SPEAK UP

INDEX HELPFUL-"Have you ever considered an index or a form of reader's guide for NEBRASKAland? An annual index published in one magazine or in a separate leaflet would be helpful to Nebraskans engaged in research.

"Since I am a junior high school librarian in Kearney, I know how valuable an index would be to my students. We need to find specific information from NEBRASKAland very quickly in school." —Mrs. Harvey Cole, Kearney.

Outdoor NEBRASKAland does not publish an index as such. However, an alphabetical and chronological listing of the magazine articles is kept and a copy will be sent to Mrs. Cole. — Editor.

WALTHILL MEMORIES- While Mrs. Norden and I have joyfully lived in Southern California, for the past 24 years, they can't take Nebraska out of us. I have pulled out my old file "Omaha Indian Legends" and if that isn't something to look at again. I was once a Lutheran missionary in Walthill, Macy, Winnebago, and Decatur.

"I have in my possession some Indian lore which appeared in the Walthill Citizen in the summer and fall of 1937. I also have a page from the "Sioux City Journal Magazine" entitled Homer — Historic Town: Early Indian Village Becomes Typical Nebraska Community. 'Previous to 1800, the very ground on which Homer now rests was the home of 1,000 Omaha (Maha) Indians. On the banks of the Omaha Creek and surrounded by a tall grassland of sunflowers and thistles, the village possessed more than 300 grass-thatched houses. In 1800, a smallpox epidemic struck the village and killed over 400 men, women, and children. As a result, the Omahas burned their village and moved elsewhere.'

"Speaking of Walthill, there is or used to be the Dr. Picotte Hospital on a hill there. Mr. Paul Langenberg, my good banker friend there, and once a famed tennis player, can tell you about the people who built the hospital. I know many Nebraskans who have made good —Link Lyman, former Cornhusker football All-American, lives near here, and Sam Yorty, Mayor of Los Angeles, wrote me that he was born in Lincoln.

"I've sent recent copies of NEBRASKAland to my older brother in Illinois. He is a well-known writer in the Lutheran Church and once held parishes near Ogallala and in Fairbury. My grandfather, Rev. Henry Norden, was pastor on Pebble Creek, between Snyder and Scribner from 1872 to 1874."-Reverend Erwin H. Norden, Pasadena, Calif.

HAPPY HUNTER-"I want to say thank you for your hard work in helping to make Nebraska hunting such a joy for nonresidents. Your hunter's packet which I have received the past few years makes me feel that you really want the nonresident hunter. You and your staff obviously do a better job than other state information offices dealing with the hunting public.

"Hunters have to plan a vacation on a tight budget and we do not want to plan a trip into a state without knowing approximately how much we will be spending in pursuit of our sport."

This writer signed his letter but we can not make out the signature. — Editor

CENTENNIAL SONGS-"I am enclosing a copy of our 'Nebraskaland Centennial' song folio. This was named in honor of Nebraska. It includes such songs as 'Welcome to Nebraskaland,' The Old West Trail,' 'Nebraskaland,' The Thirty-Seventh Star.' I manage a ranch at Holbrook, Nebraska and work much out-of-doors." —Charles G. Schroeder, Holbrook.

SANTA'S STAND-IN

SOMEONE ONCE TOLD me that there is no Santa Claus. And I believed him. That is, I did until about two weeks ago. Knowing good and well that the bearded gent didn't exist, imagine my surprise when I found a letter from him in my mail box.

"Dear Warren," it began. "Just a note to let you know what a spot I'm in and to try to enlist your help."

"Since I know I can trust you to do a good job, I want you to find out what the staff members at NEBRASKAland Magazine want for Christmas. Urgent business demands that I be elsewhere just before the big day. I need your help so drop me a line to let me know if you will be able to handle the situation." Signed: S. Claus, Esq.

I decided to go along with Santa. So I sent back a quick OK, and set outon the NEBRASKAland gift trail.

At the office I spied Lou Ell, NEBRASKAland's chief photographer. Lou looked quite natural standing there, a box Brownie dangling from his neck.

Mr. Ell was in one of his talkative moods. What did he want for Christmas? You name it, he wanted it. For almost a half hour he expounded on the relative merits of a pack frame and pack sack. From there he went on to an all-wool red shirt. Something about it having long tails seemed to be his primary concern. I kept wondering if he wanted to wear it or shoot it. Then I heard all about his hiking boots. He never did say that he wanted a pair, but when he showed me the holes in the pair he had on, I took the hint.

I must have said something to offend the All High of the shutter clickers, though. He started talking about wanting a new knife to whittle up a fuzz stick. At the implication, I wanted to run. But I stayed long enough to find out that it was to start his fire.

Headed up the hall to my office, fondly referred to as the "bull pen", I heard a dull roar coming from that general direction. Evidently, word of my morning's mission had preceeded me and Fred Nelson, our managing editor was torn between skinning me alive or giving me his want list on the spot. The decision must have been a beauty because I think he turned slightly green before he exploded:

"I want a light, 20-gauge over-and-under shotgun," he blurted.

From the tone of voice, I figured it meant, "Either I get it or you're out of a job."

I wrote it in king-size letters at the top of the sheet.

Getting a blast from Mr. Nelson is like being hit by a fast freight, and I was still reeling when he began to discuss optics. Now, I am no authority on telescopes, but I do know if you look in one end, you see out the other. Before Fred was through, I wasn't even sure of that. I didn't know what a double-lever side mount was, but I was positive that Santa had an extra laying around.

I'm not quite sure what the bit was about a spray can of air freshner. I was too busy trying to get away. But I do know it had something to do with photographers contaminating office air space. Mr. Nelson has a nice relationship with photographers. It borders on a Mau-Mau uprising.

When Fred found a new target, I summoned enough nerve to face the world. What do I get? More trouble. Bob Snow, NEBRASKAland's newest associate, was waiting for me. He wanted a .30/06 rifle. Bob had evidently been listening to Fred, so he, too, jumped on the optics band wagon. This time it was much simpler. I had some idea what a 4X scope was, so I wrote down telescopic sight and let it go at that.

Bob also asked for a pair of waders and that was the one that broke my back. I asked, "What size?"

"Eleven and one half A," he answered.

"Narrow," I said.

He mumbled something about maybe I should get them. They would fit my personality. That did it. I headed out of the office for some lunch.

In about a hour, Bud Pritchard ambled through the officer door. Bud is an artist and one of the elite of the outfit. He has to be; he has been 6 NEBRASKAland here so long that no one remembers when he came. Bud wanted a hunting dog. I asked him what kind.

He said, "Short hair!"

I got mixed up and wrote down "hairless". Later I had to change it. Fred is a hairless.

I was out of the office for a while and when I returned, Jack Curran, NEBRASKAland's art director, was waiting for me. He wanted a variable-power scope for his .270. I didn't care if he wanted to put it on his finger, I just wanted to know what he wanted. He also wanted a new pair of field glasses for sporting events. Since Jack is the urban type and calls walking to work a sporting event, I was a bit skeptical. He said he wanted them to replace the ones his wife was always using. Just to check, I called Mrs. Curran. She said that she didn't use the glasses. So I put them down anyway. They are to replace the ones Mrs. Curran doesn't use.

Luckily, I was ready for the next day, because my favorite advertising executive was waiting for me. Ed Cuddy probably does as much for NEBRASKAland as anyone. And it does about that much to him. Being the suave, sophisticated type, Mr. Cuddy was selected to emcee the NEBRASKAland programs at the State Fair this year. He held a cigar in his mouth and had the ashes removed with a bull whip. Ed didn't have to say a word to me. I knew he either wanted more cigars or plastic surgery. I took a chance on the cigars.

There was one individual that I had not talked to; the head man himself. Mr. Schaffer is the editor of NEBRASKAland Magazine and is referred to in the office as MR. SCHAFFER. Through some oversight, obviously on my part, I had not gotten his Christmas requests, so I hurried into his office.

Mr. Schaffer made his list short and to the point. He wanted something that would help his follow-through when he shot at a bird. I opined that a full body cast might work. This comment put the interview on ice, but not before he mentioned a light-weight hunting outfit. I don't know what size, but I'll probably sit up all Christmas eve tailoring it myself; just to make sure that he gets it in case Santa doesn't have Mr. Schaffer's dimensions in his file. Besides, I need my job.

So my help for the worthy cause came to an end. I hope I did a good job, because everyone deserves what they want. But wait a minute. I overlooked myself. Oh well, I'll just settle for the $5.33 it cost me for tranquilizers and to air mail the bulky list to Mr. S. Claus, Esq.

DECEMBER Roundup

A CITY IS often named after an individual but seldom is an individual named after a city. Minden, Nebraska, "The Christmas City," however, has that distinction. Mr. and Mrs. Loyd Larson of Sparta, Wisconsin were traveling through Nebraska during the 1959 holiday season and were attracted to Minden by its Christmas brillance. After attending the pageant, they were so impressed that they vowed to name their first daughter, Minden, and they did. Little Minden Sue Larson arrived in 1964.

Each December, this community in south-central Nebraska lights up the wintry sky with its "Light of the World" pageant, a stirring portrayal of the birth of Christ. This year, two performances of the pageant will be held on December 4 and 11 at the courthouse grounds. In keeping with the Light of the World theme, the dome of the courthouse is ablaze with thousands of colored lights while carillon bells peal out glad tidings of the approaching holiday.

Hemingford, in the northwestern corner of the state, proclaims the same holiday message with its Christmas Diorama, a composition of 30 scenes from the birth of Christ, which no holiday traveler will want to miss.

The Christmas Star which has puzzled astronomers and theological historians for centuries will be featured in "Star of Wonder" —a month-long show at the Ralph Mueller Planetarium in Lincoln.

Other stellar attractions in Lincoln include the traditional performance of "Messiah" by the University of Nebraska Chorale Union on December 11 at the Coliseum.

Holiday excitement claims the sportlight but other activities are not forgotten in NEBRASKAland during this Christmas month. King football gives way to basketball and wrestling as spectator sports,while ice skating, sledding, and skiing enter the scene for those who would rather do than see. Hunting, too, is in the picture, with sportsmen having all of December to get their pheasant and quail. Duck season closes December 13 and the last day for bagging a Christmas goose is December 14.

Wesleyan University in Lincoln hosts a basketball tournament on the second and third days of the month. On December 2 the University of Nebraska swings into action on the hardwood against Oregon University.

Miss Nebraska Centennial and four princesses will be chosen December 6 at Pershing Auditorium in Lincoln. Prizes totaling $10,000 will be presented to the winner over 75 to 90 other girls, according to the State Centennial Commission.

"Art Across America", an exhibit by contemporary American artists, will be displayed at Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha from December 4 through 22.

Bursting with action, December in NEBRASKAland challenges natives and visitors to enjoy a last minute fling of fun and frolic before 1966 becomes a memory.

WHAT TO DO

MOONSHINE AND MYSTERY

I DIDN'T SEE the chuckhole that jostled us around like four corks in the middle of Hurricane Inez. The spare tire on the back of my jeep made like an airplane and landed 10 feet away. Some get their bumps and bruises riding broncos, but I'll guarantee that bronc rider Jim Houston or any other rodeo star would have been hard put to stay aboard our jeep as we four-wheeled it through the rugged Pine Ridge, looking for Whiskey Cave and the legendary Spanish Carvings.

Whiskey Cave is a well-concealed cavern in the Pine Ridge. Back in the 1920's it housed a moonshine 10 NEBRASKAland still that gave the federal agents fits. All the paraphernalia of its illicit past are gone now except for a few telltale relics. Moonshine making was a secretive business and the old boys who dug the cave and fired their stills had to have privacy so the cave is mighty hard to find. Mystery surrounds the Spanish Carvings near Whiteclay. No one is able to explain them, but everybody has theories.

My mom was willing to accompany me on the search and at her suggestion I asked Bobby and Susan Powell, our camping companions and next-door neighbors, to go along. I'm 17 and a high school student at Chadron.

The ultimate objective, according to mom, whom the Powell's call Doris, would be to add to our knowledge of the area and our overall education by visiting the two locations. A side objective included a test to see if my 1948 jeep could hold together on billy-goat terrain.

