having stolen a horse he could expect no other than conviction. He then told the boy he could leave.

Gaslin, however, was usually quite tough on horse thieves and often gave them the maximum prison sentence possible under the law. The reason, he once said, was that, "When I lived in Lowell, the best and about the only friend I had was a white pony. Some damned scoundrel stole him, and every time I sentence a horse thief I think of the pony, and I regret there is a limit as to the time I can send him up for."

The majority of the cases brought before the judge were minor felonies, but in his 16 years on the bench he presided over 68 murder cases, of which 26 were tried in his first three years.

Gaslin has been labeled by some as the "Hanging Judge", but this is a matter of opinion. The judge lived in a time when violence had to be met with violence, and the rawhides in his district soon learned to fear this judge who ruled his district with dictatorial authority and was not afraid to deal out the supreme penalty when he felt it justified.

The rugged individualist expressed his opinion on capital punishment when he said: "When every man who deliberately murders expiates his crime by his own life and is not sent to the penitentiary to be* pardoned out in a few years, and turned loose to prey upon the public like a wild beast, then murder will become less frequent."

During his career the judge had more than his share of controversial trials which generated national as well as state interest. In the first few months of 1879 he tried three murder cases which set the state aflame.

The string of cases actually began in December of 1878 with the "Apple Charlie" murder trial. Three men were brought to trial for the murder of Charles Slocumb, a crippled old fruit seller in Nebraska City, whom citizens affectionately called "Apple Charlie".

In order to convict two of the three men, Gaslin, who was substituting for District Judge Stephen Pound, discharged one of the prisoners as a defendant for his life, and demanded his testimony as a witness against his friends. In exchange, the informer was promised that he would only be tried for burglary.

When evidence was secured against the two murderers and the jury had returned the verdict of guilty of murder in the second degree, Gaslin sentenced them to life in prison. In his usual (Continued on page 50)

Many Faces of Nebraska

Artists everywhere capture rare scenes, situations that kindle new pride in state's rich legacy

WHEN THE Creator molded the earth, the sky, and the water to form NEBRASKAland, He endowed His union with a spirit that every sunset, waterfall, forest, or pastureland reflects today. This spirit is an experience of rare beauty to the eye, and in this richly contrasting state, flashes from a multitude of sources.

NEBRASKAland has many faces. All too often, however, these faces slip into obscurity until captured on a painting, sketch, or photograph. Now, in the form of paintings from the Governor's Nebraskana. Art Show, there is a more lasting record of the scenes and situations that truly say Nebraska. Everywhere, artists have picked up brush and palette to individually preserve a moment in time, a special place, or a particular thing singular to Nebraska. Pride, passion, beauty, history, heritage—all of these are portrayed to forever chronicle man's adaption to the Plains.

Whether it's a pastoral scene from the Sand Hills, or a conception of a winter storm's fury bearing down on a desolate depot, these paintings exhilarate the mind with a new appreciation for NEBRASKAland. Some of these works are like photographs, with clean lines, distinct features, and three-dimensional perspectives. Other paintings with their muted impressions accomplish a more subtle effect, creating a particular mood for time, place, or event. Artistic techniques of sweeping curves, jagged or straight lines, tilted planes and the banks of masses all work in harmony to create faces of surpassing beauty.

One face artists choose to paint often is seen time and time again across this rich and historic land—the countenance of ranching and agriculture. One particular painting is an expressive illusion focused on a windmill rising from the floor of a canyon. Another is done in vibrant hues to recall the day when shaggy buffalo stormed the Plains. Blues and greens predominate in this scene along the Republican River Valley in southwestern Nebraska.

A grain elevator is painted with its cement dome poking into the blue sky to remind passersby that soil tenders, as well as city dwellers, build skyscrapers in this modern age.

In another agriculturally-inspired effort a harvested milo field, rendered in casein and water color, stands out in meticulous detail. The land sleeps under winter's mantle of snow while pheasants search the shrouded ground. Overhead, a hawk cuts a lazy circle in the sky.

There are many canvases in the art exhibit that emphasize nature in repose. One such landscape reflects Minnechaduza Creek near Valentine. Strokes of cobalt blue and lavender blend with winter shades of brown and white to depict a scene of slumbering beauty along NEBRASKAland's northern boundary.

Trees of many kinds throw their branches to the wind in this bountiful country, and the visitor is not long in discovering a shady retreat. When rivers slice through heavy stands of timber decorated with late-season colors, a special scene is set for tourists and artists alike. Trees and water have inspired many of the artists to recreate their scenic splendors.

24 NEBRASKAland AUGUST, 1966 25   26 NEBRASKAland

A variety of picturesque places in NEBRASKAland is situated in secluded areas, waiting for a camera or brush to transport their image from the relatively unseen to the seen. Two paintings in particular give the viewer the magic sensation of actually seeing the real thing. One depicts an abandoned farm house, the other a deserted wooden gravel pump. Recollections of the day when checkered table cloths greeted threshing crews dance in the shadows of the house, and one needs but little imagination to still hear children running about in the dusty attic. But there also is a hint of sadness, a sense of pity in this picture. Weeds cover a weir by the gate and the windmill maintains a silent and lonely watch over the deserted weatherbeaten homestead. The creaking box of the gravel pump stands inches from collapse as it weaves in the wind of a summer afternoon. But lonely and forlorn as it stands there is still a haunting sense of coming excitement and activity as though the viewer can momentarily expect sunbathers to sprawl out on the fine sand at the pit or a fisherman to cast for bass in the deep, cool water.

AUGUST, 1966 27   28 NEBRASKAland AUGUST, 1966 29   30 NEBRASKAland

A soft complacency is featured in many of the paintings. In one, an abandoned roller mill ignores the hurried world as it sleeps in subdued content with only time to count and a river to watch.

A traveling exhibit featuring the top 25 entries is now roaming the state for open review by art lovers everywhere. Thus the beauty of NEBRASKAland as seen through the artists' eyes can be enjoyed by all. Each painting in the exhibit will remain in the traveling exhibit until January 1, 1967, then the top three prize winners will be given to the State of Nebraska.

A special category was created in the show that enabled out-of-state artists to enter their works alongside those of residents. Nostalgia inspired many former Nebraskans to enter the pre-centennial competition. In-state entries first captured county art shows, then were submitted in the sweeping Nebraskana exposition. When the winners were unveiled during NEBRASKAland Days, June 12-19, thousands of appreciative viewers crowded into the beautiful rotunda of the State Capitol for a look at the state's best.

Now, when the traveling exhibit comes to each community, everyone will have a chance to see these works of art that have kindled a new pride and appreciation for the many faces of NEBRASKAland.

THE END

Rodeo Clown

Terry Pedrett finds that teachers's pets are few, far between in arena. Each summer, he swaps pupils for bulls by Warren Spencer

FOR SOME MEN there is no desire for an "8 to 5" job or catching the 9:13 into the city. Like the mountain climber who risks life and limb to rise above a challenge, this special breed of men seeks and finds that certain bit of excitement which makes life worth living. One of them is Terry Pedrett, a 29-year-old Bayard school teacher and rodeo clown. For Terry, the excitement of the rodeo arena where he bets his life against nearly a ton of enraged beef, is just the thing to keep spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye.

In 1958, Pedrett donned his baggy britches and got a whiff of grease paint for the first time. A junior at Chadron State College, he was asked to clown for the college "Stampede" when* the regular clown was unable to appear. A ranch boy from Kimball, Terry was used to working with stock, but this was his first crack at clowning. No money was involved, but the pay, a new pair of Levis, and the thrill of the game were all the incentive the youngster needed. He got both.

With the first of a long string of rodeos under his belt, Terry worked the Nebraska Amateur Rodeo circuit for the next couple of years. In the meantime, he picked up all the techniques that he could from Slim Bemish. An ex-rodeo clown himself, Bemish was delighted to see a newcomer in the ranks and took Terry under his wing. It was while Pedrett was working with Bemish, during his senior year at college, that he bought a burro for the act. Housing the animal at his teacher's ranch, Terry worked with him for almost two years, and then took him into the ring. The extended training period provided one of the best stunts in the show.

"I would tell the audience that I trained the burro with a lot of love and affection, then I would go get a 2 x 4. Of course the announcer would yell for me not to hit the burro or ask why was I hitting him. I would tell him that sure, I'd trained the flop ear with love and affection, but I had to get his attention first."

There was one show in a small Montana town later in his career when the board was no joke.

"The burro went on strike and wouldn't budge. I just left him in the middle of the arena and went after my 2x4. When I came back we had a regular donny-brook. I never had any trouble with him after that. In fact after that shellacking, the animal got to be a bigger ham than most movie stars," he says.

In 1960, Terry went big-time when he broke into the RCA circuit. But things were not all gravy for a newcomer. "All of the old-timers got the good jobs, and I had to fight and battle and try to get what I could to stay with it," Pedrett says.

His first summer wasn't as hard as it could have been, however. He contracted to work all of the shows with stock owner, Bill McKee of Savory, Wyoming. Tied 32 NEBRASKAland in with the McKee outfit, Terry worked six or seven shows to build his reputation on the circuit.

Things picked up for Pedrett after his first year. He worked steadily with some of the top names in the business. Then in 1963 he added something new to his act. He picked up a billy goat that someone wanted to get rid of and turned him into a bullfighter. "He worked out just fine for about three shows. Then, one day, he got too near a bull's head and was thrown across the ring. I never could get him to fight any more. He always kept me between him and the bull," Terry recalls.

Even though the goat lost his touch as a bullfighter, he was a crowd-pleaser. But, then, Pedrett has a knack for picking crowd pleasers.

During one performance it was so muddy in the arena that he rented a pair of water skis and had a cowboy tow him around. The crowd nearly went wild. Another time, he was working on soft dirt over an asphalt track when the rain came. After a couple of days of wet stuff, the clay was as soggy as butter on the Fourth of July. Terry was baiting a bull away from a thrown rider when he stepped in a soft spot and sank up to his knees in mud. The critter hit the hole at nearly the same time and when he fell forward, he tried to put his horn in Terry's mouth. "I only lost two teeth, but it scared me half to death," he recalls.

The Nebraska clown has some pretty strong feelings about laying his life on the line in a ring. "Any bullfighter who tells you that he isn't afraid is either crazy or he is going to get hurt," he says. In his early days in the sport, Terry took more chances than necessary to ensure future jobs. But after a couple of close scrapes and a long talk with a friend who questioned his sanity, he began to play it safe. Terry says that his first bull didn't scare him, 'but if that stock hadn't been just a bit lazy, I might have quit (Continued on page 55)

THRESHERS REUNION

Chance remark leads Bill Mayberry into setting up an old-time grain separator bee at Niobrara by Glenda Woltemath 34 NEBRASKAland

IT WAS ONLY a chance remark, made half in nostalgia but it set a Bill Mayberry of Niobrara to thinking Mayberry, a long-time custom threser, was working a neighbor's grain when someone, knowing he had an old steam tractor, asked him why he didn't hook up the old smoke belcher to the separator.

