Speak Up

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.

STOVE AND SNAKES- We were much interested in the article, "Cody's Contentment" in the July issue of NEBRASKAland. We had just recently taken some relatives to this interesting place. One thing that interests us especially is the old stove in the kitchen. This stove belonged to our aunt, Mrs. Sam J. Ostergard who now lives in Arnold. Many delicious meals were cooked on this stove through the years. She is very proud that the stove now stands in the kitchen at Scouts Rest.

"Recently my daughter-in-law and granddaughter found an albino rattlesnake on their place. It is too bad that they didn't capture him alive as it was numb in the early morning cold and could have been put into some container, but one's first thought on seeing a rattlesnake is to kill him so he will no longer be a menace.

"The snake was a very light creamy white, completely devoid of markings. He was not very long, but a bit thicker than some of that size. He carried six rattles. He had the colorless eyes, which one would expect in an albino.

"Just about a quarter of a mile from their place is an old prairie dog town where many rattlesnakes spend the winter, and we thought the snake might have come from there. We have had many experiences with rattlesnakes through the years, some pretty scary, but this was the most unusual."-Mrs. Harry Ostergard, Gothenburg.

HORSE FAN —"I am presently enjoying my second year of Outdoor NEBRASKAland. Your rodeo roping pictures are excellent. They are especially good at showing the quality of the horses. I read your article on the Columbus, Nebraska thoroughbred stable. Last August, I visited the stables. I am looking forward to more of these good articles."-LeRoy Shafer, Birmingham, Alabama.

DEER SANDWICH-"I was born near Miller, Nebraska, on October 2, 1889 on a pioneer tree-claim homestead. I left the farm in 1913, and the state in 1920. I have been back only a few times since. I had not heard of Outdoor NEBRASKAland until just recently when I called on a friend who came from Merna, Nebraska. She loaned me some copies, and I have had great enjoyment reading them. My son is very interested in wildlife here in Arizona, and I will share my magazines with him.

"I also recently received a NEBRASKAland calendar from a person I knew as a neighbor in 1911-1913. He is now a resident of Washington. He tells me that Nebraska again has much wildlife and is a great state for hunters with bow, gun, and camera.

"I remember as a boy hearing about a wild deer that somehow got down in Buffalo County in our section north of Miller. The whole male population gathered up the muzzle-loading shotguns, what rifles they had, some revolvers, I suppose, and the rest took pitchforks. They chased that poor deer all over the place until they killed him. About all each got was enough venison for a good sandwich."-Ray N. McLamm, Tucson, Arizona.

OVEN-FRIED-"Enclosed please find two pictures I took to show the ladies how I like to 'oven fry' fish.

'This method is not new, but so many times we cook, flour, season, and slap

"Dissolve salt in combined milk and water: dip fish, then roll in corn flakes. Bake in shallow pan that has been greased. Check from time to time, though it usually takes 15 minutes. Makes six servings. Serve with tartar sauce or lemon wedges." —Mrs. Ilene Duemey, Lincoln.

OLD DAYS - "I read with a great deal of interest The Return of Standing Bear' by Warren Spencer in the March NEBRASKAland.

"I am the granddaughter of a Nebraska pioneer who homesteaded in Pierce County in 1869.

"My father, who was 14 years old when he came to Nebraska, told me so many stories of those days and about the Indians.

"This story about the Poncas my father told me, and many more. The Poncas were a very friendly tribe, and at different times during the year came to the North Fork, which runs through our place. They would come with their Indian ponies, poles tied to the sides, and camp here to hunt and fish.

"A bend in the river just northwest of our home was a favorite spot. They would visit my family, who then lived in a log cabin.

"My cousin was born here in 1870, and the Indians had never seen a white baby, so they always stopped to look. They would come to the log cabin and peek through the window, never coming to the door.

"By the way, I have these windows in a family museum we have. Children who visit our museum are always so thrilled when I tell them, 'You are looking through windows the Indians looked through.'

'The Poncas came to bid my family good-bye when the government was taking them to Oklahoma. My father said they cried so bitterly. He said he never saw anything sadder than the sight of an Indian crying, and my family cried with them out of pity, for they felt very kind toward the Indians.

"When they came back, more than half had died in Oklahoma. They came to see my family and hugged them for joy.

The trail they traveled was past our home. It was also the first road the pioneers traveled.

"My grandparents and parents have passed on, and my husband and I are now living on the 83-year-old family home. My family has been here continually since 1869. They lived in the log cabin until 1883.

"I thought this might interest you, since it is part of Nebraska history. Few old-timers are left to tell the story."- Mrs. E. W. Hansen, Pierce.

RODEO BUFF —"I have enjoyed your recent coverage on various rodeo events, such as in the June issue, and your story on the rodeo clown in the July issue. I am a rodeo enthusiast, as are the majority of people in this part of Nebraska. It is pleasing to note that you take the time and space to give the rodeo sport a spotlight, inasmuch as it seems to be   very much neglected throughout the nation.

"I am enclosing an article from the Rodeo Sports News, the rodeo cowboy's newspaper, which also mentions the nice coverage you have done.

"Because the rodeo sport is part of Nebraska's heritage, it is wonderful that such a fine magazine will stand behind it so well. I know I speak for many others who also enjoyed the articles very much." —Yvonne Hanson, Gordon.

BALD EAGLES-"I was thrilled to read about the Bald Eagles of Jeffrey Reservoir in the March issue. I think that Mr. Hornbeck should be congratulated on the beautiful pictures that he obtained for this story.

"I live at Jeffrey Lake and am one of the operators who work in the Jeffrey Hydro Plant.

"From our control room window we could see those very same eagles as they dove down from their perches to seize passing fish.

"If the readers of NEBRASKAland could have seen the conditions that Mr. Hornbeck worked under, they would appreciate this article to the utmost. There were many mornings when he sat and waited in his blind when the temperatures would have made a sled dog howl in protest." —Dale L. Craig, Brady.

FISHING GIMMICKS-"The account of sauger fishing was real good. Gosh, it makes me want to take off for Gavins Point Dam with pole and line. The way the story is written is as refreshing as an ice cold bottle of soda on a hot day.

"I was especially interested in the part about houseboats. I am nuts about these boats for they provide the fisherman with some of the comforts of home. In fact, my last one was equipped with rod and reel holders on its deck, and small bells tied to each pole which jumped with joy when a fish was hooked.

"To provide my hooks with fish, I filled several 55-gallon barrels with water, added a sack of yellow corn, and two cans of lye. When the kernels started to peel, I took a shovel and scooped the corn into the lake on the north side of the houseboat. Catfish and carp by the hundreds found the corn, with some of the carp running up to 30 pounds, and catfish even larger.

"After a month had passed, another batch of corn was put into the lake. This time I added about 15 pounds of brown sugar for flavor.

"On the south side of the houseboat, I established a square pen made with bales of hay that had been opened, with manure between the layers of dry grass. Three wires were tied around each bale, with a heavy rock for weight. A skin diver went down into the 12-foot-deep water, and stacked the bales, then put one-inch pipes in the center of the pile.

"Next, I piled several green cedar trees over the mouth of the fish refuge. This was for little fish to hide in and attract king-sized crappie and bass.

"What a thrill it was to snag a real big carp with a light line, knowing that the small hook could pull out of the fish's soft mouth. You talk about sweating drops of water the size of green peas, and to hear your heart pounding like a trip hammer on a river piling when the fish come up and roll over like hogs? Or a big blue channel cat? A fellow could get a stroke or something.

"I would like to read something about houseboats in your area, with pictures in color. And I love to read about catfishing."-Erwin Knapp, Villa Ridge, Missouri.

FINEST HUNTING-"I have been hunting in Nebraska eight out of the last nine years. I think your hunting and people are the finest I have ever encountered." — Alfred Glen Thompson, Hitchock, Oklahoma.

ALMOST CONVINCED- "Congratulations to the Nebraska Game Commission on another outstanding success! The Merritt Reservoir trout fishing is unbelievable! Last April, my three daughters, ages 6, 8, and 9, caught their limits of trout in two hours. We didn't see a soul that wasn't catching trout. As for me, I don't fish, but my daughters almost have me convinced."-B. M. H., Omaha.

...THE JUG AND ME

IT WAS AFTER A late summer rain, and Don Tilman, a construction worker from Hampton, Nebraska, was bailing his small boat at Johnson Reservoir near Lexington. The plastic scoop he was using made fast work of the job. I asked him about the scoop and he said it was part of an old plastic jug cut diagonally across the center. The grip made a dandy handle and I couldn't help wondering what other uses could be found for castaway jugs.

About a week later, I saw a pile of discarded plastic chemical containers in a Lincoln photographic studio. Bruce Oliverious, darkroom technician, told me I was welcome to take them.

I turned on my bandsaw and let my imagination go. I whacked off the top of one container to make a handy funnel for outboard fuel. It looked so darn good that I made another one to keep near my power lawn mower. I duplicated Tilman's boat bailer, and then cut a trap door affair in one jug and rigged up a little latch so the thing could be used as a bait box. To cap it off, I clipped the bottom from another jug to peg to the side of the boat for a lure box.

All these contraptions worked so well that I decided to try my hand at some jugs of other shapes. I went to Lincoln on a scavenger hunt for more raw materials. John Damm, an employee at a dairy, looked at me for awhile before deciding that I wasn't crazy and then offered a suggestion of his own.

"Why not fill them with water, freeze the things, and use them for icing down fish and picnic goodies?" he suggested. "But don't try to drink from them when the water melts: If you use one with a handle like this the hollow grip will collect germs."

I took my new treasures home and got to work. I swiped a big hunk of aluminum foil from the kitchen and then cut out the side of a jug and lined it with the shiny stuff. I filled the jug about a third full of dirt and stuck in a candle to make a dandy emergency lantern that is practically windproof.

My venture took a new twist when I was describing the lantern to my old buddy, Jim Gray.

"Why not fill the jugs all the way up with sand?" he suggested. "I use them for anchors."

I made a mental note to try the anchor bit next time I went out to my pet fishing hole. Also, I didn't rule out the containers for jug fishing to catch big catfish.

Since then, I've made quite an assortment of useful gadgets from old jugs. A pie plate with a hole in the middle placed on top of a jug makes a swell bird bath, if the top of the jug is screwed down to seal the hole. A %-inch hole for a door, and a jug becomes home sweet home for wrens.

There's only one problem I've encountered in all this jug falderal. I'm now afraid to throw one away for fear I'll find some new use of it. I've got boxes and boxes of the darn things, just waiting to be used. Anybody want to buy a used jug?

NOVEMBER Roundup

A MONTH OF 30 days, November sparkles with NEBRASKAland activities. The harvest ends, home-town football teams establish almost-end-of-the-season records, and hunters find a pheasant paradise. All these happenings plus some "uptown musical harmony" keep November bursting with events.

With autumn well along, sportsmen flock in to find some of the best hunting in the nation. Opening date for quail is November 10. Another opening date is November 5 when deer rifle season un- veils, but the king of the hunting roost is still the pheasant. This strutting, gamy fellow ranges over 45,000 square miles of Nebraska and provides gunners with sport to spare.

NEBRASKAland's wealth of big game has a bonus in store for hunters. Wild turkey provides many a merry chase for residents and nonresidents alike during an open season that begins on October 29 and runs through November 6. Last year, hunters chalked up 48 per cent success on Nebraska's newest game bird.

Astronaut Neil Armstrong awaits action in the 6th annual one-box pheas- ant hunt at Broken Bow on November 12. Teams from Kansas, California, Mis- souri, Wyoming, Colorado, and Nebraska compete in this sunrise to sunset hunt. One-box hunting is just what it says. Each five-man team entered is issued one box of shells as it takes to the field. The most pheasant kills registered by a fivesome determines the winner.

Omaha Civic Auditorium buzzes with excitement when antique buyers survey the displays at the Omaha Antique Show November 4 through 6. Attracting thousands, the show is one of the top events in the central states. Known as the World Fair of Hobbies, the Ninth Annual Midwest Hobbyrama features collections from throughout the United States. Scheduled from November 11 through 13, it is staged at the Civic Auditorium. Another Omaha event is the Cornhusker Championship Cat Show taking place on November 19 and 20.

Oklahoma State travels north to meet with the Nebraska Cornhuskers in the last home football game of the season. Kick-off time will mean excitement at the Memorial Stadium on November 12 for Devaney and his crew plus thousands of cheering NEBRASKAlanders. Football galore in this last month of stadium fun sees Omaha U. meet Fort Hayes State for a Homecoming game on November 12. Seward Concordia faces Doane College on November 5 and tangles with Nebraska Wesleyan on November 12.

Wesleyan University welcomes the German Artists Exhibition from November 1 through 27. Other Lincoln affairs include the Lincoln Symphony sponsored Gary Graffman Piano Concert on November 8 and the Singing Boys of Montreal on November 15.