I had been to Whiskey Cave twice before and knew that the country is mean. My first visit was an accident when I happened to find the cave while hunting. The next time I took mom. We walked in and by the time the two of us reached the cavern, we were too tired to do much exploring.

Our Friday night strategy meeting turned into a mathematical tussle as we tried to estimate how long it would take. I figured the '48 couldn't do any more than 40 miles an hour on the highway and I was almost afraid to guess how long it would take cross-country. We finally settled on an eight-hour guess time for a round trip from our home in Chadron.

The two Powells were knocking at the back door when I rolled out of bed Saturday morning. Gulping a glass of milk, I looked at the map again. We would start by taking U.S. Highway 385 south out of Chadron for five miles, then turn left, and travel down Kings Canyon Road.

We took Kings Canyon Road to the lone tree which marks a right turn and the start of a bumpy trip down what is optimistically called a road.

As the jeep climbed the tree-lined hills and wound through shady ravines, I could not help but flex my trigger finger. This is prime mule deer country and I had hunted these parts before. If my 18-year-old jeep could make it on this trip, I planned to return during deer season with my rifle in the jeep's gun rack.

Mom is a valuable asset on a trip like this. A secretary in the district office of the Nebraska National Forest in Chadron, she makes it a point to know the area and its attractions. Since dad died, she has become both mother and father to me, and is game to try anything.

As the jeep churned up the dusty trail, mom warned that the Forest Service had constructed several water bars to keep the road from washing out. Hitting one at anything over 10 miles an hour could damage the jeep, and us in the bargain. The road lifted us from the pine-covered bluffs and valleys and led up a hill covered with tall prairie grasses. A high line, backdropped by pine-studded hills and a crystal blue sky, cut across the grassy plateau and oriented us toward the sign, marking the entrance to pasture 41-A and Whiskey Cave.

As I pulled to a stop, Susan jumped out of the jeep to show us that a Chadron girl could open a wire gate. Opening it was easy enough, but closing it was a different story. She struggled, pushed, shoved, and turned red trying to slip the top strand of wire over the post. Mom jumped out of the jeep to give the determined 16-year-old a hand. As they struggled to close the gate, I saw a problem the two of them had forgotten to take into account.

When the two managed to slip the wire hoop over the post, they turned to give me smiles of accomplishment. Susan's smile, though, soon turned to a frown when she realized that in the effort to close the gate, she had moved to the wrong side of the fence. Now she would have to scramble under the wire to reach the jeep.

"Now don't get caught in the...". Mom's words trailed off as Susan's jacket was snagged by a barb. The teen-ager backed off and gave it a second successful try.

A grass-covered trail led to the left, but we were there to jeep so I cut across country. It looked like easy going, but as we topped the first hill I changed my mind. The far side dropped steeply into a narrow ravine. To hit the brakes hard on the incline might roll the jeep, so I geared down, and gently tapped the pedal.

When we hit the floor of the ravine, I gave the car full throttle. The opposite bank looked like the first hill on a roller-coaster ride. Halfway up the slope the jeep sputtered, coughed, and died. I had forgotten to put it in four-wheel drive before cutting across country.

I thought of pointing to an imaginary deer, and while everybody had their heads turned, shove the old hill-climber into four-wheel drive. Now that I think about it, I should have. It would have saved a lot of painful ribbing.

With the jeep in four-wheel drive, I began to look for an easier way up. There didn't seem to be any. To add to an already embarrassing situation, I popped the clutch too early on our (Continued on page 53)

DAM GOOD TROLLING

TIREE MEN HAVE to be pretty good friends to be compatible in 16 feet of boat for an entire day. John Shaw, a 66-year-old dirt contractor and farmer from Holstein and Albert Gangwish, 81, of Juniata, go fishing together whenever they get a chance. Carl Thry, a young 60-year-old from Kansas City, Kansas, joins the Nebraskans a couple of times each year. At first listen, the three seem to be pretty much at odds with each other, but you soon learn that it's all part of the fishing game to them.

I saw through the act one day at Harlan County Reservoir near Republican City, Nebraska, when I and Game Commission photographer Dave Becki tailed them in a second boat on a walleye-trolling excursion. We wanted to get the real lowdown on how these old-timers got their reputations for catching fish when other anglers come back skunked.

We tried to pick a decent day, but it was that part of early spring when the weather is warm and sunny for a couple of days or a couple of hours, until wind and rain sweep across the water. A strong wind at Harlan is an impressive experience.

The day we had chosen for our trolling venture dawned sunny and full of promise, but by the time our two boats pulled out of Jack and Bill's Marina on the north shore, a bank of clouds was edging into the picture.

Before we reached the dam for some serious trolling, a chill, sleety rain was falling. The rain was short-lived, but the cold wind and gray sky remained. When the boat tooled up to the rock embankment on the south of the floodgates, John began readying his nine-foot, two-handed spinning outfit with hardly a second thought to the weather.

"Don't let it get you down," he said, "we've got to have some wind, it seems like, for any good fishing. I remember once a couple of us were pulling in some nice walleye. We brought in 27 in an hour. Then, a little cloud came up. Before we knew it, a storm blew in with some awful waves. Four men in another boat upset, but managed to make it to shore. You pretty much have to take it as it comes out here."

Nearly 13,500 surface acres is a lot of lake, and the wind gets a clean sweep at the 12-mile-long impoundment. Completed by the Corps of Engineers in 1952, the dam was built to put a harness on the troublesome Republican River. Aside from flood prevention and irrigation benefits, Harlan County Reservoir offers some fine white bass and walleye fishing, with northern pike and plenty of catfish for good measure. A number of state and federal public use areas dot the shore line. The new federal use permits must be purchased for admission to any of three posted, federally-improved areas.

Two marinas near the dam, one on each side, and four scattered launching ramps provide facilities for boaters. John Shaw keeps his boat at Patterson Harbor, on the south, while Albert Gangwish docks his on the north shore. Which craft the fishermen use depends on the whims of the wind. Albert's boat won the toss for our expedition.

Carl threaded his 10-pound-test line through the guides of his spinning outfit. 'Well, we'd better get going," he jibed, "I think Albert here is waiting for the big one."

Albert grinned, 'I'm going to get one before you do."

Carl flipped out his balsa minnow and parried, "You'll have to hurry. I'm halfway there already and you aren't even out yet."

John selected a gold-colored minnow from his tackle box and held it up for the others to inspect. "I swear by this little fellow. He has a deeper lip than the ones you guys are (Continued on page 55)

EVEN EXPERTS NEED LUCK

AROUND THE Lake Maloney inlet, south of North Platte, Al Barker is known as the fishermen's fisherman. It isn't often a man can out angle Al, but when a woman accomplishes the feat, well, that is rarer than a snowstorm in August. But like Mudville's mighty Casey, Al struck out in late summer and I was there to witness the event.

It all started early one morning when a red pickup truck pulled in next to APs jeep. The 73-year-old fisherman, who had hooked a four-pound drum and four catfish in an all-night fish before I got there, paid little attention as two women and a man got out of the truck and rigged their rods. It was my first go at drum, and the experienced angler was bending my ear with fishing technique.

As we watched seagulls play tag over our rod holders some 20 yards off shore, our fisherman's chit-chat was interrupted by the shrieking of a reel. We turned in time to see one of the ladies scampering down the bank to grab her arcing rod. The hooked fish was playing it smart. He headed down the inlet and was bringing the line dangerously close to the rods on the right. The angler countered by holding her spin-cast outfit high and crossing the line over the rods.

Her shout of "it's a drum" led us over to the struggling fisherwoman. Through the murkey water we saw a silvery drum or sheepshead as they are sometimes called, fin it to the left, then to the right in an effort to shake the hook. The closer to shore, the more furiously the drum fought. Evidently, somebody forgot to tell the fish that the battle was almost over.

With the pound-and-a-half drum beached, Al, who had fished with the trio before, introduced me to the fisherwoman, Gertrude Lannin, her husband Ray, and Bernadeen Trauthen, all residents of North Platte. Bernadeen offered us a cup of steaming hot coffee and since a cool wind was whipping across the lake we were happy to accept the invitation.

"Fishing should pick up," Al optimistically reported as he sipped his coffee. "The wind's out of the northwest and the water is warming up."

He couldn't give us an explanation why the fish bite better then, but the four of us knew better than to contradict the experienced angler. He had fished Lake Maloney almost every day since its opening in 1943, and had studied her ways as if he were cramming for a final examination.

Al had barely finished his fishing forecast when Gertrude pointed to her twitching rod. Suddenly, it took a final bow, and the North Platte fisherwoman quickly put down her red cup and scampered down the bank. The one-pound drum put on quite a show and Al told me drum have a habit of turning broadside as they come in, making the angler think he has a whale on, instead of a small drum.

As Gertrude banked the fish; the score at the end of the first inning stood at Fisherwomen —two, Fishermen — zero.

As Gertrude struggled to remove the deeply embedded hook, Ray leaned over and confidentially whispered, "She use to hate to put worms on a hook because she was afraid to hurt them. She's over that now, so I just come along to watch her catch fish."

Evidently, his wife held little fear of hurting the worms now for she hooked the bait, and whipped out a good cast. According to Al, worms would bring the smaller drum, carp, and suckers. We were going after big drum and catfish with the silver-colored gizzard shad which Al called skipjack.

Leaving the coffee and the pleasurable conversation behind, Al and I decided to make a rod check. Two cleaned No. 6 hooks on his two bait-casting rigs stood as mute evidence that at least one fish had been crafty enough to sneak a free dinner. Al reached into a coffee can, wired to the rod holder, grabbed two more skipjacks, and tore off their tails.

"Sheepshead likes skipjacks with their tails off," he explained as he made a cast. "Makes it easier for them to take the bait."

While checking my rod, Al told about some experiments he had conducted with the bait. He had put a few skipjacks in a tank with a predator fish.

"I don't know why, but when the skipjacks flared their tails, the predator fish veered off. That's strange because a fish takes a baitfish head end to. Since then I've "de-tailed" the bait and it seems to work."

"The way these sheepshead are stealing our bait, I reckon we better get us some more skipjacks," he suggested as he picked up a dip net.

"Drum like the little fellows in the summer, but it won't be long before I'll have to start using worms or crawdads."

"I may be getting old..." splash — the net hit the water with an end result of several flopping skipjacks in the mesh, "... but I tell you I've got guys, 30 years younger than myself, asking me to catch their bait. Now I don't mind, but I figure half the fun of fishing is trying to outsmart the bait so you can outsmart the fish."

As we sat on the bank watching our rods bounce in the wind, Bernadeen came over to ask Al if she could try the fishing hole we were in. The old fisherman gave her the go ahead.

The drum expert explained that the water is pretty shallow until you hit the channel, then it drops off quickly to about a depth of 20 feet. He warned that a stranger to the inlet should carefully feel his way through the water or he could find himself in trouble.

Bernadeen had just planted her rod next to Al's when my spin-casting outfit took a bow. In a split second I was on my feet and splashing through the water towards it. As I began the wind-in my excitement soon turned to disappointment. Either the under-current or a fish had dragged my terminal gear into a snag and I lost the sinker, and two hooks.

As I dug through my tackle box, looking for another weight, Al squatted down and handed me one of his homemade sinkers. The weight, pounded flat and at least four inches long, went a good 10 ounces. Al explained that the heavy sinker would hold in the swift undercurrent of the inlet.

Rigging two hooks and a sinker on a line is usually a simple task, but earlier that morning Al showed me his special way of doing it. The North Platte angler ties the sinker on the end of the line and ties two hooks, six inches apart, up on the monofilament to make it look like one minnow is chasing the other.

As Al and I talked about everything from politics to farming, he continually glanced over his shoulder to watch the other anglers. Gertrude was still the kingpin, pulling in small but good-eating-size drum with satisfying regularity.

A loud "I've got one" made me look up. Bernadeen had just grabbed her 18 NEBRASKAland shore rod as a pesky fish on the other end attempted to strip her reel. She put a quick stop to that, however, as she pumped the rod, then took up the slack. The fish clung to the bottom, and the way the line was cutting back and forth through the water, it appeared as if the fish was looking for a king-sized snag to snap the line.