"If I did, it would cost so much, you wouldn't have me on the place," Bill replied. But the idea intriguied him.

That was back in 1956 and it would take four or five more years for the Northeast Threshers Reunion to AUGUST, 1966 35   become a reality but the seed of it was planted that afternoon when Bill realized that a lot of people were fascinated by the color and excitement of an old-time threshing bee. Bill made a trial run in October, 1956 when he threshed his own oats with the old steam tractor. Quite a few people came out to see the oldtimer huff and puff its way through the grain. The spectators urged him to make it an annual affair, so he did. Each year, the crowds increased until Bill had to stage a two-day show to accommodate all the visitors.

Six years ago, he retired from custom threshing and began buying up old tractors and separators. Now he stages a two-day threshing reunion on the first weekend of October to put his old-timers through their paces. Last year, some 7,000 people came to his farm to see these grand old outfits work.

Bill's love of threshers was a long time in the making. He got the bug when his father and a few neighbors pooled their funds to buy a horse-operated separator. From that time on, threshing was in yotfng Mayberry's blood. His dad helped the cause along when he bought Bill a Rumley "oil pull" tractor and separator. He ran the Rumleys for several years and then, in 1929, he stepped out with a gasoline-powered rig.

At the reunion, threshing begins early in the afternoon of the first day but it takes a lot more preparation than just pulling the units into the field, blocking the wheels, and leveling the separators.

"You've got to get up about daylight and go out and build a fire in the engine to get a little steam up so you are ready to thresh when the help gets here," Mayberry explained.

"I would rather run a steam engine than any gas outfit because a steamer will run itself, but, you've got to master it. The fireman has to watch his steam pressure and the fire. A good fireman keeps a nice even thin bed of coals on the grate to get the most heat out of the least amount of coal. A 20-horsepower engine will burn about a ton of fuel a day," he continued.

Every 10 to 15 minutes more water is added to the seven-barrel tank to produce steam. A tender holds the water and coal but the injector which shoots the water into the boiler is run by hand. Steam then goes into the cylinder which produces the power to turn a pulley which is connected to the grain separator by a 150-foot belt.

Back in the days when the threshing rigs made their autumn rounds from farm to farm, only three men were paid actual wages for their work. The man who ran the engine, the water hauler, and the separator operator received money, the rest of the work was traded off among the neighboring farmers. At a big threshing the crew might stay overnight to get an early start the next day. Old-timers recall threshing meals with nostalgic delight. Usually, the farm women served a four-course dinner with at least three kinds of dessert. Neighbors pitched in to help the host wife, with each lady preparing her own specialty. Sometimes as many as 20 hungry men would sit down to the monumental dinner.

36 NEBRASKAland AUGUST, 1966 37  

Now, Mayberry has five old steam tractors, seven huge gasoline jobs, one horse-driven sweep, and four separators. He uses them all during the two-day reunion, switching the units around to give everybody a chance to see them in action. Some of these monstrous power units weigh 14 to 16 tons and wear wheels that are almost seven feet in diameter. Their steel tires are 32 inches wide, but despite their ponderous size, their horsepower is low by today's standards. Top over-the-road speed for some of these ancients is about 2 V2 miles per hour. Traveling with them is an adventure for it takes a mighty sturdy culvert or bridge to hold them.

Back in the steamers' heyday many rural bridges simply dissolved under their tremendous weight. "Unsticking" a mired steamer (Continued on page 51)

NEBRASKAland

THE INCOMPLEAT ANGLER

Wherein I discover Izaak Walton's true meaning. A fishing rod to me is a Fiddle without a Fiddlestick by Margaret Miller

I KNEW WHAT my husband was up to when he casually mentioned that Long Pine Creek should be back to normal after the spring runoff. He was playing his favorite game, calling up visions of fishing trout on such well-known waters as Long Pine and Schlagel creeks and the upper Niobrara River. He was savoring the fun to come and enjoying the recollections of the past. His words were conjuring up a few visions for me, too. Visions not nearly so pleasant as his.

I have often heard that women are all alike but that's a generality you can't trust. When it comes to trout fishing women fall naturally into three groups. Fish understand this perfectly.

First, there is the woman who wades into the stream, lets her Royal Coachman drift over an eddy and catches a trout, all in one deft motion. She is so good that all the trout head for that pool under the log, the one where all the snags are, when they see her coming. She catches them anyway. A woman like that probably wins at touch football, too.

Second, there is the woman who refuses to fish. If her conscience really bothers her, she will boil eggs and bake cookies for the basket lunch. If she doesn't lean toward culinary contributions she might knit or read while her man sorts dry flies; or she might go outdoors and pull weeds. It really makes no difference what she does, it's what she doesn't do that brands her.

The third sister belongs to still another lodge of which I am still a reluctant member. We fall somewhere between the do's and the do not's. We try. We really want to fish and enjoy it. Those pictures of families raking leaves, camping out, doing whatever they're doing, together, appeal to us. We think they are great. What they can do, we can do, and if it means that we fish for trout, we fish for trout. Since we are more than willing, that would seem to settle the point; but it isn't that simple. For example, take the preliminaries. Under a pair of waders, heavy enough to stand alone, we wear wool socks and pants. I mean outside pants. The wool is supposed to keep us cool. It is too hot to argue the point. Over our denim-clad shoulders is fitted a harness, designed to hold up the waders. I suspect it is a framework that holds up the fisherman. Attached to it at strategic points are pieces of equipment, a box for bait, a creel to hold the trout, and a net.

This last bit of luggage is puzzling. You know those pictures of Greek women—the ones who are dressed, I mean—which show flowing gowns trimmed with bands that cross over and under the bosom? Very alluring. The net strap is fitted the same way, but somehow it misses fire as an alluring addition to the female form.

It is even less seductive when it catches on a branch as I go lumbering through a thicket. It stretches like a rubber band and then lets go with a muscle-bruising crack. The whole assembly jingles when I walk, a kind of an alarm bell for the trout to give them a head start.

These accessories are fastened because I must be free to carry a rod. This is a limber tool, just long enough for the tip, which waves like an inquiring antenna, to reach the next thicket beyond the one that tangled the net strap. Near the heavy end of the rod is fastened a reel, which on good days, pays out a line. Tied to the end of the line is a lively thing called a leader, which in turn secures a hook. The leader is four to six feet long and made of fine nylon which is almost invisible in the sunlight and highly susceptible to air currents. An earnest Cub Scout can slave for weeks on a knottying requirement but in the three minutes it takes a deer fly to bite I can produce figure-eights, square knots, and bowlines, simultaneously. All it takes is one bungled cast and a stray breeze.

So far I am talking about any woman who intends to catch a trout. Figuratively, I have company and the encouragement and support of the rod carriers' league. Literally, this is not true. Trout-fishing is a solitary pursuit. This I learned one morning, as I watched my 40 NEBRASKAland family wade off in all directions leaving me alone, with knots in my leader. They didn't even look back.

I sat down on the bank, carefully watching the end of the rod that had the reel on it. Supposedly, sand in the reel is the worst of the several things that can happen a fisherwoman. I knew I might as well sit down, for the -untangling job was going to take time, so much in fact, that my bait would die and I would have to impale some fresh goodies without tangling the leader again. I know all about the bits of fur and feathers which I should have been using, but ought to be something easy about fishing, and trout WILL take live bait. They like grasshoppers but catching one involves a lot of leaping around on the bank. When I am wearing waders, I do not leap. I settle for garden hackle—worms, to me.

After some ineffective plucking at the knots, I looked around at the setting for my frustrations. The clear waters of Long Pine Creek chuckled over stones and swirled into deep pools. Occasionally the canyon floor widened into a meadow alight with flowers and strange wild grasses. For a minute I almost enjoyed myself thinking how pleasant it would be just to sit there, even thought about wading in the cool water and wriggling my bare toes in the shallows. I was roused from this dream by my husband's voice.

"Resting?" he asked.

As he clumped by me, I could see the tail of a fish sticking out of his creel. It hardly seemed the time to mention my nebulous alternatives to fishing.

I finally untangled the leader, baited the hook, and tried another cast. Just as I released the line, a log bristling with snags came hurrying downstream. With great accuracy my hook fastened itself to a projecting twig. I tugged and strained at the line, weaving back and forth along the bank, as I tried to free the hook. Were you ever slapped in the face with a wet worm? After all the commotion, the trout were long gone. But I hadn't fallen down. Not that day.

Along one stretch of the stream the meadows and slopes are used for pasture. But I didn't know that when one sunny morning I was working the area. I saw a pool that looked good and decided to cross the stream to a shady spot above it. Just as I set foot on a rock, a resounding moo came from a nearby thicket. Startled, I went down with a splash that showered the banks on both sides. It took awhile to pick myself up, make sure that I still had my rod, shake the water out of my creel, and get to the bank where I could empty out my waders. The trout didn't hang around long after that commotion, either.

I remember that it turned out to be a long day. Before it ended, I was so hungry that I could have rubbed two sticks together and cooked a rainbow, if could have caught one. Even with all that water around, I was parched while inside my waders I steamed. I got so tireot I though about going to sleep where I stood, since the car was ^t least seven bends away.

Izaak Walton has a bit about the preacher who loaned to another man of the cloth a particularly successful sermon. In the mouth of the second preacher the sermon was a dud. When the borrower complained the first preacher said, "I have lent you my Fiddle, my not my Fiddlestick, for (Continued on Page 51)

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA.. . WESTERN FOX SNAKE

This rodent-reaper is six feet of appetite when zeroing in on rats or mice. Feeding habits endear him to farmers despite his ugly appearance

THIS NATIVE NEBRASKAN should have a warm welcome from all, but he doesn't get it. Instead, he is pretty apt to be spurned by many who see him. Not that Elophe vulpina, the western fox snake, goes out of his way to frighten a person, it is just that most people have an acquired dread of snakes.

The name "fox" comes from an odor resembling that of a fox which is exuded from glands located at the anal vent when the snake is annoyed. When disturbed, the western fox snake will often vibrate his tail furiously in an attempt to frighten off the intruder. In the event the tail strikes dry leaves the sound may resemble that made by a rattlesnake. If sufficiently irritated, this normally docile reptile will double his neck into a lateral loop and strike. When striking he may extend himself up to a third of his length, and in the process, emit a short hiss, much like a sneeze. For the most part, however, he is mild mannered and is reported to become very tame in captivity.