Sheldon Art Gallery, located on the University of Nebraska campus in Lincoln, draws thousands to see its special exhibitions. An array of Lindsey Decker Sculptures and Eugene Felman Prints will be crowd pleasers from November 22 to December 25.

The Collector's Choice Exhibition, which includes regional paintings, goes on display at Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha on November 5. During the third week of the month, paintings sponsored by the Omaha Symphony Benefit are displayed. A Holiday Fair will bring varied intricate designs and patterns to Joslyn Museum on November 3 through 5. Sponsored by the Women's Association of the museum, all the items are sold to the public.

The Omaha Symphony strikes up an all orchestral concert on November 14 and 15.

But, there is more than hunting, concerts, exhibitions, and football games in the state. Thousands will invade Nebraska

WHAT TO DO

NEBRASKAland HOSTESS OF THE MONTH

This NEBRASKAland hostess is not stopped by Nebraska's wind and weather as she journeys through November. Miss Patricia Holliway, daughter of M. L. Holliway of Plattsmouth, discovers the brisk month to be perfect for a bird watching jaunt in the park or an expedition along a scenic Nebraska route. Graduating from Plattsmouth High School in 1965, she is now a sophomore at Fairbury Junior College, majoring in elementary education. Active in campus activities, Miss Holliway serves as vice-president of the Student Education Association and a member of Phi Theta Kappa scholastic honorary. A Sweetheart Ball Princess, her other interests include Navigator's Pep Club and Associated Girl Students.

ASH HOLLOW... Windlass to the West

TO THE MODERN traveler piloting his car along U.S. Highway 26 through a ravine called Ash Hollow, the place looks like many of the other small valleys along the North Platte River. Yet this valley, unlike most, guards a history which can easily fill a 500-page book. The only physical clues to its importance are wood and stone markers along the road.

But, only a pin-scratch of history comes to life for those who take time to read the inscriptions. The personal struggles, hardships, and sorrows of those who passed through Ash Hollow on their way West can not be written on markers. Theirs was a dream of hope, and dreams are not written on stone. Cracking whips, creaking wagon wheels, cries of pain, and the solemn words of many a trail-side funeral of a century past still whisper through the valley.

To hear Ash Hollow's tale, stand atop Windlass Hill and look toward the North Platte River.

Deep wagon ruts replace the blacktop road while grazing Herefords become a herd of buffaloes. A pile of family possessions is scattered at your feet because the Oregon Trail is too long, too rough for anything but essentials.

A wagon train lumbers into view. One hundred yards away is its first taste of what it can expect when it reaches the dreaded mountains still far ahead. Some of the wagons are made of expensive hardwoods, and their owners hope they will hold together on the treacherous trail. The poor drive cheap wagons in need of repair. They soak them in the river after each hard day to tighten the spokes in the hubs and swell the felloes so the wheels will not loosen.

A tall, weatherbeaten man with a handle-bar mustache climbs down from the box, strolls to the crest of the hill, and mutters, "So that's Windlass Hill." He rubs his chin, and carefully looks over the steep 450-foot incline leading to a craggy, cedar-covered ravine. Wrecked wagons are strewn below, mute evidence that Windlass Hill can exact a dreadful toll.

He takes out a handkerchief, lifts his hat, mops his brow, then turns, and (Continued on page 55)

Black Bass at Red Willow

SOMETIMES, A FELLOW gets a certain feeling about a particular place. No matter how far he travels, he always sees it in his mind's eye, inviting him to return. Earl Frost of Arapahoe, Nebraska, feels that way about Red Willow Reservoir, eight miles north of McCook. The 1,700 or so surface acres of Hugh Butler Lake have two arms which embrace some of the finest bass fishing a man can expect. Frost's angling methods are a bit unorthodox, but they are effective. He lugs two motors, one, a regular outboard and the other, a little electric rig. To top it off he uses a fly rod with a spinning reel. Earl has business interests in Arapahoe but he doesn't let them interfere with his fishing.

"I have fished from Canada to Mexico," Earl told his son, Doug, as they pushed off for some early-morning casting, "but I always come back here for my bass. To my notion, it rates as high as any I've ever fished for largemouths. You're going to miss the good times we've had here."

Doug nodded in silent agreement. This trip was important to him, for it would be his last at Red Willow for a while. Just out of the service, the 27-year-old was looking forward to setting up a private dental practice in Colorado. The younger man looked at the glass-smooth water, still misty as the May-morning chill resisted the warmth of a rising sun. He realized now that he shared his father's feelings about the impoundment. Both men were fairly sure they would catch fish, considering it largely a matter of time before they were onto the good ones.

Speaking above the noise of the engine, Doug pointed to a promising bay.

'What say we start there and work our way clear back to the end?" he asked.

Earl guided the craft through an obstacle course of trees and cut the engine while the younger member of the team tipped the tiny electric outboard from its bracket on the side of the boat. Moving as though pushed by a breeze, the boat glided toward a clump of surface weeds. A bass would be hard put to detect any danger from the quiet approach. The elder Frost lifted his eight-foot fly rod from the seat beside him. The rod was rigged with a closed-face spinning reel and six-pound-test monofilament instead of the usual fly line and reel. The fisherman tied on a rubber-skirted popping plug, tripped the line release button on the reel, held the line in his left hand, then gently flipped the lure into the weeds. The plug stopped within inches of the foliage, right on target. Earl let the popper remain motionless until the rings disappeared, then twitched it. With an audible gurgle, the surface lure moved a few inches. A couple of similar maneuvers failed to produce any results, so the Arapahoe man looked at his son and jerked his head toward a protruding stump. Doug laid aside the standard spin cast outfit he was rigging and started the quiet motor to send the boat within casting range of the stump.

"Funny thing," Earl remarked as he cast, "how these bass just don't seem to be interested after the first couple of twitches. I figure that if one doesn't hit the first two times I jerk it, I might as well haul it in and cast again, though I have seen a few grab a plug on the reel in."

Doug tied on a frog-finish lure similar to his father's and sent it flying toward a line of weeds.

"Yes, and I don't see why the plug has to be placed right up against the weeds, either. A few inches away, and it's no go. These bass must be lazy critters with all the natural feed around. The place is lousy with bluegill."

The dentist twitched his lure once, and it disappeared in a vigorous swirl of water.

"How about that?" he asked, rearing against the bend of his spinning rod. Earl laid down his own outfit and reached for the net. He looked on anxiously, offering advice: "Did you set the hook solidly?" and "Seems like you can't set a barb too hard on these babies."

Doug answered, "I almost broke his jaw, I set it so hard, but I'm afraid he's going to wrap my line around that stump and get away, anyhow."

But the dentist prevailed and turned the fish's run. The bass cleared water and slammed back with a head-shaking surge. Doug brought the tiring gamester to Earl's waiting net, and his father raised the squirming fish. The ex-serviceman untangled his lure while Earl put a hefty 21/2-pounder on a stringer.

"I lost one just when yours hit," Earl said. He rationalized, "I believe that a bass fisherman who gets 30 per cent of his strikes is doing pretty well. Now, there should be one right up against that big snag at the mouth of the inlet."

Doug's cast was the first to reach the snag, but nothing happened. His lure raced through the water as he cranked his reel in disgust. Suddenly, a fish who decided to be the exception that proves the rule slammed into the fast-moving gurgler, then let go in the next instant.

"Whew, that doesn't happen very often," Earl grinned. "Kind of rough on a guy's nerves, isn't it?"

"Do you think maybe he'll come back?" Doug asked.

"No, you stung him," his father answered.

"No, he stung me!" the son countered.

As the boat glided noiselessly into a thick cluster of trees, a couple of bank fishermen looked up from their casting. Apparently it took a while before it registered that the "drifting" boat was being pushed by a tiny electric trolling motor.

Earl nodded toward shore, commenting, "It won't be long now until bank fishing will be out in most of the bays and way back up each arm. Another 30 days or so, and this whole stretch will be pretty well closed off with moss."

On Doug's suggestion, the pair hoisted their little motor, cranked up the big one, and zipped back to the main lake, heading for the other fork. The boat NOVEMBER,1966 13   rounded a point, and the dam face came into view. A couple of boats were working slowly along the structure, probably trolling for walleye and northerns. A lone water skier cut a white wake behind his speeding tow boat, but not many people were out. The sun was already burning high and hot, but the Frosts were set on giving their lone bass some companionship.

Hugh Butler Lake's west arm is longer than the one to the north, but part way up its length, it disintegrates into an impenetrable bay. But like the north stem, it contains many enticing little bays and cutbacks. At least, the Frosts think they are enticing. Both men should know, for they have taken a pretty impressive tally of largemouth and smallmouth bass there.

Today it was a different story. The bass were either on a hunger strike, or were taking a live-let-live attitude toward the poppers. The Frosts stubbornly refused to change to subsurface plugs, and for a couple of hours, contented thmselves with one fish too small to keep.

"I guess that three years from now, we'll be getting more variety in sizes of fish," Earl speculated. "Most of the bass of any size that I've caught out of this lake so far look as though they were poured from the same mold. The initial stocking can't last forever, but there will always be some big ones around. It will just take a little more patience to catch them!"

Doug nodded. It was one of his father's favorite themes: have a little patience, and you'll generally come back with fish; that is, if you stay at it long enough. The theory works, because Earl seldom comes back skunked when he takes on Red Willow's bass. The veteran angler leans heavily toward the rubber-skirted popping plugs, though he uses a fly rod popper when conditions are right. In addition to the freak spinning reel-fly rod outfit, Earl also keeps a level-wind rig ready to go.

It was nearly noon before the fish decided to co-operate. The first sign was a swirl at Earl's plug. He retrieved, then cast again. Second time around, a bruiser bass inhaled the object of his annoyance and took off for parts unknown. Earl's fly rod flailed air as the bass began the grim tug of war. Earl countered every frantic rush and desperate leap and the fish slowly lost ground.

A stringer with two fish on is twice as satisfying as one with a loner, and the father-son duo went at it again with renewed energy. Instead of a series of desultory casts, their fishing became a contest.

"There should be a fish just off that little point," Earl said, casting to a narrow spit of land.

A big-mouthed bass bore out the speculation by chomping down hard on a mouthful of treble hook. Reveling in the heart-stopping fight, Earl wound the fish in as fast as his unwilling catch would allow.

"You're starting to call your shots, and that's a bad sign," Doug joked, netting the fish.

"I'm two up on you," the older man jibed, "I guess you got a little soft in the service, with nothing to do but stand around pulling teeth."

Doug started to answer, but found himself in a watery wrestling match with another finny contender. Deciding to let his success speak for him, young Frost eased the fish toward the boat.

"Now I suppose you'll keep me so busy untangling your fish from the net and putting them on the stringer that I won't be able to strut my own stuff," Earl muttered through a false frown.

"Well, it's been a long dry spell for us," Doug answered, "I've got to make the most of it. I'd hate to have you beat me too far, because that would be downright embarrassing."

By this time, the boat was at the end of the navigable part of the arm, and the clear water was giving way to green scum punctured with protruding stumps. A wake cut a trail through the algae.

"See that bass chasing a minnow? Let's go get him," Earl suggested.

Doug guided the boat with the electric kicker, cut the motor, and then cast directly into the pale green ooze. A bass plummeted skyward, slapping the lure as though with a fist. But Doug set the hook on empty air, and his savage jerk backtracked the plug several feet.

"Boy! He sure spit that one back in a hurry," Doug moaned.

"Well, easy come, easy go," was the only consolation he got from the other end of the boat.

Swinging across the narrow neck, the two plug casters started working back along the other side. Intimately familiar with each cutback and cover, Earl pointed to scenes of past successes, gently flipping his plug with pinpoint accuracy. It wasn't long before he added another pair of bass to a growing stringer. Not to be outdone, Doug redoubled his efforts, placing the boat so both casters could work at once. A nice bass cleared the water and came down on top of his plug, and the fight was on.

"I'll catch up with you, yet," Doug gritted, working the fish into the net.

Earl smiled and nodded with a "sure-you-will-but I-don't-think-so" look on his face as he plucked at the landing net, disengaging a pair of treble hooks. The older man looked up from his work and scanned the now-widening part of the old creek bed. Only two other boats were in sight, and both of those belonged to bait fishermen. It was hard for Earl to believe, after a few years of good fishing at Red Willow, that the area once was known more for its carp and bullheads than for its game fish.

Red Willow was the first Nebraska lake of major size to be rotenoned and restocked with game fish. It was also the first fish rehabilitation effort in the Missouri River Basin to be (Continued on page 51)

HER NAME IS BARBARA

I WENT SIX feet straight up at the blast of Barbara's 20 gauge. For an instant I though she had decided to collect my insurance the quick way.

