OLD TOM FOOLER
Get in the groove for gobblers with eosy-to-make callWHEN ONE of Nebraska's wild torn turkeys pops within range of your scatter-gun this spring, taking him will be more enjoyable if you've coaxed him in with a call you've fashioned yourself. Here is the exact pattern which won the Second Annual Turkey Calling Contest at Crawford, and plenty of cagey old gobblers have ended up as Sunday dinners because they couldn't distinguish its seductive notes from the real ones of a love-starved hen.
The sides and bottom of the call are white cedar, sliced from a piece of regular house siding. You'll need a piece 27 inches long, 2 1/4 inches wide, and 1/4-inch thick. Dress the stock to these dimensions on a bench saw and sand the sides smooth. Set your bench saw 1/8-inch above table level, and groove one side of the strip with three-parallel, equallyspaced grooves for its entire length. The call will work without this grooving, but it adds to the resonance and naturalness of the yelp.
Blocks that form the ends of the sounding box can be made of any kind of wood. Start with a block 1 3/4 inches wide at the base, 1 1/2 inches high, and 5 inches long. Shape the block to taper from 1 3/4 inches wide at the base, to 1 1/8 inches wide at the top, removing equal amounts from each side of the block. Set your saw to cut at a 30-degree angle, and lop off the first box end. Reverse the remaining stock, and cut the second one from the opposite end.
Cut the grooved cedar plank into three pieces, each nine inches long. Fasten them to the end blocks with glue and small brads. The ends of the blocks that were cut at the angle go on the inside of the sounding box, so that one sounding board has less reverberatory surface than the other. This enables you to make two distinctly different yelps with the same call.
With a sharp plane, shape the top of the sounding box into a gentle arch from one end to the other. The degree of arch is not critical, just so the box ends are lower than its center. A drop of about 1/4-inch is about right.
Most calls use a piece of slate on the stroking block, but since slate is not always available, the stroker for this call is of solid oak, 12 inches long, 2 1/4 inches wide, and 3/8-inch thick. Shape one side into a gentle arch with a hand plane and wood rasp. Sand the curved surface smooth, then trim one end of the stick to form a handle about 2 1/2 inches long.
With a round-head wood screw, fasten the stroker, curved face down, to one end of the sounding box. Drill the hole in the stroker a little larger than the screw, to permit a slight rocking motion. Place a short coil spring over the screw, between the stroker and the sounding box. This permits a varying tension that helps in adjusting the tuning.
From the pivot screw, measure six inches toward the handle, and drill a small hole through the stroker in which a round toothpick can be inserted.
Use either carpenter or billiard cue chalk on the rounded face of the stroker, and the arched top of the sound box. Build up a good coat. Movement of the stroker across one edge of the sound box will produce something resembling a turkey cluck, but it will need tuning.
A side of the box with the least reverberatory surface, (remember those slanted end blocks), is the side to tune for the feeding cluck. With sandpaper, or a plane set very fine, bevel the top edge of the sounding board very slightly. Keep beveling a little at a time until you get the exact pitch you desire. A turkey call recording, available from a number of sporting goods houses, can be obtained to guide you.
The opposite side of the box, with the longer sounding area, is your "lost hen" side. Tune this board a tone or two lower so you can produce a more plaintive sound from it.
To do clucking sounds, hold the box in the palm of one hand, and rub the stroker across the proper sounding board with short, rocking movements. Avoid any clatter in the contact, as a turkey will recognize the sound as a fake, and avoid your coaxing like the plague. Remember, one false note is all that it takes to spoil otherwise perfect calling.
To produce a gobble, prepare the call by thrusting a toothpick through the hole drilled in the stroker. This will limit its movement across the box. Loop two weak rubber bands around the box and the stroker handle. Hold the call from the pivot end, and let the handle drop toward the ground. Shake the call sharply from side to side. The fluttering of the stroker across the sounding edges is so much like an old tom's gobble you will almost fool yourself. Naturalness of the gobble can be improved by adjusting the tension of the pivotal screw.
Now all you need is plenty of practice. Before turkey season rolls around you may have driven your family half insane, but when you come back with a gobbler, they'll admit it was worth it.
THE END
SPEAK UP
NEBRASKAland invites all readers to submit their comments, suggestions, and gripes to SPEAK UP. Each month the magazine will publish as many letters as space permits. Pictures are welcome. —Editor.
VACATION CENTENNIAL WAY-"Since we planned on vacationing in northwest United States and northwest Canada we thought we could promote the Nebraska Centennial as we traveled along.
"We sent an inquiry for materials to the Centennial Commission and were abundantly provided with seals, stickers, and brochures. We left a trail of promotional material as far as Dawson Creek, British Columbia, which is Mile Zero on the Alcan Highway. Among other places, we left our state's material at Lloyminister and Regina in Saskatchewan. We hope Nebraska will have many visitors from our northern neighbors in 1967."- Mrs. Merle Jensen, Bennet.
WATCH YOUR SCALP-"My wife and I built an authentic covered wagon and traveled in it from Hendley to Holbrook, a distance of 17 miles. We were accompanied by two horsemen and camped overnight at the Republican River.
"On June 5 we entered the parade in Holbrook and also the black-powder shoot. We wore costumes and carried authentic weapons. The people at Holbrook told us to expect an 'Indian attack'.
"We are planning to carry out the same program next year with two covered wagons." - Lyle Hutchens, Hendley.
BEER VIEW —"A recent article in the Omaha World-Herald gave me cause for both concern and comfort.
"I was concerned over what appears to be a campaign to restrict your freedom to manage the magazine, NEBRASKAland through the elimination of beer advertising.
"I was comforted by the practical and proper stand your office is taking on the question. Beer is an almost universally accepted beverage of moderation and, as you state in your reply, beer advertising in this publication 'will not impair the morals nor the convictions of any readers'."-L. W. Gregg, Plant General Manager, Falstaff Brewing Corporation, Omaha.
SPADE RANCH —"Your article on the Spade Ranch in the September 1964 NEBRASKAland was of considerable interest to me because in 1905, when I was an apprentice printer, I traveled to Nebraska and found myself working as a cowboy on the Spade Ranch. In 1909,1 again traveled out west and worked as a printer on the Custer County Chief in Broken Bow.
"My most recent trip to Nebraska was in 1952. It was then I met Neumann Harris at Broken Bow. He has been sending me NEBRASKAland for some time."-Chris F. Meyer, Rosedale, N.Y.
HYANNIS ARTIST-"I would like to see you publish a story about A. W. Metcalf and his paintings. He lives at Hyannis, Nebraska and his father was sheriff there for 50 years. In my opinion, Mr. Metcalf is a master painter and in a class with Charles Russell of Montana. Thirty two years ago I lived in Lincoln and I still go back every two or three years."-C. E. Rutledge, Hillsboro, Texas.
Thank you for your suggestion. We will keep Mr. Metcalf and his paintings in mind for a future issue. Editor
WHOPPER FROG-"I thought you might be interested in this photo of nine-year-old Brad Peters, who caught a whopping 14-inch frog with a red fly on Box Butte Creek. Brad is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Brad Peters of Marple Route, Alliance." — Lew Cook, Lincoln.
RAW DEAL —"I would like to take this opportunity to express my reactions to our recent pheasant-hunting trip to Nebraska.
"After listening to all of the advertising propaganda poured out of the state concerning the hunting opportunities there, we planned a four-day trip to this land of opportunity.
"The opportunities were certainly there; to buy $21.50 permits, lodging, meals, etc., except there were no opportunities to hunt.
"During our two-day stay, we came home two days early, we requested permission from approximately 20 landowners for permission to hunt and for all of this effort we were rewarded by 6 NEBRASKAland being allowed to hunt in two small fields.
"I do not question the right of these people to close their land, however, I do question the ethics of accepting money (since every resident of the state benefitted from our money), for the privilege and then denying it.
"I return to you my $21.50 permit as your trophy of another sucker bagged in Nebraska." —James G. Pafford, Sand Springs, Oklahoma
Unfortunately, a number of hunters faced this problem during the early days of Nebraska's 1966 pheasant season. The harvest of corn and milo was late last fall due to many factors. Consequently, landowners barred hunters from unharvested fields, since they feared damage to crops. Frankly, we can't blame them. However, other landowners were most gracious, and there was a good deal of state and federal land open.
Even so, Nebraska is not the only state encountering the problem of land closure. As the population grows, the demand for more space increases — not only for hunting but for all outdoor recreation. The demands on the landowner are many. Still, the hunter, can do much to ease the situation by being extra thoughtful and occasionally offering to lend a helping hand to the farmer or rancher or simply by stopping by to say,rr thank you".
One of the reasons for Nebraska's long pheasant season (93 days) is to spread out the hunting pressure. Preseason publicity urged gunners to come later in the season. Had Mr. Pafford delayed his trip and come a little later in the season, he would have avoided much of the opening weekend rush and found the landowners much more receptive.—Editor
BASKETBALL PLAYER-"As a former Nebraskan I naturally enjoy NEBRASKAland. The articles are readable and most interesting, the colored illustrations fascinating, and the over-all effect first class. However, there is one complaint I feel I must make, and it's just a personal matter. I believe you devote too much space to hunting and fishing, and not enough space to items of general interest. This may be because I'm neither a hunter or a fisherman, but no doubt, there are many others who would welcome more items of a general nature and fewer dealing with hunting and fishing. It may also be that the Nebraska Game Commission is prejudiced toward hunting and fishing, but I hope that future issues will have more items of general interest.
"Incidentally, it may interest you to know that I was a member of the FIRST basketball team to represent Creighton University way back in 1912, just 55 years ago. I had the pleasure of seeing the Creighton-Arizona State University game in Tempe just four years ago, when each team boasted an ail-American player. The Bluejays lost by a single point." —F. J. Festner, Phoenix, Arizona.
FEBRUARY Roudup
Alice-ln-Wonderland assortment of things to do make this wintery month one to rememberOLD MAN Winter can not cramp NEBRASKAland's style as indoor events dominate the scene for February.
High school athletes take to the mat, cage, and pool vying for championships. Swimmers start the parade of contests at Omaha Westside High School on February 10 and 11. They will be competing for the state championships. February 10 and 11 will also find district wrestling meets across the state. Following these contests the winners will travel to the University of Nebraska to compete for the state wrestling championships on February 17 and 18. Class C and D high schools will hold district basketball tournaments February 20 through 24 with play-offs coming the following week. February 27 through March 4 are the dates for Class A and B high school district basketball tournaments.
Basketball and wrestling fill the schedules of the colleges throughout the state. Creighton, Nebraska Wesleyan, and Omaha universities test their cage strengths three times each on their home floors, while the University of Nebraska will meet foes twice this month in Lincoln. Wesleyan University's wrestling team will meet Midland, Concordia, and Doane college teams in Lincoln during February, while Omaha University has scheduled wrestling contests with Graceland College, South Dakota University, and Wayne State College.
University of Nebraska Repertory Theatre will present two one-act operas, "Gianni Schicci" and "Rita", by Gaetano Donizetti on February 1 and 4. Feminine charms will be on display in the Capital City during the annual University of Nebraska's Coed Follies, scheduled for February 24. Neil Simons' comedy, "The Odd Couple", will bring Broadway talent to the Stuart Theatre in Lincoln on February 2.
Actor and art critic Vincent Price will speak at the Nebraska Union on February 2. The Sheldon Art Gallery in Lincoln will feature Alfred Hitchcock's film, "Foreign Correspondent" on February 3.
Home-town talent will be displayed in the Lincoln Community Playhouse production of Tennessee Williams' play, "A Streetcar Named Desire". The popular Broadway play, depicting the tragic downfall of a former southern belle, will be presented February 3, 4, 10, 11, 12, 17, 18, and 19.
Feathered NEBRASKAlanders will be discussed February 9 at Creighton University in Omaha. Naturalist James M. Malkowski will speak on the unique opportunties for bird study in the Midlands. Omaha will host the Midwest Gift and Antique Show at Sheraton-Fontenelle Hotel from February 11 through 14. Looking ahead to summer's delights, Omahans can attend the Sports, Vacation, and Boat Show at the Civic Auditorium. It begins on February 17 and closes February 26.