His range extends from the upper peninsula of Michigan through Wisconsin and Illinois westward to eastern Nebraska. Western fox snakes are partial to marshy areas and bodies of water. Nebraska Conservation Bulletin No. 24 reports that a large specimen was found coiled in a mouse nest in a rotten stump at the edge of a shallow pond near Decatur in Burt County. Other specimens have been taken in Dodge, Holt. Nemaha, Seward, Thurston, and Washington counties.

The fox snake is non-venomous, and because of his food habits he is considered beneficial. His food sources include rats, mice, and other small mammals. Upon occasion, he will eat birds and their eggs but the good that he does outweighs any harm that may occasionally result. It is noted that one snake is worth a dozen traps since he will enter burrows and nests to eat an entire brood of mice or rats.

Specimens range up to six feet in length, but the average size is about 3V2 to 4 feet long and approximately one inch in diameter. These reptiles are ground dwellers and do not readily climb trees. In shape the body is quite stout, tapering rather abruptly to a sharp-pointed tail. The scales are distinctly, though not heavily keeled.

These rodent takers are oviparous or egg-laying. Eggs are generally laid in the hollow of a rotting stump! Once the eggs are deposited, the female leaves them without further thought, to hatch in about six or eight weeks. Moisture is absorbed by the eggs from the wood pulp that surrounds them, and by hatching time the eggs have expanded until they are as much as one third to one half again as large as when they were first layed The number of eggs that are deposited will vary from 15 to 29. Dates when the eggs are layed are not well established.

One authority noted that, "One specimen deposited 12 eggs on July 1. They were adhesive in a single cluster.. The eggs began hatching August 21 and all had not hatched until 10 days later."

In North America the genus Elophe is represented by 10 species and numerous subspecies. The genus as a whole, contains several dozen species that inhabit the temperate and tropical portions of both the new and old worlds. As a group they are referred to as rat snakes, apparently because of their rodent-eating habits.

Other names that are sometimes assigned include "house snake" and "chicken snake". These names apparently come from the fox snake's habit of frequenting farm buildings to hunt for mice and rats. For this reason, this colorful snake has economic importance and is a friend of the farmer. Like most of the other non-poisonous Nebraska snakes, the fox snake should be protected and left alone rather than being indiscriminantly killed.

THE END 42 NEBRASKAland

44

Foot Trails to Adventure

by Lou Ell Saddle your shank's mare and follow Nebraska's pleasure paths. Here, mad rush of modern world slows to primal pace

A FRIEND OF MINE calls hiking a tweetie-bird pastime which no one in his right mind should consider unless there's a trout stream at the other end. That is where he misses the point.

A hike is more than a walk from one place to another. True, you may push your way through the tag alder to drop a dry fly on the tumbling surface of a namelesss creek, but to the dedicated hiker this is no more important than wandering from a fixed pathway to search for the tiny burrow of a gopher or scouting the hangout of a big buck. Hiking is really the adventure of going somewhere under your own power, of slowing the mad rush of a mechanized world to the primal pace of another age, and rediscovering the minute details of life forms that go unnoticed with swifter living. At trail's end, the hiker has enjoyed an overall experience, not a single segment.

And NEBRASKAland provides a variety of hiking opportunities. Whether you choose a route you can heel-and-toe in an hour or two, or one that stretches over a hundred miles and several days, there is a lot of territory to explore.

One spot is Toadstool Park. This unique area borders the Pine Ridge, 17 miles northwest of Crawford, Nebraska. Here, the tortured earth is carved into rounded sandstone caps perched atop slender stems of softer clay. These unique formations are constantly developing and disintegrating.

There is a picnic ground on the east edge of the park where the only drinking water in the area is available. It is a good spot to start a short trek. A flat drainage bed, almost sidewalk smooth, runs out of the park and touches the picnic ground. Follow this far enough, and you will end up atop the Pine Ridge. Hiking is easy as long as the weather is dry and you stick to this drainage. You can't get lost as long as you follow it, or return to it each time you wander into one of the secondary feeder canyons to look for a fossilized turtle or the bones of a prehistoric animal.

The Pine Ridge, contiguous to Toadstool Park, is an entirely different type of terrain. Here you can hike for miles under the protective shade of yellow pine, following the easy paths of the dirt surfaced side roads, or striking out overland, to blaze your own trail through some of Nebraska's most rugged country. A good three-day trek might start at Toadstool Park, swing up the crest of the Ridge in a northwesterly course, and end at the campground on the state-owned Gilbert Baker Recreation Area.

A shorter hiking trip beginning near Harrison, Nebraska, is a circle tour of Sowbelly Canyon. Take your fishing tackle for a try at the brook trout in Sowbelly Creek. About halfway through the canyon, you will pass a ranch house, and if the owner is home, ask to see the trout-rearing ponds he maintains there.

For all hiking in the Pine Ridge or the Badlands, stout shoes are a must. Ankle-high boots, with foam cushion, cleated soles are recommended. A slender pole, five to six feet long, will help maintain your balance in the steeper places. Technically, this is called a hiking staff. It helps a lot in steep climbing.

For a daylong hike, you need a small rucksack to carry your lunch, camera, water container, mosquito dope, suntan lotion, and perhaps a fresh pair of socks. Longer treks with night campouts will require a larger pack. A pack made with an aluminum frame is recommended. For summer nights, an air mattress and a wool blanket or a lightweight sleeping bag will suffice for sleeping gear. A pair of thick wool socks, for each day of the trip, a change of underclothes, a couple of AUGUST, 1966 45   handkerchiefs, and the clothes you wear should see you through in the clothing department, if you don't mind feeling a bit grubby toward the end.

Foot Trails to Adventure continued

Carry a Boy Scout type cook kit for meals. Powdered milk, mashed potatoes, macaroni and noodle dinners, dried fruits, and other kinds of moisture free foods make excellent camp chow and are easily prepared. Repackage all dry foods in plastic bags to conserve space, but save the cooking instructions for foods you have not prepared before.

In making up a back pack, assemble food, clothing, and other items in small cloth bags, and label each sack with a black crayon. These integrated parcels prevent scattering and possible loss of loose items, and make repacking quick and easy. Boil out a quart-sized plastic detergent bottle to remove all soapy taste, and use it for your water container. It carries much better in the pack and is lighter than a conventional canteen. Experienced backpackers limit their gear to 25 to 30 pounds, including food, clothing, shelter, and the pack to carry it in. No excess items are carried in the hands, or dangled from belt or shoulders.

The stream courses of Nebraska offer 11,000 miles of potential hiking bypaths. Of these, the Niobrara river basin is perhaps the most beautiful. Creek sized in western Nebraska, the Niobrara runs through almost park-like grasslands and past the renowned Agate Fossil area. Other feeder streams and wayside springs add to its volume by the time the river reaches the Valentine area. From there it flows through tree lined canyons, farmland, and crumpled hills to its wedding with the Missouri River near the town of Niobrara. A portion of the river, an 80-mile-stretch from the Sheridan-Cherry county line to the Brewer Bridge, south of Sparks, has been nominated for the Federal Wild Rivers program. Such sections will remain forever in a natural state, unspoiled by any man-made changes. For an experienced hiker, tracing this section of the river could provide a trip long to be remembered. For a leisurely journey, take a week or more to do it. As in all cases when you hike on private land, be sure to get landowner permission before trespassing. This will call for advance letter writing or telephone calls, but you will find landowners most co-operative, once they understand the purpose of your journey. In dry periods, you'll be asked not to smoke or build any fires where there is danger of prairie fire, and it is your moral obligation to strictly comply with such requests.

For a shorter Niobrara hike, begin at the west edge of the Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge just east of Valentine on State Highway 12. Meander with the river to the old highway bridge nine miles downstream. You can do this jaunt in a single day, but if you spend a weekend, and camp out one night, you'll enjoy a more rewarding trip. Along this stretch are some of the few white birch trees native to Nebraska. There are high, spring covered cliffs, birdlife galore, and a number of wild little side canyons where bobcats prowl. Elk are present in the refuge as well as buffalo and Texas Longhorns.

The Missouri River has a number of interesting areas including the Devil's Nest section. Spend your nights in the state-maintained campgrounds along the shore of Lewis and Clark Lake, and alternately tramp lakeshore rock and oak-timbered highlands.

The bluff country in the Ponca area is good tramping country. Base out of Ponca State Park, and strike out up or downstream. Fossils abound in the cliffs, and you might just find the sandbar you've been looking for to set a goose hunting blind on this fall.

Other rivers, such as the Platte in central Nebraska, flow through less spectacular country. But, Lake McConaughy, Nebraska's largest, on the North Platte River, doesn't take a back seat in hiking opportunity. The lake sports 125 miles of shoreline, and every bit of it is accessible to the hiker. You can begin your tramp anywhere, since there are access roads leading to the water from all around the lake. You can hike just a portion of shoreline, or the entire 125 miles, just as time permits. Enough trees are scattered along the way to provide shade for rest periods, and driftwood for fuel. You can establish a camp site almost anywhere, and pepper the hike with innumerable fishing or swimming breaks.

A word of caution. In the rocky outcroppings along the south shoreline, there are occasional dens of rattlesnakes. Use care in negotiating rocky areas, and keep a few feet away from any ledge from which a sunning varment could strike at your face or arms as you pass. Ordinarily, danger from rattlers is not great.

In southeast Nebraska, the county road between Richardson and Nemaha counties is the access road to the proposed Indian Cave State Park. Already acquired are 1,300 acres of the proposed 3,000-acre tract. A picnic area has been built on the bluffs wrhich offers a panoramic view of the Missouri River. A short nature trail, with identifying flags on the natural flora, swings from the picnic area and back again. Here you'll find paw-paw, black hawthorne, dwarf willow, and ginseng, among other vegetation not common to other sections of Nebraska. Former University of Nebraska professor, Raymond J. Poole has stated the flora of this area matches almost exactly that of northwestern Tennessee. If you hike here, you are not restricted to the nature 46 NEBRASKAland trail, but use care to stay within the fenced area. The actual site of Indian Cave is not yet included in the state-acquired land, and you will be trespassing if you seek out the cave at the base of the bluff on the river.

In central Nebraska, Halsey National Forest, the world's largest man-planted forest, offers an object lesson in the terrible destruction of uncontrolled fire. Only by hiking through the blackened, barren stubs can one grasp the true value of the green plots that remain. Check in at the Ranger Station headquarters before you start out. If you want to spend the night in the forest, you must get special permission, and even with permission granted, you will have to establish a Siwash camp. Absolutely no campfires are allowed anywhere in the forest except at the established campground.