'What in the--------?" I sputtered, trying to regain my aplomb.

"Didn't you want me to shoot that squirrel?" my wife inquired with an impish smile.

I looked around and there was a plump fox squirrel kicking his last in the dry leaves under the cottonwood. It took a couple of seconds for things to register. I had been resting under the tree, waiting for my wife to catch up and didn't know the squirrel was above me. Barbara had seen him and lowered the boom to startle me gray.

Barbara and I, along with my brother-in-law, Larry Spurling, were on a mixed-bag hunt around our hometown of Ong, Nebraska. It began one November day when Barbara and I were talking about Nebraska's marvelous small-game hunting.

"We have quail, pheasant, cottontail, squirrel, and waterfowl in a 25-mile radius of Ong. Limits are relatively easy to come by," I said.

"I don't buy that easy limit bit," my wife argued.

"Maybe, if you're lucky you can bag one of each specie in a day's hunt but that's a collecting expedition, not a real hunt."

"And what is your idea of a hunt?" I asked.

"A day when you see plenty of game, get enough shooting to keep it interesting, and bag a satisfactory amount without wearing yourself to a frazzle," she replied.

As a former school teacher I appreciated my wife's skepticism, but I had to stand by my convictions.

"I'll bet you I can bag a limit of everything in one day," I challenged.

Thinking of the job she would have cleaning and preparing all that game, Barbara relented a bit. "Tell you what. You get Larry and we'll spend a whole day in the field and if among us we bag seven or eight quail, a half dozen pheasants, a couple of ducks, a few cottontails, and a squirrel (Continued on page 53)

Danger, excitement run high as Ray VandeKrol and I bait a wild river

TAMING THE SNAKE

THE SHOUT OF "rock, dead ahead" came almost too late to avert a disaster, but with all the strength I could muster, I tried a draw stroke to pull our craft away from the boulder but I was too late. A protruding rock thumped against the aluminum sides of the canoe and spun it around. Almost before I knew it we were shooting the rapids backwards.

Bowman, Ray VandeKrol, feverously dug his paddle into the turbulent belly of the Snake River to right the craft. If the tough old river had its way we would be swimming the white water instead of riding it. It seemed like an eternity, but actually it was only a few seconds before we regained control of the craft and headed the right way.

The Snake River has the personality of its namesake. It's temperamental, mean, unpredictable, and sly. Yet, it's beautiful. My first encounter with the Snake had occurred eight months earlier when I was the first, to my knowledge, to conquer the 23-mile stretch of white water between Snake River Falls and the Niobrara River, but the river took its toll that day, too. On that float four canoes started the trip. One was wrecked within the first 100 yards, another had a big hole knocked in its side, and although my lead canoe came through undamaged, my paddling partner and I got a taste of the Snake's venom. The fourth canoe made it but it took considerably longer to run the river than my craft.

On this trip I planned to make a clean sweep against the rampaging river. The only water I wanted to feel was the spray that leaped over the gunwales. The only damage to the canoe, I hoped, would be scratches from windfalls which dotted the channel.

The two of us came prepared to meet the river on even terms. A day earlier, Ray and I drove from our homes in Lincoln to Rocky Ford, a wild stretch of water on the Niobrara River, to make a few practice runs. Teamwork is a must in canoeing, and we felt shooting the rapids at the ford would help develop our timing. We did our share of swimming that day as the craft tipped over once, and swamped once. But even with the dunkings we felt we could tame the Snake.

Ray has four years of canoeing experience. His first cruise took him from Nebraska City to the Gulf of Mexico. An ardent canoe fan for almost 10 years. I received my first taste of the sport while in the Boy Scouts. Ray and I had paddled together in several races including a 250-miler in Canada. I keep in trim with weekday paddles on Holmes Lake in Lincoln where I own and operate a marina. Although we didn't expect to shoot a 20-foot fall and have our shoes and shirts ripped off as we did in that disastrous Canadian ride, we did expect some trouble on the Snake.

The upper reach of the Snake, down to the falls, is relatively open, with no deep canyons of consequence. Its current is somewhat swifter than many Nebraska streams, but it offers little challenge. We wanted to try the faster currents below the falls. That is where the river sheds its lethargy and becomes a hissing, writhing embodiment of its name.

Ray got his first real view of what Nebraska's white water serpent held for us when we carried the canoe down a steep incline to where we embarked, I could see the surprise on Ray's face as he studied the 20 m.p.h. current.

Before the run, Ray and I contacted all ranchers who owned land along the river. The waters are public, but if for any reason we had to go ashore, we would be trespassing if permission was not obtained.

All the ranchers were more than willing to give us permission, and ranchers Betty and Les Kime offered to serve as hosts before and after the float. As we pushed out into the rapids, we were impressed by the surrounding beauty but before we could actually enjoy the towering cliffs with their Ponderosa pine-studded rims, we were whisked away on the powerful river. In order to NOVEMBER, 1966 21   control the canoe we had to build up our speed so we were traveling faster than the current.

It wasn't long before both of us learned why the river is named the Snake. It seems as if every 50 yards or so, there is a right-angle turn as the river weaves its way through the canyon. Every corner is blind and in a brush-choked river with plenty of windfalls and rocks, it didn't take us long to learn why so few succeeded in making the 23-miles.

Every turn holds a new adventure. The only clue to what waits beyond the next bend is the sound of rapids. If a tree has lost is anchorage and fallen into the river, or if several rocks jealously guard the passage, the water rushing over the barricades can be heard for about 150 yards.

We soon found that it takes more than just keen hearing to make it down this river. An essential to navigation of the Snake is a knowledge of how to read its ways. Once out of the main current, the river will carry you where it wants to. If you want to run the river, it is necessary to stay in the main channel. As the canyon walls flashed by, it took all our combined experience to study the current and the lay of the land to determine the winding channel.

We hit a 175-yard straight stretch and Ray pointed to a lone buck standing in one of the relatively few meadows along the river bottom. While we were admiring the deer, we were suddenly shaken back to reality by the sound of water running over some sort of barricade.

As we rounded a bend a barbed wire fence across the river knotted my stomach with fear. Both of us automatically thrust our 9-inch blades into the river in a series of quick draw strokes to escape this peril. In a matter of seconds, the canoe was almost parallel to fence as we struggled to get out of the main current.

We sweated, strained, and sweated some more to move out of the channel, hoping the craft wouldn't roll. I thought I knew every major barrier on the river. But my first time down the rapids, Merritt Dam must not have been guarding its water so jealously, and evidently we must have skimmed over the top strand of the then-submerged wire without noticing it.

Neither of us had had any experience in climbing barbed wire in a Whitewater river. But instead of going ashore and carrying the canoe around the object, we decided to try the water route. As I held the canoe steady, Ray carefully eased himself up on the fence. With just an inch or two to spare, I guided the bow under the fence and Ray lowered himself back into the canoe. Then it was my turn. As Ray held the canoe in place, I played andy-over, and climbed the fence.

With low water, I had just about decided this trip was not quite as rough as the first. During my first run we shot Little Falls purely by accident, mainly because we didn't see it until we were almost over it. This time, I thought, the low river would make us carry the canoe around the falls.

Ray and I waded out on the lip of the falls and stared at the whi water we had yet to travel. A litti disappointed that we could not make the shoot, we decided that as long as we had to portage, we might as well take a break.

While sitting under a tree, Ray muttered, "I wonder what would have happened if we had hit the fence or rolled when we hit that rock."

I was almost afraid to answer. In a river running between steep canyon walls and in a land that seemed like a wilderness, evacua- tion of an injured man could be tough.

"I don't know. But if we should roll, the best thing to do is hang on to the canoe. The white water will carry you away if you don't. Come on, we've a river to run," I answered.

When we shoved off for a second time, the Snake grabbed us and moved us closer to the wedding of the two rivers. Below the falls our strokes must have hit 60 a minute as we fought once again to build up speed.

As we paddled down the fastest river in NEBRASKAland, I wondered if we might not make it though without an accident. This river is not for the amateur canoeist, but for adept canoemen the trip is a wonderful and challengeing experience.

The terrain told me we were getting close to the Niobrara. But, I said nothing to Ray. This was his first trip-let him discover the Niobrara.

As we neared the big river, a mink slipped into the water and headed downstream. Soon we were paddling side-by-side with the furry creature. Finally, we rounded a bend and the merge of the two rivers met our eyes: Suddenly, we realized how tired we really were.

We had beaten the Snake at its own game. Someday, we would try again and the river might beat us but I knew we had to try. For the tumultuous Snake is like its namesake. It has a fascination that cannot be ignored.

Pershing AND THE POACHER

THE YEAR WAS 1922. Warren G. Harding was in the White House. The "big war" in Europe had been over for several years, but General John J. Pershing, commander of the American Expeditionary Forces, was still very much in the minds and hearts of all Americans. Prohibition was in force, and the "Roaring Twenties" were just getting up a full head of steam.

Such things were far from our minds, however, as my pal, Vernon "Rat" Sandy, and I sped through the Nebraska prairie to the Sand Hills. We had Rat's cut-down Model T sagging with hunting, camping, and trapping gear. The September sun glowed as we headed from our farm homes near the Platte River in eastern Nebraska toward the lakes around Valentine and Wood Lake. The air seemed to vibrate with excitement 24 NEBRASKAland as we zigzagged up the lush Elkhorn Valley toward Cherry County. We had heard glowing stories about the heavy-furred muskrats that prowled the Hills.

On September 9, we arrived at our destination — the Deke Tetherow ranch, about 18 miles west of Wood Lake. Deke greeted us with his customary warmth and friendliness, a trademark of most folks who lived in the area. I would stay with Deke, while Vernon would stay with Deke's brother, Sam, who lived just half a mile across a lush valley meadow. We settled down to await the trapping season.

We were just 22 and, like most farm boys, had learned to hunt, fish, and trap early. Still, we had looked forward to this trip for several years. As the time to go drew closer, we had talked about nothing else —it was a dream come true.

We waited impatiently, but kept busy. Vernon and I helped the Tetherows with those chores that all ranchers must do before winter comes. We helped repair buildings and fences, hauled coalby four-horse team from Wood Lake, gave Sam a hand with vaccinating his calves, and in our spare time, scoured the Hills on horseback looking for skunk and coyote dens and explored the surrounding lakes and marshes.

One evening, as we cruised in the Model T, we passed the southeast arm of Red Deer Lake. We spotted some ducks feeding close to shore, and I asked Vernon to stop so I could "make a sneak" and maybe bag a couple of quackers for the table. Neither Deke or Sam did much hunting, so we usually kept the larders well supplied with game while we were there.

It was an easy matter to crawl within range and drop a pair of fat mallards. As I was wading leisurely back to shore with ducks in hand, a car came barrelling down the road. The driver braked to a sudden stop between me and our car, leaving a cloud of dust.

"There is no hunting allowed on this lake," he hollered as he tumbled out of the car.

"Why?" I asked in surprise. "We've shot here before, and there aren't any signs anywhere."

Very few lakes were posted in those days. Ballard's Marsh, Hackberry, and Marsh lakes were exceptions, since some commercial facilities exsisted on them. And, of course, the long haul from the cities discouraged all but the most hardy waterfowler.

"This lake is reserved for General Pershing and Charles Dawes," he explained. "They are hunting grouse, but I expect to see them any day now. Tramping these hills will make duck hunters out of them mighty fast."

The man was overseer of a nearby ranch and was keeping a watchful eye on "Pershing's lake". The General and Dawes, who would later become vice president, had come to Nebraska's Sand Hills that October in 1922 for a rest and a go at the excellent grouse and duck hunting.

Rat thought I was feeding him a line when I told him what had happened at the lake. He still didn't quite believe me when we were driving back from a ranch the next day. Suddenly, we came on a car stalled in a low saddle between two towering dunes. The driver flagged us down. Eager to put his mechanical know-how to work, Rat offered to lend a helping hand. Rather than stand idly by, I hauled my gun from our "sand buggy" and headed up the shady side of the nearest grass-covered hill, hoping to flush a "chicken" or locate a skunk or coyote den.

A long time before, I learned that the easiest way to reach the top of these slippery hills is by a long diagonal in easy stages. I was only about 200 yards from the cars and still well below the crest of the choppy, when a grouse sailed over the top and slanted toward me. He veered off slightly when he saw me, but it was too late. I dumped him just as another bird flew over the hill from the same direction. I nailed him, too, with a puff of feathers to mark the spot where he and an ounce of No. 6's met.

I picked up the two plump grouse and resumed my walk. Just then, a man came striding over the ridge where the chickens had appeared. That explained why the birds had soared over the hill into my gun. The chickens had been hiding in the grass close to the top of the choppy and flushed as the other gunner approached. They had lost no time in trying to take refuge on the opposite side of the hill before the other hunter could get off a shot. The same thing has happened to me many times, and unless there is another shooter on the other side the bird usually escapes.