The lady angler handled the situation like a pro as she pulled the drum from the water. Right then, I learned why the fish are called drum. Bernadeen's catch made a queer drumming sound as he hit dry land. Some say the sound is produced by the drum's air bladder. Others believe the heavy teeth in the drum's throat make the noise. Still others contend that the sound is produced by both organs. Scientists have found drum skeltons in ancient Indian villages indicating that the fish once weighed between 150 and 200 pounds. The state record is 23 pounds. But with the score now; Fisherwomen —eight and Fishermen—zero, Al and I were ready to settle for anything that would tip the scales at anything over half a pound.

The old man wore a discouraged look as he tallied up the neighbors' catch. Someone once said a good fisherman is made up of three parts skill, two parts patience, and five parts luck. Al had the skill and patience on his side, now all he needed was luck.

The drum has two easily detached bones in his head that were considered lucky stones back in my days of swimming holes and cane poles. If we were going to overcome the lead the fisherwomen had built up, we were going to need a carload of lucky stones, plus a few well-blessed rabbits' feet.

Al suddenly brightened as he chuckled, "You know I don't smoke, and I don't drink. The only bad habit I have is fishing. I'd just as soon be out here fishing any day, than be in town."

Al got up from an old wooden fold-up chair and walked over to the edge of the water. As he ran one foot back and forth through the water he continued, "I don't care if I catch fish; it's being out here that counts. Lots of people sit at home and complain about their hurts. If they'd keep busy fishing they would soon forget about their ailments."

Al gives most of his fish away to other fishermen or to friends in town. Bernadeen got the four-pound drum he caught the night before. The North Platte housewife fillets the fish, soaks them (Continued on Page 50)

THE LADY DOESN'T MISS

A HAZY CURTAIN of autumn fog draped the Niobrara River Valley as the jeep-borne hunter watched and waited, mentally condemning the misty dawn. From high on a south-lying hill the hunter could see the faint outlines of the English Willows which marked the stream in the valley below.

The hunter mused the sight momentarily before dropping the four-wheel-drive jeep into low range I A ^\ 1/ to ease down an east slope and out of g^ f>\ / J J the hay meadow. Halfway down, an unexpected ruckus disturbed the morning silence. It could be a deer, breaking from his bed. Amid mounting excitement, the driver cut the steering wheel sharply left, to point the green workhorse toward a nebulous draw.

There he was. A good buck standing broadside in the brush. Softly braking the jeep to a whoa, the hunter slid from the seat to begin the stalk. Seconds passed like minutes as the crouched hunter inched into gun range, knowing that the cussed fog was now a blessing.

Reaching a prime position, the stalker knelt, bringing the bolt-action .30/06 up with the smoothness that comes with practice. Quickly the crosshairs of the telescope sight settled on the buck's reddish-tan neck. The hunter curbed a growing impatience with the ritual of an experienced marksman—relax, check safety, take a breath, exhale some, hold, and squeeze. As the shot reverberated from the haze-hidden buttes, the disappointed hunter saw dust kick up behind the buck. Quickly, the hunter grasped the bolt handle to rack in a second round. But it wouldn't budge. There was nothing to do but watch the buck angle up the hillside and vanish into the fog. Finally, the frustrated hunter worked the bolt handle up and cleared the jammed rifle. Time had been lost, but the deer hadn't seemed too frightened by the blast so the hunter walked cautiously across the draw hoping for another chance. Halfway up the opposite hill stood the buck, unafraid in the false security of the haze.

Ba-Room!

The buck jerked and crumpled as the slug slammed home. Mrs. Bess Hickey had filled her second deer permit of the 1965 season. The previous day, the 68-year-young hunter had filled her Pine Ridge permit with a one-shot doe, just north of the Niobrara River. To the brownhaired, five-foot, two-inch Mrs. Hickey, there was nothing unusual about her feat except that her buck had only one three-pointed horn. Such (Continued on page 51)

THERE NEVER WAS a man, who becoming fed up with being an also-ran in the rat race of life hasn't yearned for an island all his own. A chunk of isolation where he could be the hermit of the hill and a master of his own destiny. Today, such islands are in pretty short supply, and what with legal requirements for homesteading, the international situation, and a few other minor obstacles barring the way, most of us aren't going to get our own island or even a sandbar. So we have to find a substitute. Nebraska has a pretty good one called Niobrara State Park up on the north-eastern border of the state. It's a sure enough island with water on all sides and a splash in the middle.

There aren't any grass-skirted beauties dancing in the moonlight on this island, but that's no great detriment. You can always get an eyeful of scantily-clad maidens scampering over the greensward toward Niobrara's swimming pool. Besides a modern bikini is more revealing.

You won't hear any restless combers pounding the beach, because at last look the Niobrara and Missouri rivers weren't surging up any restless combers. But you'll see a lot of water in and around the park, and with a little imagination, ripples can be your white-topped breakers.

No island is complete without a lagoon, so Niobrara has one. It's not exactly a blue-water lagoon since the moisture up in that neck of the woods isn't partial to blue. In fact, most of the time, Niobrara's lagoon is a bit on the coffee-colored side. You can't skim its surface in an outrigger or spear calico fish off its coral reef

because the lagoon isn't geared to outriggers —too small and too twisty —but you can have a lot of fun with a rowboat. As for coral reefs, the last one in Nebraska disappeared a million or so years ago, when the earth got tired of being an old soak and hung itself out to dry. As for spearing, be careful, there are certain restrictions on it and the authorities get mighty testy if they aren't obeyed. But there's always a bullhead or two to catch and once in a while a grouchy old bass will come along to disturb your reveries. You can avoid such jarring interruptions by fishing with an unbaited hook. A perfect solution to the multiple problems of reading a book, fishing, and loafing at the same time.

If your dream "druthers" include a grass-thatched hut complete with hammock and reed mat —forget it. Niobrara State Park hasn't got such, but it does have 15 housekeeping cabins strewn around its 408 acres. They have a touch of romance though. Each one is named after the Indian tribes that once called the area home. If you've got eight bucks in your dungarees, you and the family can stay overnight in the Ponca, Santee, Sioux, or any other hogan.

There's space for the back-to-the-primitive-with-a-vengeance types who can't be happy with anything more substantial than a one-six-teenth-inch of canvas between them and Mars. Fireplaces, firewood, and conveniently spotted wells make their lot a little easier. The modern snails who call themselves trailerites will find slots complete with electrical outlets where they can park their aluminum and plywood shells.

Niobrara State Park is just about as universal a park as you can find. Dad will find it just rough enough to appeal to his man-among-men ego, the kids have a chance to be the little savages they are, and the lady of the family will find enough conveniences to make the whole experience comfortable if not exactly plush.

That rustling you'll hear in the dark hours isn't the shade of old Buffalo Chip coming to collect an overdue scalp or the palm trees whispering in the tropical breeze. It's the plain old Nebraska wind making time with the cottonwoods. There's a lot of trees on Niobrara island.

If that isle of yours has to have a "long house" where the friendly natives can get together to settle their communal affairs, Niobrara can fill the bill. There are shelters scattered around the grounds that can accommodate quite a group. The headman at the park can fix up reservations.

For those exhausting and exasperating people who must always be doing something, there's a golf course. A nine-hole, sand-green layout is one of the park's offerings. The course is short and flat but it's fine for releasing frustrations by clobbering the bejabbers out of a golf ball. A slice can put you in some rough rough.

Islands usually have one disadvantage. They are devilish hard to get to. Miss the trading schooner or the pearling boat and you're going to be beached for six months or so until another boat heads your way. That won't happen at Niobrara. Nebraska Highway 12 goes right through the park. If you have to lay in supplies, the town of Niobrara is only a mile east and it has about everything you'll ever need. But the traders there won't accept copra or pearl shell in exchange for their goods. They have a thing for greenery that crinkles and metal that clatters.

All islands have a "history" which is usually 99 per cent fancy and one per cent fact. Niobrara is no exception. It has a past, but most of it gets pretty garbled when it starts floating around the Mormon Canal, one of the prime attractions in the park. The Latter Day Saints are supposed to have dug the lengthy ditch in 1846 when a few of them left Winter Quarters in Florence, Nebraska, and went north at the invitation of the Ponca Indians. The Saints are supposed to have planned for a mill there and needed water to power the stones, so they dug the canal.

It's a pretty tale and it's too bad it can't stand scrutiny. There were some Mormons in the area at one time but they stayed only three months. They arrived in the winter with little else than the clothes on their backs. Anyone who has ever tried to gouge Nebraska's tough old hide in the dead of winter with a pick and shovel will tell you that it can't be done by a handful of men who are gut-shrunk from hunger and sick with cold. It's a cinch, the Mormons didn't dig the big ditch but a monument on its banks does commemorate the ones who died there.

You see,Niobrara island has been a plaything of the rivers for an eon or two, so the Mormon Canal is really an old flowage route. But, a wealth of fine Indian lore does abound in the area and it's too bad that more of it isn't researched, checked out, and preserved for the benefit of both reds and whites.

Niobrara island has always belonged to everybody and nobody. Back in the days when all of Nebraska was still the "back 80" of America, the U.S. government owned all of the land. For some reason, Niobrara island was never pre-empted or homesteaded so it stayed in the public domain. In 1899, Congress gave the land to the town of Niobrara for a city park. Some 31 years later, the town gave it to the state. At first, it was a game preserve and later a park. During the Threadbare Thirties, the Civilian Conservation Corps did a lot of work there. The park is now administered and maintained by the Nebraska Game, Forestation, and Parks Commission.

First order of business after arrival on an island is exploration and Niobrara State Park is a natural for that. A network of roads can take the lazy where they want to go, while a bridle trail serves those who want a more lofty view of things. Saddle horses are available for trail rides. People who haven't forgotten what legs are for will find plenty of walking opportunities.

There aren't any pirate coves, taboo crypts, or buried gold on Niobrara island,but there is treasure aplenty for the eyes. A lot of the park is still plumb natural with trees and flowers, bushes,and beasts. Oak, willow, and cottonwood are the mainstays of the tree canopy but beneath them, a riot of shrubs, grasses, wild grape vines, and creeper find root to give the place its primitive and miles-away-from-civilization atmosphere.

No green and yellow parrots flit through the branches to racket you out of the sack at dawn, because all of Nebraska's parrots are the cage variety but the place does have an abundance of blue jays and squirrels and they can be tolerably noisy come morning. Rabbits, muskrats, opposums, and deer will see you before you see them, but if you are quiet and watchful they'll put on an entertaining show. Your bird guide book will be well thumb-smudged before you learn to identify all the feathered strangers you'll meet at the park.

Like all islands, Niobrara State Park is sensitive to the changing seasons. It may be a little slow greening up in the spring because it's so far north but its pussy willows unveil their catkins on just about the same schedule as the rest of Nebraska's willows. The early flowers may be just a little more hesitant about flashing their saucy defiance of the departing winter but they get around to it. Springs rains are sometimes a problem at Niobrara, since the roads aren't paved and a long soaking can turn them into miry traps but this doesn't happen very often.

Summer is probably the best of seasons at the park. There's enough shade to stop the straight-down sun from roasting you brown while enough cool wafts up from the water to temper the blistering winds. Summer is a lazy, do-nothing kind of a season anyway so you might as well enjoy it in Niobrara State Park.

Autumn is a pure delight, for the foliage seems eager to exchange its summer green for the exuberant colors of fall. Sumac red, oak russet, and willow yellow are the primaries but there are thousands of variants to boot. The air seems to take on a special tang when October takes over the calendar. Even the dour old Missouri River, who is somewhat of a grouch among rivers, catches the contagion of the season and lets a little sparkle creep into its putty-colored waters.

Niobrara's winterscape is the sum of its many parts. Snow, ice, water, evergreen, and sky create studies in somber that are as appealing in the subdued way as the scintillating beacons of Indian Summer.

Most of us will never be lucky enough to "go native" on our particular chunk of water-bounded real estate, so we have to settle for what we can get. As a compromise, the island that is Niobrara State Park isn't half bad.