Siwashing may be a new experience for you, and while you will miss the friendly crackle of a campfire, the stars overhead will burn more brilliantly because of the darkness. You will be folded more closely in the silence. The coyote's howl will be all the more eerie, and if you hear a shuffling nearby, most likely a deer or a porcupine will be caught in your flashlight's beam.

The pioneers that crossed Nebraska left trails that have since been all but obliterated by myriad fence-lines. It is impossible to follow any of the actual trails by vehicle. Hiking, however, is feasible, and a good section of the old Oregon Trail, from the trading post on U. S. Highway 30 near Brule, Nebraska, northwestward to Ash Hollow can be followed with relative ease, since the old ruts are plainly visible in places.

Healthful and different, hiking offers a method of seeing new places the average person never visits. For the vast majority of seat-bound sightseers, spots within half a mile of a highway may as well be on the moon, but to the hiker they are old and valued friends. For the cushion riders, Devil's Den in the Pine Ridge, the Sinkhole near Ainsworth, the Washbasin south of Oshkosh, the headwaters of Whitetail Creek in the Sand Hills north of Keystone, and many other out-of-the-way spots are only curious names.

After you've visited them by shank's mare, you may not always discover the trout stream my friend is always searching for, but your knowledge of the beauties of Nebraska will be the richer. And who knows, maybe you will have discovered that hiking is just the pastime you've been looking for?

THE END

THE TALLY WHACKERS

by Bill Hinel

BACK in 1944, the Nebraska Game Commission had a problem. It needed to develop a reasonably accurate method of counting the state's pheasants, quail, rabbits, and grouse to more effectively manage the resource. Since the assorted fauna was spread over some 77,000 square miles it was obvious that the job needed a large number of observers over the entire state. Since the Game Commission didn't have an army of census takers at its disposal, it had to come up with an acceptable alternative, if it was going to get the job done.

James W. Kimball, a former commission biologist, had an idea on how to recruit census takers the easy way. After clearing the proposal with the Assistant Postmaster General, he enlisted the aid of the rural mail carriers in northeastern Nebraska to conduct a pilot survey. If the idea worked, there was no reason why it could not be extended state-wide. This plan was not an original because two other states had tried it and found it effective. But the mail carriers' survey was new to Nebraska and there was no assurance that it would work here.

Rural mail carriers serve as biologists' eyes and ears; ride scout for hunter army

The carriers were furnished with simple record sheets and asked to tally the pheasants they saw on their daily rounds. These sheets were ruled off in appropriate columns for male, female, and undetermined sex. At the end of the February to May survey period, the carriers were asked to turn in the sheets and the Game Commission would take the data from there.

Rural carriers didn't mind taking the survey since it did not interfere with their primary job of delivering the mail. Besides it added a little interest to their daily rounds. One veteran carrier summed up the general reaction to the proposal with this comment:

"After you travel these same roads for a time, you get to know what to look for and what to expect. For instance, in the spring, you see a lot of cock birds courting the hens. For awhile you can watch the pairing up and then the females seem to disappear. Then one day, the hens are back with their broods. Sometimes you have to stop your car to let the chicks across the road. They are cute little fellows—all bright-eyed and curious about their brand new world. Counting them is a lot of fun."

Thirteen carriers turned in their record sheets at the end of the 1944 survey period. The results were so 48 NEBRASKland encouraging that plans were made to run another survey in July to supplement the regular inventories conducted by technicians and conservation officers. This time, 109 carriers, running out of 49 Nebraska towns, co-operated in the work and Nebraska had its first large scale carrier survey of pheasants. It was a whopping success.

These experimental surveys proved that here was a relatively accurate and economical method of observing trends in the pheasant populations and that it could be extended to other game birds and animals.

The next year, letters requesting co-operation from the carriers were sent to 557 post offices that operated rural and star routes. Instructions and tally cards were sent to each office before each of the three big counts. The spring survey indicated breeding populations, the summer count measured production, and the winter census revealed the post-season sex ratios.

That was 21 years ago and the rural carriers have not missed a survey since. In a letter expressing the commission's gratitude to the postmasters for the job done by the carriers, Lloyd Vance, Chief of the Game Division, made this statement in the spring of 1966:

"During the past 20 years, your group of rural and star route carriers have conducted 64 wildlife surveys, resulting in recorded observations of more than a million and a half pheasants while delivering mail and traveling more than IOV3 million miles. There is no comparable method of gathering extensive information in so short a period of time. We in the Game Commission and Nebraska's sportsmen thank you."

The surveys do not attempt to count all the pheasants, quail, rabbits, and grouse in Nebraska for this is an impossibility; but by comparing the results with past years' data and by plotting the information for comparison with results obtained through other survey methods, technicians come up with a pretty good idea of what is what in Nebraska's animal kingdom. Areas of concentrations, trends in populations, breeding habits, and weather influence can be compiled and studied. Since other states are also using the mail carrier system, co-operating biologists can come up with widespread information on annual game fluctuations, brood sizes, sex ratios, and other pertinent data.

Reliability of indicated changes of less than 10 percent is of questionable significance. However, when fluctuations exceed 10 per cent, they indicate a fairly substantial increase or decrease in the populations. These results are carefully analyzed and cpmpared with other available information to discover the underlying causes behind the changes. When these factors are known, future population trends can be predicted more accurately.

Information from the carriers, supplemented with that obtained by biologist and game technicians, has a bearing on the lengths of seasons and bag limits which are set by the Game Commission at its August meeting.

Typical of the carriers who contribute to the success of the surveys is Wyman Stedman of Palmyra, Nebraska. Stedman has carried mail for the past 18 years and is a long-time co-operator in the game surveys. An ardent hunter and angler, Wyman serves a 50-mile route, six days a week. He figures he has traveled a distance equal to 10 times around the world while driving his stint. Since his roads aren't exactly super-highways, the veteran carrier has plenty of opportunities to observe wildlife along the route.

Wyman's day begins at 8 a.m., when he sorts the mail and stows it for distribution to his patrons. If the roads are good and the mail load isn't excessive, he's usually home by noon. During the survey periods he keeps his eyes peeled for game and ticks it off on a note pad. Later, he transfers the totals to the tally card. Like most of the other carriers, Wyman has become an unofficial information bureau on the hunting conditions in his territory. About every day, he gets questioned about the pheasant situation, the quail populations, or on places to hunt.

He doesn't mind the inquiries for he loves to talk about hunting whenever he gets the chance. He has a stock of anecdotes and stories about his mail carrying and hunting experiences and enjoys sharing them with others. One of his favorite tales is about the quail who nested beneath one of the mailboxes on his route.

"I don't know if she was seeking the protection of the U. S. mails or not when she nested, but I like to think she was and that she trusted me to take care of her and her brood," he said.

Wyman has one spot on his route that seems to be a favorite hangout for a rooster pheasant. "There is a tree and a little clump of brush right along the road and nearly every morning I see a rooster there. I know it can't be the same one but the pattern is always the same, day after day. If I don't see one there, I'm a little disappointed—like missing an old friend."

Quail and pheasants are his favorites but the Palmyra carrier sees other birds and mammals during his daily round. Quite often he will see a coyote returning from his nocturnal prowlings or deer feeding in the fields. Stedman is a conservation backer and enjoys watching the spread of good conservation practices in his own particular corner of Otoe County. Like all other Nebraskans he claims there is no other place like it.

Wyman is just one of the more than 600 men who are helping the Game Commission handle its huge job. He is one of the men who care enough to put out that extra effort to help make NEBRASKAland hunting a great experience. Lloyd Vance had men like him in mind when he wrote:

"We in the Game Commission and Nebraska's sportsmen thank you."

THE END

HANGING JUDGE

(continued from page 23)

comment to the jury and the spectators about the trial, the judge said that there was enough evidence to hang both of them, but the city had acted in accordance with the law and could be proud of itself.

That night Nebraska City was quiet except for groups of two and three men wandering silently down the cold and windy streets. About 1:30 a.m. the small groups merged into a mob of 150 to 200 masked men and marched on the jail.

When the sun rose the next morning its rays fell upon the two killers who were hanging from an elm tree on the banks of Table Creek. Whether or not Gaslin's comment in the courtroom had anything to do with the lynching, will never be known.

It was on the train from Nebraska City to Sidney, where the judge was to hold court the next morning, that he first heard of the lynching of two farmers, Luther Mitchell and Ami Ketchum, by the Olive gang.

The judge later said in connection with the case: "When I opened court in Sidney there was such an excitement that there was no disposition or readiness of business. There was an article in the newspaper, denouncing the governor for not taking active steps to bring about the arrest of the murderers, .and complimenting me by saying there was only one man in Nebraska who would see that the perpetrators of the crime would be brought to justice, and that man was Gaslin. I called my reporter, F. M. Hallowell and instructed him to tell the editor of the Kearney newspaper not to make further mention of my name. I had a plan to capture the desperadoes and did not want to put them on their guard."

Later that afternoon the judge took a train to Plum Creek, where he found the citizens of the town heavily armed to protect themselves from members of the Olive gang who threatened to kill them if there was an attempt to bring any of the gang to justice. At a meeting held a few days later in Kearney, the sheriffs of Dawson and Buffalo counties declined to deliver Gaslin's warrant for the arrest of Fredrick Fisher and Print Olive and his gang.

J. P. Johnson of Kearney, a friend of Gaslin's, had a list of five or six men who said they were willing to try to arrest the men. The deputies traveled to Plum Creek and took the men into custody with little trouble.

During the month-long trial, Gaslin's life was constantly in danger and the controversial trial ended only after troops had been called to Hastings to protect the court, Gaslin, and the prosecuting attorney, General Caleb Dilworth.

During the trial, Gaslin took every possible precaution to protect his life and Dilworth's. After the trial was over, he said that he had given orders for no one to occupy the gallery opposite where he sat, and had secretly scattered a number of heavily armed bailiffs through the court.

The jury found Olive and Fisher guilty of second degree murder and Gaslin sentenced them to life in prison. The Supreme Court reversed Gaslin on the grounds that the case should have been tried in Custer County. When the two men were returned for retrial in Custer County, Judge E. J. Boblits dismissed the case for the lack of witnesses.

The very same day that Olive and Fisher entered the Nebraska State Penitentiary for safe keeping while their case was being appealed, mass murderer Stephen D. Richards was leaving the prison for his date with death at Minden on April 26.

On January 23, 1879, Richards was found guilty of murdering Minden farmer Pete Anderson and sentenced to die by Judge Gaslin. The 23-year-old murderer, also admitted beating a woman and her daughter to death with a flat iron, choking another daughter to death, and throwing the woman's baby against a wall, killing it. It was believed that Richards was responsible for several other murders.