Something about that approaching hunter looked vaguely familiar, even at a distance. As he drew closer, however, I could distinguish his closely-clipped military moustache. I knew immediately that it was General Pershing himself. As the famed AEF commander neared, I shook with excitement and confusion.

My anxiety disappeared as Pershing smiled. "Well," he said, "I guess we'll have to make a change in our strategy. They sure got over that hill in a hurry."

I managed to find my voice long enough to ask, "You are General Pershing, aren't you?"

He nodded and continued, "I'm glad we are going to try for ducks tomorrow. These hills get steeper every day."

We turned to head back to the cars, and I told the General about my fondness for duck hunting. Encouraged by his friendly interest, I told him about my "poaching" ducks on "his" lake the day before. To my amazement, he only chuckled and invited me to be his guest and shooting partner the next day at Red Deer.

I was at the lake bright and early, and the memory of that morning's shoot remains vivid and clear, as clear as the General's farewell remark as we parted company in the twilight of that autumn evening 44 years ago.

"Ed," he said, "you shoot extremely well. I'd much rather you'd shoot as a guest on my lake than as a 'poacher'."

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 it to Editor, OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln 68509. Send photographs, too, if any are available.

THE SETTING SUN

VIVID BANDS OF RED stretched across Nebraska's western horizon as the day bled itself dark. The sodbuster headed his team home, lines draped over his shoulder. The early evening chill turned the farmer's sweat-soaked shirt into little icy prickles, but he didn't notice the cold as he raised his eyes to the sunset. For months now, everyone had been talking about the brilliant colors which appeared at each day's end. No one had come up with a satisfactory answer, if there was one. News traveled slowly in 1883, but the farmer had heard of a volcanic eruption in Indonesia. He and his neighbors did not realize that they were watching a blood-red epitaph for the 36,000 souls who died in a tidal wave set off by the explosion.

Dust and ash from that August 27 disaster rose 50 miles into the air as the volcano that once was Krakatoa, or Krakatau, sounded off with a blast that was heard and seen 2,000 miles away. High above the Nebraska farm, volcanic debris was orbiting the earth, causing gorgeous sunsets all over the world well into the following year.

Beautiful sunsets are not always built on catastrophe, however. Normal atmospheric conditions routinely contribute to an assortment of colorful and strange displays. Science can explain what makes a sunset tick, but it cannot tell what there is about the day's final moment that makes it magic. All the world seems suspended in a brief salute to the dying day. Time stands still as a boat is silhouetted against a backdrop of crimson on Lake McConaughy. There is something poignant in an uprooted tree trunk tilting black against the sky, a dead reminder of many days which have gone before. Sunsets know no place. Their only requirement is a horizon, and admission is free.

Long before man's curiosity led him to explore the why and wherefore of sunsets, the spectacle led him to revere the sun and its daily course. Ancient Egyptians had their sun god, Ra. In old Greece, citizens claimed Apollo was driving his fiery chariot over the horizon. Indians from the Aztecs and Incas to those of the Nebraska plains looked at the sun with reverence as they soaked up its warmth. To the Sioux, the sun was a test of courage. In the tribal sun dance, a brave would cut two incisions, one on each side of his chest, and pass a thong under the skin, while the free end was tethered to some heavy object. All day, the brave danced against the searing pain, staring at the eye-searing sun until the thong tore loose to complete the brutal test. Apparently such gruesome dramas usually ended by sunset, for there is no record of such an ordeal being called on account of darkness.

A burning orb, so bright at noon that it makes less hardy humans turn their eyes away, the sun relents in the evening, and permits every one to gaze at it. Though it is the largest of the readily-visible stars by appearance, the sun is actually an average star in the galactic myriad. Its nearness to earth creates the illusion of bigness. A closer look at the star with the naked eye is possible in the evening because its rays are traveling through more of the earth's atmosphere between the source and the observer, dissipating the glare. This is the time when many of the sun's phenomena become visible to the naked eye. A close scrutiny may disclose sunspots as darkened specks on the blazing surface. These are literally magnetic disturbances of immense proportions. The sunspots are cyclic in their behavior, swelling to peak numbers, then declining in activity every 11 years. Sudden outbursts of magnetic energy, or flares, accompanying sunspots exert an atmospheric influence so great that it is felt on earth. During periods of peak NOVEMBER, 1966 27   sunspot activity, magnetic compass needles may act up, and radio communications tend to become erratic.

Ice crystals and water droplets in the upper atmosphere play a bagful of spectacular tricks with sunlight, often at sunset. A whole series of suns on the horizon does not mean the end of the world. It is only a few sun dogs, or mock suns. These are illusions created by the structure of suspended ice crystals. Related phenomena include halos, crosses, and shafts of light. Man reads all sorts of meaning into the sights.

Raindrops also add their bit to the heavenly show. The rounded drops disperse rays of light into the brilliant arc we call a rainbow. These are most easily visible when the sun is at a low angle to the observer, such as at sunset. The bow is actually a circle of the colors of the spectrum, with the center exactly opposite the sun. The observer sees only a many-hued arc, the colors of which are influenced by the size of the drops. Smaller moisture particles tend to blend the colors, with orange and pink predominating. Larger drops bring out the stronger reds and violets. There is no pot of gold at the end, but a rainbow is its own reward.

Colors in the sunset itself are influenced by a number of things in the atmosphere. If the air above the earth wasn't cluttered with an accumulation of bits, particles, and drops, sunset as well as sunrise would be a dull affair, quite colorless and abrupt. Color is described in terms of wave lengths. Blue has the shortest and red the longest of the waves. The blue waves have difficulties in penetrating the particle-laden air and are sent flying in all directions, making the sky blue during the day, obscuring the ever-present stars. Red waves fare better, pushing through the atmosphere without becoming disassociated from their source. The effect is a spectacular blend of red and orange which sparks the sky with splendor as the sun dips below the horizon.

During very clear weather, the last sight of the setting sun might be a bright green, a trick of refraction in the dense lower layer of atmosphere when the red end of the spectrum is bent below the horizon. Other times, the red rays may predominate in a bright flash of crimson. Smoke and dust particles from a great forest fire can cause a bright blue or green sunset.

Before the white man came, Nebraska's sunsets were often tinged with the dust of mighty herds of bison. Only Indians were there to thin the countless numbers of the animals, and they killed only to meet their own needs. Not so with the white man, however. When he came to push Indian and bison from the scene, he brought with him a new kind of sunset.

Scratching a living from the tough prairie sod, the settler cleared, burned, and plowed to plant his grain. In 1874, a new cloud stretched across the sunset: a living cloud of grasshoppers. Millions of the pests settled, rose, and settled again, destroying all vegetation beneath them. Some settlers reported that they could see no sunset at all through the hordes of whirring insects. In the mid-1930's, another tragedy could be read in the evening sky. Lack of rain gnawed at the nation's vitals, and farming came to a near standstill in Nebraska. Huge dust storms rose from the parched ground, and again the sun's fading light was tinted with dust, to a much greater extent than it was by the bison. Colors varied with the wind, as red dust from the south mixed with the grays of the Prairies. Sunsets were beautiful but no one missed them when the hoped-for rain clouds blotted them out in drouth-breaking downpours. Now that the evenings of catastrophe have ended again, Nebraska's sunsets smile on a land of promise and plenty as the seasons roll on with their ancient regularity.

Winter, with its sharpened, almost rarified air, catches the fading red rays on fields of snow. Long shadows trace dark fingers through the reflected pink, and gaunt trees stand out in bold relief. Summer's crystal waters now run leaden and inscrutable in places where there are cracks in their icy light-reflecting armor. Winter is a time when sunsets touch the ground.

When ice becomes water, spring sunsets bring ominous thunderheads, pregnant with rain. The moisture shows black because sunlight cannot penetrate the clouds. Shafts of light stab downward between the breaks as though the sun were trying to force itself on the greening earth. In turn, the plants either reach toward the sun, or recoil from it, depending on their natures.

Some plants even follow the sun on its daily rounds during the long summer months. A young sunflower, for example, remains at right angles to the sun, facing according to its movement. This turning toward light is called phototropism. It is caused by changes in concentrations of plant hormones, or auxins, and by differences in the rigidity, or turgor of cells.

Daylight and the invisible ultraviolet rays accompanying it are vital to a plant's growth. In the fall, as each succeeding sunset takes a bigger bite of the hours of light, the time for growing ends. As the vegetation withers, leaves are transformed into dazzling reds and yellows. This is the only time of year whQn the earth is dressed to match its sunsets, and the two vie with each other every evening.

For centuries, man has tried to capture each season's sunsets in words and paintings, but few succeeded. Modern technology and the camera can put even the most beautiful sunset in every man's pocket. There are few special tricks involved, for with modern color film, most of the work is already done. The cameraman will be wise to point his exposure meter to the northern sky rather than directly at the sunset. The bright center of the sunset itself will throw the sensitive instrument off and give a wrong reading. With color film, no special filter is needed. If the shot is to be taken over brilliant water, it is best to close the diaphragm an extra stop or two. Sometimes, an object in the foreground lends an arty touch. Often sunset 28 NEBRASKAland

[image]

The western sky becomes gallery where color masterpieces hang

[image]

With proof like this, who denies West's claim as the sunset land?

 

[image]

Broad expanse of huge reservoir is fitting mirror for this magnificence

[image]

Sunsets know no place with prairie, city equally graced with evening hue

[image]

Like track in fresh snow, a setting sun leaves light trail accross water

NOVEMBER, 1966 31  

[image]

In twilight of their years, angling duo takes time to admire gradeur of sunset

will reach its peak and start to fade within but two or three minutes, and exposure requirements will change rapidly during this brief span. After sundown, the reds build up for 30 seconds or so, which makes a striking photo.

Astronomers are shutterbugs at heart and have come up with some gadgets and tricks of their own to photograph the sun. Most notable are the spectroheliograph and the coronograph. Man learned early that many effects of the sun become apparent when it is in eclipse. A coronograph creates the illusion of an eclipse freeing the sun's outer layer from the all-concealing glare. A spectroheliograph photographs the sun in one color, bringing out otherwise invisible details. Remarkable photographs have been taken through telescopes when scientists linked the new tools to special cameras.

Man is learning just how much he does not know about the sun, but this knowledge is building. A gaseous veil called the photosphere is all he normally sees. Deep inside lie other layers of gas, down to a center that is denser than steel. This monstrous cauldron may be as hot as 50 million degrees Fahrenheit. It would seem that such a fire could not sustain itself indefinitely, but estimates of longevity claim the final sunset is billions of years away.

When the sun is blanked out artificially with a coronograph, or during an eclipse, its atmosphere peeks around the edges of a dark circle. Flares may be seen streaming out like huge tails. These are luminous gases shooting off into space. The surface of the sun appears as an ever-changing granular texture, with everything in motion at once. It resembles shifting grains of rice.

Since earliest times, the swirling sun has attracted man much as a flame attracts moths. A big slice of modern technology is devoted to placing man nearer and nearer to what Shakespeare called the "burning eye of heaven".

Some Nebraskans are blessed with an opportunity to see the sunset from a vantage high in the atmosphere. These are the pilots, whose craft glint in the sun after the surface below is already plunged into evening darkness.

A relatively early effort to put man on a heavenly footing took place in 1934, and its abrupt but not tragic conclusion took place on a Nebraska farm. In a joint effort of the U.S. Army Air Force and the National Geographic Society, three men attempted a record balloon ascension from Rapid City, South Dakota. The three, Captain Albert W. Stevens, Captain Orvil A. Anderson, and Major William E. Kepner, escaped with their lives via parachutes as their torn balloon plummeted from nearly 61,000 feet into a field near Holdrege, Nebraska. Two of the men, Captains Anderson and Stevens, made a second try the following year, and reached an altitude of more than 72,000 feet. The two men made a soft landing on their return, but not before they got an impressive view of the horizon. They described it as fuzzy white, with blue, then black sky above, stretching toward perpetual night.

In 1962, Astronaut John Glenn saw an even more spectacular sky as he soared aloft in Friendship 7 to travel over 83,000 miles. Glenn reported that seen from high altitudes, the earth slowly darkens as evening approaches, and the sun is distorted into orange, red, and then blue before slipping into darkness. The man in space was treated to a quartet of sunsets in a single day. From his staggering height, Glenn could also distinguish cloud cover over parts of the world.