Joslyn Art Museum at Omaha offers plenty of cultural entertainment. The "Salute to Nebraska" exhibition will continue on display for the first 12 days of February. Omaha Symphony will play at Joslyn February 13 and 14. In its chamber music series, Joslyn will offer a Fine Arts Ensemble on February 19 while a Dick Walter Travelogue will be featured on February 24. A folk group, "Feiseirean", will entertain in Joslyn's Concert Hall on February 25.
Springview and Bassett start the parade of centennial events with the two-day Tri-County Centennial Pageant and Musical beginning on February 27.
Concerts, plays, sports events, and famous entertainers add up to 28 action-packed days for Nebraskans.
THE ENDWHAT TO DO
1-4-"Gianni Schicchi" and "Rita", University of Nebraska, Lincoln 2-"The Odd Couple", Stuart Theatre, Lincoln 2 —Vincent Price, Nebraska Union, Lincoln 2-4 —Opera, University of Nebraska, Lincoln 3 —Basketball, Lincoln High vs. Southeast, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 3 — Alfred Hitchcock's "Foreign Correspondent", Sheldon Art Gallery, Lincoln 3-4 — Sixth Annual Weekend With Music, Nebraska Center, Lincoln 3-10 —"A Streetcar Named Desire", Community Playhouse, Lincoln 4-"The Chicken", "Cornet At Night", and "Private Life of a Cat", Sheldon Art Gallery, Lincoln 5-"The Paleface", "Cops", and "The General", Sheldon Art Gallery, Lincoln 6 —Basketball, Creighton University vs. Oklahoma City University, Omaha 7 —Basketball, Pittsburg State vs. Omaha University, Omaha 8 — Professional Wrestling, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 9 - Bird Study In Omaha Area, Creighton University, Omaha 9 —Wrestling, Midland College vs. Wesleyan University, Lincoln 9 — Community Planning Commissions Seminar, Nebraska Center, Lincoln 9-10 —Parks and Recreation Conference, Nebraska Center, Lincoln 10-11 —State High School Swimming Meet, Westside High School, Omaha 10-11-District High School Meets 10-19-Fine Arts Festival, Wesleyan University, Lincoln 10 —Basketball, Lincoln High vs. Pius X, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 11-14-Midwest Gift and Antique Show, Sheraton-Fontenelle Hotel, Omaha 11 —Basketball, Regis College vs. Wesleyan University, Lincoln 11-Basketball, Northeast vs. Fremont, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 11 —Wrestling, Graceland College vs. Omaha University, Omaha 11 —Basketball, Iowa University vs. University of Nebraska, Lincoln 11-Basketball, Denver University vs. Creighton University, Omaha 12-Lincoln's Birthday 12-Close of "Salute To Nebraska" Exhibition, Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 13-14-Omaha Symphony, Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 13-Basketball, University of Houston vs. Creighton University, Omaha 13-19-Ice Capades, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 14-Wrestling, Concordia College vs. Nebraska Wesleyan University, Lincoln 14-Wrestling, South Dakota University vs. Omaha University, Omaha 14 — Valentine's Day 17-Feeder's Day, Exeter 17-26-Sports, Vacation, and Boat Show, Civic Auditorium, Omaha 17-"The Passion of Joan of Arc" and "The Trial of Joan of Arc", Sheldon Art Gallery, Lincoln 17-18-State High School Wrestling Meet, University of Nebraska, Lincoln 18-Parents Day, Nebraska Wesleyan University, Lincoln (Continued on page 50)Valentine reveries and dreams of February's activities crowd the pretty head of NEBRASKAland hostess, Elizabeth Rae Knight. The Chadron State College coed, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Leonard E. Knight of Scottsbluff, was the 1966 Basketball Court Queen and received the Queen of Queen's title by a vote of the campus queens. This blue-eyed miss was also chosen attendant at the college Winter Ball.
Rodeo has been the sport in the life of this month's hostess. She participated in four years of high school rodeo, two years of National High School Rodeo, and was the 1966 Rodeo Queen. Elizabeth finds time to brighten the sidelines at Chadron State College sports events as a cheerleader.
PERCH ON ICE
by Jon Davenport as told to Bob Snow Each angler must find own salvation. Mine is Sutherland Reservoir and ...THE SPUD hit the ice and chipped a small piece off the large blue-white diamond that was Sutherland Reservoir. My numb fingers took a firm grasp on the long-handled ice-chisel as I sent it plunging against the blue-white ice again and again, shattering it into a hundred shards. There was about 3,000 acres of hard water around me, but all I wanted was two, six-inch holes in it.
Finally, my spud broke through to the watery world below. I picked up my jacket and slipped it on, cold fingers fumbling with the zipper. From past experiences, I knew I had to shed a coat when spudding ice. It's a sweating job and afterwards, drying perspiration can be mighty chilling. Slipping on a jacket helps to prevent this discomfort.
My rigs were in the water by 9 a.m., but if the perch didn't bite in 15 minutes, I planned to move the red-and-white bobber down another foot on the four-pound monofilament. Perch feed in schools and if your hooks aren't set at the right depth they'll often swim right under or over them without even touching your baits. Nebraska permits an ice fisherman to use a maximum of 15 hooks, singly or in combination. There is no limit on panfish.
A five-gallon pail was my tackle box, chair, and fish carrier. From the bucket seat I kept a close watch on my two, two-foot fiber glass fish sticks. Yellow perch hit just hard enough to barely move the bobber. I was rigged with two No. 10 hooks on each rod, plus light weights and floats, just big enough to hold the terminal gear steady.
A bright sun, reflecting from the diamond-like ice, as if from a mirror, brought tears to my unprotected eyes so I donned my sunglasses. Now, if the sun could just temper the coldness a bit and push the thermometer above 20°, I would be comfortable.
I forgot the temperature as my bobber went down, then gently eased back to the surface. I quick-stepped across the(Continued on page 54)
HAPPINESS IS A DUCK HUNTER
by Dave Brooks as told to Fred Nelson Our trip to Devil's Nest area is comedy of errors at first. We switch acts to score 12 NEBRASKAlandTHE BIG greenhead caught us flat-footed. He zipped in low and fast from the north, buzzed our decoys, and was out of range before either of us saw him. My partner swung on him and then lowered his shotgun in disgust.
"Best chance of the day and we had to blow it," he complained, watching the mallard fade into the horizon.
I was momentarily disappointed, but the morning was still young and I knew that sooner or later we would score. There were an estimated 6,000 ducks on the bay and four of them were bound to get careless, or so I thought. In 1966, Nebraska had a three-ducks-a-day limit, but only two of them could be mallards.
Cerrill "Doc" Anderson and I were on a late-November hunt in the Devil's Nest region, south of Lewis and Clark Lake in northeastern Nebraska. We had a portable blind of wire mesh and swamp grass set up on a sandbar along the south shore of the big impoundment and a spread of decoys. Both of us use 12-gauge autoloaders and depend on powerful magnum loads with their 1 1/2 ounces of No. 4 shot. Our targets were the big, full-feathered mallards that stream down from the north to rest and feed on the big lake before moving on south.
Both of us live in Bloomfield, a small town located a few miles south of the big lake. Doc is a jeweler there and I run a sports store, so we don't have a lot of time for hunting, but we always try to get in a two-morning hunt when the flight birds are in. Duke, my ancient golden, does the retrieving, a job he does with efficiency, but very little enthusiasm. Doc and I like to get ducks but both of us enjoy the esthetics of hunting almost as much as we do the actual shooting.
Waiting for the next opportunity, I reviewed the morning's events and found them rich in retrospect. Early dawn had been a pale rent in the fabric of the night when Doc and I had splashed across a narrow backwater to the sandbar blind. We had put out our blocks in that magic period between black night and strong light when the wild world comes awake. Overhead, we could hear the whir of restless wings as hundreds of ducks milled through the fading blackness. They were going out to feed in the corn fields to the east and south and their return would give us our shooting.
From somewhere in the trees behind us, a pair of great horned owls boomed out their scorn of the approaching day and were roundly scolded for their impudence by a rooster pheasant. Far out on the slaty surface of the bay, a mallard hen was urging her colleagues to be up and about the business of the day. The hunt was already a success if we didn't shoot a duck.
Doc's sharp hiss broke my reveries. Off to the east, a thin skein of mallards was winding our way. They were high, but it was evident they were looking for a place to come in. My partner highballed them with the call and then followed it up with a series of enticing chuckles. The flight swung our way and the birds began spilling the air from their wings, ready to pitch in. Suddenly, the leader sensed danger. He pumped hard and went up in a climbing arc, taking his followers with him.
They made a long circle over the bay and finally pitched in, several hundred yards from our blind. The old hen welcomed them with an outburst of duck talk.
"I was praying those ducks in for another 10 yards," I remarked as the tension drained away.
"Something spooked them at the last minute," Doc agreed. "I'm going to make a check and see if there is something wrong with our setup."
He climbed out of the blind and made a long study of the surroundings for a suspicious telltale, but everything seemed O.K. After a critical inspection of the decoys, my partner re-entered the blind and settled down. It was strong light now, but a thickening haze was coming in against the wind to threaten our visibility, but the east was still bright and we naturally kept looking in that direction. Ducks were everywhere but they were keeping well out to the center of the bay. The old hen was still sounding off and it was evident that she had a good sales talk. Birds were peeling off from the swirling flocks and pitching down to join the already sizeable raft around her.
"That old Susie is trouble. The more she chatters, the more ducks she's pulling in, the more ducks, the bigger the raft, the bigger the raft, the more ducks that will see it. Our decoys can't buck competition like that," Doc reasoned. "If I could get out there, I'd bust her one."
I went back to my musing. It was good to be in a blind again, watching and waiting for the birds to come in. I've lived them a hundred times over, but the anticipation of seeing birds swing in and those agonizing seconds of will-they-or-won't-they indecisions are ever new. Our spot was almost perfect. The shallow bay lay in a gentle indentation of the wooded shore line and was partially protected on the north by a stand of water-killed trees. A line of saw-toothed
bluffs guarded the southern sweep, while the long east-west sandbar offered excellent loafing areas for the ducks. A brisk southeast wind was whipping the big lake, but the bluffs around the bay were robbing it of its strength as it swept over the bay. It was obvious that the circling birds wanted to settle. They streamed over the bluffs, swung west and north and dumped in without any hesitation. The haze was building up to the north and west, but its progress was somewhat slowed by the freshening wind.
"We've got the ducks coming and going," I mused aloud.
Doc gave me a quizzical look and resumed his vigil. Ducks were trading back and forth over" the water continuing to give our blind a wide berth. The jeweler was convinced that something was wrong but he couldn't pinpoint it. After the umpteenth flock had flared wide, Doc got out of the blind and walked over to its east edge. He studied it a minute and then came back.
"I know what's wrong, now. That blind isn't quite high enough to hide our faces, even when we crouch down. There's a glare coming off our faces when we look into the sun and that's what's spooking the birds, they're plenty blind shy, anyway. Let's get a little lower in the blind and look through the fronds instead over the top," he said.
We tried it and it worked like a charm. A flock of five mallards came over the bluff and turned our way. Doc highballed them with the call and the ducks dropped lower for a closer look at our spread. Apparently satisfied, the birds cupped their wings and started gliding in.
I could see the orange-colored feet of the lead drake groping for the splash down before I brought up the gun. He collapsed at the shot and came down like a rock. Excited by the score, I got careless with my second shot and missed. My third try was also off, and I realized that I had muffed a perfect chance for a quick double. Doc's 12 barked once and a tailender folded up and started down. He recovered and started to climb, so my partner fired the second time. The charge seemed to hold the drake in mid-air for a perceptible instant and then let go as the bird plummeted into the water. He bobbed up, righted himself, and was trying to swim away when the jeweler used his third and last round for a stopper. Duke ambled out of the blind, took a look at the floating ducks, and turned around as if to say, "You want me to go into that cold water?"