THE SUNKEN FLEET

CAPTAIN JAMES YORES, master of the stern-wheeler, Bertrand, didn't have any more worries than the average Missouri River skipper of 1865. In fact, Captain Yores felt pretty good. His cargo of quicksilver (mercury) and whiskey promised a pretty profit when it arrived at its ultimate destination of Fort Benton, Montana Territory, and the gold diggings there. The quicksilver was going into the mines, and the whiskey, all pre-Civil War stuff, was going into the miners. Reportedly, the Bertrand was also carrying $40,000 worth of gold and silver specie in its strongbox.

Of course, Captain Yores had a good many hundred miles of ornery river to navigate before he got to port, but that didn't bother him. He had years of river boating behind him and a staunch craft under him. The Bertrand was a typical stern-wheeler of her day, 160 feet long, 30 feet in the beam, and shallow drafted. She was a wood burner with plenty of cargo space and room for about 20 passengers. The quicksilver was stowed in earthenware carboys and the 5,000 gallons of whiskey in oaken casks. Besides deck officers and crew, the Bertrand carried two pilots and two engineers.

Captain Yores was a realist. He knew just how mean the Missouri River could be when she had a mind to, but like all men who are on speaking terms with instant disaster, she was never going to get him or his boat. If anybody had told the skipper that he and the Bertrand would steam into a kind of left-handed immortality, Captain Yores would have fed him to the catfish.

Steamboating on the Missouri River in the old days was a high-risk business. From 1842, when the steamer, "Pirate", struck a snag, south of Bellevue, and sank within 15 minutes, to 1862, the Missouri River claimed 46 boats in the stretch from Rulo to Sioux City. Most of the boats and cargoes were total losses. A good many lives were lost, but in those days human life was pretty cheap.

The Bertrand cleared St. Louis in mid-March and nosed north through the swollen, angry waters of the Missouri. Aboard were two pilots who knew the river as well as any men could know a river that never stayed put for more than 24 hours at a stretch. Yores had things pretty well figured out. It would take about two months to raise Fort Benton, allow a week for unloading, turnaround, and restowing, then down river with the current helping. A few stops for fuel and scattered shipments, and then on to St. Louis. If all went well, captain and crew would be home to celebrate the Fourth of July.

On April 1, 1865, April Fools Day, the Bertrand was pushing north out of Portage La Force, near the river village of De Soto, Nebraska Territory. The river was acting like a housewife with an overpowering urge to move things around. First, she had to rearrange a new channel or two, pile up a few new sandbars, carve away a bank or so, and toss around a few snags. Just to make the job complete, she stirred things up on the bottom to make the water just a little muddier.

The Bertrand was feeling her way along when the pilot noticed that a once-overhanging bank had cut away and fallen into the river to form a dangerous bar. Yores and the pilot swung hard aport to avoid the bar, unaware of a greater peril.

Some say the pilot saw the black snag that went in under the bow, but seen or not, the snag didn't care. It sheared the Bertrand's hull like a wire through cheese. Within seconds, the craft began to ship an alarming amount of water.

Passengers began to panic and the captain and his officers had to get a little heavy-handed to sort things out and get the people into life boats The last DECEMBER, 1966 33   boat was barely afloat when the Bertrand's smokestacks sizzled beneath the angry water.

Once ashore, the crew lost no time in alerting the village of De Soto but most of the townspeople laughed it off as a good April Fool's joke. By the time the landlubbers were convinced that the Bertrand really did go down, all trace of the boat had vanished.

There wasn't any salvage equipment available at the moment and even had there been, it is doubtful if Captain Yores would have permitted any tampering with the sunken craft. He would rather wait and hope that the owners would try to raise it themselves and thus save the stiff salver's share. The Missouri had other ideas.

As time passed, the river got tired of its old ways and moved off east into a new channel. The Bertrand remained buried in sand and silt with each change of the river adding more and more obscurity to its grave.

But a few people remembered the Bertrand and decided to wait it out until the law of abandonment took over. Once it was in effect, the Bertrand belonged to the man who could find it. But the river wasn't about to yield its prize catch and took some sneaky steps to protect it.

No one could remember exactly where the Bertrand went down since the river had changed course dozens of times since the sinking. Also, the town of De Soto had withered away; its one-time residents scattered to the four winds. Still, a few adventurous souls attempted to find the lost craft. First attempts were so crude that many of them were laughable. Some searchers tried to locate the Bertrand by drilling holes with an earth augur. One seeker hit a fence post and announced that he had the Bertrand.

As time went on more sophisticated methods were tried. Everything from divining rods to electronic mine detectors were brought in but the Bertrand has foiled them all. Still, the search continues on an on-and-off basis.

In 1936, the Bertrand's cargo of quicksilver was valued at $100,000, enough money to keep salvers searching. What the mercury would be worth today is anybody's guess but a small flask of the stuff is selling at $35 and the Bertrand had carboys of it. There's a chance that some of the carboys may still be intact, but even if the mercury has spilled away, it is practically indestructable and could be recovered from the mud and silt. But mercury is hard stuff to find. It is very heavy, gives off no magnetic field, and is relatively hard to see. Some long-forgotten catfish probably had a monumental binge on the whiskey and it is doubtful if it is still around.

The Bertrand is one of the best known of the Missouri River wrecks but there are others, and their rotting hulks dot the river and what used to be the river from Rulo to Sioux City. Few people can remember the exact spots where the boats went down. Besides, the Missouri has an aggravating habit of covering her tracks by shifting everything around, so there is a good chance that some of the steamboats may be 30 feet under a cornfield or even beneath a super highway by this time.

In 1897, Captain H. M. Chittenden authored a report on Missouri River steamboat wrecks for the U. S. government. A well-known river captain, Chittenden found the researching pretty tough and had to depend upon hearsay for some of his information. Anyway, he listed 295 steamers lost on the Missouri River from 1819 to 1897. Oddly enough, sinkings, burnings, and other boat disasters didn't warrant much space in the newspapers of the 1800's. A sinking that would get banner headlines today was lucky if it got half a paragraph in the old days. Possibly, river disasters were so common that newsmen didn't consider them important. Also, owners and captains weren't very anxious to scare shippers and passengers off the river and may have slipped the editors and reporters a little hush money.

Snags of course were the big killers of the river, but there were plenty of other perils. Floating ice was a major hazard and took 25 of Chittenden's list of sunken boats. Fire knocked off 25 more. Submerged rocks collected 11, and low bridges, a very real danger to the high-stacked steamboats, wrecked 10. Explosions, storms, treacherous eddies, collisions, and swampings accounted for most of the others. Fourteen boats on the list of the lost carry the terse notation: "Lost. Cause unknown."

In a majority of cases a boat on the bottom stayed there. Occasionally, owners would raise and repair their crafts, but often it was cheaper to buy another boat. Most of the craft and cargoes were insured and that led to a nice little ploy by owners and captains who needed a fast buck.

A captain, in debt to his ears, never had any trouble finding a convenient snag on the Missouri River. If it didn't do a complete job on the fragile hull, an axe or two could. For 15 minutes work, a captain or owner could be back on a financially even keel until a poker game or not-so-fast filly torpedoed him. A few bucks distributed among the crew bought a lot of silence, and even if it didn't who'd listen to a drunken deckhand, anyway?

One of the more interesting wrecks on the Missouri River is the Cora II. She performed yeoman service on the lower river during the Civil War and in one three-months period brought her owners a tidy profit of $40,000. After the war, she entered the up-river trade and made several trips along the river's entire navigable length. A snag did her in just outside of Omaha, her next port of call. It was an ironic fate for a boat that had dodged Confederate hardware for most of the long war.

Threats of river pirates and Indian attacks could titillate passengers' imaginations but they weren't real hazards on the river. Pirates were a little reluctant to tangle with a captain and crew who took a dim view of boarding attempts. Indians might ambush a wooding party and collect a few scalps or ride down a party of survivors as they hoofed it overland, but for the most part, Indians left the steamboats alone.

One steamer, the Robert C. Campbell, did get into a brush with the Indians about 1,200 miles north of Omaha in the summer of 1863. The Indians, about 600 strong, had followed the Campbell for three days professing friendship for the white and urging a parley. When a yawl with six men in it put over to talk, the Indians killed three men and wounded a fourth. Flushed with success, the braves went after the boat.

They didn't know the Campbell was practically a gunboat complete with cannon. The fight lasted three hours and when it was over about 80 Indians stayed behind permanently. After that, the word got around that steamboats were a little too prickly for easy pickings.

Man has turned the old Missouri tiger into a pretty tame pussycat by shackling her with dikes, levees, and dredges until she no longer pounces on boats and men. This is good, this is progress, but something fine, something great is gone now. Gone to join the sunken fleet below the river's murky waters. It's called adventure.

GOOD TIME PHEASANTS

THE SKY BRIGHTENED as we stopped at a farmyard to get ready for our first-of-the-season go at pheasants. Bits of frost on the tumbleweeds flashed a welcome as we fanned out through the heavy cover. Duke, the setter, was eager to work off a year's inactivity and hit the field full out, anxious to wind a bird. The excited dog wasn't any hotter to hunt than we were. It had been a long time since the four of us had cracked a cap at old "Jawn Ringneck".

Several hens flushed as we plodded through the heavy overgrowth of an old creek bed. A skulking cock couldn't stand the pressure and exploded skyward. We shot, and the bird glided down, lit running, and vanished in the brush. Duke slammed across a sandy wash and nosed through the brush, apparently unaware that a ringneck was down.

My companion, Dr. Ken Dalton, whistled the dog back to where the pheasant had hit. Duke gave the spot a perfunctory sniff or two and took off. By experience, we knew that a canine nose is keener than the human eye, so we let him go. The setter explored a tangle, froze for a second, and pounced. Seconds later, he backed out of the weeds with the protesting rooster in his jaws.

Four of us, Ken Dalton, Ron Anderson, F. J. Brown, and myself were on a first-day hunt around Albion, Nebraska. Ken and Ron are M.D's, while Brown is a dentist. I'm a teacher.

Except for Ron who lives in Columbus, all of us are from Genoa, Nebraska. We had looked forward a long time to opening day and now we intended to enjoy it to the limit. None of us intended to prove anything or try any experiments on the hunt. Hit or miss, we were out for a good time.

Dr. Dalton is more or less the honcho of our group, since he owns the dog and a station wagon big enough to store all our gear, haul a dog, and accommodate four hunters. Dentist Brown, who probably cut his own teeth on a shotgun, is the ace shot. His 30-inch, full-choke, slide-action seems to be equipped with a special radar when it comes to grounding pheasants. Ken and Ron shoot 12-gauge over and unders, while I carry a 20-gauge pump.

After stowing the first bird, we waved Duke out and continued coursing the buffalo grass and bluestem of the soil bank. Duke covered about 70 yards and froze. Dr. Anderson hurried up, but the rooster was quicker. He roared out of the cover and headed for the next county before the hunter got in range. We were close to the fence line when the setter rattled out another rooster. Ken swung, touched her off, and tumbled the bird to the grass. Off on the flank, we heard two barks from Dr. Brown's ancient corn sheller and were not too surprised when he rejoined us, carrying two nice roosters.

"Dog must have spooked these out of the Russian thistles over on the west edge," he grunted. "Let's try another soil bank."

Heeding his suggestion, we loaded up and headed for the next cover. As we rode, Brownie discussed Duke and his bird sense.

"He's only two years old but he's shaping up. Give him more time to get acquainted with us and he'll do a fine job. He's 'birdy' now and all he needs is more experience."

The new field had plenty of scattered sign and we knew it concealed some birds. Duke was more than mildly interested, so we formed a rough scrimmage line and started out. Twice the setter stopped as he picked up vagrant scents on the eddying air, but they were not strong enough (Continued on page 50)

CHRISTMAS Game Dinners

VISIONS OF SUGAR plums may be standard Christmas fare, but NEBRASKAland dishes up its own brand of yuletime delicacies to provide extra tasties for the holiday season. Some of the finest meats in the world —venison, game birds, and waterfowl — provide dining par excellence in Nebraska.

For the most varied and perhaps most delicious of wild meats, game birds are hard to beat. This palate-tempting fare from the wild ranges from the tiny quail to the magnificent wild turkey. In fact, flavors of game birds varies almost as much as the sport of hunting itself.