Though an astronaut's earth-bound contemporaries can only look upward, the mere sight of a sunset still rewards the observer. Clouds do much to enhance a sunset, breaking up the expanse of sky and reflecting the colors. Primitive men often read their fortunes in cloud formations against a dropping sun. Imagination saw whole battles unfolding in the churning masses and in some instances the huge cloud faces seemed about to speak. But great events were not the only omens observed. Some men even predicted weather from the clouds wafting across a reddish sky. Some of the theories endured, despite the objective probings of science. For example, there is some truth in the sayings; "Rainbow at night, sailor's delight", or ? Red sky at night, shepherd's delight". Under certain conditions, such displays really are indicators that clear weather lies just ahead.

Clouds for the sky observer to ponder are of several different types. Highest of the lot is cirrus, a feathery formation which occurs above 20,000 feet. Strands of cirrus, called "mare's tails", are generally associated with a period of fair weather, perhaps followed by the approach of a front. When cirrus clouds begin to get friendly with each other and build into denser formations, bad weather may be on the way. Clouds with the prefix, "alto", spread over a middle ground of about 6,000 to 20,000 feet. Stratus clouds are layered, anywhere from the ground up into the cirrus altitudes, where they become cirro-stratus formations. An alto-stratus formation may appear as a semi-transparent cover. When it begins to dim the sun, and continues to thicken, precipitation is a distinct possibility.

Alto-cummulus, another middleground formation, may build cloud towers containing rain. If the sunset is visible behind them, though, it's probably a false alarm. Stratus clouds are low-altitude blankets which sometimes lower to become surface fog. Cumulus formations range from fair-weather puffballs to churning thunderheads. Clouds by themselves are no sure-fire weather indicators, or even the most amateur of weather prophets would never be wrong. A long list of ifs, ands, and, wherefores also enter into an accurate forecast. Such things as wind direction, location of high and low pressure cells, humidity, barometric pressure, and stability of the air masses play very important NOVEMBER, 1966 33   parts. Meantime, it is often fun for an average observer to try to second guess the weatherman; doubly so if he is successful.

Weatherman, scientist, soothsayer, or just plain curious, each person with an eye on the sun has his own reasons for looking, and the looking is at its best in the evening and in the morning. No one knows all the answers, and so far, the big ball of gas just isn't talking. It is no wonder that the sun found a place in the world's religions, for it is tied up in so many things that affect the earth and its never-ending, interacting cycles.

Man may photograph, analyze, and speculate about the sun, but in the final analysis, it remains untouchable and remote in the broad sweep of interstellar space. As science pushes farther and farther into the frontiers of space, man's aspirations go higher and higher. The moon, and perhaps Mars will one day feel his footsteps, but never the sun. Each day, the earth rotates, bringing with it the sunrise, or as Homer put it in his Iliad, "Rosy-fingered Dawn".

Morning begins with a fanfare of i color as night leaps eagerly into daylight. But evening comes with a quieter step, burning like a fire that does not want to die. The world's disasters are sometimes remembered by their sunsets, but there is a glory there as well. Blazing with the force of nuclear explosions, the setting sun salutes the countryside with a glowing goodbye, promising to rise on the morrow with colors equally as fine. But there are other lands over the horizon, stretching impatiently at the end of a long night. For one man's sunset is another man's dawn.

If one day, the red telephone rings and enough buttons are pushed, th§ sky will cloud with the debris of a million Krakatoas. The strickened earth would throw up a screen of dust to hide its shame from the sunlight. But, one day the dust may settle enough to let the ball of crimson fire look through. Eventually, the earth would know the sun again, but its settings, more beautiful than any man has ever seen, would bleed bright red on a million empty days.

Ditch of Death

IT WAS JUST another creek to cross as far as the frisky yearling white-tailed buck was concerned. He hesitated momentarily on the edge of the concrete side, then entered the Ainsworth Irrigation Canal. It turned out to be his longest swim and his last.

He swam to the other side of the canal and attempted to leave. But this "creek" had slick sides, kach time that he tried to climb out his hooves slipped under him. He struggled repeatedly until they were worn raw The current kept pushing him downstream and soon, his energy exhausted, he drifted into a trash rack and drowned.

Merritt Reservoir and the Ainsworth Canal were constructed by the US. Bureau of Reclamation to provide irrigation for the vicinity of Ainsworth in north-central Nebraska. Merritt was completed in 1964 and at capacity has an area of 2,906 surface acres. The canal commences at the dam, 27 miles southwest of Valentine, and extends eastward for 52.8 miles to U.S. Highway 20, east of Johnstown. This man-made waterway along with 174 miles of laterals and 63 miles of drains, irrigates about 34,000 acres of farmland.

The Ainsworth Canal is lined with concrete along its entire length. In the western section of 22 miles 38 NEBRASKAland the height is 8.4 feet, bottom width is 9 feet, and water depth is 7.22 feet at capacity. In the eastern section of 30.8 miles, the height is 6.5 feet, bottom width, 7 feet, and water depth, 5.3 feet at capacity. Water velocity is 6.22 feet per second in the lower section and 3.4 feet per second in the upper section. Maximum discharge is about 580 cubic feet per second. The canal was completed in early 1965.

Along the canal are 17 bridges, 16 drop structures, and 6 siphons. Five of the siphons are located at creeks and the sixth at U.S. Highway 20. These huge tubes are real death traps for deer since the animals haven't got a prayer of escape once they fall or are carried into one. Drop structures are not insurmountable barriers when the flow is down but when the canal is running full head they probably would stop the animals from moving through.

The canal is a serious hazard to deer yet technicians have used the bad situation to further their knowledge of deer behavior and movements. During the peak periods of deer movement, two men make daily checks along the canal and try to rescue as many of the trapped animals as they can. In 1965, Nebraska Game Commission personnel patrolled the canal every day from May 27th to June 28th. This year, the patrol began on May 26th and continued until August 1st.

Ropes and tranquilizer guns are the rescue tools. If a deer can be pushed to the lower end of a drop structure or to deep water, roping is the preferred method. It's a pulling and heaving job all the way after that but it saves the deer. The men have to avoid the flailing hooves of the panicky animal and at the same time try to keep him from injuring himself. It is not an easy job but after a few close squeaks, the men perfect a technique that gets the job done. In shallow water, where the deer has more freedom of movement, the tranquilizer gun reaches out to subdue the trapped animal for removal from the canal. After the tranquilizing chemical wears off, the deer recovers and goes his way.

All deer are ear-marked with metal tags while colored nylon streamers are used to identify individuals. Tag numbers and conditions of the rescued animals are recorded. Post-release observations of the tagged deer are also recorded.

Although Game Commission personnel do the very best they can to rescue the deer, some of them still drown or are so badly injured that they must be destroyed. Leg injuries are the most common as the trapped animals keep trying to scale the sides of the "cement" creek. If the technicians decide an animal is too badly injured to recover, they dispatch him on the spot to prevent further suffering.

Real trouble for the deer started on June 1, 1965, when the canal began carrying water. It didn't abate until October 10th when the flow was curtailed. During that period, 136 deer were observed or reported to Game Commission personnel. Of these, 75 were rescued, tagged, and released, 34 eluded capture, 16 were dead, and 7 died in handling. Four deer wore tags from NOVEMBER, 1966 39   a previous study project. Game Commission personnel are confident that more deer were trapped in the canal and that both live and dead animals were removed by individuals who failed to report their rescue and recovery efforts to the Commission. All in all, the Game Commission believes that at least 200 deer were "caught" in the canal in 1965. From May 2 to August 1, 1966, 98 deer were reported in the canal.

Daily patrols saved 33 of the victims while 42 were either drowned or so badly injured they had to be destroyed. Eight of the deer wore tags proving that deer do not always profit from past mistakes. Six were dead indicating that their luck ran out on their second go round with the deadly canal.

Technicians have learned quite a bit from the deer caught in this 52.8-mile stretch of waterway. Of the 120 deer positively identified in 1965, 70 were whitetails, the others mule deer. In 1965, 63 whitetails were identified out of a total of 86 animals.

The canal flows through terrain that harbors both species and since neither seem to have any marked ability to avoid the canal, technicians believe the whitetails are more active and thus more accident prone than the more stolid mule deer. Whitetails may not be too smart when it comes to avoiding the canal but their ability to give hunters the slip is not impaired. In 1965, the season kill in the area was predominately mule deer with whitetails accounting for only slightly more than 27 per cent of the total take.

Yearlings are the principal victims of the long canal. The peak incidence of sighting and rescue occurs during June and coincides with the fawning period when the yearlings seek new homes.

Streamers have added to the knowledge of deer movements. Movements on 10 mule deer bucks ranged from 4 to 48 miles with the average journey working out at 20.4 miles. One yearling buck apparently decided that the canal country wasn't healthy for him. He hightailed 48 miles within 17 days after his rescue. A white-tailed buck fawn was a close second. This youngster put 19 miles between him and the tagging 40 NEBRASKAland site in 35 days. Overall distance champ was a mule deer doe. She traveled 37 miles in 93 days and then added an additional 15 miles within 209 days from date of tagging. Thirteen of the tagged deer were shot during the 1965 season. Despite their restlessness, the whitetails as a group did not travel as far as their cousins. Five bucks were checked out and found to have averaged 16.4 miles, four miles less than the distance traveled by a comparable group of mule deer.

It's a cinch that the Ainsworth Canal will continue to trap and kill deer but solutions to the problem are being studied. The two best methods would be to cover the canal or to install deer-proof fencing along its entire stretch. Crossings could be installed at intervals to let the animals go their way. However, both of these solutions are costly.

An experimental device now in the testing stage shows promise and may be instrumental in reducing the annual toll. A-frame deflectors and wooden cleats were installed adjacent to two of the deadly siphons in 1966. At least one white-tailed doe used the devices to escape a watery grave but one rescue is not a true indicator of what the A-frames can or cannot do.

To get a truer picture of the A-frames' potential, technicians released four semi-tame deer in the canal for a more comprehensive test. All the deer except one used the new device to get out of the big "ditch". The one failure was due to a spreading of the bars on the A-frame which allowed the deer to pass through it. Technicians believe that six-inch spacing is about optimum for the A-frames. More tests will be made and if they prove out with wild deer, recommendations for more of the unique installations will be made.

Until that time or until some ingenious chap comes up with a better solution, the Ainsworth Canal will continue to exact its deadly toll. Technicians anticipate that 150 to 200 deer will be trapped each year.

Loss of some of these fine game animals is not pleasant to contemplate and the Nebraska Game Commission is working hard to eliminate it, but until the final solution is reached more deer must die. But with each victim, technicians are getting a little closer to a remedy and someday in the not-too-distant future, a workable and efficient device to save deer from the canal will be found. In the meantime, ropes and tranquilizer guns will continue to save many of the trapped animals.

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA...

Beaver

WHEN NATURE created the beaver, she came very close to the ultimate in functional design. This large rodent with the scientific handle of Castor canadensis is admirably adapted to his semi-aquatic environment in NEBRASKAland and elsewhere. He has powerful webbed hind feet for swimming, a broad, flat tail that serves as a rudder and scull while swimming and as a brace and balance while gnawing or walking. Slapped against the water, the tail also doubles as a warning device.

His nose and ears are equipped with valves that close when the animal is submerged. A beaver's lips close behind his incisor teeth to permit gnawing while underwater. Oil from glands located at the base of the tail waterproof the pelt which consists of a very fine and dense underfur overlain by long, coarse guard hairs.

Beavers can stay underwater for approximately 15 minutes due to a reduced heart beat, a decrease in blood pressure of the small arteries, and a respiratory control system in the brain that is less sensitive to carbon dioxide in the blood than that of land dwellers. A large liver also stores oxygenated blood which assists in long underwater stays.

The family group or colony consists of the adult male and female and their yearlings and kits. Yearlings are allowed to remain in the colony with the young of the year until they reach the age of two, and are then driven out.

Parents may kill^ them if they refuse to leave. Generally, these two-year-olds locate as close to the family lodge as possible. Colonies in untrapped areas usually contain eight or nine animals,. Where more than one colony lives in a majjjh, £hey |iiay cooperate in repairing a mutual dam, bw there is no overlap of feeding areas. All members of a colony assist in the fall storage of food and/repair of the structures. Generally, the entire family spends the winter in one main lodge or bank den. Iii Nebraska and similar states where most beaver are found in river systems, bank dens are the primary living structures.

Perhaps the best known habit of the beaver is dam building. Not all beaver build dams, but they generally build those that are necessary to make living in 42 NEBRASKAland an area possible. A typical dam is three to six feet high and is constructed of branches, mud, and stones. Branches are the basic building material and are placed with the butts upstream.

Beaver are primarily bark eaters but consume mostly the cambium layer between the outer bark and wood of the branches and trunk. A great variety of trees are eaten, but the poplar species including Cottonwood are the most preferred and important. Willows are also an important food species as well as watercress, burreed, arrowhead, and yellow pond lilies. Corn, from the milk stage on, will be taken when available. Beaver eat from 1V2 to 2 pounds of food daily.