I did and he did after considerable oral persuasion. He brought back my drake and returned for Doc's. It was a fairly long swim for the old golden but he took his time and finally caught up his quarry. He came back slowly, dropped the duck at my feet, and showered me with a vigorous shake of his water-soaked body.
"You know, I think that if that dog of yours was a man, you could almost call him a grouch," Doc laughed, reaching down to give the shivering dog a congratulatory pat.
We were admiring our prizes when a teal streaked out of the haze and plopped into the decoys. Doc and I "shooed" him up and as so often happens on an easy shot, I missed him. I was a bit disconcerted but my second shot was right on and the little greenwing tumbled back into the bay.
"I won't say you tried to Arkansas' him but I didn't see much daylight between bird and water on that first shot," Doc chided.
Our shooting had stirred up a lot of birds but they settled down after we went back to the blind. I was 14 NEBRASKAland watching a flock mill around in the north when Doc nudged me and pointed to the southeast. About 20 mallards were coming right down the pike, their hurtling bodies only inches above the choppy water. They came in fast and it looked like sure pickings as they continued to bore in. We took our time and picked our birds. It sounded like a Mexican revolution for two or three seconds but nothing phased the birds. Six shots and we didn't cut a feather.
We racked in fresh fodder and looked at each other for a long minute. There just wasn't much to say. Duke cocked an ear, sighed, and went back to sleep.
"Better stick to the hard ones," I said after a bit.
My partner nodded and went back to watching the lake. "Three coming in from the northeast, just over the trees," he warned.
The lead bird was the fastest of the trio so I mentally marked him as my target. "I'll take him,' I whispered.
The jeweler shifted his stance slightly and tensed as the mallards bored in. My lead bird caught the light and I saw that it was a hen but the second bird had the distinctive greenhead of a drake so I shifted my attention to him. My first shot was behind the speeding target but my next caught him just as he flared. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doc's bird falter and flutter down. The hunter fired a stopper and the charge of No.4's practically defeathered the falling duck.
We sacked up our decoys and headed for the car. Just before we reached the tree line, I turned and looked toward the bay. Ducks by the hundreds were piling in to the sandbar, now that the shotgun peril was ended for the day. It had been a real good morning and we had another coming up.
The next morning it was obvious that hunting wasn't going to be as good as it had been on the first day. It was clearer and warmer and the wind had died down to a mere whisper. We could see a lot of ducks trading over the bay, but their flight pattern had changed. Instead of staying close to the shore line after they came over the bluffs, they went straight north for a considerable distance before pitching in.
"It's going to be different this morning," Doc declared, as he watched the sun heave itself over the horizon and start its slow climb. "We'll get some shooting but it's going to be spotty. I wish we had some wind to rough up the big lake and move the birds into the bay."
His wish granter was right on the job. Less than 15 minutes later, a catspaw of wind began to ruffle the surface of the bay. Within a half hour it had grown to what the sailors call a spanking breeze, and we could see little whitecaps forming on the big lake. The ducks were getting restless. They would swirl up like wisps of smoke, level off for a few yards, and drop back to the water. They kept it up as the wind continued to strengthen and I noticed that more and more birds were moving into the protected waters of the bay. Still, the incoming flights were heading well out from the bluffs before pitching in and I decided that even though the wind was coming straight in from the north, the tree line was breaking up its force enough to let the birds fly against it.
A couple of loners came by high and too far out but we tried them anyway with no results. One drake fooled us good. He came in from behind the blind, dipped toward the decoys, and then arced up in a fast loop. He was gone before we realized what was happening. "Guess we(Continued on page 55)
THE MELTING HEART
Unique ice valentine loses six pounds over 26-year love affair by Col. Barney OldfieldSLOWLY THE ICE heart of the fabulous Sonja Henie, once unrivaled Queen of the Ice, is melting away. Not that this worries Miss Henie, who no doubt is blissfully unaware that she still has an ice heart, deep in the Omaha Cold Storage.
The heart weighed 75 pounds when I hacked it out of a 100-pound hunk of ice 26 years ago, but it is now down to 69 pounds. So ounce by ounce it is oozing away, and that may be all for the best because if there had been a storage bill, it is estimated that by now it would have run to $900. Moreover, Miss Henie might prefer to forget a few of those 26 years. Some beautiful girls are kind of funny that way.
And yet each year when I get a letter from D. H. Sanders, a VIP with Omaha Cold Storage, and he asks if the time has come to throw the ice monstrosity out, I can never utter the simple word, yes.
A quarter of a century ago, when a press agent for the Sonja Henie Ice Show came to Omaha, it was my fate to meet the Norwegian Queen of Ice Skating and to become deeply involved with the icy heart. Sonja was going to open her glacial gala on February 13, 1941 in the great Ak-Sar-Ben Coliseum for a week's run and her agent wanted to tie her publicity in with the most "in" group of the day.
I was in uniform and the U. S. Army was coming back in style. Hitler, by taking Norway, the Low Countries, and most of France had done much to make an "in" group of the military forces. So the press agent said to me.
"Can we fix up a gimmick with soldiers in it?"
At that time, I was public relations man for the Army's Seventh Corps Area, then in Omaha. We were busy sending out invitations to reserve officers to serve a year of active duty, a rather routine matter back then. Some soldiers were around, but not many. With the opening for Miss Heme's show before St. Valentine's Day, I suggested we arrange to have four soldiers show up with a whopper valentine.
Once the press agent had gone, that valentine began to loom ahead like a mountain. It had to be unique and well done, or it would go off like a dud. Production and art costs began to mount to astronomical heights. It was becoming a heap of work and money for one photo, even if 200 free seats went with it.
Then an idea exploded — and I was off to Omaha Cold Storage.
After explaining the idea to the boss, the late J. L. Gagini, I asked him if he had a 100-pound piece of that decorative green ice used by convention and dining room artists for table sculpture. He said he would gladly give me a block.
So in the middle of the icehouse floor, at 20° below zero, I armed myself with an ice pick, and I chipped away for what seemed hours. Out of that green block came the iciest, coldest, hardest, and heaviest valentine that ever existed. Having it all chipped up, I asked the Omaha Cold Storage Company to hold it until we were ready for the presentation. Ah! Fateful request!
When the night of the great event came, it was splendidly cold outside. Even if it had been warm, the prospect of a six-mile ride with a sweating block of dyed ice would hardly have been charming. As it was, the four soldiers I had dragooned into this sentimental servitude were of the old school, the kind that preferred to be cozy around a schooner of beer in after hours. The four men were asked to ride with the giant valentine in the back of the pickup truck.
The Henie Ice Show, on opening night backstage, never had an atmosphere suited to knitting booties or serving tea and crumpets. Sonja was not concerned about the cutting of figure eights, but about the sales figures being run up at the concessions. She had a sizable investment in all the concessions, soshe had an endless series of problems. Such matters as the programs costing too much to print, the hot dogs being too long for the buns, and the popcorn sacks being filled too full for profit, all became vexing royal duties for the supervision of the Ice Skating Queen. Into such an interlude of before-the-show frustration, my brave little half squad marched, lugging the perspiring ice-cake valentine. We found the blonde champion of the skating rink brooding in her dressing room. She wore her costume with a mink coat thrown around her shoulders. A quick explanation was offered to her. She shrugged,and made a gesture of feeling put upon, but conceded that she would go along with the presentation.
While my soldier crew stood endeavoring to graciously offer up my sturdy valentine, she tried in vain, with a heated nail, to inflict her autograph on it. This unsuccessful business gave the photographer more than enough time for several shots.
As this inauspicious meeting was breaking up, my military foursome, still loaded with ice, began to look chilled daggers at me. Obviously, the only ice Sonja Henie had any compelling interest in, was the uncut expanse which stretched beyond the curtain in the coliseum. She could not stir herself to get very excited over an icy hunk of valentine.
Then my newspaper-feature-writer nose, sniffed an angle in all this, so I thought of the perfect lines 16 NEBRASKAland for an exit. A vow with a touching measure of devotion thrown in.
"The soldiers of the Seventh Army Corps will take this valentine back with them and keep it. The next time you hold your ice show in Omaha, as proof of their continued affection, the soldiers will again present to you this appropriate and weighty memento."
Sonja smiled briefly, probably more from relief than actual joy. Then the overture was struck up, and the ice cavalcade sped onto the gleaming rink.
So for our valentine, it was back to Omaha Cold Storage. There to my surprise, Gagini said he thought it was a good gag, and he said he would go along with it, by giving the green-ice heart a free resting place.
After that two things happened. Queen of Ice Skaters, Sonja Henie had an altercation with Ak-Sar-Ben management, and vowed she would never play the site again. We in the army also became involved in a little row of our own, known technically and politically as World War II. The four soldiers and I went off on the government's all-expenses-paid tour to foreign climes, and on to other military fun and games.
But Omaha Cold Storage Company kept the faith and the valentine.
In 1946, when I returned from overseas and came to Omaha, I received a call from the company that the valentine was still there. Gagini reported it was roughly in the same shape and size as it had been at the time we made the original deposit on February 13, 1941.
Up to now I have gone back five times, and requested that the green-ice heart be brought from its recess to prove the actual existence of an object that has become the green elephant of my life. The promise, fantastic as it is, is kept with devotion.
Of the four soldiers who hoisted our green sculpture, three did not survive the war, I have been told. So, I can hardly put further onus on them. My exit line was only a very vague promise,and Sonja herself never warmed up to my frosty art, but somehow I cannot bring myself to say the story is over. Perhaps it is because I first met Miss Henie in Hollywood when we were both young, and she was on the set, making her second movie, "Thin Ice" for Twentieth Century Fox. Ice was the solid base for our relationship and old memories,and this makes it harder for me to be willing to throw away my sentimental labor.
Meanwhile,the reputation of Omaha Cold (Continued on page 56)
BLIZZARD OF '88
Granddaddy of them all, this monster charged down from the northwest like a pack of wolves on a flock of sheep by Glenda WoltemathTHERE WAS TROUBLE brewing in the air that morning. Animal instinct recognized it, even though man didn't. The cattle were restless; they lingered in the barn instead of going out to the hay stacks to feed. Chickens, usually busy at breakfast, huddled in a close mass and turned back to their hen 18 NEBRASKAland house. Even the geese ran about honking and trying their wings as if seeking escape.
That eventful morning, January 12, 1888, had dawned bright and clear. It was beguilingly warm for January, almost like Indian Summer. A warm breeze blew from the south, sure to bring a January thaw. It was a good day to bring in hay from the field or hitch up the horse and wagon to get supplies from town.
The four oldest Markel children gobbled down breakfast, bundled into their coats and caps, and pulled on their boots and gloves. They grabbed their lunch pails and headed out into the morning. It was a l 1/2-mile walk to the one-room school of District 29, south of Nebraska City, dubbed "Bloody 29" because the kids there were always getting into no-holds-barred but generally harmless fights.
Fred Markel, 16, always led his two brothers, Bill and Ed, 10 and 8, and Minnie, 12, "the sister", on the walk to school. They grew rosy-cheeked and jolly as they half-ran, half-skipped along, scaring up a rabbit on the way.
They were thinking ahead to the walk home in late afternoon after school had let out. The melting snow would make hard snowballs that splattered a couple of feet when they hit and a good snowball fight would make their day complete.
But before the day was over, the four Markel children and thousands of others in 16 states would experience a terror that would never be forgotten.
A storm, originating in central Canada, would build into a festering giant, angry and twisting with violence, and bent on destruction. It would sweep down on the United States like wolves on a sheep-fold to claim more human lives and destroy more livestock than all other blizzards combined since the pioneers settled in the Great Plains.
The Blizzard of 1888 was not just a western show. Its violence was felt throughout most of the northern states, from Montana to Minnesota, from Colorado to Illinois, from Texas to Louisiana. It hit the states with a thousand-mile broadside and spent itself in the Gulf of Mexico. In its wake, it left untold hardship and death.