A 14-foot board fence was built around the scaffold to hide the $3.07 rope and the hanging. Public sentiment ran high against the condemned man and 15 minutes before Richards was brought out of the courthouse, a 50 NEBRASKAland crowd of about a thousand tore down the board fence, making the once-planned private hanging a public one. Richards was a long time dying and the crowd was apparently satisfied that justice was done. The trial and subsequent execution received a great deal of publicity and Judge Gaslin's name was often mentioned in the high-flying newspaper stories.

The frontier demanded a certain type of man to rule over its wild and lawless plains. Gaslin was a man, not only of learning but of parts. He came to Nebraska from Maine where he had attended college and later practiced law.

Before going to college, Gaslin worked in a lumbering camp, and after that worked as a cook on board ship. His experience with the rugged men who inhabited these two walks of life, many of whom were criminals, gave the to-be frontier judge valuable experience in how to deal with the ruffians he would soon meet.

While in Augusta, Maine, Gaslin held several political posts including superintendent of schools, city clerk, and alderman for the city. While working there he married Catharine Perkins.

When a fire destroyed his law office and library in 1865, he packed the remainder of his belongings, and he and his wife started West. After wandering through many states and stopping in several towns, Gaslin finally crossed the Missouri River and landed in Omaha on March 26, 1868.

He practiced law in Omaha for awhile and then in the spring of 1871 Gaslin, and three other men, struck out to see the unsettled parts of Nebraska.

When Gaslin returned to Omaha in August, he had picked out a piece of land he wanted to homestead in Harlan County. After filing his claim in Beatrice, he and his wife lived on it during the fearful winter of 1871-72.

In June, 1872, he went to Lowell, where he opened a law office in the bustling cow town which had become the terminus for many Texas cattle drives. At Lowell, he was a very busy man. Finally, his wife could no longer take the life he was offering her and left him.

Some said that Gaslin was deeply hurt by the incident. After his wife left he was never socially inclined, confining himself to his books and work which was one reason why the untiring, dedicated judge could handle the largest of the Nebraska judicial districts with apparent ease.

The frontier judge was finally defeated in 1891 after serving 16 years. After his defeat he practiced law around Kearney until his death in 1910.

Those who knew him, wrote that he lived poorly in order that he might not appear above the poor people of his district. He felt proud of living on little and this probably increased his popularity among the people more than any single thing.

During his years on the bench Gaslin faced up to the job of taming the West, often ignoring his personal safety to uphold the law. The judge made many enemies, but then a man who succeeds in bringing justice to the untamed frontier seldom makes friends but he is sure to win respect.

THE END

INCOMPLEAT ANGLER

(continued from page 41)

you are to know that every one cannot make music with my words, which are fitted for my mouth."

The Dean of Anglers used the tale to prove to a would-be fisherman that he could give him a rod, but not the ability to catch fish. "You have my Fiddle," says he, "but not my Fiddlestick."

Izaak, you were right. I am the living proof of it. If ever anyone had the Fiddle without the Fiddlestick, it is I. I look like a fisherman, I may smell like a fisherman, but the trout are not impressed. They know I do not think like a fisherman.

Thinking back over some of the things that had happened to me and worrying forward about more to come, I have concluded that I might as well secede from the order. I shall hang up the rod and the reel and join the legion of the do not's.

When the family goes trout fishing next spring I shall watch from a certain shady bank or lie on the grass and use my binoculars to spy on the birds. I might even catch some grasshoppers for the rest of the family. Certainly I will cook the trout they catch. But from now on I am not a participant. I'm a spectator.

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

THRESHERS REUNION

(continued from page 39)

wasn't the easiest task in the world when the only supplemental power sources were horses and strong backs.

The Niobrara collector doesn't have any particular favorites but he leans toward machines of pre-World War I vintage. Steam tractors replaced the old horse sweeps around the first decade of the Twentieth Century but after 10 years of glory, they gave way to gasoline-powered jobs that are the ancestors of today's trim and powerful tractors. Today, threshing machines or separators as they are called, have been largely replaced with self-propelled combines that cut and thresh grain in one continuous operation.

Finding the old rigs is a challenge to Bill but he subscribes to a threshers' magazine and gets some valuable leads through it. Through diligent searching and a ready pocketbook, he has obtained such old-time greats as Avery, Aultman & Taylor, Rumley, and Case. He found a 45-65 Avery engine at Viborg, South Dakota, a 30-60 Case separator at Albion, Minnesota, and a 30-60 Model X Rumley engine at Wayne Nebraska.

The numeral combinations represent belt and drawbar horsepower on the engines and cylinder width as opposed to overall width on the separators. Some of the separators are heavy-weights in their own right. One of Bill's outfits is 36 feet long and weighs more than 6 tons. Bill was so anxious to get the Rumley that he drove it home from Wayne in a snow storm, a couple of winters back. It weighs a mere 14 tons. Rumley also made a separator and Bill uses one during the reunion.

A hand-fed separator represents Mayberry's greatest find so far. He heard that it was originally used in South Dakota, traced it to Nebraska, and finally found (Continued on page 54)

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Duck Drama. A Phoenix resident got something of a jolt when he investigated a swimming pool ruckus involving his cat and dog. Cause of the row was two misguided mallards who had strayed slightly from the Pacific Flyway. The owner obligingly filled the bathtub and the ducks took up house-keeping while they all waited for game officials. After turning the bathroom into a rumpus room by jumping in and out of the tub and creating somewhat of a super-saturated mess, the ducks were taken away, but not before one of them made its contribution towards the rent by laying an egg in the bathtub.—Arizona

Long Time Coming. The third place winner in the first annual Pennsylvania Big Game Trophy contest turned out to be an evenly-matched, 12-point set of antlers from a buck shot 135 years ago. The rack was harvested with an old flintlock rifle purchased with money received from the sale of otter, mink, and bear furs. The antlers, rifle, and powder horn have been family heirlooms ever since.—Washington, D. C.

No-stealum Car. Hunter Ed Gilroy killed a deer near Idaho Falls, Idaho, and returned to his car for a rope. Thieves had broken into his car, and had taken away a two-way radio, car jack, lunch box, vacuum jug, blankets and camera. Gilroy left his rifle in the car and went back after the deer. It had been stolen. He then returned in disgust to his automobile and found his rifle gone, too.—National Wildlife

Not Hydrophobia. A very worried father called a Pennsylvania game official one night informing him his son had been bitten by a fish. After assuring the distraught father there was no danger of rabies, the official reflected that at least the fish were certainly biting in that particular area.—Pennsylvania

Surprise! Conservation officers watching for night hunters stopped a car of four youngsters. The driver agreed to open the car trunk for inspection but asked the warden to step back. Expecting the worst, the officers were even more surprised to find in the trunk a bad-humored seven-foot alligator.—South Carolina

Czech Credit. Diners' Club and American Express Company has introduced its credit system into Czechoslovakia. Members can charge all tourist services, food and accommodations at selected Cedok Interhotels, as well as for the purchasing of souvenirs and gifts. —Ontario

Bird Watchers Alert. Have you seen these fast multiplying species? Bald-headed tent pitcher; Ruby-throated morning gargler; Red-eyed stake pounder; Tufted sleepy-eye; Common kindling snatcher; Hairy-chested barbecue burner; Greater and lesser water carrier; Stuffed-belly potwatcher; Fleet-footed milkman catcher; Bumble-fingered garbage dumper; Long-armed table snatcher; Red-shafted match flicker; Shifty-eyed flower puller; Trumpeting early riser; White-faced air mattress puffer; Three-toed axewielder; Grey-crowned lounger; White-thatched table sitter?—Iowa Conservationist

Surplus Center 7x35 Wide Angle Binoculars COMPLETE WITH CASE and STRAPS $28.88 • ( #ON-086-WAB ) - - Precision binoculars that give almost twice the field of view (525 ft. ® 1000 yds.) that you get with ordinary binoculars. 7-power with 35mm objective lens. Precision coated optics, diopter index, interpupilary scale. Complete with field case, shoulder strap and neck strap. Shipping weight 4 lbs. 2000 MW CB Transceivers • ( tfON-086-WT ) - - Powerful CB, dual channel, loudspeaker transceiver has full 2-watts RF input. 20 times more power than many hand held walkie-talkies. Range up to 15 miles (depending upon terrain and conditions). Ideal, dependable unit for hunters, farmers, ranchers, industry, construction-logging crews, etc. • Crystal controlled frequencies, AVC, noise limiter. Variable squelch reduces background noise, keeps speaker silent between calls. 13-transistors, 1-diode, 1-Varistor, 1-Thermistor. Operates from 8 penlight cells, alkaline cells, rechargeable battery or 12-volt AC adaptor. Furnished with 1-set plug-in crystals (Ch. 7) leather case, shoulder strap, earphone, instructions, batteries. .95 • Extra Crystals, per pair.... $4.00 • Cigarette Lighter Plug To Run From Auto Battery $1.79 1331 Insulated Coveralls $15.95 d • ( #ON-086-IC ) - - Ideal f hunters, farmers, railroaders, all outdoor workers. Windproof outer shell, nylon inner lining with 3.3 oz. Dacron insulation. Very warm without excessive weight or bulk. Zipper closure. Sizes 38 to 46 Med. or Long. Shpg wt. 5 lbs. ATTENTION! Mail Order Customers • All items F.O.B. Lincoln. Shipping weights are shown. Include enough money to cover shipping costs to save collection frees at your end. We refund any excess immediately. 25% deposit on C.O.D.'s. BROWNING Auto. Shotguns Light 20 Buy On Terms No Interest $174.95 • ( ON-086-BS ) - - Choice of 12 or 20-gauge, full or modified choke. Lightweight, plain barrel. Buy one of these fine shotguns now on credit. $14.95 down, $13.33 per month and no interest charges. • Bringinyour old shotgun for ourBIG TRADE-IN OFFER. It can help lower your monthly payments. Upgrade yourself to one of the finest shotguns made. (Shotgun shpg. wt. 9 lbs.) HOPPE'S Gun Cleaning Kits Newly Designed Wood Grained Fitted Case • ( "ON-086-GK ) - - SPECIAL SALE on HOPPE'S new gun cleaning outfits. New polypropylene fitted case is moisture-proof, rustproof, can't rust or rot, has no sharp edges to scratch or cut. One-piece construction. • Kits contain: Hoppes No. 9 solvent, lubricating oil, patches, wiping cloth, tray, brush, slotted jag, swab or guide and instructions. Your choice of .22 or 30-caliber or 12, 16, 20 or .410-gauge. (Please specify gauge or caliber) Shipping weight 3 lbs. ITHACA Featherlight Shotguns $104.95 • ( #ON-086-IP ) - - Model 37. Choice of 12 or 20-gauge, full or modified choke. Buy it on credit. $14.95 down, $7.50 per month, no interest charges. Big trade-in allowance on your old gun. 500 lb. Sportsman's Hoist • ( #ON-086-SH ) - - Compact hoist should be in every sportsman's kit. 500 lb. capacity. 9-ft. lift. Use to hoist deer for dressing out, hoist outboard motors etc. Farmers, ranchers, truckers, etc. find many uses for these fine units, nylon rope, nylon rollers, Rust-free construction. Shpg. wt. 2r2 lbs Takes up less room than I lb. coffee can in Sportsman's Kit Dept. ON-086 Lincoln, Nebraska 68501