The breeding season starts in January or February, and the young are born after a gestation period of about 100 days. At birth, kits weigh about a pound apiece and are replicas of the adults. Their eyes are open, their incisor teeth are emerging, and they have a dense coat of woolly fur. Although capable of swimming at once, kits seldom venture from the den until they are about a month old.

Nebraska has experienced beaver seasons ranging from full protection to the fairly liberal regulations now in effect. With the exception of the 1945-46 season, the beaver season was closed from 1941 through 1951. There were, however, quite a few beaver taken on nuisance and damage complaints during this time. The 1945 season was limited in area and the maximum number of beaver allowed per trapper was 15. From 1952 through 1954, the whole state was open to beaver trapping but was divided into two zones with different opening and closing dates.

There was no limit during these years and the annual statewide harvest ran as high as 11,500 beaver. A two-dollar seal was required on each beaver pelt kept so only about 7,400 of these pelts were sold. The 1955-56 season was the first season the zone regulation was dropped and it was also the first year the two-dollar seal was not required. The harvest for that year was the highest in recent history, reaching 16,800.

Like many other mammals and birds, the beaver h$s come back from the near edge of extinction to add his bit to NEBRASKAland's rich and varied assortment of fauna.

A PACK OF PLEASURE

ALL THAT MONEY you are plunking down for cigarettes isn't going up in smoke. A certain percentage of it is helping to bring some mighty permanent benefits to NEBRASKAland. It is estimated that cigarette smokers in the state "where the WEST begins" will contribute $2,100,000 to outdoor recreation in Nebraska during the biennium ending June 30, 1967. The recreational bonanza doesn't stop there, for this money brings in another $2,100,000 during the same period in federal grant-in-aid funds.

Grant-in-aid money is a direct result of the Land and Water Conservation Fund implemented by the passing of the Land and Water Conservation Act of 1964. The LWCF is the best answer to the nation's skyrocketing recreational needs that Congress could come up with. As in other recreation-hungry states, the Nebraska Legislature wisely took advantage of the LWCA fund by passing LB 26 which provided for a two-cents-per-pack increase in the cigarette tax. Of the 2-cent increase, 35 per cent, approximately seven-tenths of a cent, is earmarked for the Land and Water Conservation Fund, 35 per cent is for educational television, and 30 per cent goes to the Department of Roads for the construction of access roads. The federal LWCF is a 25-year plan but under LB 26, Nebraska's two-cent cigarette tax is dedicated only until July 1, 1967, the end of the present biennium.

The Nebraska Legislature implemented matters by passing LB 485, designating the Game, Forestation, and Parks Commission to receive the federal money and to conduct the program on behalf of the state. This law provides that of all federal funds received, 60 per cent is earmarked for state projects and 40 per cent for projects submitted by political subdivisions. From cigarette tax revenue, the Commission was authorized to make state grants-in-aid of 25 per cent of the cost of approved projects submitted by the political subdivisions.

To qualify under the federal LWC Act, a statewide, comprehensive outdoor recreation plan had to be formulated for the state. The 249-page plan developed by the Commission, spells out outdoor recreation needs, both present and future, and recommends ways and means of meeting those needs. This comprehensive plan was submitted to the Bureau of Outdoor Recreation, "BOR", for review and approval. The BOR ruled that the Nebraska plan met the requirements of eligibility as a "sound, comprehensive state-wide outdoor recreation planning program," and tagged it as one of the best in the nation. The way was cleared for action.

Land and Water Conservation funds, including proceeds of the Nebraska cigarette tax increase, have already resulted in purchase of 333 acres in seven municipal areas. Political subdivisions paid 25 per 44 NEBRASKAland cent of the cost, state funds, 25 per cent, and federal LWC funds, 50 per cent. These acquisitions include a 260-acre city-county park at Kimball, an acre of land for a swimming pool at Mullen, a 14-acre municipal park at Milfard, a 15-acre municipal park at Millard, nearly nine acres for expansion or a city park in Hastings, a one-acre playground at ScottsblufF, and a 33-acre park at Papillion. Land acquisition is underway for 620 additional acres in seven areas in five communities including a 340-acre park for Omaha. In addition, development plans are already underway in three areas.

Concrete evidence that the Land and Water Conservation Act is doing what it was designed to do — stimulate development of parks and outdoor recreation facilities in communities, is found in plans for the 260-acre outdoor facility being developed at Kimball. Located one mile east of Kimball near a future interchange on Interstate 80, the project will offer a broad range of outdoor recreation activities. They include a nine-hole golf course, lighted ballfields, swimming pool, archery and trap ranges, tennis courts, picnic area, shuffleboard, landscaping, and parking.

Kimball City-County Park and Recreation Board has already been reimbursed for 75 per cent of the $40,500 land acquisition cost. Of the total cost, $20,250 came from federal money, and $10,125 from the state. Kimball County and city sources provided $10,125 for the project. Development of the facility is scheduled in three phases for funding in fiscal years 1966, '67, and '68. Plans have been approved for development of the golf course and ball diamonds and work will get underway as soon as funding is completed by BOR.

As populations shift and grow and outdoor recreational demands increase, suitable recreation-oriented sites become less available. Communities find that they must act now to acquire land which may not be available later. Plans for parks, ballfields, golf courses, and swimming pools are useless unless there are places to put them.

In evolving the Nebraska Comprehensive Plan a survey of existing facilities and future needs for outdoor recreation disclosed that by 1970 the following land and facilities would be needed here.

By 1980, estimated land need climbs to 46,895 acres for Classes I and II and picnic units to 2,900 acres in non-urban areas.

These needs are estimates and subject to change due to changes in social, economic, industrial, and tourist trends. More than 100 Nebraska communities have indicated their interest and 45 communities in three counties have offered concrete proposals which are scheduled for financing by fiscal year 1969.

Outdoor recreation facilities at the community level are only part of the picture. There is an increasing demand for facilities at the state level which mounts as Americans have more leisure time, greater mobility,

a more acute interest in their surroundings, and as Nebraska's tourist industry gains prominence. Facilities at the state level include public wayside and rest areas along the major highways, overnight camping facilities, historical and scenic parks, and recreation areas where the public may hunt, hike, fish, ride, boat, swim, and play. Cigarette taxes will help to procure these.

Major projects on the state level scheduled for financing through the LWC Fund and matching funds include acquisition of the 10,295-acre James Ranch adjacent to Fort Robinson, acquisition of 3,154 acres surrounding Branched Oak Reservoir in Lancaster County, obtaining 415 additional acres for planned expansion of Ponca State Park and adding more cabins, and the acquisition of approximately 2,075 acres for development of Indian Cave State Park.

It is planned to finance the Fort Robinson State Park with money from the state LWC Fund and matching federal funds. When completely developed for outdoor recreational uses such as hiking, camping, picnicking, and sightseeing, the park will be the largest state park between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains. Recreational development will be planned to take full advantage of scenic, historical, paleontological, and ecological significance of the area. Total value of the park carries a whopping million-dollar-plus price tag.

Branched Oak Reservoir, technically Salt Creek Dam and Reservoir No. 18, will be the newest and largest of the Salt Valley Watershed flood control structures and will contain about 1,800 acres of surface water in the permanent pool. Located only 17 miles from Lincoln, total cost of acquisition of the necessary 3,154 acres is estimated at $698,000. When fully developed there will be picnic, fishing, hunting, swimming, camping, hiking, boating, and other outdoor sports within easy driving distance of the state's large population centers.

Indian Cave State Park will be a major facility in southeastern Nebraska with a total land area of some 3,000 acres with historical and botanical significance. Development will provide for nature study, sightseeing, swimming, picnicking, camping, hiking, group camping, and scientific interpretation. Both daytime and overnight facilities are in the works.

The 495-acre Ponca State Park will be nearly doubled with acquisition of another 415 acres. Located within 25 miles of Sioux City, Iowa, the park presently experiences heavy nonresident use. During 1964 more than 169,450 day visitors and 6,770 overnight visitors were recorded. Future development will provide for additional camping areas, better waterfront access and control to the Missouri River, interpretation of a prehistoric Indian Village, park entrance control, and hard-surfacing of interior roads.

Construction and equipping a 100-person capacity lodge, construction of four more cabins, and installation of a water distribution system are scheduled for the future.

These are only some examples of what is being done and what can be done over the next 25 years if the Legislature provides the matching funds to take advantage of the Land and Water Conservation Fund. If these funds can be provided, outdoor recreation programs of the entire state and more than 100 political subdivisions can be completed.

Priorities for LWC funds for state and political subdivision projects are determined on the basis of urgency. Priority ratings assigned are A, B, C, and D. An "A" priority includes all projects on which action is needed immediately, while "B" priority includes projects on which action must be taken in the near future in order to keep from losing valuable resources or land. A MC" priority is given to projects on which action must be taken in the future to meet needs existing now. Priority "D" includes future projects on which action is desirable now but can be deferred for financing at a more opportune time.

Many problems exist in providing outdoor recreation and perhaps the Land and Water Conservation Fund is not the answer to all of them. But during the next few years, the LWC Fund, with the support of the Legislature to provide matching funds will solve a great many of them. Most of all it has served to make 46 NEBRASKAland communities across the state recreation conscious and aware that plans are needed for facilities.

Some communities have looked around, explored the possibilities, and discovered they could not afford to wait for state and federal financing. Like Harvard, which received a "B" priority rating on the proposed development of two municipal park and recreation areas. The town went ahead with plans and found local funds to bring their plans to reality. As a result, this community and others like it will be better places.

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy", goes the saying. But to play there must be places to play. To enjoy nature in this wonderful world around us, we must have access to it. This is the goal of the Land and Water Conservation Fund-to provide places to play, to conserve resources for outdoor recreation for generations to come as well as for the present, and to help communities to help themselves in becoming better places in which to live. Drive out to the nearest wayside recreation area, relax and listen to the birds, watch the squirrels, and light up! Seven-tenths of one cent of the tax on cigarettes is a small fee to pay for this great bonanza.

DON'T SACK THE RACK

JUST A cotton-picking minute pal, don't ditch that rack. First thing you check when you've touched off the blast that puts venison on the boards is how big is the spread. Right? So when the heat dies down and the spikes finally shrink from a yard wide to their true size, two-three points and a button, you think Holy Toledo! What'll I do with this one? Truth is, you'd just as soon lose it in the field, but the guys at the check station have a thing about a head with no rack. So after you've shagged it through five miles of tules just for their benefit, you might as well toss it into the bucket of bolts and wheel it to the pad. If you junk it in the garbage can whole, the lid won't go on, so you get out the old saw for a slash job.

That's when you wise up to how well one chunk fits your fist, better than the present handle on your old hunting sticker, and a lot more personal. You spend maybe a minute debating whether to drill the length of the chunk to insert the tang of the knife, or whether to split the piece and rivet it in. Either way adds up to the same difference, a new handle on the blade, and a touch up with a fine file and a wool buffing wheel adds real class.

It's not healthy to forget the Bitter Half all the time, or she won't let you go hunting again. So remember when she cracked a nail tearing open the last phone bill? You lop off another chunk of antler about nine inches long, and without a crook, slice two slabs off either side of it for half its length, use the file and the buffer, and hand her the finished letter opener. Now when she opens the bills, she can do it with real elegance.

The sissy buttons on the old hunting jacket never did fit the landscape, as proved when frigid digits in a duck blind always lose the drag trying to close the flap. Six whacks with the saw yields checker-sized discs that convert to man-sized buttons with two stabs of a small drill. If the drill breaks off on the first try, don't panic. Pretend you wanted checkers all the time and palm them to Uncle Willie. He's the one who digs the game.

If you've swapped the four-in-hand for a bolo tie, an antler spike drilled with two snug cord-hugger holes and polished like a chrome bumper makes a gasser of a slide. So does a diagonal slab ripped from the butt end of the rack. Cement a metal cord clip to the back if you'd rather not drill holes.

By now the saw is dull and you've demolished half the spread. But hang on to the board and don't wipe out. With the gray matter bubbling like boiling oil, you should see a support for a china or a copper ash tray in those curving points. Lopping off some points and fastening them to a board above the basement bar makes hanging pegs for the suds mugs. Really try, and you can come up with a handle for the mug that sports a nonskid grip. Great when they roll out the barrel with you in it.

If you're about out of gas and have nothing but scraps left of the buck's crowning glory, be brave! Next year's take will top the hill as a plaque mount over your fireplace. If you don't have a fireplace hang it over the kitchen. Great for paper towels!

If the straight plaque doesn't grab you, spread the antlers wide and let them cradle the old musket that brought them down.

Whatever the outcome, you'll never consider parking the rack in the boonies again, Dad. You're hooked on a branch, so to speak!