More than 200 persons lost their lives, although no accurate count is available. After the storm, each community buried its dead, so there is no exact record.
Hundreds of people froze their hands and feet and later on had to have them amputated. Thousands of cattle, sheep, and hogs died in the storm, many of them covered by snow drifts so deep that the victims were not discovered until the spring thaws. Some Nebraska counties reported that half their livestock was lost in the storm. A few days after the blizzard had spent its vengeance, gangs of men went out on the prairie to make a little extra money skinning the storm-killed cattle. The next summer, carload after carload of bones were shipped to fertilizer plants in the East.
But the children of District 29, as others throughout the country, were unaware of what was coming that morning. They played Fox-and-Geese at recess and cleaned out their lunch pails at noon. After taking their seats, they lined up for a spell-down, a favorite sport for the bright ones and a relief from the boredom of study for the not-so-bright.
Sometime between three and four o'clock the storm struck. Nebraska's warm, mellow wind shifted to the northwest and became bitter cold, blowing more furiously every minute. Thick, blinding snow battered the land with a violent barrage so terrible, so overwhelming, that for a moment life was struck dumb.
A terrible shock, like an earthquake, struck the schoolhouse of District 29 with a force that shook the building from foundation to the roof. Within minutes the windows were plastered with wet, clinging snow, darkening the schoolhouse to an eerie dusk. It was no use trying to study; the children were too excited.
But the teacher was worried. She knew how fierce prairie storms could be in this country of hot winds, grasshoppers, rattlesnakes, tornadoes, and blizzards. Perhaps she had been through the Easter Blizzard of 1873, which dealt horror, death, and suffering for 72 hours throughout the Dakotas and Nebraska.
Realizing the intensity of this storm, the schoolteacher
at District 29 dismissed her pupils, hurried
them into their coats and started them for home. She
FEBRUARY, 1967
19
thought they would be safer with their parents, as the
angry gusts of wind seemed to want to tear the schoolhouse
from its foundation and splinter it to bits.
Some of the children were met by their fathers at the door, fathers who had become grotesque-looking human beings with ice hanging from their whiskers and clothes, after coming through the storm.
The violent wind already had reached 54 m.p.h., driving frozen flour-fine snow with unrelenting fury. The mercury was dropping out of the bottom of the thermometer like pebbles falling through water. When the children had opened their lunch pails at noon, the thermometer was 43° above. The following morning it would read 40° below zero, a drop of 83 degrees in about 18 hours.
Those who had brought sleighs to the schoolhouse told their children to huddle together on the bottom, and urged their horses into the storm. The blinding wind and whipping snow stung men and animals with the fierceness of a sandstorm on the Sahara.
Men driving their teams could not see the horses' heads. Sometimes they could catch a dim outline of the team, sometimes they could see only the horses' tails. Soon the roads were blotted out, but teams and sleighs staggered on, not knowing where they were going.
But on they must go. Fighting every inch for sight and breath and survival.
The Markel children started out from the school on foot, Fred in the lead bucking the snow, with the others following close behind.
Within minutes, they were completely lost. But they stumbled on, half-seeing, half-breathing, half-dragging each other. Suddenly Fred's feet slipped out from under him. He tumbled into a creek bed. Exhausted and hardly able to move, he still recognized it as the creek that flowed past his home. The four weary travelers stumbled on until they reached the bridge, the only bridge across Rock Creek for many miles. It was right by their home.
They had made it! They crossed the bridge and staggered into the house to find their mother almost frantic with alternating hope and fear. Hope that her children had shelter, fear that they were lost in the storm. Mrs. Markel covered her face with her apron, and broke into sobs.
Others in the neighborhood were not as lucky as the Markel children. On the way home from another school, a wagon loaded with students overturned, spilling the children into the snow. Unable to go on, the driver and 14 youngsters died on the frozen bed of the merciless prairie.
Two little girls traveling alone were lost in the storm and their bodies were not found until two weeks later when farm dogs led searchers to a plum thicket only a few rods from a farmhouse and shelter. The girls were buried under 10 feet of drifted snow.
Miss Minnie May Freeman, a teacher in Valley County, received national acclaim for her bravery in saving the lives of her 16 pupils. The blizzard struck with such violence that she decided to keep her students with her at the schoolhouse overnight. They had plenty of fuel to keep warm, but cold and powdery snow crept in under the door. Students and teacher huddled around the stove, but suddenly a gust of wind tore the door off its leather hinges and let a blast of cold into the room. The biggest of the farm boys went to work with a hammer and nailed the door back on. When a second blast of wind ripped the hinges loose again, the boys fastened the door with spikes. They had no sooner settled around the stove, when a gale lifted the tarpaper roof, letting in a blanket of snow.
Miss Freeman decided it was time to take her children to her boarding house, a half-mile away. She ripped off her underskirt, tore it into shreds, and tied the children's hands together in a human chain. Unable to pull open the door, Miss Freeman led her brood through a window, the children dropping one by one into the storm.
With herself in the lead and one of the biggest boys at the end of the line, Miss Freeman dragged the small ones against the blast. Following a fence, the chain of 17 stumbled, fell, and rose again time and again before they reached the farm house. But they were safe, with only frosted noses and fingers as mementos of that courageous journey.
There are two accounts of how the day started for Miss Etta Shattuck, a schoolteacher in Holt County. One story says that she did not hold classes on the day of the blizzard. Instead, she started to the home of a board member to get a check cashed. A second account says she sent her school children home, and then lost her way in an attempt to find home herself.
Whatever was the purpose of Miss Shattuck's being out on that day, she lost her way when the blizzard struck, and wandered about for a long time before she stumbled onto a hay stack. Exhausted, she dug a hole in the stack, hoping to find shelter. But she was so tired that she gave up digging before she had made a hole big enough for her whole body. Miss Shattuck crawled in, but left her feet dangling out in the storm.
After the storm ceased, coyotes came near the helpless teacher but she screamed to scare them away. Mice chewed on her hair and bit her wrists, but still she fought for life.
On the third morning of her desperate struggle for survival, Bowman Adams, a Holt County farmer, came to the haystack to feed what remained of his herd. Attracted by the barking of his dog, he spotted Miss Shattuck's overshoes sticking out of the snow-covered hay stack.
Mr. Adams took her to his home. Several days later, with still a bit of fighting pioneer spirit left in her, Miss Shattuck was taken to a hospital where both 20 NEBRASKAland of her legs were amputated. But the ordeal had been too strenuous; Miss Shattuck died a few weeks later.
The experiences of the Blizzard of 1888 have all become history, but the memory of that winter will always remain vivid to those who lived through the awful horrors of the worst storm in more than a century. January 12, 1940, 60 survivors of the Blizzard of 1888 met in Lincoln under the leadership of W. H. O'Gara, to share their experiences. They formed a club for survivors or descendants of survivors, and have been meeting on January 12 ever since, getting together to swap yarns about the Bad Old Times.
They talk about how a Dundy County cowboy saved himself when he was caught on the prairie by the storm. He shot a cow, disemboweled her, and crawled inside the carcass. He lived to tell the story, but his feet were so badly frozen that they had to be amputated just in front of the heel. The rest of his life he hopped about like a crow, with his shoes turning up at the end like sled runners.
They talk about the terrible pain of thawing out swollen, frozen hands and feet in a pan of snow. They talk about the horrible faces, torn and bleeding when bearded pioneers had to pull ice from their noses, mouths, and eyes.
They talk about wearing scarves or flour sacks over their faces in a futile attempt to get to the barns to feed the stock.
They talk of barns so loosely built that snow blew in as if dumped by buckets; the horses kept tramping snow under feet until they were nearly up against the ridge logs.
And they remember that the settlers' sod houses and dugouts were normally quite warm with their two-foot-thick walls, but the floury-fine snow, driven by the wind, sifted through tiny holes in the walls. Many of them remember homes that ran out of fuel and the long hours of agonizing cold. They talk of all these things, for they are as vivid today as they were 79 years ago to those who lived through that terrible ordeal.
These were hard times for the settlers, and few of them had suitable shelter for stock. Wire fences were practically unknown. Cattle caught out on the prairie when the blizzard struck drifted with the wind, became exhausted and dropped, to be smothered under huge drifts. The snow packed so hard that a horse and rider could ride right over fences, the horse's hooves leaving barely an impression on the snow.
About 100 head of cattle had been in the stock fields near Coleridge; only 10 survived the storm. Many were found dead, standing up in the 15-foot snow drifts. Search parties found 20 cattle in one group, frozen stiff. A number of ranchers were forced out of business because they did not have the means to replace their herds.
The Blizzard of 1888 has been called the worst of all storms by some because four elements were combined in the one attack. A sudden coming, very low temperatures, strong winds, and a very fine but heavy snow. The storm raged for 36 hours, but it was several days before its full toll was known. It came without warning, and lingered like an unwanted guest. It maimed and killed with malevolence, leaving 100 dead in Nebraska alone.
Although 1888 meterology was not the precise science that it is today, it is probable that the storm was born when a warm front from the Gulf of Mexico clashed with a cold front out of the North. This, man could not and cannot regulate. But the heroism, self-sacrifice and hospitality which predominated during the Blizzard of 1888 shows that the pioneers had what it took when nature wrought her vengeance.
THE END
LIGHTHOUSE OF THE PLAINS
Unique tower is tourist attraction as it stands guard at Lake MinatareLAST SUMMER Nebraska commissioned the first ship in its up-to-then mythical navy. Landlocked 1 Nebraskans chuckled and thought it was a good idea. Few realize that the state has a not-so-mythical lighthouse to go along with its growing navy.
It wasn't planned that way, and the lighthouse has never been officially decreed a part of the service, but it is there just the same, standing on the shore of Lake Minatare in western Nebraska.
The lighthouse hasn't made Ripley's "Believe It or Not" yet, but it is in the running. After all, it is rather unusual for a prairie state, 1,000 miles from an ocean, to have a lighthouse.
Any time you try to figure people, especially if they are Nebraskans, you run into trouble. You see, Nebraskans have been brought up in an atmosphere of rugged individualism, and by golly, if they think a lighthouse is needed on the plains, they'll build it.
It is rather doubtful that Nebraska's lighthouse will ever come into use. Scientists haven't predicted that half the United States is going to fall into the ocean or that a great 40-day rain is scheduled for a repeat performance, so a future need for a lighthouse isn't exactly pressing.
Then why does Nebraska have a lighthouse? To answer that question, you have to understand the period in which it was built.
Nebraska's lighthouse was a beacon of hope in the dark days of the 1930 depression when many men were jobless. A proud man refused to take a handout, so the Veterans Conservation Corps was formed to give former servicemen work.
A camp was set up at Lake Minatare and around 250 men moved to the site. Their job was to improve Lake Minatare and the surrounding district. The men were working for money promised to them by the government and that was important. But even more important, the veterans were given hope.
There was a purpose to their work as the editor of the Minatare paper pointed out.
"Many states are endowed with natural playgrounds that draw thousands of tourists, but in Nebraska we are not so fortunate. If we are to draw tourists we must build our own playgrounds, and that is the ultimate goal of the men in the VCC," he wrote.
From 1933 to 1937 they planted trees, built cabins, picnic grounds, shelter houses, a stone entrance to the park, and a lighthouse.
No one seems to know the exact date when the lighthouse was started or when it was completed. From the dates inscribed on other structures in the park, old-timers think it was finished in late 1933 or '34.
The 45-foot tower is impressive and intriguing, as the story of its construction. The men who built it must have toiled for months for the stone was hand-quarried from a high bluff to the north of the lake.
The unique structure has circular stairs leading up to a balcony that surrounds the oval-shaped room at the top. Nebraska's lighthouse is different from most in that a light never adorned the beacon house. But a light makes little difference when a person climbs the stairs to the balcony as the sun dips under the horizon. To stand in solitude as the fiery ball goes down and view a land turned gold by its rays is reason enough for the structure's existence.