The quality of meat on the table depends greatly on the care it receives in the field. For best results, all game should be hung from 5 to 14 days at temperatures just above freezing to permit "seasoning" or aging to cut the strong "gamy" taste that some people find objectionable. Game birds or animals that have been badly shot up should be soaked for several hours in a saltwater mixture before cooking. In fact, many experts recommend soaking all game in a cold-water brine — about two tablespoons of salt to a quart of water— overnight to remove blood clots and strong flavors.

Age often determines the cooking time of game. If pheasants and grouse, for example, can be lifted by the mandible and nothing breaks, they are mature birds and will not be as tender. Old birds require a longer siege with the stove. In the early part of the season, young ducks will have a slight continuation of the stem of the tail feathers. These will extend about Vs-inch beyond the fibers.

Venison ranks high as choice wild meat. But, because it is rather dry, the addition of suet and butter when roasting, broiling, or frying enhances its delightful tang. Removal of most of the fat will greatly reduce venison's "gamy" taste. Without the natural fats, deer meat should be larded with salt pork for roasting. Otherwise, it will become dry and tough and lose its characteristic gusto.

But, action speaks louder than words. So, on to the especially-selected recipes at hand. Here is a bountiful array of gourment recipes guaranteed to turn that Christmas dinner into an Epicurean's feast. Many of these recipes are suitable for domestic meats. For example, chicken can be substituted for pheasant when Mr. Ringneck is out of season. In any case, tie on your apron, roll up your sleeves, and tip off the family that the "best is yet to come".

*ROAST PHEASANT 1 pheasant 1 onion chopped 1 quart boiling water 4 strips bacon 1 cup chopped celery 1 cup water salt and pepper Clean pheasant. Place in pan and pour boiling water over it and into body cavity and then drain. Place celery and onion, or favorite dressing, in bird but do not sew up or truss. Rub with salt and pepper, then place DECEMBER, 1966 39   in roasting pan with bacon across breast. Add one cup of water for basting and roast in moderate oven, 350° for two hours or until tender.

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA.. . WALLEYE

ABOUT THE FIRST of April when anticipation for the first fishing trip is running high among ^ Nebraska anglers, a small column will appear in newspapers across the state. Tucked among the box scores of the exhibition baseball games in the sports section reads a short caption, "The walleye are hitting at Harlan County Reservoir." This statement heralds the arrival of spring and another fishing season to Nebraska.

In the large flood control and irrigation reservoirs of southwest Nebraska the walleye reigns supreme among fishermen. Although lacking the flourish and glamour of the rainbow trout when hooked, the walleye gives a short, hard, bulldog-like scrap. His scientific handle is Stizostedion canadense. Walleye are members of the perch family and are first cousins to the sauger.

Walleye spawning activity takes place shortly after the ice cover is gone and the water temperature reaches 46-50°. In Nebraska this occurs in April. During spawning, large numbers of mature walleye concentrate in areas where shallow stretches of coarse rock rubble are found. In reservoirs, this type of habitat is found along the face of the dam in the riprapping material.

The spawning act is primarily a night-time activity. A female, followed closely by several smaller males, will scatter her eggs randomly over the rubble areas. Then the eggs are immediately fertilized by the emission of milt, a thin, milky liquid, from the males. Spawning takes place in the shallows, often in water less than a foot deep and is accompanied by a great deal of threshing and splashing about. After spawning the adult fish return to deeper water and pay no attention to the eggs or to the newly hatched fry. Walleyes in Nebraska waters may spawn for two weeks or longer. However, major activity normally occurs within a week's time.

When the walleye are concentrated and spawning good early fishing can be anticipated. Most fish are taken by daytime trolling or casting along the spawning areas.

The number of eggs may vary considerably depending on the size and condition of each individual fish. Generally, 25,000 to 30,000 eggs per pound of body weight is the rule. Nature has endowed all fish species with a tremendous reproductive ability in order to perpetuate each species. Only a small percentage of the eggs laid hatch and even fewer of the resulting fish reach maturity.

After laying, the eggs hatch in about 12-14 days, depending on water temperature. Newly-hatched fry will absorb their yolk sac in three or four days. When this is gone they start feeding on tiny plankton. When the young walleye reach two to three inches they are ready to feed on live fish, a diet they follow the rest of their lives.

Harlan County Reservoir, Lake McConaughy, and Lake Maloney offer the best walleye fishing in Nebraska. The other Republican Valley and Platte Valley storage reservoirs along with portions of the unchanneled Missouri River have fair walleye populations.

Trolling is probably the most popular method of fishing for walleye. Spinners, spoons, or plugs seem to be equally successful, but many fishermen add a night crawler to the rear treble hook to make their lures doubly attractive. Shore-line casting with doll flies is also productive. Of course, the old standby of still-fishing with night crawlers or minnows can't be beat according to many anglers.

The best walleye fishing in Nebraska is from mid-April to the first of July. Fishing is slow during July and August and picks up again in September and October. Though fall walleye fishing is usually excellent few Nebraskans take advantage of it. Compared to the more northern states, ice fishing for walleye is very slight here.

Come April, however, the word "walleye" again quickens the heartbeat of many a winter-weary fisherman.

MANAGEMENT IN DANGER

WLDLIFE MANAGEMENT is an expensive business. And, it becomes increasingly difficult and costly as civilization advances and encroaches on the land. Who pays the bill? Those who reap the benefits and enjoy the "fruits" of management carry the load. They do it through their permits, which are in reality a tax for permission to hunt, fish, or trap. They also do it through the federal excise tax on sporting equipment. This excise tax is collected by Uncle Sam and distributed to the states through various federal cost-sharing programs.

In our earlier history, there was no such thing as wildlife management in the United States. Man harvested the abundant animals at will for food, for sale, and for profit. There were no controls, and the wanton slaughter led to the near-extinction of such big game as the buffalo. The story of the American bison is as well-known as it is tragic. Great numbers were killed for the mere sport of shooting a big-game animal. The hide hunters finished the job and now only a few small herds of bison still exist. Other big-game species also suffered wanton slaughter. Ultimately, the situation became so bad, it could no longer be tolerated.

Conservationists began raising a furor, and the question of who could pay the bill for proper management arose. The sportsmen answered, "We will " Last year, American hunters and anglers'spent $4 billion on their sport and 3.5 per cent or approximately $140 million went for license fees. The permit cost is a minor 44 NEBRASKAland outlay in the overall expenditure of the gunner or fisherman, but it is vitally important to the preservation and proper management of the resource.

The permit fee is a tax levied for the purpose of financing the management of wildlife. In the face of continually intensifying use of the land for all sorts of purposes, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain habitat that will sustain, much less increase, wildlife. There is only one good hope for American wildlife — adequately-financed public management of resources.

Nebraska has established a system that works. This is demonstrated by the restoration of the deer, antelope, and turkey, the preservation of the grouse, and the introduction of the pheasant. We accomplished these things because we were able to finance this work. Then, we proceed to scuttle the system, its continuation and its effectiveness, by exempting one class of citizens after another from the payment of the license tax. The end result will be that either the general tax-payer will have to contribute to the management of wildlife, the tax (permit fee) on those still left or not exempt will have to be increased, or management will be reduced to a sadly inadequate level.

It is all fine to exempt the young, the old, or the ex-serviceman. This is popular. It seems logical to the person who does not stop to consider the consequences. But, those consequences could be tragic. We have developed as good a system of management as exists anywhere, and it is supported by an equitable tax. Those who harvest the resource pay the bill. However, it is sheer folly and must inevitably lead to serious trouble when emotion takes precedence over logic and we set out to undermine this entire system by exempting from the permit tax the very people who should pay if management is to survive.

Many feel that we owe a debt to those who served their country in time of war. We do, but there are far better ways to express our gratutide than exemption from the paltry permit tax. We do not exempt them from the property tax, the gasoline tax, the cigarette tax, the school tax, the head tax, the drivers license, or the automobile tax. In comparison, the license for hunting and fishing is minor, and it has little impact on the wallet. What is more important, it affects particularly those who participate in these sports. By the same emotional measure, veterans should be exempted from admission costs at university football and basketball games, but then where would the money come from to support the college athletic programs?

For the hunter, the permit costs about the same or little more than a box of shotgun shells. The angler will spend much more on tackle than the three-dollar permit fee. With the possible exception of someone who fishes with a hickory pole and a bent pin, anyone who can afford the equipment to pursue his sport can well afford the small cost of a license.

In 1965, American hunters and fishermen spent $720,812,000 on equipment, $912,222,000 on auxiliary equipment, $518,708,000 on food and lodging, $597,384,000 on transportation, and $777,784,000 on guides, bait, and other trip expenses, while spending only $136,117,000 on licenses, tags, and permits. They each laid out an average of $123.06 for their sport, and only an average of $4.14 of that $123.06 went for permits.

A big percentage of the hunting and fishing population of Nebraska is already exempt from payment of fees. The list includes the veterans of all U.S. wars through World War I, all persons under the age of 16, farmers who hunt on their own land, all veterans who are receiving pensions from the Veterans Administration for total and permanent disability, and all those who are rated by the V.A. as 50 per cent or more disabled due to service in the U.S. Armed Forces. In addition, all recipients of old-age assistance are eligible for free fishing permits.

It is easy to predict what will happen if this trend continues. And, not only wildlife, but these very people themselves will suffer. If management is curtailed and man continues his encroachment on the wild domain, sport will decline until one day it will be nonexistent!

Man must again look into his activities and be guided by past mistakes. An enlightened few continue to purchase their permits and pay the permit tax even though exempt, because they want to save their sport. Their action is admirable, but it is not enough. The "give-away" trend must be stopped. Management of wildlife must continue to move ahead and expand, for only in this way can man preserve the sport he enjoys for his children and his children's children. The permit is the key to the future salvation of American wildlife and the sport of all in this great land.

NATURAL FUELS

A MAN IN A forest has little trouble finding fuel , for a fire, but place him in a treeless prairie, and * chances are he'll eat his beans cold, and drink his coffee weak. Yet, this condition is unnecessary, for there are many natural fuels available in both environs, waiting to be used when necessity demands.

Though Nebraska is largely a prairie state, it still offers a variety of timber fuels. The cottonwood tree is the mainstay in this category, since it occurs from boundary to boundary. Cottonwood is neither the best nor the worst of fuels. Properly seasoned it splits easily, and once aflame, burns well with little smoke.

Ash, too, is found state-wide, and is considered one of the better fuels. It builds into a fair bed of glowing coals that good outdoor cooks appreciate.

Mixed in with these state-wide woods are two of the poorest fuel trees that God ever created. You can bury an axe to the hilt in both box elder and willow wood, and even strong words won't make them easier to split. There's scarcely enough heat in willow to scorch an egg, and box elder sputters sparks like an angry old lady, with about the same effect. Mixed with other wood, they help the flame along, and maybe the light provided is worth something on a dark night. Green willow makes a fair backlog to reflect heat and protect a blaze from the wind.

Along the Missouri River bottoms, maple, honey locust, and oak join the fuel-wood fraternity. All three make excellent fires, but maple and oak are the two easiest ones to cut. Heavy, dense locust will dull a sharp axe in short order, and you'll need much lighter stuff to put it in a burning mood. Though black walnut is found along the Missouri, it often seems a desecration to burn it. Anyone who has admired the beauty of a well-polished gunstock will attest to this.

Also present in the Missouri bottoms, and extending westward along the Niobrara River for 200 miles, is one of the best fuel woods of Nebraska. Ironwood, or hop hornbeam, delivers even heat and lasting coals. But, the wood is a grunt-and-groaner to manufacture. It turns a keen axe old and tired in a hurry and chances are it will do the same for the woodsman.

In the Pine Ridge of the northwest, and along much of the watercourse of the Niobrara, Ponderosa pine is a common tree. Pine is considered by most to be a poor cooking fuel, since it soots badly, puts out less heat, and adds an undersirable taste to any food exposed to its flame. Its smoke has a pleasant smell, however, and helps keep insects away.