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Back Fire. One of Virginia's 26 hunting accident victims was a man who saw a game warden coming. He threw his gun over a bank, and was shot in the leg and arm, when it landed butt first and fired. — Virginia

Tangled Tale. When a Colorado fruit grower tried to help a buck that had 20 feet of woven wire tangled in his antlers, he got into trouble. When the wire was untangled the deer chased three game officers up a tree and two others to a truck before their dog took a hand in the fray and restored peace and quiet. — Colorado

Armchair Stalking. It was quite a surprise to an Oregon man and his wife when a three-point buck crashed through the front window of their home as they were relaxing in the living room. The man recovered quickly however, and grabbed his rifle in time to drop the deer with one shot as he skidded down the hallway. — Oregon

Station Break. The first casualty of the big-game season last year in Colorado was reported by a motel owner who bemoaned the loss of a television set. It seems a hunter, cleaning his rifle for opening day, forgot there was a shell in the chamber. As you would expect, the gun went off; the TV set exploded; and, Ben Casey was sent in search of medical attention. — Colorado

Glutton. A fisherman in Connecticut caught a 5V2-pound largemouth bass that can only be termed a glutton. The bass had three sets of spinners dangling from his jaw, including one that the angler who caught him had lost earlier in the day. — Connecticut

Junk Collector. People usually think of goats as the hardy animals with cast iron stomachs that can take anything, but a New York man will argue the point. Here's a list of things he found in the stomach of an 11-foot tiger shark: a sea gull, two ducks, a barracuda, a glob of material stamped U. S. Government, three chunks of cinder block, half a tire tube, and a piece of silver identification bracelet. —New York

Real Gone Gooneys. The laysan albatross is a stubborn cuss. On Midway Island the "gooney birds" nest along runways, where their take-offs sometimes coincide with those of the airplanes. The mid-air collisions are hard on both birds and planes. So, the Navy leveled and black-topped the nesting grounds next to the runways. Other nesting areas were available 400 feet away, but the dispossessed gooneys went on a standup strike and refused to nest. — Midway Island

Big Rack. At a New York deer check station, a car stopped with several hunters. Displayed prominently on the car fender was an unusually small deer with a very large rack. The biologist in attendance showed an intense interest. However, he failed to note the chuckling among the party, until he found that the trophy was a legal, but small, party permit buck with an old but exceptionally large set of antlers wired on. — New York

Trout Pointer. A New Hampshire angler has a canine fishing companion that has caused quite a stir. When his dog, Chico, began pointing trout, it posed a problem. A license is required for any act of assistance in taking or attempting to take fish or game. So to make it legal, the state issued a "Complimentary Fishing License for Piscatorial Canine". —New Hampshire

Double Jeopardy. A Vermont man had to kill a bobcat twice to collect his bounty. He bowled the cat over with his car, tossed it into the trunk for dead. But, he had to shoot it several hours later in a service station, when the uproar under the lid indicated the cat was still very much alive. — Vermont

NOVEMBER ROUND-UP

cities for conventions and contests. High schoolers will come from all around to compete in the State High School Advertising Contest on November 4. That same weekend, there will be lectures and lots of learning at the Nebraska High School Press Association Conference. There's plenty in November to get you in the mood for the coming holidays. THE END

WHAT TO DO

BLACK BASS AT RED WILLOW

undertaken on a federal water development project by a state game commission with the assistance of the federal government. The Bureau of Reclamation as constructing agency on the irrigation project provided the necessary stream flow studies and furnished the chemical for the project. The Bureau of Sport Fisheries and Wildlife took part as coordinating agency to come up with some man-power and technical planning assistance.

After a sizeable number of rough fish was removed, the Nebraska Game Commission stocked more than 121,000 largemouth and nearly 36,000 smallmouth bass along with other species in 1961. After the dam was dedicated in 1962, the project came into its own as a fishing hot spot. It didn't take long for men like Earl Frost to get wind of the fine fishing available. It was a natural for an old bass fan like Earl, and it wasn't long before Doug was in on it, either. The bigger arm of the impoundment is a particular pet of Earl's, but he doesn't feel he has homestead rights on it. If someone is fishing one of his favorite spots, he moves on to another.

After a brief exchange of "any-lucks" with the crappie fishermen in one of the other boats, the Arapahoe man and his son headed for a sizeable cove, the last before coming back to the main body of the lake

"We had better call it quits after this bay," Earl suggested. He knew Doug would be as reluctant to leave as himself, but spare time was short and some

preparations for Doug's departure to Colorado were yet to be made.

Doug nodded assent, and got the electric motor in operation. By now, the boat was inching along, because Earl had not charged the battery from an early-morning foray the day before.

"I'm glad we don't have to rely on this thing to get us home," Doug chuckled, "it's just about out of steam."

A tiny point of land looked promising for the younger Frost. He cut the motor and made his cast. The popper settled about a foot from a clump of weeds. Doug waited it out for a few moments before putting the lure in motion and it vanished in an angry boil.

"He feels a little heavier than the others," Doug commented, putting the stop to the fish's mad dash for a tangle of roots. Once the fish was safely aboard, the anglers judged him three pounds or so.

"I got one just about that size in the same place just a couple of days ago," Earl volunteered. "It's been my experience that bigger bass favor the same hangouts. Where you get one, chances are, you'll get another later on."

By the time the pair finished casting the last bay, Earl was on top with two more fish than his son. They agreed that their score was pretty good for a slow half-day. With luck like this, neither man would care to argue a statement by the Department of the Interior that "this reservoir and the streams above it now produce some of the best warm-water fishing that is possible through the use of modern fish-management techniques".

The Frosts might not put it in those exact words, but it is results that count. A long string of satisfying days on home waters stays with a person for a long, long time.

HER NAME IS BARBARA

or two, I'll admit it can be done. If we don't you're in for a long winter of I told you so's."

I had a few things going for me. We farm two sections around Ong and have permission to hunt several other places. The land is relatively flat and easy to hunt. Besides, there are several ponds and marshes that have good to excellent waterfowl populations. Still, I might have talked myself into something and I wanted to hedge a bit.

"Make it a day in the field for upland game and a morning for duck," I said.

Barbara agreed but begged off from prowling the marsh in early dawn. "I'll sit in the camper and watch you," she conceded.

I called Larry who runs a neighboring farm and set up the hunt for the next day. He promised to bring Pixie the Pointer and to give it the old college try. He is a good wingshot with his side-by-side 20 gauge. Barbara is also a 20-gauge fan but prefers the slide action to the double. I depend on a 12-gauge auto loader.

The next morning we hit one of my favorite pheasant covers and didn't see a thing bigger than a meadowlark. After an hour of fruitless hunting, Barbara was wearing her I-told-you-so look. Pixie was disgusted and Larry was puzzled. I was worried.

After a conference we headed for another spot. We were driving down a country road when Larry pointed to a little weed-filled draw between a milo field and a pasture. My quick glance was just in time to see three heads vanish into the weeds. We drove on for a quarter of a mile and planned our strategy.

Barbara and I were to circle through the milo and come in at the head of the draw. Larry and Pixie would come in from the road and pinch the roosters toward us. I was confident the plan would work if the pheasants hadn't hot-footed to the milo while we were getting ready.

We came in fast but nothing happened. Pixie acted mighty birdy but she wouldn't strike a point. We were getting closer and closer and it looked like the birds had outsmarted us until the dog piled into an island of sunflowers. Three birds went straight up before they flared. I swung on the one to my right, missed with the first shot, recovered, and dumped him with my second blast. I heard the crack of Barbara's 20 and saw her bird falter and pitch down. The third rooster angled across the pasture and was out of range before Larry could shoot.

He muttered something about dumb school teachers who get in the line of fire but I ignored him. With two birds in the bag, my spirits were climbing.

Larry suggested we hunt a small cane patch behind my Dad's place and then go after quail on his own farm. Barbara and I blocked while Larry and Pixie drove the center. A rooster sidled out to the right to give my brother-in-law a tough angle shot but he smacked the bird dead center. The shot spooked three more roosters that sailed right over me. I picked one, tried the incoming chance, missed, cracked off another shot when he was almost overhead and missed, and then flustered, flubbed the relatively easy going away opportunity. Barbara didn't shoot.

Weedy hedgerows on Larry's place are ideal for auail so we decided to give them a careful hunt before moving on to Sandy Creek and the timbered country. Chances were pretty good that we would spook a few more pheasants in the bargain. Barbara arbitrarily decided that three more pheasants would be enough.

We found plenty of bobs in the hedgerows but their guardian angels were working overtime. We shot our way through a lot of shells and never cut a feather. I did more shooting than the others and knew that I could expect a rawhiding.

"What's the matter; one bird your limit for the day?" Larry teased.

"You didn't do any better," I answered.

"Kept waiting for you to mow them down with that blunderbuss and lost my timing. Let's try the timber."

Barbara had done considerable shooting but in view of my performance I didn't think it politic to mention it to her.

Pixie slammed into a point before we were ready when we reached the creek bed. The covey wouldn't hold and bombed away before any of us were in

range. After exchanging mutualgripes, we went to work on the singles. The dog radared in on one and I nailed him on the rise. Larry spooked two on his own and collected both of them while Barbara got one the easy way. She was standing on a bank watching the pointer when she felt something under her boot. She reached down and picked up a healthy bob that had snuggled into the deep grass to wait us out.

Before long, I was wishing that darn bird hadn't been so co-operative. My wife can get a lot of mileage out of an unusual incident when she wants to and she pushed this one to the limit. She didn't say anything but the elaborate and repeated pantomimes of her catch spoke louder than words. To top it off, she kept counting the empty shell loops in my shooting vest.

We hunted out the timber and I was waiting under the tree when Barbara pulled the squirrel deal. For the next hour I was so jumpy I couldn't have hit the stern of the Queen Mary with a shovel of sand.

We hadn't seen any cottontails and I was beginning to wonder if the bunnies were in conspiracy with my wife. The day was edging along and we still had to better our take if I was to escape that long and noisy winter.

A little patch of plum brush on the flats above the creek looked promising so we headed that way. Pixie staunched, broke, and staunched again. We came up just in time to flush one of the largest coveys of email that I have ever seen.

When the last echo died away, seven birds were down. Larry got two with one shot and added a third with his second barrel. Barbara emptied her gun at the fleeing birds and scared two of them to death. I shook off the jinx long enough to tumble two birds.

"These two-for-one deals sure help the average," Larry said pocketing his birds. "I'll have to try that again sometime. How did you do?"

"An honest double; two birds falling at the same time," I answered.

"With that cannon of yours, you should have limited out with one shot," Larry needled.

With the illogical logic of a woman, Barbara raised the ante to 13 quail despite my protests. Larry encouraged the pointer to work the singles and it didn't take us very long to find two birds. Larry's gun spoke once and the bob got the message. Seconds later, I got the easiest shot of the day to pull within two birds of my limit. We left the timber and headed for some farm and waste land a few miles away for the final swing of the day.

Barbara had noticed the absence of cottontails and was talking about it when a bunny squirted out. He almost made it but her shot was just enough faster. Larry crossed over to retrieve the rabbit and spooked another. This rabbit zigzagged away and then dodged back. My wife is pretty good on incomers of any kind and this rabbit was no exception.

We had about 45 minutes of shooting time left so we swung back toward the camper. Barbara was tired so she took the straight line route while Larry and 54 NEBRASKAland I investigated the scattered weed patches and ravines.

The rooster came out of nowhere in front of my wife. Squawking with indignation, the bird roared up and was on his way before Barbara realized what was happening. Larry was the first to recover but it took him two shots to make connections.

That wife of yours is a pretty good bird dog," he grinned.

'Yeah, but she barks too much and doesn't mind too well; needs more training," I answered.

Barbara snorted and plowed on. I kicked at a little tangle of briars and wasn't too surprised when a rabbit bounced out. I gave him 30 yards and squeezed off. He was waiting for me.

A strip of brush jutted out from the edge of the road and right-angled across the flat until it petered out into the grasslands so we headed for it and a last chance try. Two hens rocketed up in front of us and then the cover came apart. More than a dozen pheasants erupted in all directions. I swung on a long-tailed rooster to my right and missed him clean but my second shot was right on. He hadn't hit the ground before another tried the same play with the same result. I could hear my companions popping away at the escaping birds and heard Barbara's squeal as she missed.

When our excitement cooled we tallied up three birds. Two for me and one for Larry. The distaff side was pretty quiet as we drove home. Then she remembered the ducks we didn't have.

"Get them in the morning," I assured her. "It's going to be easy."