So as it stands now, Nebraska has a lighthouse without a light, on a prairie without a ship. To improve the park and draw tourists to a man-made playground was a plan with a purpose. But the question remains. Why build a lighthouse? Why not a stone fort or another structure, symbolic of life on the plains?
One might guess that the designer was homesick for his home beside the sea. Maybe the veterans working in the park were almost all sailors' and longed for the ocean. Or could it be that the men actually did build the lighthouse as a beacon of hope in a period in history when despair was an everyday occurrence? All the answers might be correct, for the lighthouse lends itself to the imagination.
An ocean-side lighthouse undergoes storms of hurricane force. Nebraska's inland lighthouse has had to weather a few storms, too. The stone tower's biggest storm was one of public opinion. Dissenters brewed up a hurricane that nearly ripped the tower from its sturdy foundations. But the people of Minatare shored up the house and voiced an opinion that echoed all the way across the state to the capitol. When the winds of destruction were quieted, the lighthouse stood as a tribute to a people who had grown attached to it through the years.
The first practical use of the stone structure was as a bathhouse. In more recent years the tower has been used as a meeting place and a concession. In 1966, a renovation project was started when picnic tables were added to the wings of the building to make it a shelter house. A light may be added in the future.
But the lightless lighthouse still serves as a beacon. When massive flights of ducks and geese come down the Central Flyway each year, the stone structure greets them, pointing the way to Lake Minature's watery port of call.
A lighthouse on the plains. Unusual? It is not so unusual when you stop to think that it stands as a tribute to men who, even in the nation's darkest hours, knew that the light of prosperity would once again flicker across the land.
Nebraska has a lighthouse without a light, and not an ocean for 1,000 miles.
Strange, isn't it? Not so strange when you stop to think that the editor of the Minatare paper back in the 1930's was correct. Nebraskans did build and are still building playgrounds, and thousands have visited the lighthouse and other man-made attractions around the state.
Nebraska's lighthouse may never see a ship. But the people of Minatare, and Nebraska, are proud of the structure. The tower is uniquely Nebraska, for Nebraskans are unique. They are proud of their prairie state, a state that doesn't have a ship-supporting body of water, but has a lighthouse.THE END
22 NEBRASKAland
WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO NELSON BUCK?
Surveying party entered onto the plains and into frontier's Twilight Zone by Warren SpencerTHE YEAR was 1869. Nelson Buck was at Fort Kearny waiting to move out for Red Willow County in southwestern Nebraska. Once there, he and his surveying crew would establish county boundaries for the new state. But for the past week, there had been some doubt in Buck's mind whether to go or not. The post commandant had refused to issue arms to the crew. It seems there was a new law that forbade granting arms to civilians, even those on government business, so the commandant had been well within his rights when he waved the order in Buck's face and turned down his request.
Buck's band was small and with the exception of two or three, all of them were under 20 years of age. They had enough supplies, but almost no guns. And they were headed into some of the roughest country east of the Rockies. It was enough to make any man wonder.
Finally after a week of contemplation, the chief surveyor made his decision. He had a job to do and he was going to do it. So, early one July morning in 1869, Buck and his men marched through the fort's gates and into a sort of western immortality.
No one has ever determined Buck's route exactly. Several have guessed, but they could never prove their theories. Nelson Buck could never tell, because he and his party simply disappeared.
It is not strange that the surveyor
should end in such a way. Men with
FEBRUARY, 1967
25
feet of sand often meet mysterious fates. And Nelson
Buck was a rambler.
As a young man in New York, Buck led rather a quiet life as a music teacher. He married and settled down to raise a family and seemed headed for a secure future. Then the first of his five children died. It was a tragic note and afterwards the family was never quite the same. Later, two more Buck children died, leaving marks on their father that lasted until his dying day.
After the third death in the family, Buck decided that it was time for a change. A time to find a new home and a new way of life, so he gave up his teaching, took his family, and moved to Peoria, Illinois. There he entered the surveying trade. It was a good life, but in those days surveyors ranged over large territories in practicing their art. This travel fitted into Buck's plans since it kept him occupied.
By 1840, Nelson was ready to move again, this time to Bloomington, Illinois. But Bloomington proved to be the worst stop along Buck's wandering path. There in 1844, his wife took sick and died, leaving him with the two remaining children. But they were growing up now and were ready to leave home. So, Nelson Buck was alone.
In 1850, he moved on to Pontiac, Michigan,where he met Maria Fellows. After a brief courtship they were married. By now, Nelson was in a new routine and marriage was different than before. He had developed a wanderlust that never left him.
In Nebraska there were signs of a new state in the making and surveyors were needed to plot county boundaries. For years, Buck had listened to the call of adventure and by 1869 he could stand it no more. He petitioned the Surveyor General in Washington for a commission plot to the boundaries for Red Willow County in southwestern Nebraska. In early spring he got the job. But no man in his right mind would venture into Indian territory alone. It took more than guts to measure the plains. It took numbers.
Buck placed an ad in the Pontiac newspaper asking for help and it wasn't long in coming. Within a couple of weeks, he had all of the applicants he needed. Accounts vary as to whom he picked, but most agree that David and Frank McFarlane were among them. The sons of a local tailor, they were eager to test themselves against the hazards of the high plains, besides a trip to the West was a welcome respite from a dull tailor shop. Buxton McGregor, the son of a Pontiac attorney, also signed on. Then there were John Nettleton, William McCullough, and John Sager. All were still in their teens, but in those days boys became men young.
On June 29, 1869, Buck and his party boarded a west-bound train to Council Bluffs, Iowa. From there, they were to hike to a point opposite Plattsmouth, Nebraska. This is where people began to lose track of the Buck party. Though he supposedly left Pontiac with six men, he arrived in Council Bluffs with only four companions. What happened to the others is still a mystery.
The surveyors head south out of Council Bluffs and within two or three days they were ready to be ferried into Nebraska. Accounts vary as to when they arrived in Plattsmouth. Some say that they were there for the first-spike-driving ceremonies for the Burlington Railroad. Others don't know. But then, a handful of men in the thriving town didn't make news. There were just too many others.
Once in Nebraska, Buck added to his band. Some say that he hired five or six more helpers. Names are 26 NEBRASKAland given for only three, and they are not complete. As scout, an indispensable member of any party, Buck hired a man named Sager or Seger. No one seems to know who he was, but all agree that he was no relation to the boy who hired on in Pontiac. Another boy by the name of Halderman joined the party. Presumably a big point in his favor was his Ballard .22 rifle, something the outfit needed. Rounding out the expedition was teamster Levi Mieroslouski or H. L. Levi. The name changes each time the story is told.
Buck and his men stayed at the teamster's house for a time and then headed west. They took the scenic route from Plattsmouth by following the trail to Omaha, Lincoln, and then on to Kearney, via Grand Island. But while the country was beautiful to the easterners, the weather was terrible. Old records show 1869 as a wet year, so normally solid trails were nothing but ribbons of mud. None of the party could ride for it was all the mules could do to pull the supply wagons. Buck was almost 60, but he plodded on like the rest.
Not far from Grand Island, one of the party found a homestead while on scouting duty. The rest eagerly followed him in hopes of getting a good, hot meal. The occupant was a little old lady who seemed as innocent as could be. But during the meal which she prepared for the men, one of them asked about Indian weapons which dotted the walls. The woman flew into a rage, exclaiming that the Sioux had murdered her menfolk and then come to the house to eat. She repaid them by putting strychnine in the sugar. Thus, the youngsters in the party got their first taste of Indian fighting on the plains.
From Grand Island, it was a short two-day hop to Fort Kearny. There, Buck planned to pick up supplies enough to last on the trek to Red Willow and to keep them while they were there. But while the supplies were easily purchased, arms were not. So, for a week Buck explored the possibility of begging off and going back east.
No one will ever know what made the man set off into Indian-infested country with a band of youngsters and almost no armament. Their arms totaled one .45 caliber rifle, one Henry rifle, one Ballard 22, and one Colt .45. That Colt was Buck's personal weapon. With the exception of the .45 rifle and the pistol, the weapons were all in questionable states of repair. Despite all of the odds, Buck decided to go on.
Here the story ends as far as fact is concerned. Neither Buck or his men were ever heard of again. Supposedly there were two survivors, J. C. Haldeman, and J. B. Nettleton. Buck sent them back to Kearny to try to secure a military escort. But eventually they too disappeared.
There is some circumstantial evidence as to what happened to Buck, however. A Lieutenant Haskins, stationed at North Platte headed an expedition in search of the surveying party. William F. (Buffalo Bill) Cody was his scout. On the banks of Beaver Creek in Red Willow County, Haskins and Cody found a deserted camp. But there was no trace of the party. Signs of a running battle indicated that the crew had tried to fight its way out of a battle and retreat to the east. According to one member of the search party, who was interviewed years later, they found many Indian bodies "buried" in the treetops along the route of the so-called battle. But the searchers said there were no white bodies.
As is the case with tragedies, there are confusing reports. Some claimed that they found the wreckage of wagons of the Buck party strewn for miles. This could never be proved.
In the winter of 1869, the Oglala Sioux Chief, Pawnee Killer, told white traders in South Dakota that his people had fought whites in the approximate vicinity at approximately the same time as Buck's disappearance. He said that four of his braves were fired on while on a hunting trip. They returned to camp for help and he and 200 braves rushed the camp, killing five of the whites. The rest escaped to the east, but he thought they had been killed by another band of Indians. Questioned closely, Pawnee Killer admitted that he didn't know what really happened.
So the disappearance of the Nelson Buck surveying party is still a mystery. Since the day they rode out of Fort Kearny they have not been seen. Their fate will probably never be known since any witnesses have long since died and been forgotten, taking their secrets to their graves. And only the prairie, who saw it all, knows the truth, but it refuses to answer the question. What happened to Nelson Buck?
THE END
INFORMATION PLEASE
Hostesses serve citizen, alien with state history or honeymoon planA BEVY OF attractive girls, the NEBRASKAland tourist station hostesses, may never hit Broadway, but they star when it comes to answering questions about the state's attractions. As part of Nebraska's expanding efforts to make visitors welcome, the hostesses are hired for their personalities, attractiveness, and over-all knowledge of the state. They need that knowledge, for questions are their stock in trade.
They have to come up with the right dope when strangers want to know where they can see the Indians roaming the plains or what is the best and fastest route through the state. It is these people, the hostesses claim, who make this tourist business so interesting and at times, so humorous.
Visitors from all 50 states and all major countries stop at the summer tourist stations located in Kimball, Blair, and at the Greenwood Exchange on Interstate 80. Stations in Omaha and Lincoln are on a year-a-round-basis. Foreigners seem to be the most curious and ask the most questions.
"I think they like to talk to us just because we're Americans," says Diane Dahlheim, hostess at the Lincoln booth, located in the Capitol.
A group of touring Japanese students were among her most interesting visitors.
"When we talked, they would bow, so I would bow and then they would bow back, so I would bow in return. It finally got to the point where I really didn't know what to do," she recalls with a smile.
An English couple dropped in at the Lincoln booth on a rainy day and talked to the hostess for nearly 28 NEBRASKAland an hour. It was a mutally rewarding experience for both parties. The Britishers got some information on Nebraska and Diane learned a little about England.
"They loved the weather," the hostess said. "'Just like home' was their comment."
The couple warned her to be sure and bring her mackintosh if she ever went to England.
Her biggest surprise, however, was the day when three men, dressed in strange clothing, fur hats, and high boots, walked into the station and started asking questions in a foreign language.
"That was probably the first and last time I will ever get a chance to sell NEBRASKAland to the Russians," she observed.
"We get an education just talking to these people. They are just as anxious to tell us about their home, country, or state as we are to tell them about Nebraska", Diame claims.
She recalls a summer visitor, a young girl from New York, who couldn't get over how clean Nebraska is and how friendly Nebraskans are.
"Almost over-friendly," the New Yorker said. The girl was scared at being in a strange state alone, but later said, "if I ever got lost, I wouldn't be afraid to ask anyone for help around Nebraska."