In the bluffs along the North Platte River, the cedar grasps the rocky soil with gnarled roots. Well seasoned, this fuel splits easily. You can cook reasonably well over it, but it is something of a spark spitter, so be careful or its tiny coals will burn holes in clothing, and in you. As an aesthetic campfire wood, it leads the field. Its aromatic fragrance triggers the wanderlust in adventurous souls and sends them seeking far horizons.

Along the southeastern half of the Republican River, wild cherry adds luster to the woodpile. It burns with much heat and furnishes a fair bed of coals. However, most people would rather see the wild cherry left growing for wildlife to feed on its fruit.

In Nebraska's treeless areas, you make do with whatever nature provides. Brush-filled draws and canyons yield wild plum that will get you by. On the higher flats, sagebrush provided sticks of sufficient size to build a good blaze. Look for the heavy, exposed roots of the plant where the wind has blown away the loose soil. In its search for water, more of the plant seems to grow below the ground than on top of it. This 46 NEBRASKAland wood is stringy and tough, and wringing it loose from the parent plant is an experience. Twisting separates the fibers like tiny rope strands, and only determined effort finally snaps them. The upper portion of sage-brush is not only burnable, its crushed leaves will add a gourmet flavor to lowly jackrabbit.

Wherever there's grazing country, you 11 find prairie fire chips, the exotic name for common cow dung. Homesteader women gathered this fuel by the wheelbarrow full, and stacked it outside the soddies like cordwood. To start a chip fire, break dry ones into several pieces. Pull together several handfuls of dry prairie grass, lay the pieces on it, and light the grass. You'll find that a chip fire burns clean, hot, and odorless

Dry flower stalks of common yucca will boil a pot of water or cook a meal when necessity demands This is classified as a twig-type plant, and the secret is to ^make a tiny fire and feed it handful by handful. A tin can stove or an underground prairie furnace delivers the most heat and conserves fuel.

Finally, great grandmother cooked, washed, baked bread, and heated the kitchen with a hay burning stove. Loose hay, packed into the compression chamber of the range, was fed little by little into the firebox. Gather the longest-stemmed grasses available for outdoor use, and twist a fistful into a ropelike strand, then bend it into a pretzel shape to keep it from unwinding. Use three of these pretzels to start your fire, then add single ones to keep it going. While this make-do procedure keeps you working hard, the twisted grass burns much longer than you would imagine.

Nebraska has its share of natural fuel, both desirable and make-do. It's good to know they're available when the need arises.

BIRTH CONTROL... FOR FISH

FISHERMEN GO fishing to catch fish and the bigger the finny ones, the happier the angler. Unfortunately, many NEBRASKAland rod wielders are finding the big ones harder and harder to come by because of a "population explosion" in many of the state's smaller lakes and ponds. This situation may be corrected in the future if present experiments with sexually-sterile but otherwise normal male fish pan out. Biologists in the Research Section of the Nebraska Game Commission are presently studying and testing two techniques to deny fish the joys of fatherhood and thus prevent over-population and its result — stunting.

One method involves a simple surgical operation on the fish which destroys their fertility but does not alter their normal breeding habits. Since this "operation" takes about 10 minutes per fish, the lab men doubt if it is practical for large-scale application. The other method involves the "heat" technique. In this method, sexually-mature fish are held in warm water for a certain period at a critical point in their development. This done by placing the fish in aquaria and adjusting the water temperature to obtain sterility.

If this test works out, the researchers believe that it can be developed into a workable technique for large numbers of bluegill. They foresee the placement of male fish in hatchery rearing troughs where water temperatures can be controlled. After the proper time interval, the then-sterile fish would be taken from the hatchery and released in the wild.

Bluegill are being used in the experiments since these prolific rascals are easy to rear in a controlled environment. Besides, they multiply like there is no tomorrow and are susceptible to stunting in overcrowded waters. Bluegill are artful dodgers and able to escape many of their predators. This, coupled with their fiesty habit of guarding the nests, keeps natural mortality down so that once the bluegill get a head start it isn't long before they overrun a pond. The resulting competition for food and space fosters stunting.

As most anglers know, any body of water will support only a certain amount of fish regardless of their size. This is the carrying capacity of the pond or lake and is expressed as pounds per surface-acre. For example, take a one-acre pond with a carrying capacity of 200 pounds. This pond could support 100 two-pounders, or 800 Vi-pounders, or any other combination whose total weight does not exceed 200 pounds. Obviously, the best fishing will result when 48 NEBRASKAland the fish are not too abundant. In other words, fish have to have growing room and if they do not have it, they become runty.

Researchers hope to cause an increase in the average size of the fisherman's take by the introduction of sterile but otherwise vigorous males in the water to cut down reproduction and defuse the population explosion. Sterile females won't be stocked since studies have demonstrated that the addition ot sterile females will not cut reproduction.

Before actual control measures can be applied to the ponds and lakes, a practical method of sterilizing the males and still leave them with their normal breeding behavior has to be worked out. Of the various known means of sterilization, Nebraska researchers studied and rejected for the present biological, chemical, and radiological methods.

It is believed that Nebraska is the only state presently conducting such a research program since a careful review of known sterilizing techniques failed to turn up any that have ever been used on fish. In a few weeks, the bluegill in the reasearch lab will be sacrificed and their reproductive organs examined to determine if the fish have actually been sterilized by the two techniques now being tested.

But, successful laboratory experiments and practical application in Farmer Brown's bluegill pond are two different things. One of the big question marks facing the researchers is whether or not, the sterile males can compete with normal fish for mates. Also, researchers must determine how efficient the sterilization method is in reducing populations. After that, if all goes well, the technicians will study size increase by the remaining bluegill to determine the benefit from the sterile-male technique.

This sterilization method shows promise of being a better way to curb populations than by the total eradication procedures which indescriminately kill all fish and require restocking with the resulting loss of the fishing facilities for various intervals. If, under ideal conditions, half of the males in a pond are sterile but still able to compete with complete males for mates, only half of the females' eggs will hatch. In a like manner, if three-fourths of the males are sterile, then theoretically, three-fourths of the eggs will not hatch. The remaining eggs would hatch fry that had plenty of growing room.

Where will the fish come from that are to be sterilized? At the onset of the breeding season, male bluegill move into shallow water where they build nests and defend small areas called territories. These nests are crowded in colonies of saucer-shaped depressions which are familar to anglers. The females stay in the deeper water until they are ready to spawn. Researchers plan to net or seine the males while they are concentrated over the nesting sites. Sterile males from hatcheries will then replace the netted fish. Excess males taken from the test ponds will be released in waters where stunting is not a problem. There are still a lot of "ifs" in the program but if it works, fishery managers will have one more technique to better control and improve the resource.

The idea of controlling populations through the sterile-male technique is not new. It has worked with certain insect pests and was particularly effective in the eradication of screwworms. These pests were serious menace to livestock and deer in many southern states. About 30 years ago, a researcher suggested that male screwworms be sterilized and then released to compete with normal males for the favors of the females. The idea didn't get much of a reception at first but after lab tests confirmed that it could be done, the island of Curacao, off the coast of Venezuela, was chosen for a test site. The island harbored a large population of goats that were heavily infested with screwworms. The male screwworms were reared in a Florida laboratory, sterilized with gamma rays, and then released over Curacao from airplanes. In a few months, the island was cleared of the pests. Cheered by this success, researchers enlarged the program to eradicate screwworms from the Southeast and parts of the southwestern states. The monetary benefit to stockmen far exceeded the cost of the program.

Several other insect pests have been controlled or eradicated by the sterile-male technique and its success led scientists to spectulate on its use on other animals. Nebraska's researchers are hoping that the present experiments on bluegill work out. If they do, there is a possibility that it could be used on other fish that multiply too fast for their own good.

Satisfactory completion of this research project and its practical application would be another first in Nebraska's never-ending search to provide more and better angling for all.

GOOD TIME PHEASANTS

for him to home in on. Ken, over in the far edge, was the first to open up. I heard him shoot, so I stopped and waited, hoping the blast would spook another bird or two. Nothing happened so I moved on.

Suddenly, a big rooster rose in front of me, climbing frantically into the October air. I scratched him and he came down, head up and legs down. The softmouthed setter was after him in a flash and brought him in.

It was evident that Duke was bent on making us look good even when our shooting was a little sour. As I smoothed out the plumage and admired my prize I silently congratulated the dog. Without him, my bird would surely have escaped to die a lingering death.

As our quartet neared the end of the field, Andy reached far out to stop a rooster cold. This bird was an old fox. Knowing that he was cornered with no covered escape routes, he flew directly into the sun, hoping that the glare would save him.

Time was edging along, but we still had time for another couple of passes. After due consideration the group permitted me to drive to a new location. On a scouting trip the week before, I had made a panic stop to observe some feeding fowl in a roadside ditch. After my passengers had pried themselves off the dash and sorted themselves out, they used some purple prose to describe my driving.

The gimlet-eyed Brown spotted a rooster in an adjoining field. We had prior permission to hunt the place, so the dentist bailed out, crossed the fence, jacked some fodder into his pump gun, and got the rooster into the air in a twinkling. It was a long poke, but the big, gaudy bird folded up and came straight down at the shot.

We had one more small field to cover, so we hurried along. Ron was tired, so he elected to stay in the car while the three of us gave the new area a look see. Halfway through the amble, the dog stiffened on a pair of hens, but that was all. Satisfied that the roosters had forsaken the patch for safer sanctuary we headed for the car. Duke was still nosing about, trying to unsnarl the maze of scent that laced the ground. I was closest to him when the dog straightened out and hit the line. The bird scuttled ahead, trusting to his legs, but finally he had to fly and I was ready for him. My first shot punctured a lot of atmosphere but the second one was right on.

Our hunt was over but the best was yet to come. As the months roll on and on we live and relive each minute of the day—just by thinking of them. And you know something? As time passes, the ranges get longer and the misses get fewer.

EVEN EXPERTS NEED LUCK

in salt water and vinegar, and then freezes them in milk cartons for winter fare.

The aging fisherman rubbed his eyes several times in an attempt to fight off drowsiness. It had been a long night and a longer day. Gertrude had run the score up to nine, Bernadeen had three, and Ray managed to hook three. Al and I were Ashless.

It seemed sad in a way to see the old pro go down in defeat, but it didn't seem to bother him. After all, Arnold Palmer doesn't win every golf tournament, Willie Davis committed three errors in a World Series game, and Mudville's Casey did strike out. Al would be back; a pro never gives up.

He invited me back in the near future and I promised I would come. I had gathered quite a few fishing tips from him and I am anxious to put them into practice. Maybe next time Al and I will have a drumming good time. THE END

THE LADY DOESN'T MISS

irritants as rough terrain, poor visibility, and a cantankerous rifle are all part of the game she loves so well. The active gal has taken her deer every year but one since Nebraska's first annual deer season. But last year, when it was possible to get two permits, even Bessie's friends were impressed when she filled both of them in less than three days.

Most of the time she hunts alone, hog-dressing her kill in the field when she is too far from the Hickey's part-time home on the Niobrara River to bring it in.

How in the world does the little lady manage to get a 200-pound deer home? Mrs. Hickey tells how:

"That's where the jeep comes in handy. So far I've been lucky. I've never killed a deer that I couldn't get close to in the jeep, though sometimes it has taken a lot of maneuvering. If the deer is heavy, I use a chain hook-up over the backend to get him loaded. It's really not too hard."

When her husband, Clarke, retired from active ranching, the Hickeys moved to Alliance but the smaller home in the valley is still her favorite. She loves the valley where she grew up, married, and ranched. Warm and gracious, Mrs. Hickey can really bend an ear when she reminisces of years gone by. A set of splendid scrapbooks with pictures and newspaper clippings supplement her stories of the 1949 blizzard and her work as a guide for the Army in "digging out" roads to other ranchers. Another scrapbook has pictures of the 21 beaver which she trapped in one winter. Other stories are backed up with pictures of coyotes, which were shot or roped from horseback, favorite horses, past deer hunts, stringers of trout, and general ranch life.

Besides her hunting, Mrs. Hickey is an avid trout fisherman and a darn good one to boot. In the past, many a limit of Niobrara's big trout have been slipped into her creel. On days when friends need an extra hand at haying, Mrs. Hickey will be there from sunrise to sunset if need be. A less exerting but unusual hobby of Mrs. Hickey's is the collecting of rattlesnake rattles. She now has over 900, and claims they have been accumulated without half trying.