Ready for a Pension. Perhaps it was old age that caught up with an old hen redhead duck near Ontario, Canada, during the last hunting season. Banding records showed the old girl had given 52 NEBRASKAland gunners in Canada and the U. S. a run for their money for 16 years before being downed.—Wyoming

Fluttering Heart. It was late afternoon when a Pennsylvania deer hunter suddenly felt a rapid vibration at his chest. As he reached under his heavy clothes to clutch his chest, years of fond memories flew through his mind in a matter of seconds. The frightened hunter, who thought he was on his last legs, sighed in relief as his hand touched an alarm clock in his pocket set to go off at 4 p.m.—Pennsylvania

Wildlife vs. Golf. A conservation officer received a call to hurry out to the local golf course. He did, with visions of bears attacking the golfers. But the problem was less serious. The players were merely losing their golf balls. Ravens were making off with them as fast as players could drive them down the fairway.—British Columbia

No Sun, No Pay. On days when the sun fails to shine, guests at 10 Canary Islands hotels will not be charged for accommodations, the group has announced.—Travel Weekly

Split That. During a trial for fishing without a permit, a Colorado man made no attempt to hide his scorn for the judge and conservation officer. As he paid the $10 fine for the offense, he handed the judge two fives and said, "Here, take these, they'll be easier to split." As he turned to storm out of the courtroom, the judge called him back. "Young man," the judge said dryly, "I'm changing that sentence to 10 days in jail. Now, won't you tell us how we can split that?"—Colorado

Stag Party. In 1932 Utah stocked 100 chukar partridges. The experiment failed when the birds, purchased from an eastern game farm, failed to reproduce. Biologists later discovered the birds were all males.—Utah

AUGUST, 1966 53  

THRESHERS REUNION

(continued from page 51)

the machine in a dilapidated shed. It hadn't been moved for 40 years and its wheels had settled a foot deep in the gumbo floor of the old building. Its frame was covered with the debris of years but Bill hauled it out after paying a hundred bucks. He cleaned it up, painted it a bright scarlet, and had his daughter letter it "Red River Special". It's been spewing out chaff-free oats for three reunions.

A horse-sweep power unit is perhaps the most unique among Bill's pets. It takes 12 strong horses to operate it. They are hitched to spoke-like shafts extending from the center sweep. Tumbling arms, similar to those on the old steam locomotives, transmit power from the sweep to the face wheel on the separator.

We use 12 big Belgians on it, and each team needs a driver because the horses aren't accustomed to the job. In the old days, one man could handle all the teams and man the sweep brake besides. He used to calm the excitable horses with a soft whistle and prod the laggards on with a mighty rich vocabulary. Once in a while he had to touch a horse up with a whip when he got lazy but that was about it because the teams knew what to do, Bill said.

The first day of the reunion, Mayberry and crew run the machines until dark and then get everything in shape for the next morning. Spectators never tire of watching the old outfits at work for they provide a colorful and interesting spectacle. The puffing, smoking engines, the flying straw, the golden grain pouring out of the separator, the horses, and the busy men provide an unforgettable scene that is much more stirring than the sight of a combine endlessly wheeling around a field like some prehistoric monster on the prowl.

The day of the traveling thresher is gone, a sacrifice to progress, but those who remember its excitement, fellowship, and good sweaty toil regret its passing. Perhaps that is why the Northeast Threshers Reunion is so popular. There is a bit of the past in all of us, a bit of longing for the day when life was undoubtedly harder but also simpler. For two days every October, Bill Mayberry and his threshers bring back an era when man and machine joined forces in an elemental effort to earn the bounty of a fertile land.

THE END

BULLFROG BLAST

(continued from page 17)

water like a hungry mink. One swipe at the struggling frog and Wes came up with a handful of moss and his squirming victim. After sifting out the soggy mess, the triumphant hunter held old Granddad up for Dave's admiration. The hopper was a mighty good one with long, meaty legs that promised plenty of good eating.

On the way home, the two hunters relived each incident of the afternoon's 54 NEBRASKAland hunt until Dave, thinking of his approaching military stint, grew thoughtful.

"Don't you clean out all those frogs while I'm gone," he warned. "Leave a few for seed."

"Don't worry, I'll only hunt the smart ones and leave the dumb ones for you," his partner answered.

Dave thought that over for a second or two and then came right back.

"Yeah, which one of us had brains enough to fix that rifle."

THE END

RODEO CLOWN

(continued from page 33)

on the spot," he recalls. Today, the Bayard rodeo clown considers all bulls dangerous and conducts himself accordingly.

Pedrett prefers to consider himself a bullfighter first and a clown second. His work is often pretty touch-and-go. There is a lot of show for the audience, but there is also a lot of hard, deadly work. "When a cowboy comes unglued from a bull's back, a clown has to be right there to help him," Terry says. "But you can get yourself into a lot of trouble with the cowboys if you come in on them either too early or too late. If you are too early, you may stop the animal from bucking and cost the rider points. If you are too late, it may cost him his life."

Terry is proud of the fact that a cowboy has never been injured while he was clowning. There are quite a few rodeo performers who owe the clown a debt for taking the knocks for them. Terry tries to soak up as little abuse as possible, though. He works from the rear so the bull can't see him. If the animal is spinning, Pedrett spins with him. Then when he sees that the rider is in trouble, he reverses the spin and moves in close to draw the critter away from the cowboy.

Though it is serious work, Pedrett stresses that he can't go into the ring and make bullfighting too serious. He has to take chances every so often to get the crowd on their feet and keep the show moving. Rodeo crowds are just a bit blood-thirsty. "They like to see you get hit once in a while, and you have got to give them that," Pedrett says.

But he doesn't take any more chances than necessary. He tries to study bulls before he pits himself against them. If he is unfamiliar with an animal, he may ask riders who have worked with it what to expect. On the other hand, cowboys often ask him about a critter.

"There are some bulls that come out of the chutes with blood in their eye and are out to get you while others just want to play. I've had a bull knock me down and then stand back and wait for me to get up. He wanted to play some more," the clown said.

In 1964, Terry was working a show in Idaho Springs, Colorado, when he ran into some bad luck and a mighty big bull. On the third day of the blowout, a mean one dumped his rider and started barreling around the arena looking for trouble. By reputation the animal was almost impossible to drive into a pen, so Pedrett tried to bait him in. With his back to the crowd, he started backing into the pen and the bull followed. "I was doing just fine until some drunk in the ring waved," he recalled.

At the sudden movement the animal swung on the drunk and promptly ran up his backbone. Terry rushed to the downed man's aid just in time to meet the maddened brute on the return trip. The drunk was unhurt, but the impact of the high-balling bull broke six of Pedrett's ribs and tore his breast bone loose. But it takes more than a little discomfort to keep a good rodeo clown down. Two days later Terry was back on the circuit. "I went to a doctor and had him tape me up and took a bunch of pain pills. I suffered for a couple of days after the show and then I was ready to go again," he recalls.

Pedrett has tied into some pretty good sized shows in his travels, too. Buddy Heaton's Wild West Stampede in Allentown, Pennsylvania, was one of the biggest that he has clowned for. It was also the most dangerous. Hired to fight Mexican fighting bulls, Terry almost bit off more than he could chew. Smaller than the normal bull, they are also a lot more lively-and considerably meaner. "I'll never do that again," he vows. "Those ornery little devils don't know when to quit."

Another clown, Charlie Lyons, was gored in the leg on his first bull and was out of commission for the rest of the week, leaving the fighting to Terry. By the time the show was over, Pedrett had his leg torn open and the cartilage pulled loose in his knee. "Those eastern people really got a kick out of it, they thought it was all put up. The second day they were mad because no one got hurt bad," he recalled.

Other big shows that Pedrett has worked include Independence, Missouri; Coffeyville, Kansas, and one time in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, for Casey AUGUST, 1966 55   Tibbs. Hitting such a wide variety of show locations led to some lonely trips for the Nebraska clown. During his first year on the circuit, he logged 35,000 miles, most of it alone. While some rodeo cowboys work areas pretty close to home, Terry ranges across the country to pick up shows and keep eating.

Occasionally, a clown will ride as a rodeo contestant. "Most of them will try for a little extra money by trying to stick with a critter for the duration," Pedrett says. He has ridden some, but doesn't make a habit of it.

Like all sports, rodeo has its share of greats. Terry picks Bud Heaton as his choice for the most famous clown in the business. Tho two have worked together several times, and Pedrett says that he has never known Heaton to let a cowboy down. He has also pulled Terry out of some pretty tight spots.

Terry's rodeo days have slowed down considerably of late. He was married nearly two years ago, and his wife, Marlys, has her qualms about letting hubby step into the ring. There is a new addition to the family, Kecia, that comes first. But Terry is hooked. There is something about the roar of the crowd and the exhilaration of the sport that gets into a man's blood. And you can safely bet that Terry Pedrett will return.

THE END

THREE-DAY DRIFTERS

(continued from page 13)

wandered into camp. Nonetheless, the Missouri River Valley abounds in wildlife with plenty of deer, pheasant, quail, ducks, turkey, beaver, muskrat, rabbit, and squirrel. Other species which once populated the area are now fading memories. The journals of Lewis and Clark mention elk, buffalo, and prairie wolves. Out in the darkness, coyotes were still howling as we drifted off to sleep.

Doc's "Hit the deck you river rats," brought us bleery-eyed into a morning flooded with sunshine.

"What's for breakfast?" John said with a yawn.

"Eggs, and I can give them to you sunny side up," Doc answered. "Dig this spatula. All you need on a trip like this is a little ingenuity," he continued grinning. The spatula was something to behold. It consisted of a tin can lid inserted into a split stick and wrapped with a piece of wire he had scrounged up.