Diane says she can't think of any station visitor prouder than the hunter.
"He lives in glory and loves to tell about it. I happen to like sports, so I enjoy listening. If you aren't a good listener, you might as well forget it, because some hunters bring along pictures and anything else that is necessary to improve their tales."
"Another station visitor, a Lincoln woman, asked me about antique dealers around the state, then sat down and told me about antiques for two hours. Before she left she even invited me over to her house to see her own collection," Diane recalls.
"A lot of the questions are routine," the hostess said. "But every once in awhile someone will come up with a strange one."
Take for example, the little boy who entered the station and told her that he was the meanest boy in Lincoln and did she want him to prove it? She went along with him and told him to prove it.
Click! Slam! And the hostess found herself in a darkened room with the door shut. A few minutes later, the boy peeked into the room and asked Diane if she believed him now.
Many young men ask where they can take a honeymoon in Nebraska, while other visitors are interested in the available guest ranches. More than one set of parents have wanted to know of guest ranches that would keep their children outside eight hours a day and not allow any television watching.
"Easterners almost always ask 'where are the Indians?'" the Lincoln hostess said. "It's hard to convince some of them that we really don't have wild Indians running around — although, during NEBRASKAland Days, I'm sure that I couldn't have convinced anyone of that!"
One request she receives most often, Diane says, is on research for school and university students writing papers on Nebraska.
"It's a popular assignment and we seem to be one of the biggest and most helpful sources of information around. I seem to do about 10 term papers a week," she commented.
Students are also given a special school packet. This and other literature about the state is sent to any one who requests it. The information is free, so selling NEBRASKAland isn't hard and prospects for the product are easy to find.
While Diane was giving the dope on Nebraska to Russians, Japanese, and English, Marilyn Zarlingo of the Omaha station was busy making a German couple feel at home. "I can speak German, so I told them all about Nebraska in their native tongue," she explains.
Among the American visitors who have stopped by the Crossroads station in Omaha was a lively party of young people from the West Coast who were headed for the Newport Jazz Festival.
"These fascinating visitors wanted to know all about the new glazes in Nebraska pottery. I wasn't aware of it before, but I guess (Continued on page 51)
To youngsters learning about Nebraska,hostess is master storyteller. Questions center around history, geography of this state
SOMETHING TO CROW ABOUT
Lincoln fairyland's a ball for Mom, Pop, and the kids, and especially a bird called CharlieCHARLIE IS a grow, but unlike the run-of-the-mill crow, Charlie makes Lincoln's Children's Zoo at Antelope Park his summer home. For a veteran scavenger like him, this plush 4 1/2-acre home is a crow's fairyland.Even so,someof thethings he takes for granted are eye-opening spectacles for children.
People don't have to look for Charlie because the crow looks for them. You see, he is a feathered conman,
30Monkeys and their clownish acrobatics are May-through-September attractions
and like most pros in the field, he cases the surroundings for the most likely places to filch a kernel of popcorn or a piece of bread from the park'sthousands of visitors who come to the unique zoo during its Memorial Day to Labor Day season.
The antique popcorn wagon, near the zoo's replica of a Nebraska frontier town, is Charlie's version of the Stork Club. Velvety grass under towering shade trees adds the luxury touch to his dining.Charlie can't fly,because his wings are clipped.But why fly,when everybody is willing to be waiters and pop tiny morsels of popcorn into his always-open beak?
Charlie is a bird of action. When the bright orange doors of the Birdcage Theatre swing open in the scaled-down frontier town, you can usually find the crow prancing excitedly back and forth in front of the show house. The space between the two light posts, from the old Lincoln Library, is his favorite beat. The theatre offers a variety of acts, but one of crow's favorites is the snake show featuring his friend, Boa, the boa constrictor.
Everybody likes birthday parties,even Charlie. When a crow lives at the zoo, there is an opportunity to take part in someone's birthday almost every day. The town's livery barn, jail, and fire station provide a western atmosphere for birthday parties that chil- dren and Charlie never forget.
One of Charlie's closest human friends is Arnott Folsom, president of the Children's Zoo Association. It was Arnie with his gentle, but sure hands that freed the crow's leg when the curious bird accidently caught it between the cast-iron leg of a chair at the Trading Post. It was Arnie who has done everything from pull weeds to raise money to make the zoo an accept- able place for the bird to live and a delight for guests.
Charlie's home was built by people who hadalove for animals and an even deeper love for children. When the idea of a Children's Zoo was proposed, it caught on almost immediately. Lincoln loaned the zoo a piece of the park, a couple gave $5,000for starting expenses, a steelman gave a high fence to enclose the zoo, another couple gave $5,000 for an entrance way, and other individuals from Nebraska and all over the nation sent checks to help with its construction. Civic organizations also helped raise money and by the start of the 1966 zoo season, more than $1,500,000 had been donated.
Charlie knows just about everybody at the zoo from the two kangaroos, Joe and Josephine, to the 30 zoo boys and girls. These teen-age zoo keepers, chosen because they loveallanimalsfroma spunky puppy to a squirmy snake, supervise all activities at the park and watch over their young guests.
Ordinary birds, looking for water, have to settle for a mud puddle. But in the Children's Zoo,
Charlie often picks the beautiful Flamingo Pool to wet his tonsils. The tall and stately flamingos seem to enjoy their comical little friend. The crow, a status seeker by heart, enjoys the company of the pink monarchs of the park.
Another favorite watering spot for Charlie is the Stegosaurus Fountain. This unique fountain is symbolic of the long evolution of animals from pre-historic times to the animals found today. The crow is dwarfed by the huge fountain that is the actual size of the giant dinosaurs that once roamed the world.
Charlie considers himself quite the entertainer, but other animals in the zoo offer him plenty of competition. It is hard for a conventional crow to keep the spotlight when three fun-living otters decide to slide into a watery pool or glide through the water with more grace than Esther Williams. Besides, the otters are honest-to-camera movie stars. The otters, stars of Walt Disney's "Otter Odyssey", moved into their new $10,000 playground at the beginning of the 1966 zoo season.
Charlie enjoys entertaining his young friends. It is the vitality of youth, the wide-eyed excitement, and the "ohs" and "ahs" as he goes through his various antics that spurs the bird to bigger and better performances. But, that is why Charlie and his animal friends are here. Some of the youngsters visiting the zoo have never seen a crow, a racoon, a monkey, or a giant turtle.
The crow often struts down the winding sidewalk that leads to the six animal playpens. In these brightly-colored playpens, children are given a chance to play with rabbits, puppies, kittens, turtles, guinea pigs, and other animals.
When Charlie wants attention, he usually gets attention. At the playpens, the bird always cocks his head to one side to size up the animal opposition and the children. After carefully studying the situation, the crow goes into a series of attention-getting pranks. By experience, Charlie knows a flap of his wings and couple of loud caws can divert a child from a cuddly kitten or a playful puppy. Being a wise old bird, who knows the in and outs of show business, Charlie adds
34 NEBRASKAlandMother Good architecture scores a big hit with the nursery set. Harmless pets like this tame bunny are there for the cuddling. An almost-humon chimp is one of the star at this unique attraction where young are always welcome guests. Zoo was built and stocked by donations
to the excitement of a youngster's day by dancing wildly around the playpen with a young friend hot on his tail feathers. Finally, the crow shrewdly lets the child's determination to view him at close range win out.
The little showman may act camera shy, but it is only another aspect of his con game. The crow has long since learned that people will feed a bird just to make him stand still while they snap the shutter. Actually, Charlie will pose just about anywhere, but he prefers not to have his picture taken in front of the walk-in bird cage. Charlie has found that thegolden pheasant and the other birds in the cage draw more attention than a shiny black crow.
Many of the other animals at the zoo are clowns, and when Charlie isn't on stage he enjoys watching them. The kings of comedy, next to Charlie, are the jovial and always frisky monkeys.
The crow also spends lazy summer afternoons watching the three goats at Goat Island. The goats, featured in an article in Look Magazine, clamber up a ramped tower leading to a suspension bridge. Charlie enjoys watching the family feuds when two of the goats lock horns to see which one will win the right-of-way on the narrow ramps.
The animal nursery and diet kitchen are the only places where the always-hungry crow doesn't have to beg for food. The baby animals at the compound receive the undivided attention of their human visitors, so the shrewd old crow only goes there to eat a free meal and not to scrounge handouts.
In the glass-enclosed kitchen, zoo boys and girls prepare food for the animals. As they fix the meal the zoo chefs explain what is being done and answer questions asked by young guests through a two-way speaker. Finally, the stainless-steel dishes of food are loaded on a cart and young and old follow along to see the animals get "a la carte" service.
Charlie isn't allowed to ride on the zoo's Iron Horse Railroad, but that doesn't stop the crow from trying. The engine, a scale replica of the famous C.P. Huntington locomotive,pulls three cars over a half-mile track which winds along a creek, across a trestle, and through a tunnel.
With exception of the animals in the Animal Compound, Charlie is jealous of almost any animal that tries to upstage him. The animals in the compound never have to worry about competition from Charlie, because the bird realizes that it is not every day that an excited little girl can ride on the back of a giant turtle, pet a lamb, or cuddle a Sicilian donkey.
Charlie lives in a grass-and-tree-covered palace, and in his own way he rules this magic land. It is true that he is only a crow, but even a crow can sense the excitement of children as they explore this wonderful man-made fairyland. THE END
THE YOUTHFUL VIOLATOR
by Fred Nelson Impatience and temptation are costly twosome for teen-agersIT WAS AN old, old story to the Nebraska conservation officer. A teen-ager with an out-of-season pheasant in his possession. The boy had been hunting rabbits and when the pheasant flushed, the lad shot him. Sadly, the officer begins his questioning, knowing the answers he is going to hear.
"Don't you know that the pheasant season is closed?"
"Yes sir."
"Then why did you do it."
"I don't know."
The kid is telling the truth. He doesn't really know why he killed the bird. He knows his act is a violation of the law and he knew it before he ever pulled the trigger, but the temptation was there and he succumbed. Now, he is in trouble, and he or his parents, if he is found guilty by the court, will have to pay a fine, costs, and liquidated damages. Yet the consequences never entered his mind when he clobbered the bird.
Later on, the boy may try to rationalize his action to himself and his thoughts may run along these lines:
"I didn't have much luck during the regular season, so all I did was make up for a bird that I didn't get earlier. Besides, Nebraska has millions of pheasants, so what difference does one bird more or less make?"
Or the youngster may think like this:
"My next door neighbor kills a lot of illegal birds and he doesn't get caught. How come he gets away with it and I can't?"
Violator or not, the kid is entitled to some straight answers on the need for seasons, bag limits, and regulations which are essential to modern game management.
Hunting seasons and bag limits are set on a biologically sound basis to coincide with periods of surplus game populations. Deviations from this accepted policy can do two things. They can wreck the resource and in time cause the extirpation of desirable game species or they can place unreasonable and unrealistic curbs on the sportsmen and deny them maximum utilization of the resource. True, one bird more or less will not affect the resource one way or the other, but multiply one-out-of-season kill by potential thousands and game management goes out of the window. Laws and regulations are established and enforced to provide the greatest good for the greatest number and still protect the game and fish from over harvest.
As for the boy's neighbor, who apparently enjoys an immunity from the lawr that's pure luck and sooner or later, the offender will be confronted by the man with the badge.
There is no denying that Nebraska has a problem with youthful violators. In 1966, about 26 per cent of all arrests made by conservation officers involved young people from 12 to 20. These infractions run the gamut from exceeding the posted speed limit in state areas to game and fish violations. The most common hunting-related violation is the loaded shotgun in a vehicle, while fishing without a permit gets more young anglers in trouble than any other infraction. Many youths in the 16 to 20-year bracket will not take time to purchase licenses before they fish, believing they won't be checked. Sooner or later, they have to pay the consequences for their impatience.