All in all, however, Mrs. Hickey treasures her deer hunting above all other interests. She has had some of her prizes mounted and displays them in a special room in her Alliance home. Here, Mrs. Hickey's first deer, a four-point buck, and her biggest, a five-pointer, hang together with the head of a big buck antelope.

Her most thrilling deer hunt was in November of 1962 when she got her five-pointer. She tells it this way:

"It was a clear sunny day and I was hunting with one of Harold Scavdahl's boys on their ranch when we spotted the big buck with three does. We followed them for a mile and a half through some pretty rough country. Finally, when it became too tough for the jeep, we took off on foot. For a while we could see the whole bunch on a hill away, but we couldn't get a shot. Then we lost them."

"We walked on through three more draws without much hope. Just as I said, T guess he's given me the slip', one of the does stepped into sight on the opposite hill. 'Get down quick', I half-whispered. The buck, as I expected, was close behind and I knew he was a nice fat one because his hide rippled with every step."

"He pulled up broadside and stopped. I fired and he fell, dead as could be. He was a real dandy and probably weighed about 250 pounds live because he weighed 200 after we got him dressed out. I had a hard time getting the jeep in there, but I finally did. After that it was easy because the buck had fallen on a small ledge and we just backed the rig up to it and loaded him up."

Mrs. Hickey has never killed a whitetailed deer, much to her disappointment. This season she hopes to change that. There are more and more of them every year, she says, and several have been seen at their place on the Niobrara.

Mrs. Hickey likes venison, and has her deer processed into steaks and deerburger, to which a little beef or pork fat is added. With permits for both the Pine Ridge and the Plains units again this fall, Mrs. Hickey will probably get that whitetail, for once this 100-pounds of feminine determination makes up her mind to do something, she's going to do it and a mere deer hasn't got a prayer of stopping her.

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

$100 Dinner. One Baltimore angler was mighty sorry he ate a fish he had caught. The tagged rockfish he dined on would have been worth $100 if he had taken it and the tag to a distributor for the beer company that sponsored the tagging project. That's what you would call eating up the profits. — Ohio

Heavy Weight. West Virginians around Russellville will be looking for a 163-pound deer come next hunting season. The deer, spooked by some boys along a river, bounded a bank, crossed a railroad track, and leaped onto a set of scales of an asphalt company. The weigh-master had just enough time to record the buck's weight before he jumped two fences and disappeared over a hill. — West Virginia

Miracle Additive. A fish line company with high claims for their new monofilament line have drawn an unusual request from a lady. She wants some of their "miracle additive", used on the new line, to use on her husband. He is out in the sun a great deal, and she wants to feed him the super ingredient, so he won't get "stiff, wiry, and hard to manage."— Cortland Fishing Lines

Command Performance. "Bring me that bird, you guys. I killed it", a hunter ordered. The two men in a boat who had picked it up obeyed, but asked the man in the blind if he was sure he had killed it. He was. So, the two Ohio game wardens arrested him for shooting a protected pied-billed grebe and fined him $25.-Ohio

Fast Buck. A California man drove two days, a round trip of 1,200 miles, to Utah to get his legal limit of deer. It took him just 10 seconds on arrival. A buck and a doe ran directly toward him over a ridge and he dropped them both. -Utah

Traveler and Stay at Home. A Minnesota angler caught a walleye that had traveled 125 miles over four dams from the time it was tagged two years before. Still another angler caught one that had stayed on the very spot where it had been tagged 17 years before. — Minnesota

Love Call. A New York man has a dog that likes to visit neighbors. When he comes over to see them, they place a telephone receiver next to the setter's ear and have the owner shout, "Get your big, fat, bushy tail home this instant." It never fails. The dog heads home so fast they barely have time to hang up the phone and open the door. —New York

Tough Birds. A game biologist in a neighboring state has discovered how tough a pheasant can be. A hen he trapped had lost both legs about IV2 inches below the feathered portions, apparently to a mowing machine. The pheasant though, could run on stumps and weighed a healthy 2 pounds, 3 ounces. — South Dakota

Pacifists. A Maryland man figures he has come up with just about the hottest trout lure in the business. His infant's pacifier fell into a trout pool. Turmoil ensued when one trout after another grabbed the pacifier and spit it out.— Maryland

Out of Season. A Pennsylvania sportsman sincerely wished it was hunting season when this incident occurred. He had just finished repairs on his boat on the beach and suddenly stood up to survey the job when he was hit solidly in the chest and knocked over backwards. Much to his surprise, he saw a large Canada goose floundering near his feet. The large gander was coming in for a twopoint landing when the fisherman got up directly in his path.— Pennsylvania

Smelly Situation. A Pennsylvania deer hunter blocked a farm lane with his car. The irate farmer, who was working in the field at the time, determined to get even, backed his manure spreader up to the offending car and dumped the entire load, covering the roof and the driver's side of the auto.— Pennsylvania

Mother Lode. A New York school teacher struck it rich when he shot a goose during hunting season. The honker's crop contained 89 bits of shiny metal. Tests in the school's science laboratory proved them to be gold.—New; York

Fish Are Jumping. Noticing fish jumping in Lake George, almost in her backyard, a 15-year-old Hague, New York, teenager walked to water's edge. She held out a landing net and in jumped a five-pound trout.— New York

New Arrival. A doe crashed through a side window of a car driven by a Michigan man. The deer was wedged so tightly that he drove to a garage for help in dislodging her. When he arrived at the garage, he found a new-born white tail fawn in the back seat of his auto.— Michigan

Rabbit Sense. A Pennsylvania hunter got thoroughly soaked and chilled after a few hours afield. Then, he happened to look down at an old bucket. Inside sat a rabbit all warm and dry. The hunter didn't shoot him, since he figured the rabbit had more sense than he did. At least, he said, the bunny knew enough to come in out of the rain. —Pennsylvania

Fast Talker. Four Wayne County, Indiana, residents lost their shotguns to a fast talker. The fellow ran up to their doors, asked to borrow a gun to kill a fox he'd seen down the road, and never came back.— Indiana

Tit for Tat. It seems the deer are shooting back in Idaho. A hunter lugging one out of the woods was shot in the right leg, when one of the deer's hoofs caught the trigger and fired a pistol the hunter was wearing. —Idaho

Cold Turkey. Trolling the Sacramento River for trout, Arthur K. Thompson of Redding, California, got a hookup. He battled 15 minutes to pull in a 14-pound dressed and frozen turkey.-California

Stoned. A young Connecticut angler hauled in a carp that was the envy of his neighborhood. It weighed seven pounds and was two-and-a-half feet long. Asked how he caught it, the youngster hesitated and then replied, "I hit it with a rock." — Connecticut

Overboard Outboard. One New York fisherman was having trouble starting his outboard motor. He finally reached the boiling point. He stood up, unshipped the motor, heaved it into 15 feet of water, and nonchalantly rowed ashore.-New York

MOONSHINE AND MYSTERY

second attempt and got exactly three neck-snapping jerks up the hill before the engine died. On the third try everything clicked, and we made it to the top of the hill.

By following a fence line we would end up in a valley not far from the cave. Yucca, or Candles of the Lord as mother calls them, pointed the way.

It wasn't long before we were back in pine-tree country. As we eased through a washout with only room for the jeep and one thin straw, we came to the last hill before the cave. I could drive part way up, but from there on we would have to hoof it.

Stopping, I motioned for everyone to pile out. Bobby looked at me, shook his head, and in a dry voice muttered, "I thought we were going to drive all the way? I suppose the cave is a couple miles off."

I told him the cave was somewhere within a 300-yard radius of the jeep, and if he wanted to play explorer, now was his chance.

"If I can't find that cave within 10 minutes, I'll forget about those two times you couldn't quite make it up the hill," he chuckled. "Now, which way do I go?"

I knew that the direction the jeep was headed would give him the needed clue, so mom and I tagged behind while the Powells scrambled ahead. The steep hill and tall prairie grass made the going tough.

Hidden by pine trees, the mouth of the cave is hard to see unless you are within 20 yards of it. Bobby and Sue walked by it, and after 10 minutes I reminded Bobby of his bet.

With the tables turned, I took the lead and headed toward a pine-studded hill. The cavern is man-made and it is easy to see why the bootleggers picked it for their shady industry. The entrance is located at the bottom of a small bluff that looks as if it had been sliced off from the rest of the terrain by a giant meat cleaver. Bushes and trees camouflage the entrance.

It wasn't until we were almost there that the two Powells saw the cave. The arched mouth is three feet high, but inside the cave has stand-up room. Mom had the foresight to bring along candles but before the women stepped into the cave Bobby and I volunteered to check it out. I have never been afraid of the dark, but there is something eerie about walking into a pitch-dark cavern by candlelight.

After giving the place the once-over, I motioned the others in. The cavern's ceiling is just over six feet high and the width is about five feet. A 15-foot passage leads to a doorway on the left that opens to another room that is about eight feet long and ten feet wide.

A small stove frame is the only evidence of the cave's former use. Bobby, with an Eliot Ness gleam in his eye, began to spin word pictures of revenue men scouring the hills in an attempt to find the cave.

Caught in the atmosphere of site, we tried to unravel the story behind Whiskey Cave. I said that I heard that the cave was hollowed out with spoons, but we agreed that this tale was rather unlikely. The stories went on until mother said that she knew one man who might be able to clear up the myths surrounding Whiskey Cave. She suggested that we stop by his place and find out

the real story after we returned from visiting the Spanish Carvings.

On the way back from Whiskey Cave, I barreled the jeep up a long, steep hill and hit that jarring chuck-hole, but after we retrieved the spare we finally reached the gate.

At the gate I made a right. We planned to follow Kings Canyon Road until we hit the Bordeaux Creek Road, towards Chadron. The trail was dusty, and I could not pass up a windmill and its promise of a cold drink.

The Spanish Carvings, etched on the face of a cliff, are located two miles south of Whiteclay on Nebraska Highway 87 and can be reached by one of two routes. The long one goes down U.S. Highway 20 to Rushville, then north from Rushville to Whiteclay on 87. We decided to take the more scenic but shorter route along the Pine Ridge Road.

Near Whiteclay we crossed Highway 87 and made a right at the first road heading back south. The carvings are located on private land and arrangements to visit the site were made with the landowner prior to the trip.

A dirt trail, leading to the carvings, starts in the farmyard and follows a fence line to a gate. Then the road falls quickly down a slope where a 180-degree turn leads to the mouth of a small canyon.

Arriving at the canyon mouth, we decided to drive as far as possible, but a narrow gully made the plan impossible. As we walked the canyon, it opened into a small meadow. I was leading the way when Bobby shouted, "Look! Up on the cliff!"

My eyes followed his pointing finger to a three-foot, well-proportioned cross carved on the white face of the cliff. Branches prevented us from getting a clearer view, so the four of us climbed a steep hill leading to the markings. The lettering is set back in shallow grottos carved out of the Brule clay of the cliff and is reasonably well protected from the elements.

Next to the cross is carved what may be the name of a man. Although the letters are weathered and hard to decipher, they appear to read CELEDO NIO and either GARCIA or GORCIA. Students of Spanish are almost certain that the letters spell out a name. Legend has it that Spanish bandits stole a large shipment of silver and buried their bounty in seven locations in the United States. They were supposed to have left these carvings to mark the sites.

It is a nice legend, but I believe it is more wishful thinking than truth. Probably a more reasonable answer is that a Spanish missionary or fur trader died while working with the Indians. His friends picked this beautiful valley for his final resting place and for a headstone they carved his name and a cross on the cliff.

Some suggest that Spanish Conquistadors made their way into the Pine Ridge in search of treasure. As they passed through the valley they picked the meadow to spend the night. For lack of something to do one of the explorers decided to carve his name and a cross on the cliff. However, evidence tends to 54 NEBRASKAland dispute this idea, since it is believed Conquistadors did not make it as far as the Pine Ridge.