Fortified with half-burnt strips of bacon and plenty of hot coffee, we all agreed that Doc's eggs would get us by until we found a place we could eat. After breaking camp, we shoved off and floated a mile down river. We stopped and fished for two hours and came away with only a few small sauger and some fair-sized goldeye. Doc hooked one small sturgeon. The weather, while bright and clear, was still cool and our heavy wool shirts and jackets were comfortable as we cruised on down through Brookies' bottom near the Cedar-Dixon county line.

"O.K., Dick," John called, "We just left my river, from here on down the guiding job is all yours."

Off to the east, the water tower of Vermillion, South Dakota, was the only sign of civilization. The river widened again, forming many sandbars. By fall these bars will host both goose and goose hunter as thousands of snow and blue geese funnel into the Missouri River from the Dakotas and Canada.

We cut along the Nebraska shore to give Jerry and Doc a chance at some carp with their bow-fishing outfits. Carp were jumping at intervals, but with the water temperature as low as it was, the fish were not working the shallows, so the archers didn't get any chances.

"What's for lunch?" Jerry inquired, "I'm about starved."

"How about some mushrooms?" Dick asked, "I know a spot down river a couple miles where the morels are thick."

"Can you tell the difference between mushrooms and toadstools?" Jerry quipped.

"I can tell enough difference to make sure you guys get the toadstools," Dick answered with a grin.

We beached the boats, hit overland and were back within minutes with more than enough mushrooms for the noon meal. We sliced and washed the tender morsels, dipped them in egg and rolled them in cracker crumbs. Fried to a golden brown, they were as delicious as a sirloin steak. Full of morels and contented with the day, John mentioned that man could live off the river solely on fish and mushrooms.

"Correction," Jerry laughed, "if we depended on the fish we have taken, I'm afraid we would soon starve to death."

After lunch we were again on the move. Checking our gas, we found all of the tanks were running low and we still had 15 miles to go. Dick waved us to shore and disappeared up the bank. A few minutes later, the grinning conservation officer returned with five gallons of gas. He was accompanied by Emil Walters, who lives along the river north of Maskell. After a brief chat, the local resident waved us off and we headed for a cutoff that Dick recommended for crappies and largemouth.

Thirty minutes later, we beached the boats and followed Dick's instructions to grab our rods and lures. We trailed behind as he cut over a bank through a dense stand of willow. A 10-minute hike brought us to an old river channel. John, rigged with a brass spinner, immediately made about three casts, and yelled that he had one on. Seconds later he was bemoaning a slack line. I also tied on a No. 2 brass spinner and flicked it out to a promising looking snag in the middle of the slough. I was surprised when I saw the flash of a fish streak out from under the snag,

56 NEBRASKAland BOATING

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DOGS

CULP'S HOUND FARM offers AKC black and tan and Basset hound puppies, Route 3, Box 869, Millington, Tennessee. 38053.

BRITTANIES, pups and started dogs. Also training done. Go-Britt Kennels, 720-24% Road, Grand Junction, Colorado.

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

FOR SALE: Australian and Border collie pups. Definitely top workers. Fred Meador, R.F.D. #3, Caldwell, Idaho.

FOR SALE: Two black Labrador females fifteen months old. AKC registered semi-trained. Platteview Kennels, Papillion, Nebraska. 339-8454.

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WANTED: Registered puppies. All breeds. Shorthairs, Labradors, Setters, Goldens, Pekingese, Dachshunds, Sheperds, etc. Also purebred kittens. Excalibur Pets, P. O. Box 362, Omaha, Nebraska 68101.

TRAINING: Attention hunters have your hunting dogs trained both pointers and retrievers by a hunter under hunting conditions. Write for rates and information. Platteview Kennels, Joe Vampala Jr., Papillion, Nebraska. 339-8454.

FISH LURES & BAITS

FISHERMEN: Catch all the white bass you want and your limits of sauger, walleye and northern. Use a white or yellow SKITTER JIG. Send $1 and receive two y4-oz. jigs postpaid. SKITTER PRODUCTS, 205 South 15th Street, Norfolk, Nebraska.

AMAZING Fishing Secrets! Catch any fish including catfish. 20 minutes. Guaranteed. Information $1.98. Frank Lacy, 626C North Newlin, Whittier, California.

FISHERMEN: Be the first in NEBRASKAland to fish with the successful new "HUSTLER Wobbler". Field test this sensational lure with "Crazy Action". Hustler's GETS 'EM ALL! $2 brings you an assortment of 3 different Hustler Wobblers plus catalog of other successful NEBRASKAland lures. Write: DEPT. NC, GLEN L. EVANS, INC., Caldwell, Idaho. Manufacturers of fine fishing tackle for over 44 years.

MARIBOU FISHING Jigs. Assorted colors. 5 for $1. For crappies, bass, and bluegills. Miss Marion Teeters, Walthill, Nebraska. 68067.

WIZARD Worm Caller operates on house current. Pops up worms like magic. $4.95 postpaid. Money back guarantee. Sierra Electronics, Box 3275, No. Hollywood, California.

MC MURRAY ANT, deadly new unsinkable cork-body fly. Trout sizes, #24 to #14. Two for $1. Bass, Bluegill size, 3 for $1. "ANT", P. O. Box 104, McMurray, Pennsylvania.

NEW STAINLESS Fish Scaler. Removes Scales. Cuts Fins. Slits Fish, $1.95. Prepaid. Brochure on request. Burbet Imports, Box 1683, Highland, Indiana 46322.

GUNS

ATTENTION RELOADERS—We don't sell catalogs. We just sell quality and service. We are jobbers for and carry a complete stock of these lines: Alcan, Bushnell, C. C. I., Dupont, Eagle, Hodgdon, Hornady, Hercules, Lee Loaders, Lyman, Lawrence Shot, Norma, Redfield, Remington, RCBS, Shur-X, Speer and Texan. Walter H. Craig, Box 927, Selma, Alabama. Phone 872-1040.

NEW 1966 CATALOG — Military and Commercial weapons. Rifles, handguns, accessories and complete section on Nazi Collectors items. $1, refundable on first order—Queen City Firearms Company, 11843 Ramsdale Court, Cincinnati, Ohio 45246.

ORIGINAL 30 cal. U.S. M-l Carbines, NRA very good to excellent condition. Genuine Government production. Complete with free sling and oiler. Only $52 each, shipped REA Express, collect. Barnacle Wharf Trading Company, 1128 Granville Road, Newark, N-l, Ohio 43055.

WINCHESTER: Gun that Won the West. Williamson's big, authoritative, 494-page book about this famed rifle and its adventures. Richly illustrated. Originally, $10, now, $5. Postpaid. Send for free booklist. Peterborough, 146-N West Tenth, New York City. 10014.

MISCELLANEOUS

BOOK HUNTING is our business. Our specialty—personal service we would want if we were customers. D-J Books, Box 335N, San Bernardino, California. 92404.

COLLAPSD3LE Farm-Pond Fish-Traps; Animal Traps, postpaid. Free information, pictures, Shawnee, 3934-AX Buena Vista, Dallas 4, Texas.

STONEGROUND CORNMEAL. Most complete line Health Foods. Many processed daily. Come see us4 or write. Brownville Mills, Brownville, Nebraska.

VACATION home near Ponca State Park. Brand New, glass front, large deck, walnut paneling, fireplace, boat dock. Also lots for lease. Dave Hogan, Ponca, Nebraska.

DEERSKIN TANNING—Your own deerskin made into the finest quality, gloves, jackets, mittens and other items. Johnson's Market, Tilden, Nebraska.

DEER HUNTERS—Coon Hunters: Climb any tree fast! New invention. Free details. Deer Me Products Company, Box 345N, Anoka, Minnesota 55303.

WORLD'S FINEST Predator Call. Calls bobcats, fox, coyotes, wolves, lions, and others. Complete with instructions and varmint calling tips. $2.98. Hiland Calls, Box 647, Fairview, New Mexico.

FIRE PREVENTIVE all purpose fire extinguisher filled with LX-5tol dry chemical that smothers fires, for home, farm, boat, trailer, car, camp, etc. $3, Postpaid. BURBET IMPORTS, Box 1683, Highland, Indiana 46322.

CENTENNIAL and NEBRASKAland Souvenirs and Mementos made to order, various shapes for key chains, desk sets, bola slides, lapel including Nebraska. Personalizing available pins, etc. Wholesale prices on quantity orders. Inquire by telephone 386-4321 or write Sutherland Handcraft Shop, Box 37, Sutherland, Nebraska.

LOSING HAIR? Balding? Dandruff? Free copyrighted booklet. Dr. Shiffer Laboratories, 583 Euclid Arcade, Cleveland, Ohio 44115

SCUBA EQUIPMENT

BOB-K'S AQUA SUPPLY, Nebraska's largest Scuba dealer. U. S. Divers, Sportsways, Voit, Swimmaster, Scubrapro. Air Station, Regulator Repair. Telephone 553-9483, 1419 South 46 Avenue, Omaha, Nebraska.