Certain months of the year seem to have a preponderance of teen-age violations. In January 1966, officers made 64 arrests, 21 of them involving minors. February, normally a slow month in the outdoor field, saw 23 arrests, 19 of them minors. March showed 57 arrests, 22 of the violations were committed by persons, 20 years old or younger.
June is a big fishing and vacation month in Nebraska and the arrest records reflect this increased outdoor activity. Officers made 243 arrests in June 1966, but only 49 involved the 12-to-20 age group.
Nebraska's pheasant season begins in late October and thousands of resident and non-resident hunters are in the field to match hunting skills against the wily ringneck. Violations naturally skyrocket, yet only 28 youngsters were arrested, compared to 349 adults.
Officers have some theories about these lop-sided ratios. Kids are largely on their own during the winter months. Fathers and older brothers have used up most of their free time and are no longer as anxious to hunt since the bird seasons are either tapering off or are closed. Without adult supervision or companionship, the youngsters are more apt to succumb to temptation.
Kids who want to willfully break the law are crafty. They (Continued on page 56)
40Meeting the conservation officer can be costly or pleasant for teen-age hunter
NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA . . . TADPOLE MADTOM
by Dick Peckham District Fisheries Supervisor Plagued with poor eyesight, small member of cattish family relies on sensitive barbels and a body covered with taste cells. He prefers stable home on stream bottom. 42 NEBRASKAlandTO FISHERMEN, the terms catfish, bullheads, and madtoms, denote whiskered, scaleless fishes which are caught on worms and have spines in their fins. The tadpole madtom is one of eight species of catfishes found in Nebraska. He is a nocturnal fish and rarely exceeds four inches in length. Very few people know of his existence. But, those who have come in contact with him, either by catching him on a worm or seining for bait, have learned to respect him for the painful sting he can render with his dorsal and pectoral spines.
Madtom or Noturus gyrinus is the smallest member of the catfish family, Ictaluridae, found in Nebraska. Adults, usually range from 1.7 to 3.5 inches long. Their colors are dark olive, brown, or sometimes dark gray. The body and tail are never sharply bi-colored, but sides are lighter, the color gradually fading downward to merge with the yellowish-white or white of the belly and ventral surface of the head. There is a conspicuous, very narrow dark line along the side of the body. The head is large and fleshy and not flattened, while the body is short and stout, shaped somewhat like that of a tadpole. Unlike the stone cat, the madtom's upper and lower jaws are of equal length.
Their claim to distinction is the high development of poison glands in their spines. Although not dangerous, a prick from a spine is as painful as the sting of a bee or wasp. In addition to the pectoral glands found m other catfishes, the tadpole madtoms possess a gland at the base of the dorsal spine. The secretions from the pectoral gland stream from a pore and over the side of the body of the fish toward the tail. The pectoral spine, when folded against the body, is in contact with the pore. Thus, the spine is bathed with poison which enters the puncture wound.
Although found in quiet areas of some of the larger rivers, madtoms prefer small rocky streams or slow-moving streams where conditions are relatively stable, with bottoms of soft muck which contains varying amounts of twigs, logs, and leaves. He is occasionally found in lakes, potholes, or oxbows where there is an abundance of aquatic vegetation in clear or only slightly turbid waters. In Nebraska, the tadpole madtom has been recorded in the Platte, Elkhorn, and Big Nemaha watersheds.
Highly sensitive barbels and a body heavily endowed with taste cells make up for the madtom's poor eyesight. Food consists of worms, small crustaceans, insect larvae, vegetable material, and rarely, small fishes.
Spawning occurs from May to July with the female usually depositing 35 to 150 rather large eggs on the underside of stones, logs, boards, or other debris. Small fry are guarded to some extent by the parents.
This tadpole cat, as he is sometimes called, is nocturnal in habits, but can be seen during daylight hours by overturning a stone or log in a small stream. In some states the madtom is prized as a bait.
Although of little economic importance and seldom encountered in Nebraska, don't underestimate the prowess of this pygmy of the catfish family.
THE END
THE INVENTIVE FISHERMAN
by Lou Ell NEBRASKAlandI HAVE A friend with a problem. He is a fisherman, and because of his piscatorial pursuits, he is slowly growing bald. He isn't the only balding fisherman in the business, as some of the irritating things that plague the wielders of the wand are enough to cause hair tearing among the most knowledgeable of the fraternity. To be a fisherman you must also be an inventor. If you don't believe it, take a look at some of the ways these chaps solve the dilemmas they always seem to be on the horns of.
What do you'do at streamside with a pesky jointed-rod that fails to go together easily? If you've mashed the stick in a car door, the only thing you can do is cuss. If you simply failed to slick up the joint with graphite, you just rotate the ferrules against the side of your nose to pick up some of its natural oil, and you avoid catastrophe.
Or the silk winding on a guide pops loose just when you're loading up to head for the boonies. No time to rewind it at this crucial point. Grab the wife's nail polish and coat the frayed spot. While you have the cap off the bottle, dab some of the red dope on that chipped place on your favorite bass plug. If she has some clear polish, it's great to prevent rust spots from developing on the shanks of your hooks or on the blades of your shiny-plated spinners.
One fellow I know carries a roll of cellophane tape
in his tackle box, and he's been watching the winding
FEBRUARY,196745
on the guides of his fishing rod because, believe it or
not, he wants one of them to come off. He's heard that a
couple of turns of the tape will hold the guide in place
for a few more casts. He says if he had known about this
sooner, he wouldn't have lost one of his guides on a previous
trip. He came out of that without trouble, though.
He simply took a safety pin, cut the loop off its base,
and attached it to the rod in place of the lost guide.
Right after which he caught a six-pound bass, he says.
Now, back up to that line that says "a safety pin". Did you ever dig into a tackle box and find the dry flies, straight-shank hooks, spoons, and casting plugs all gathered together in one glorious Gordion knot? Get some safety pins, even if it means the baby goes diaperless. Thread all the common hooks on the pins, using a different pin for each size hook or shank length. Then sink the plug or spoon hooks into the edge of a styrofoam block, and snap a heavy rubber band around the assembly to keep the bodies from flopping around. A small styrofoam cone will hold several dozen flies or small spinners and they'll all be visible through the plastic bag that you pull over the batch. Buried in the foam, hooks stay sharp until you are ready to use them.
Artists love to depict an angler with his hatband full of fishing flies. To my knowledge no recording has ever been made of the language one of these lads uses when he tries to take them out again. Little blocks of styrofoam cemented around the hatband provide a much more practical holder if you are one who insists on flies in your bonnet.
Live-bait fishermen carry their offerings to the fishing site in clumsy minnow buckets, outsize bait cans, and live boxes, then forever run back to their main source of supply whenever they need new fish feed. Anglers with foresight take a plastic sandwich bag, fill it half full with loose soil or leaf mold, drop in half a dozen worms, and then slip the whole shebang into a shirt pocket. If they're going after bass, they tie an old sock to their belt as a live pouch for small frogs. A flat whiskey bottle, full of fresh water, and a few live minnows, rides around in a hip pocket. If you forget to remove these items before you throw your clothes in the laundry, your wife may just pack up and go home to mother. This latter benefit is not guaranteed, however.
Bank-type fishermen who just sit and keep a lazy eye on the bobber have their problems, too. A carelessly attached float may go sailing off into the scenery after a particularly wild pitch, and not another one in the tackle box. With dry cattail or bullrush stalks around, the day need not be lost. A section of the air-filled, pithy stalk of either plant is as good a substitute as you are apt to find. Weight the bottom end with a tiny split shot so the stem will ride upright. The air sac from previously caught fish makes a fine substitute bobber, too.
One fisherman I know, who hails from a foreign country called Pennsylvania, says that a drop of glycerin in the eye of a rod guide will keep it from icing up when you're fishing in below-freezing weather. If the line is other than monofilament, you can carry this trick a step farther. Pour a third of the glycerin from the bottle, and replace it with an equal amount of radiator anti-freeze.Shake the mixture before use.
Worthy of passing notice, a wad of chewing gum will temporarily stop a pinhole leak in your waders.
This inventiveness of fishermen goes from the sublime to the ridiculous. One ardent walleye seeker at Lake McConaughy found himself without adequate weights for deep fishing. All he could think of were the 46 NEBRASKAland lug nuts from a front wheel of his Volkswagen. Things would have been just fine if his wife hadn't decided to drive the car to better shade. She didn't make it, and an Ogallala garage got a nice fee to drive out and get the three-wheeled Volks out of the sand.
Take the red-shirted angler I ran into on a remote Sand Hills' lake. Hip deep in the water, he was pulling in bluegill hook over tackle box. What was he using for a lure? A scrap of red raveling from his shirttail. Every time he leaned over to pick up a fish from the water, it was obvious he was without trousers. When he finally came back to shore, he lugged his fish in as unique a live sack as you are apt to find. His missing pants, legs tied together, were stuffed with bluegill, held inside with his belt for a drawstring.
On a more practical level, more than one fisherman has had to measure a catch somewhat less than the spread of his outflung arms. For a rough-and-ready guesstimate, the span of the average man's hand is 8 1/2 inches from the tip of the thumb to the tip of the little finger. From the elbow joint to the fingertips is 18 inches. The middle joint of a doubled forefinger is I 1/2 inches, and from the back knuckle to the tip of an extended middle finger is 4 1/2 inches. You can use these measurements on a fish to settle any arguments with your angling buddies. Whereupon the argument will shift from the size of the fish to the accuracy of the dimensions of the human hand.
Speaking of heads brings us full circle to my balding friend. As I said in the beginning, being a fisherman got him that way. You see, he has a fishing rod with a loose joint. A single hair from his head, laid across the ferrule when he assembles the section, provides just enough wedging action to firm it up. Anyone know where he can buy a cast-off Beatle wig?
THE END
TURKEY LOVE CALL
by Gene Schmeeckle As top dog in lure class I was hurt when it came to birds Then Pine Ridge and luck made coup completeDAWN ON OPENING day of the 1965 spring turkey season broke reluctantly. A fine mist was falling and the hilltops were shrouded in fog as I crossed the creek and headed for the "hole". I was sure that a few old gobblers were using the rugged spot as a strutting grounds and I wanted to be on hand to greet one of them with my 12-gauge over-and-under. Selecting a good blind, I went to work with my call, but after 30 fruitless minutes I gave it up and moved on. Five stops further on, my yelps brought a loud, deep-throated gobble in reply.
"This is it, this call really works," I thought as I sidled behind a fallen log and got ready for the old torn.
Another gobble rattled through the hills and I knew that old boy was moving toward me. Straining my eyes until they ached, I detected a slight movement about 70 yards away. There big as day, the old torn stood beside a pine and cautiously surveyed the area. At this moment, the sound of a car broke the silence. Too late, I remembered that I was close to a ranch road. A station wagon full of hunters appeared and then stopped. I risked a look at them, then glanced again toward the turkey but the old gobbler was gone, swallowed up in the vastness of Nebraska's Pine Ridge.
Since shooting hours were over at noon, I had to quit hunting, but I was more elated over seeing a turkey than disappointed over the circumstances that had thwarted me.
Driving to Crawford I thought about the hunt and this second spring season. It had all started in 1959 when the Nebraska Game Commission released the Merriam's turkey in the Pine Ridge. From this meager stocking of only a few birds, evolved one of the most successful wildlife transplants to occur anywhere in the United States.
By the fall of 1962,1 the flocks had increased sufficiently to permit limited hunting. Hunter success was good and another season was authorized for the fall of 1963. It, too, was a success. Encouraged by the hunters' acceptance of this new game bird and continued flock expansion, the Game Commission opened a spring season in 1964. It was a toms-only hunt and any misconceptions about love-sick gobblers being pushovers were soon dispelled. I tried the 1964 spring hunt and didn't score, but the fever was there and I could hardly wait for another go at the gobblers.
Nebraska requires spring turkey hunters to have a hand or mouth-operated call on their persons while hunting, so six weeks before the opener, my coyote-hunting partner, Lloyd Hans, and I put together what we thought was a nice-sounding.call. My home in Gering echoed with yelps and gobbles for days after we finished the call. Gradually, I got better and better at talking turkey with it.