Experts at the Nebraska State Historical Society doubt if the carvings are more than a century old. They theorize that a Mexican cowboy, following the herds north in the middle 1800's, died and is buried in the locality. His comrades may have honored his memory by carving the cross. But in a land where thousands roamed, any answer can be right. Only the age-old hills know the truth.

We hated to leave the pleasant canyon with its wild-grape vines, choke-cherry trees, and tall Ponderosas but time was running out, and we wanted to talk to mom's friend about Whiskey Cave.

Back in Chadron we drove over to Francis Homan's ranch. We found Francis riding a fence line but he had time to talk to us. An old-timer, the rancher is well versed in the history and legends of northwestern Nebraska. He had some of the answers on Whiskey Cave.

Francis said that the cave was dug with axes back in the 1920's when prohibition made alcoholic beverages illegal. Of course, the boys who wanted a drink could usually find it, thanks to the bootleggers. Two Chadron men ran the still in Whiskey Cave and kept the area well supplied in liquor.

"Now, I'm not a drinking man, but back then I was about 17, and willing to try anything. I had a sip of the stuff. It wasn't too bad for moonshine," Francis reminisced.

According to the Chadron rancher, revenuers combed the hills in search of the booze-makers hideout but finally decided that the only way they could find it was by following someone to the site. The idea must have worked for the government men finally smashed the still and for a while the area was dry except for small batches of the potent brew that were cooked in individual homes.

After visiting with Francis we went home. The day had been a fine experience, we had some adventure, saw some beautiful country, tested a jeep, and had the chance to let our imaginations run riot. Mom was happy with the trip and was already planning another. "Doc" Middleton, a hard case in the old days, had a hideout up in the hills and she knows where it is, so it won't be long until we hit the adventure trail again. When we do, I'll tell you all about it.

DAM GOOD TROLLING

using. Both kinds will take fish, though. Funny thing about it, you can use either of these two lures and troll side-by-side with someone using a cheapie imitation. The genuine article comes through every time."

The boat sprang to life when the three lines were out. Each man played out monofilament, careful to avoid snagging each other's lures and the rocks. John guided the boat on a straight course, about 15 yards out from the rock backing of the dam. Navigation is a ticklish business here, for a swing too close to the rocks means fouled lines, while a course too far from them puts the lures far above the walleyes' hide-aways. At each lure-stopping bump the pilot backtracks a circle while the other members of the party reel frantically to keep their lures from settling. Once the boat is in position, the angler with the tight line can either work his plug free of the rocks, or boat his fish, whichever the case may be.

At first, I waited tensely but in vain for a fish to hit, but soon discovered that there is not much a troller can do between fish but shift hands when one wrist gets tired from the steady throb of the lure. An occasional release of line, or lift of the rod tip may add a little fish appeal to the trebled offering, but most of the work is up to the pilot.

Flatfish-type lures, John told me, require a slower speed than the balsa minnows. I could easily see, though, the value of a man at the wheel who knows his lake. John kept all the lures a few feet above bottom by regulating speed. Each fisherman used one of the awkward-looking balsa minnows, with a small weight attached to the line about two feet above the lure. There is no magic formula for success, John informed me, except for patience. An hour of slow trolling back and forth along the rocks backed him up before we had any action.

John pointed to the north end of the lake, shouting between the boats: "Over there is the site of the old Republican City. It was moved, lock, stock, and barrel by the Corps. There are old foundations and debris underneath, which makes for good trolling spots at times, but I checked and nobody's been having much luck there. I took a turn around it myself, yesterday. I just have a hunch the walleye have moved back along the dam, where they were earlier this year. I...Whoa, Nellie! I've got one!"

John yanked back on his arched rod. Holding the rod with one hand and steering clumsily with the other, he guided

the boat in a big circle. Cutting the engine, the Holstein man stood up and pumped a fish in toward the boat.

Carl grabbed a landing net and eased the rim over the side as his buddy headed the walleye into it. Thyr grinned in pleasure as he untangled the treble hooks from the mesh. He flashed a sly look at Albert.

"What do you say, Albert? Let's give him a couple of pounds."

"Come on, now, he's more like two-and-a-half pounds," John grunted before Albert could answer.

"Let's give it another swing," Albert recommended. "Where there's one fish there are usually two."

Shaw swung the boat about and started retracing the route. Dave and I let our boat fall back and settled down for what we thought would be a long wait. The 16-footer ahead suddenly cut around in a circle, a sure indication of snag or fish.

Unlike the U.S. Cavalry, we did not arrive in the nick of time. We pulled up just as Carl was unhooking a hefty walleye just a little smaller than John's.

"You didn't miss much," Carl called. "These critters don't give a real big fight if they're below the whopper class. But for good eating, I wouldn't trade them for any fish that swims."

"We call them jack salmon down where I come from. Call them what you will. For my money they are better than trout in the pan," he continued.

Once the threesome's boat was back in position, Dave and I breezed a little closer. Carl was giving Albert the needle.

"Haven't you got one yet, Albert?" the Kansan quipped. "Come on, boss, you've been asleep for a long time now."

John joined the session with: "It's about time to stop for lunch, Albert. Looks like one of us is going to wind up hungry."

Undaunted, Albert jigged his minnow a few times. "We'll get one when we get below that stump about halfway up the rock wall. That's where John got his earlier," he rejoined.

Albert's prediction proved out about 10 minutes later, but his fish was the dwarf of the three. From the ribbing he seemed to be getting, I figured that the 71-year-old would have been better off with no fish at all. Reluctant to admit that I was made of less sturdy stuff than the three fisherman, I waited until Carl brought up the subject of lunch.

"If the fish were biting a little better, I'd say to heck with lunch," John shouted, and my spirits fell a bit, but I brightened when Albert conceded that a "bite or two of food" and a warm-up break in his trailer home would be O.K.

We headed for the marina with three fish in tow, and I had dim hopes of doing much better in the afternoon. I still had not learned any secrets of trolling success from the morning expedition.

John reassured me that walleye are mighty unpredictable, and that if any real action came at all that day, it would probably come thick and fast over a short period of time. My spirits lifted a bit after his reassurance, especially after I wrapped myself around a hot meal. I was a bit happier as I strolled down to the dock for a look around. I was surprised to see three figures standing near the boats. Carl, John and Albert were already chafing to get back to business.

This time, I rode with the trio to get a closer look at their techniques. We headed for the dam again, for John stubbornly insisted that it was the best spot.

As the boat skimmed over the waves, the men launched into a discussion of motors, and it sounded like some hot rodders hashing over their speed machines instead of some elderly fishermen discussing outboards.

Albert led off by informing me that the motor pushing our 16-footer was a 40 horse.

John turned from the wheel to comment, "I have a 70-horse, and I like it a little better. It's a four-cylinder job, so it hardly ever dies, even while I'm trolling."

Carl put in a word for a more conservative 10-horsepower kicker, but John vetoed him with : "I would like to put my 70 on this boat to see how fast it would take it. It sends mine, pretty well, but I bet I could really scoot in this one."

Listening to them, it wasn't easy to believe that these were all men in their 60's and 70's. I huddled against the bite of the wind as the boat whipped through the water, and wondered how my companions could take the chill so easily. Later, Carl told me that all of them were wearing insulated underwear, an item I had neglected to bring.

Carl boated the first fish of the afternoon and it looked as though John would be next when he reared back and started the boat in a tell-tale circle.

"Ive got a big fish," he began then changed it to, "anyway, I've got a fish," and finally. "No, it must be a rock."

This was just too much for Carl to pass up. "It's a heck of a thing when a

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

guy can't tell a fish from a rock," he offered.

"Well, I was right the first time, it is a fish," John advised, reeling in a bass of about a pound. "He must have ducked down into the rocks," he added.

"Now that's something you don't see very often these days," Albert said. "A few years back, bass fishing was good around here. Then, it fell off when the white bass started going strong. The crappie fishing tapered off, too."

John whipped the boat back on course, and we started working back toward the floodgates. It wasn't long before Carl scored, then it was John's turn again. Albert finally connected again, and I knew we were in business.

During the remaining two hours of daylight, the three anglers boated fish after fish. Once, Carl and Albert each had one on at the same time.

"That makes 19," John said, hoisting the stringer. "We even got two bass and one crappie. Is that good enough?"

I agreed that it was, and as we headed back in the gathering dusk, the sky matched my mood. The sun stood out as a perfectly defined circle of orange, and patches of blue sky to the west indicated that good weather was on the way.

After good-byes and thank yous at the dock, I headed for the car, pondering John's parting admonition: "All it takes is patience, the right speed, and a balsa minnow. Those are the only secrets for success."

Though some might question such strong faith in one lure, the rest of John's advice is straight. None of the admiring locals who greeted us at the dock could question it...and I wouldn't be too surprised if some balsa minnows changed hands that day.

WHERE-TO-GO

NORTH PLATTE has changed since William "Buffalo Bill" Cody trod its dirt-paved streets, but if the old gentleman could come back, the Fort Cody Trading Post there would surely make him feel at home. Located on U.S. Highway 30, Rodeo Road in North Platte, Fort Cody is a replica of the NEBRASKAland forts which dotted the untamed prairie during the years from 1860 to 1875. Built of heavy logs, the staunch building boasts sentry towers, cannons, and old-time bluecoats "keeping the guard".

Buffalo Bill claimed North Platte his home town so the four-year-old Fort Cody Trading Post carries on the tradition to weave western romance into the present.

The colorful stockade, owned by the Irwin Dunlaps of North Platte, is brimful of historical treasures as well as modern-day gifts and souvenirs.

Giant murals showing different events in Buffalo Bill's life decorate the woodpaneled walls inside the 40 x 85 fort. These vivid works were painted by a contemporary North Platte artist, Gene McConnell. After painstakingly researching Cody's life, McConnell accurately depicted the rough-riding showman's adventures in blazing color. Included in the striking scenes are Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, his famed duel with Yellow Hand, and his scouting activities for the Union Pacific.

Reminders of animals that once roamed the unfenced NEBRASKAland plains catch the visitor's eye at Fort Cody where genuine Texas steer horns and skeleton heads of buffalo smack of frontier days. Old-time "wanted posters" with now-fading pictures of notorious desperados delight young and old.

During the summer, the fort boasts an added attraction. An open-air stockade theatre rocks with Wild West shenanigans every night. From gaudy cancan dancers to country singing, this free show draws visitors back for more.

A variety of gift items which make lasting mementos of a NEBRASKAland visit provide pleasant browsing at the stockade. Popular Indian crafts are rich with intricate design and color. Nebraska Sioux pottery, Zia and Santa Clara pottery, beaded moccasins, and Indian rugs can turn browsing into buying in short order. From Mexican pottery and clothing to hand-tooled leatherwork and deerskin handbags, milady finds a veritable treasure chest of beautiful goods to tempt her. Jewelry, in a variety of styles, shapes, and colors glitters with such semi-precious stones as turquoise, agate, Alaskan black diamond, and jade. Offering everything from cowboy hats to appealing cactus lamps, Fort Cody lives up to its name of "trading post".

Children are not forgotten. From Indian dolls to Buffalo Bill T-shirts, youngsters find the fort a prairie version of Santa's workshop. There is a complete line of children's western wear from britches to kerchiefs for outfitting that miniature cowboy.

For the gourmet, there are large chunks of buffalo and reindeer salami. This gusty meat makes unusual gifts for city-dwelling friends who have yet to see the rolling prairie and to whom buffalo are only a far-off legend.

While much different in scope, another attraction is the North Platte Fish Hatchery, located five miles south of town just off U.S. Highway 83. This hatchery is one of the largest walleye rearing stations in the United States.

From 15 to 20 million northern pike and walleye fry hatch there each year, and some IV2 to 2 million walleye fingerlings are reared. Eggs, stripped from about-to-spawn walleye, are siphoned in hatching jars and placed on the hatching battery. About two quarts or approximately 250,000 eggs are placed in each jar.

Hatching jars are designed so that water is introduced through a tube at the top and released at the bottom with overflow occuring through a spout at the top of the jar. Regulating the water flow keeps the eggs in gentle motion.

Enlightening displays show the story of fish propagation and management at the hatchery. Many sizes of fish are preserved for viewing. State seining crews headquarter at North Platte, and visitors will often see them at work during the winter, mending nets or seining under the ice.