OVER 50,000 READERS SEE YOUR AD IN NEBRASKAland MAGAZINE OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air SUNDAY KGFW, Kearney (1340 kc) 7:05 a.m. KTTT, Columbus (1510 kc) 7:30 a.m. KRGI, Grand island (1430 kc) 7:40 a.m. WOW, Omaha (590 kc) 7:40 a.m. KMML Grand Island (750 kc) 7:40 a.m. KVSH, Valentine (940 kc) 8:00 a.m. KXXX# Colby, Kan. (790 kc) 8:00 a.m. KBRL, McCook (1300 kc) 9:45 a.m. KAMI, Coxad (1580 kc) 9:45 a.m. KLOL, Lincoln (1530 kc) 10:00 a.m. KMA, Shenandoah, la. (960 kc) 10:00 a.m. KODY, North Platte (1240 kc) 10:45 a.m. KLMS, Lincoln (1480 kc) 11:00 a.m. KIMS, Kimball (1260 kc) 11:15 a.m. KOGA, Ogallala (930 kc) 12:30 p.m. KFOR, Lincoln (1240 kc) 12:45 p.m. KCNI, Broken Bow 1280 kc) 1:15 p.m. KUVR, Holdrege (1380 kc) 2:45 p.m. KNCY, Nebraska City (1600 kc) 5:00 p.m. KRVN, Lexington (1010 kc) 5:40 p.m. KTNC, Falls City (1230 kc) 5:45 p.m. KFAB (Mon.-Fri.) Nightly MONDAY KGMT, Fairbury (1310 kc) 1:00 p.m. KSID, Sidney (1340 kc) 6:30 p.m. WEDNESDAY KJSK, Columbus (900 kc) 1:30 p.m. KCOW, Alliance (1400 kc) 4:30 p.m. FRIDAY KHUB, Fremont (1340 kc) 5:15 p.m. WJAG, Norfolk (780 kc) 5:30 p.m. SATURDAY KCSR, Chadron (610 kc) 6:00 a.m. KCOW, Alliance (1400 kc) 9:30 a.m. KOLT, Scottsbluff (1320 kc) 11:45 a.m. KAWL, York (1370 kc) 12:45 p.m. KHAS, Hastings (1230 kc) 1:00 p.m. KRFS, Superior (1600 kc) 1:00 p.m. KWRV, McCook (1360 kc) 1:45 p.m. KBRX, O'Neill (1350 kc) 4:30 p.m. KMNS, Sioux City, la. (620 kc) 6:10 p.m. DIVISION CHIEFS WiNard R. Barbee, assistant director Glen R. Foster, fisheries Dick H. Schaff er, information and tourism Richard J. Spady, land management Jack D. Strain, state parks Lloyd P. Vance, game CONSERVATION OFFICERS Chief, Carl E. Gettmann, Lincoln Ainsworth—Max Showalter, 387-1960 Albion—Gary L. Baltz, 395-2516 Alliance—Richard Fur ley, 762-2024 Alliance—Leonard Spoering, 762-1547 Alma—William F. Bonsall, 928-2313 Arapahoe—Don Schaepler, 962-7818 Benkelman—H. Lee Bowers, 423-2893 Bridgeport—Joe Ulrich, 100 Broken Bow—Gene Jeffries, 872-5953 Columbus—Lyman Wilkinson, 564-4375 Crawford—Cecil Avey, 228 Crete—Roy E. Owen, 826-2772 Crofton—John Schuckman, 388-4421 David City—Lester H. Johnson, 367-4037 Fairbury—Larry Bauman, 729-3734 Falls City—Raymond Frandsen, 2817 Fremont—Andy Nielsen, 721-2482 Gering—Jim McCole, 436-2686 Grand Island—Fred Salak, 384-0582 Hastings—Bruce Wiebe, 462-8317 Hay Springs—Larry D. Elston, 638-4051 Kearney—Ed Greving, 237-5753 Kimball—Marvin Bussinger, 235-3905 Lexington—Robert D. Patrick, 324-2138 Lincoln—Leroy Orvis, 488-1663 Lincoln—Norbert Kampsnider, 466-0971 Lincoln—Dale Bruha, 477-4258 Long Pine—William O. Anderson, 273-4406 Nebraska City—Mick Gray, 873-5890 Norfolk—Robert Downing, 371-2675 North Platte—Samuel Grasmick, 532-9546 North Platte—Roger A. Guenther, 532-2220 Ogallala—Jack Morgan, 284-3425 Omaha—Dwight Atlbery, 558-2910 O'Neill—Gordon Nelsen, 336-2061 Ord—Gerald Woodgate, 728-5060 Oshkosh—Donald D. Hunt, 772-3697 Ponca—Richard D. Turpin, 2521 Tekamah—Richard Elston, 374-1698 Thedford—John Henderson, 645-5351 Valentine—Elvin Zimmerman, 376-3674 Valley—Daryl Earnest, 359-2332 Winside—Marion Schafer, 286-4290 York—Gail Woodside, 362-4120 AUGUST, 1966 57  

look at the lure, and then zip back to cover.

A hundred feet down the bank, John was yelling something about a lunker, but I was too intent on my next cast to notice. I sent the spinner 15 feet beyond the snag, let it sink for a moment, and started the retrieve. The lure came along the snag and I reared back as I felt a fish slam into it. A one-pound largemouth vaulted into the air. Several minutes later I played him ashore. John, meanwhile, was having no end of troubles. He had made three casts, hooked three fish and lost them all. His last one was in the four-pound class. He was disheartened so I listened to his tale of woe but that didn't offer him much consolation. I moved about 25 yards beyond him and cast along the brushy shore. The third cast brought a strike and a mate to my first fish.

Busy kidding John, I cast again, not expecting the arm jolting strike which came as I brought the lure along the shoreline. The fish broke water and it was my turn to yell "lunker" as five pounds of mad bass exploded into the air. I pressured the fish away from a couple of snags and played him hard until he tired. Reaching for him I noticed that only one hook of the treble held him so I slid my hand ever so easy toward his open jaw. As my hand touched him, he gathered his remaining strength for one last lunge and tore the hook from his mouth.

In the meantime, Jerry, who was trying some small spinners, came up with one that appealed to the crappies. In short time he landed better than a dozen fish. Doc scored on three or four bass and Dick, who couldn't find the right combination at first, soon began catching crappie. Action was continuous and our stringers grew heavy with the combination of 1-pound bass and 10-inch crappie. All too soon, Dick reminded us that we had 8 to 10 more miles of river to go before we hit the landing at Ponca State Park.

The river was alive in the coolness of evening as we buzzed past Elk Point and headed into the home stretch. Wood ducks, paired off for nesting, sounded their familar squeal as they vaulted into the evening sky. A blue heron flapped awkwardly into the setting sun and a pair of teal whizzed by our boats. The evening sky, the teeming birdlife, and the river itself formed a perfect climax to our three-day motor float.

During the 55-mile run we had used the motors for approximately 10 hours. The rest of the time we had depended on the current. As we approached the bluffs near the park, I thought about how we had combined fishing, camping, boating, bow fishing, driftwood and mushroom hunting in one trip. On top of that we had enjoyed the aesthetic offerings along the river.

I made a mental note to come back again, for I have a date with a couple of bass in a certain slough.

THE END

WHERE-TO-GO

Alexandria State Recreation Area Halsey National Forest

THERE ARE two reasons why people leave the luxury of their living rooms in the summer to visit recreation areas and outdoor playgrounds. One is to get near people, and the other is to get away from peolpe. Within easy reach of Nebraska's densely populated towns and cities, and catering to both whims, is Alexandria State Recreation Area.

Spiked with cottonwoods to enhance the area's charm and beauty, Alexandria draws high-spirited picnickers by the platoon to provide proper company for those who like outdoor companionship. Yet, there is enough solitude on the 408-acre development to satisfy those who prefer privacy. Campers, fishermen, hunters, and hikers all contribute to the popularity of the area.

Located three miles east and one mile south of Alexandria in Thayer County, the scenic wooded land is easy to reach, although it is not situated on a main highway. Three lakes offer a variety of fish to anglers bent on beaching a big one. In the fall, when wedges of waterfowl migrate over Nebraska, hunters hurl decoys onto the 32 acres of water and wait ready in portable blinds. Quail hunting is at its finest in the Alexandria area, and there is limited action for the wily ringneck pheasant. Hunting is allowed from October 1 to March 31.

The three recreation lakes fed by numerous springs contain crappie, bluegill, catfish, largemouth bass, and bullhead. Lake No. 1 is located on the north side of the area near the main gate, and covers seven acres. Lake No. 2 is directly south of No. 1 and is a 13-acre body of water, while No. 3 is on the west side of the area and spreads out over 22 acres.

Alexandria's popularity is reflected in last year's estimated attendance of 42,000 visitors. There are picnic grounds scattered about the trees, and a concession stand is situated on the north shore of Lake No. 1. The main picnic grounds, located just inside the gate spread out from a multiflora-rose hedge, which separates the area from the county road, to the edge of Lake No. 1.

A new, hard-surfaced road will soon carry travelers into the area, as the recent recreation-road access bill gave high priority to this development. Development of this "area started in 1930, when the Game Commission purchased 40 acres of land. In 1949, an additional 55 acres were purchased, and since that year the area has mushroomed to its present size of 408 acres. Improvement, as well as expansion of the grounds, has been the case as visitation figures soar higher and higher each year. The west end of the area, formerly in brush and wild grass, has been cleared to provide expanded facilities. Shrubs and trees have been planted on the hilltop near Lake No. 3 and now add to the beauty of the landscape. A children's swing set and merry-go-round are located near the main gate.

In order to improve the fishing at the area, the Game Commission has made periodic stockings in all of the lakes. An attempt to introduce rainbow trout was made in 1959, but these finicky creatures with the classy wardrobe didn't like the southeastern waters and the efforts were dropped. Other species to tumble from hatchery trucks have been walleye, channel catfish, crappie, bass and bluegill. Some of the plantings have been successful, others have not; but work goes on to improve and upgrade angling at the verdant retreat.

Nebraska offers many recreation areas, but there is one tourist attraction in the state which is the only one of its kind in the world. This is the Nebraska National Forest at Halsey. Visitors here see the culmination of Dr. Charles Bessey's dream that trees could be grown on the Great Plains. And grow they have. If it were not for this eminent botanist, and other early day foresters, the forest would not be a reality today.

The unique timberland which sweeps over 90,000 acres of the Sand Hills has survived two forest fires to remain one of Nebraska's blue ribbon attractions. A fire in 1965 scarred portions of nearly 20,000 acres but left intact the beautiful recreation area. Open year-round is a picnic area, complete with tables, grates, restrooms, shelter house, tennis court, swimming pool, and a camping area. Campers must register at the main office and part with a dollar bill for each night's stay.

More than one million seedlings have been planted at Halsey to replace those lost in the 1965 fire. These will help insure the perpetuation of one of Nebraska's greatest marvels for future generations.

THE END 58

You PHEASANT

By JOHN MADSON You ornery, yaller-eyed heathen Chinee! Who ever said you were a game bird? Not the quail hunter, for you insult his dogs. Not the pa'tridge hunter, for you scorn his forests. The turkey hunter can't talk your heathen lingo And the dove hunter says you fly like a plowhorse. You're a brass-bound, hell-for-leather, unblushing roughneck, And that's a fact! You re shingled with galvanized feathers And you spout cuss words when you fly. You run a good bird dog all forenoon to work up an appetite And likely eat the dog for lunch. You'd spur the devil himself, And when you're killed you're too mean to die. You're even too mean for decent bird country. You favor summers that raise feverblisters on rawhide And winters that jell your cussedness at forty below, et fat on a rlmion of bobwire and blizzard. fIP y°u1jr1kno 8ame bird • • • You re a arms between a cottonwood stub A nS a Dakota dust-devil. But out hMj£ in the corn country Where wdwe plowed under our prairie chickens And planted eighty million acres to cash grain, What other birds will put up with us. You're about all we've got. And we reckon that you're all we need!

110,000 Nebraskans are again i enjoying NEBRASKAlancTs beauty T/iey are among 1,400,000 Americans cured of cancer . . . and there could be more if you take time to follow the advice of the American Cancer Society: An annual check up is your best protec- tion against cancer. For more information on how you can help fight cancer write to: American Cancer Society Nebraska Division, 4201 Dodge Street, Omaha, Nebraska FIGHT CANCER WITH A CHECKUP T CHECK SOCIETY