It wasn't quite that easy but I did manage to pick off a wood duck, one green-winged teal, and a mallard with less than half a box of shells. Larry's luck was like a cat; it wanted no part of water. He got two scratchy shots at highflying mallards but didn't score. We waited a bit then pulled out of the marsh and headed for a secluded farm pond in hopes of jumping a few sleepers. Two shovelers flushed from the pocket-sized water and climbed like homesick angels. My brother-in-law pulled down on the tailender and decked him on the far bank for a dry retrieve.

I was pretty sure that I had proved my point to Barbara and wouldn't risk any more static when I started talking about NEBRASKAland's fine mixed-bag hunting but just to be on the safe side I took out some insurance.

I gathered up all our game and arranged to have it photographed. Sometimes, a picture is worth a thousand words, wifely words, that is.

ASH HOLLOW

strolls back to his wagon where a group of men have congregated. He explains the situation and suggests they detach the wagon wheels, get two logs, and skid the bed of the wagon down the slope. He is quickly vetoed when the others decide too much time would be wasted. A man who looks as if he should be running a law office back in "the states" intimates that a log placed between the spokes of the back wheels could do the trick. Unsure of themselves, the men decide to use a method that proved successful for many others.

Quickly the men stake down the lead wagon and jack up its rear wheels. A long, strong rope is brought from one of the Conestogas and wrapped around the axle. The second wagon in line is pulled around to the crest of the hill and the loose end tied securely to the descending wagon. With the animals hitched in front to hold up the tongue, the schooner sets sail down the slope amid shrieks and curses. Men on top of the hill hold back on the spokes of the windlass wagon, turning the wheel to pay out the rope.

As the seventh wagon nears the halfway mark, a sharp snap signals disaster. Without a restraining rope the brakeless wagon, heavy with gear, picks up speed as the driver fruitlessly tries to bring it under control. One of the oxen stumbles and the covered wagon topples,

sending the teamster sprawling. As the men run down the hill to aid the injured driver, spilled goods roll aimlessly down the incline.

The teamster escaped with a broken collar bone, a few bad bruises and deep gashes. He was lucky. Windlass Hill claimed many lives before the trail was abandoned.

It would have been a simple task for all the men who were in the Hollow on any one day during the peak of the summer rush to smooth a winding path down the steep grade. They could have pulled out the next morning, and left the once hazardous path to the Platte safe for those who followed. But time meant everything to the wayfarers and a day would mean that 200 to 300 wagons might get ahead of them. That many wagons with their hay-burner engines meant less grass for their own stock.

In June, 1850, a cholera-ridden wagon train crossed the South Platte and headed for Ash Hollow. As one of the wagons bumped along, John Wood, weak with the disease, scribbled in his diary: "We are not alone in the calamity (cholera), thousands are around us sharing the same fate. The sick and the dying are on the right and on the left, in front and in the rear, and in our midst. Hundreds are on their way home, faint hearted and terror stricken."

The dreaded Asiatic cholera took a heavy toll of travelers on the trail and many were buried near Ash Hollow. According to doctors of that day, the disease filtered up the Mississippi and Missouri rivers on boats from New Orleans. Then it marched out onto the prairie, reserving the full strength of its attack until it struck the Platte Valley, where crowded camp sites and polluted wells were fertile fields for its spread.

On June 17, John Wood's wagon was lowered down into the valley without mishap. That night as a cool breeze drifted across the Platte, John sat up with Wesley Mahan, another cholera victim. As the campfire flickered in the late night air, Mahan became one of the countless hundreds to die along the trail. At dawn he was buried in the grassy valley.

As the wagons creaked out of the Hollow they passed another grave with its headstone bravely defying the elements. On it was scratched: "1849-Rachel E. Pattison-Aged 18-June 19."

The valley still clings to part of Rachel's story. In 1849, Paul Pattison left his home in Illinois for Oregon. Behind the family were the comforts of home. Ahead were weary miles of uncertainties.

As a young woman Rachel probably thought little of death, although she saw an average of three graves per mile along the Oregon Trail. The young quickly grew to maturity on the trail, and Rachel was no different. She tended stock, cared for the sick, fixed meals, and kept an eye on the children.

When Rachel entered Ash Hollow she was deathly ill with some sort of disease, probably cholera. When she passed away her parents buried her at the mouth of Ash Hollow overlooking the Platte. As the Pattisons moved out of the valley they left behind them in the virgin prairie soil a part of themselves. Her grave is now marked with a marble slab.

In Ash Hollow Cemetery Rachel Pattison still keeps watch over the river. Legend has it that on a clear night when the moon is high, you can see Rachel, her calico dress blowing in the wind.

Life in the valley was not always full of hardship and death. A trip down Windlass Hill brought travelers an oasis on the dry and dusty plains. The cool spring water was the best to be found along the whole trail. Wood was plentiful and the valley offered a natural shelter against the elements.

After 1846, Ash Hollow had what loosely can be termed a post office. It was nothing more than a small trapper's cabin but pioneers tacked letters on its walls hoping that persons heading toward the Missouri River would pick them up and mail them when they returned to civilization.

A night in Ash Hollow was a night to be remembered. One traveler wrote that it had a fair-like atmosphere as men strolled from wagon to wagon trading or selling goods.

After 1850, immigrants had a chance to buy goods at a trading post, if they couldn't barter for them. In 1851, William Lobenstine wrote: "We met a kind of trading post where several articles for the remainder of the journey for reasonable prices can be got."

Asn Hollow carved a niche in history long before the Oregon Trail. Evidence has been found that the French possibly established a post in the valley to trade with the Indians in the 1600's.

Dr. John L. Champe, of the University of Nebraska's Anthropology Department, dug into the area's past by excavating Ash Hollow cave. He wrote that the cave was occupied in the first century A.D. and used heavily between 1450 and 1517.

It is no wonder that the wandering plains Indian took a liking to the valley. Besides serving as a natural shelter, game was always plentiful. Rival tribes fought for land rights and one of the bloodiest battles in recorded Nebraska history pitted the Sioux and Pawnee.

War whoops and the anguished cries of death still echo from that 1835 conflict. On that day 60 Pawnee and 45 Sioux lost their lives. The Pawnee, disheartened by the defeat, abandoned the buffalo hunting grounds and moved 400 miles down river.

The Pawnee must not have stayed away from the hunting grounds too long. In 1838 Father De Smet, an early plains missionary, reported seeing a pile of brightly-painted buffalo bones indicating the Pawnee returned to the valley after their defeat.

Early explorers also found Ash Hollow a welcome relief from the rigors of the Plains. Captain Bonneville described the Hollow in 1832 as "a small but beautiful grove from which issued the confused notes of singing birds, the first since crossing the boundary of the Missouri."

On John Fremont's 1842 expedition he referred to the place by its French equivalent, "coulee de Frenes." How or when Ash Hollow received its name is not known, but first mention of it by name was made in 1832.

A year after Fremont passed through Ash Hollow, Mark Field, a well-known writer of that day, noted that: "The North x ork was now very low, a thin surface of water just creeping over the sand in various threads and branches. Ash Hollow, however, was full of wild cherries with a cool spring running through it."

Bursts of rifle fire and the whir of arrows were common sounds around the yalley. One of the largest conflicts between white man and Indians was fought six miles from the valley's mouth on Blue Water Creek. The Battle of Ash Hollow, as it was called, is considered by many to

NEBRASKAland TRADING- POST

be one of the most ruthless massacres of Indians in western history.

General William S. Harney led 600 men against a party of Sioux blamed for wiping out Lieutenant John Grattan and his men near Fort Laramie, Wyoming.

At dawn on September 3, 1855, Harney's infantry moved up the Blue Water Creek valley toward a Sioux encampment. Earlier the General sent his cavalary through the hills behind the encampment to block the Indians' retreat. As the infantry neared the village, Little Thunder, a Sioux chief, carried a white flag from his camp.

Harney, wanting to stall in order to give his dragoons a chance to take their positions, agreed to parley. In the talks Little Thunder professed friendship to the white man. Disregarding his remarks, the general told the chief that if he could deliver the braves who killed Grattan's party there would be no battle. If not, the chief must be prepared to fight.

With such an impossible request, Little Thunder returned to his people and told them to break camp and retreat. As Harney's infantry advanced, the dragoons came down from the hills to block the Indians' exit. The resulting battle ranged from eight to ten miles up and down the valley. Before it ended, 86 Indians were killed, including women and children, 5 were wounded, and 70 taken captive. Harney's casualties were light, with four killed, seven wounded, and one missing.

After the battle, Harney pulled back to Ash Hollow where he spent six days building a sod fort. He then left a company of infantry to man the fort and watch over the route west. One month later Fort Grattan, as it was called, was abandoned.

However, the Harney massacre did not stop the Indians from pillaging wagons passing through their lands. A band of 15 Cheyenne led by White Crow attacked a Russell, Majors, and Wadell wagon train headed by O. P. Goodwin in July 1857.

In the fight, the Indians split the column in two, taking on the rear of the train. Fifty oxen were killed and the majority of the cargoes destroyed. Two white men joined the dead in the Hollow.

Today, Ash Hollow offers one of the best recollections of what the pioneers had to endure on their journeys west. Nebraska's Game, Forestation and Parks Commission recognizes its value and plans are in the works to preserve its unique history.

A small campground for the modern pioneer nestles in the valley now. Plans are underway to enlarge it so that even more people can spend a night in one of the oldest campgrounds in Nebraska. An information center, along with the restoration of the old "post office" and possibly other buildings, are planned so that visitors can actually see what Ash Hollow was like during its days of glory.

The tall stands of trees, the cool spring water, the birds, and the wild cherries will be the same as they were so long ago. Only a dash of imagination will be needed to transform today's traveler into a wagon boss of yesteryear and his rig into a Conestoga.

Florence, Cottonwood Lake

WHERE-TO-GO

ONCE Omaha was to Florence, Nebraska, what the northern suburb is now to the Gateway City. But times changed and so did the fates of two Nebraska cities. As time passed, Omaha grew and prospered but Florence failed to keep pace and was annexed by its neighbor in 1917. Now, almost half a century later, Florence is on the brink of rewriting her chapter in Nebraska history.

James C. Mitchell first surveyed the town in 1853. A year later, the Florence Land Company was formed and the town was resurveyed. Located near the site of the Mormon Winter Quarters, the town was incorporated in 1855. When the Mormons began trading there, its rush to riches was on.

The fledgling city grew by leaps and bounds. Mormon immigrants remained one of the town's principle sources of income as long trains of the Saints bound for the "Promised Land" put in at Florence to stock up on supplies. In fact, their numbers increased to a point where one store, Megeath and Co., had annual sales of a million dollars or more.

To cash in on the bonanza, other business places sprang up. But none was as influential in the community as the Bank of Florence. A showplace in its day, the bank soon had a nation-wide reputation. It was owned by an Iowa banking firm. And according to Iowa law, banks were not permitted to issue bank notes. Yet, despite its ownership, the Bank of Florence was in Nebraska and free from such decree. Notes flowed hot and heavy off the presses in Florence and streamed through economic America. In fact the notes had such an impact that they coined the name "Florence money", later universally used in connection with wildcat currency.

The vault, seven feet by four feet was floated up the Missouri River and set in place. Then the building was built around the vault. Furnishings were the most ornate and a spanking new sign, which has survived to now, identified the Bank of Florence. For several years the bank flourished and then changed hands. Later, the North Side Bank of Omaha used the building for their offices. Four years ago, the Florence Historical Society took over the building more than 20 years after the North Side Bank vacated.

Through the efforts of the Florence Historical Foundation, in conjunction with the Greater Omaha Historical Society and the State Historical Society, the building and others like it are under-going restoration. The financial burden is borne by the Florence Historical Foundation with some monetary aid from the Greater Omaha Historical Society.

Several other homes and public buildings that have survived are also being investigated for possible restoration. However, some have passed the point of no return and cannot be renovated. Some, on the other hand can be returned to their original splendor. These,along with the bank building, are envisioned as eventually becoming the Florence Historical Park.

Restoration is slow for the old Florence buildings. Much attention is given to detail and detail takes time. In the bank building, the president's chair and desk remain as do a hanging brass lamp and cuspidor. For other interior furnishings an old bank at Ulysses, Nebraska, was gutted and the material taken. Setting an opening date for the building is like predicting the winner of a horse race. There is much to be done before the bank can be opened, and it is nearly impossible to tell how long the work will take. But when it is done and if the Historical Park becomes a reality, it is a safe bet that Florence will once again know the splendor that it gave up so long ago.

For those who would rather do than see, Cottonwood Lake is just the place. Located one mile southeast of Merriman on U.S. Highway 20, the lake is a 36-acre haven for outdoor enthusiasts. Northern, largemouth, bluegill, crappie, and bullheads are pan-ready for the dropping of a lure.

Waterfowl and upland game hunting are also good bets for week-end or week-long outings. And with no boats barred from the lake, this water wonderland is a cinch for fun.

"THE FISHERMAN"