Crawford was sponsoring its Second Annual Turkey Calling Contest that afternoon, so I decided to enter and find out just how good I was with the call. After the yelping, gobbling, and squawking died down, I was judged the winner and received a 12-gauge autoloader and a handsome trophy.
I am an insurance agent in Gering and had some appointments scheduled for the next morning so I couldn't hunt, but I knew that sooner or later I would be back to match wits with an old torn.
My friends congratulated me on winning the calling contest, but all of them wanted to know why I didn't have my turkey if I was so darned good with a call. I suggested they ask the turkeys.
At first, I intended to go back to the Pine Ridge on Friday but by Wednesday night, impatience got the better of me, so after tossing and turning until 1 a.m., I got up, dressed, threw the shotgun in the car, and headed for the Ridge.
By 4 o'clock I was at my favorite creek and started thinking like a turkey. What would I do if I was an old torn? I decided that I would be in the rugged terrain, east of the creek, so that's where I headed. After a half hour's traveling through the mean hills I began to wonder if even a turkey could live in this raw country, so I stopped to catch my breath.
Confident that I could call turkeys, I set up a stand and started yelping. Nothing happened, so I moved and tried again. Again, nothing answered, except for a few pine jays who were terribly upset about my intrusion. Remembering that my coyote calling success was about one in three, I wasn't too discouraged and moved on.
Sitting beside a huge pine, I let off with a series of yelps and right away the canyons boomed with the loudest gobble I had ever heard. "This could be it," I thought. But, my joy was soon dampened when a hen yelped to the east. Could it be another hunter?
"No," I thought. "If that is another hunter and he is that good, he would have entered the contest and beat me. It must be a hen."
Now, I was involved in a turkey triangle and I had to beat the old biddy at her own game. I called again and the old torn answered that he was still interested, but the hen really wanted this boy and she told him so in a long series of perfect calls.
The next time, the gobbler sounded off, he was several hundred yards to the east and I knew that the hen had won. Then, far down the canyon, another gobble echoed through the hills. It was followed by the high-pitched call of still (Continued on page 50)
TURKEY LOVE CALL
(Continued from page 49)another bird which I figured was a younger torn. They had apparently heard the ruckus and wanted in on the fun, too.
I put everything I had in the next series of calls and got an immediate answer. I wasn't happy with my blind and since the birds seemed to be 500 yards or more away, I looked around for a better spot. There it was, about 40 yards away.
A huge pine had fallen, but because of the slope it wasn't completely on the ground. On its fall, it had scraped down another Ponderosa, strewing branches and twigs all around. I made my stand in the angle of the two trees.
I buttoned my camouflage suit tight and laid my over-and-under against the tree. Kneeling, I pressed my face against the rough bark. My eyes were practically 50 NEBRASKAland slits as I peered out, hoping that I could see the approaching turkeys.
I waited for something to happen, but everything was silent. The hen and the gobbler had apparently got together and I smiled in satisfaction. There would be clutch of eggs, laid somewhere in the Pine Ridge, to provide sport for next year's hunting. I was suddenly glad that she had beaten me.
Taking a lesson from the hen, I called again. The torn was still out there. Just a little closer. I waited for what seemed hours but nothing broke the stillness. Doubt that the bird or birds were still there began creeping in, but it was soon shaken out when an enthusiastic gobble came from less than 100 yards away.
Right then and there I made a decision that some hunters won't buy. I called again. Many years ago an experienced turkey hunter told me:
"You can't overcall a torn as long as you don't make any mistakes".
I still think he was right, because my final call really stirred up that old tom's blood pressure. Now, I was ready. A little shaky perhaps but ready.
The approach to the blind was thick with small pines and a scattering of large ones. There was a little hogback that crested about 15 yards to my right. It was time to think like a turkey again. Which direction would he come from?
Peering intently at the area of the last loud gobble, I detected a slight movement about 80 yards away. Then the puffed-up, crimson-hued head of the old torn came into view, followed by that of the smaller bird. The younger torn gave me the impression that he was just along for the ride.
The big fellow hopped down a two-foot bank and then headed up the swale on the lee side of the hogback. He walked under the hill and the sweat really started pouring down my back and chest. Without moving my head or shoulders, I slowly hoisted the over-and-under to the top of the fallen log. I couldn't see the turkey and I didn't know if he could see me or not, but I decided to gamble on him coming up the little hogback and through the larger trees.
The cover was good and I knew he would take advantage of it. To my right and behind me, there was a 10-foot clearing so I ruled out this approach. Five minutes dragged by before I spotted the red head of the gobbler over the crest of the little hill. More head came into view with his every step. Now I could see the large peduncle and the caruncles on his neck but still I waited. I decided to let more of him show, because I had to drop the gun several inches to line up on him and if he spotted the slight movement, all he had to do was retract his head and I would be out of luck.
Strutting now, the gobbler took several more steps and then I saw the long beard protruding from his chest. I pointed and fired. The charge of No. 4's caught him in the neck and head. He flopped noisly down the slope and I knew he was mine. The little guy with him took off and although I never saw him, I heard him "putting" all the way down the canyon. After my first excitement cooled, I took a long look at my prize. He was big and my estimate of 30 pounds wasn't too far off. The scales went to the 26-pound mark when I weighed him.
I stood over my fallen bird for a moment and then looked skyward.
"Thanks Lord for allowing me this pleasure," I said aloud.
And I meant it, for without a doubt, spring gobbler hunting is one of the most sporting, challenging, and thrilling experiences that an average hunter can have. Calling a gobbler is a difficult business; one false note and he is often gone for good. Killing him after he comes in to a call is even tougher for he's smart, quick, durable, and awesomely wary. There's no hunting like it and once you've tried it, you're likely to be hooked for life.
THE ENDINFORMATION PLEASE
(Continued from page 29)it is pretty distinctive when you think about it," Marilyn reflected.
Half and half categorizes the visitors, half are passing through Nebraska, while the other half have come to visit or tour.
"It's so GREEN!" is one of the most-often heard comments about the state Marilyn says. "Visitors to Omaha are amazed at the number of cultural events scheduled. They seem very impressed with the Omaha Playhouse and also the number of good antiques available."
"They are also surprised at Omaha, brick streets and old buildings with modern-designed structures right across from each other. Some visitors like the boulevards, but can't understand why they haven't been torn up to make way for modern thoroughfares," the Omaha hostess continued.
On the other hand, visitors are very pleased with Pontenelle Forest, even though they have to walk through the forest to enjoy its beauty.
"A lot of old-timers frequent the Omaha booth and reminisce about what it was really like in the old days. It's really fun and fascinating to talk to them, because it is all so different to us - we're all so used to 20th Century technology and advancements," she says.
Marilyn says that she finds most Nebraskans are attracted to the booth by seeing their state's name in large and colorful letters.
"They come up and ask what we are doing, who are we working for and why. It has taken almost a year for the local people to realize that the booth is a permanent thing. They used to come up to the booth and say, 'How nice, how long are you going to be here?'" the Omaha hostess observed.
Nancy Converse of the Greenwood Station had an interesting session with a couple from Turkey. The visitors thought the hostesses slept in the back of the booth, which is really a very small NEBRASKAland trailer, simply because it had curtains in the back.
"They didn't speak very much English
and we speak even less Turkish, but
FEBRUARY,1967
51
somehow we explained to them that we
didn't sleep in the booth," blonde-haired
Nancy said.
Babysitting for two parakeets was probably the most unusual task Nancy has performed as a hostess. The birds' owner, an Iowa woman, wanted to stop for lunch, but was leery about leaving her birds in the car with the sun beating down on it. Nancy put the birds in the back of the booth until the woman returned and another happy visitor, plus two cool birds, were added to Nebraska's growing list of pleased visitors.
Nancy says that she was often asked about Indians, especially whether or not the traveler will have to go through reservations to get to his destination. Another major concern is the possibility of tornadoes, especially when it looks like rain.
Some travelers, who have previously stopped at the stations for information will return on their way home to visit with the hostesses, while many other constant travelers or local people will stop at the booths.
"One trucker from Council Bluffs, who has driven over every highway in Nebraska, except the stretch between Chadron and Alliance, used to stop in regularly and quiz us on the sites and places of interest," Nancy says. "And one day, one of the state troopers really threw some tourists at the Greenwood station when he walked in and asked dead-panned, 'which way to Lincoln?'"
Guiding people to Nebraska sites is not strictly an 8 to 5 job either, as Nancy proved one night when she and several other girls camped out. A visitor asked if they could direct him to some Mormon sites. The University of Nebraska junior whipped out her guidebook and quickly dispatched him to the Florence Gardens and other Mormon sites.
Sometimes people will come into the tourist booths just to find the quickest route to another state. The hostess complies, showing the visitor the best route, plus some of Nebraska's historic or tourist spots along the way.
"If the tourist didn't ask any questions on what to see, we would just keep mentioning places along their proposed route until eventually we would name something that would interest either them or their children," says the Greenwood station hostess.
Often, the out-of-state visitor isn't nearly so surprised at the number of sites in Nebraska as they are in the number of interesting sites along the planned route, especially if it is along Interstate 80.
"Lots of times the traveler, who never planned on stopping in Nebraska except for food and fuel, will get interested and go 25 or 30 miles out of his way just to see a certain spot," says Cheryl Tritt of the Kimball station.
Generally, the visitors seem most interested in Pioneer Village, the Pine Ridge area, Chimney Rock, the Nebraska Badlands, Ogallala's Front Street, Brownville, Boy's Town, and, of course, the state capitol.
"I have never heard anyone say that they had ever seen a capitol more beautiful than Nebraska's. Many visitors from Nebraska and out-of-state, return to the capitol, hostess reports.
Although many flock to the state because of Nebraska's world-famed capitol, guest ranches, historical sites, and hunting opportunities, other visitors come who still believe Nebraska is a wide-open space with gun-toting cowboys and Indians.
Marcia Gregerson, who spent the summer at the Blair station, said that she was often asked: "When do we start seeing the cowboys?" The blonde-haired lass tells them that; "They would probably see some at Scout's Rest Ranch in North Platte during the rodeo, but not to expect to see many running up and down U.S. Highway 30."
And while some tourists are worried about arrows whizzing overhead or through their modern-day Conestogas, others are just-down-right worried about the state's "primitiveness". One Michigan couple, whose trailer broke down on the Interstate, thought they would be stranded for hours because of the lack of traffic. The same couple expressed surprise that Nebraska has a safety patrol. A tourist station can also be the center for complaints, but the hostesses are sympathetic and try to help the visitor with his problem. Usually, the complaining tourist walks away from the station with a smile and a fistful of information on Nebraska.
"Sure, we get complaints," said one hostess, "but one compliment makes up for all of them."
Among other things, the state is highly complimented (Continued on page 54)
OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE
Legal Eagles. Today's Indians have had a hard time getting any eagle feathers for their war bonnets since the bird has been federally protected. Recently, however, the Department of Interior distributed 1,000 eagle feathers to several Indian tribes in the Southwest. Don't worry about there being any "bald" eagles running around though, all the feathers came from dead eagles that were being examined by wildlife biologists. —Arizona
Record Flight. When a mourning dove takes off for the South he doesn't make it a leisurely flight. One dove, banded near Aberdeen, South Dakota, was bagged 72 days and 1,200 miles later by a Texas hunter. —South Dakota
Would You Believe? One hunter recently came out of Arizona's Kaibab National Forest with a broken nose. His explanation? A deer raninto him..—Arizona Sharks by the Dozen. Two New Yorkers hauled a 242-pound thresher shark aboard their boat after pumping four 30/30 slugs into her. Minutes later their roles as fishermen switched to that of midwives as 11 baby sharks, each a foot long, were born. — New York Nonstopper. One young salmon holds both endurance and speed records. Hatched in the Wallowa River in north-eastern Oregon, the salmon made a 450-mile trip to Bonneville Dam in 9 days. — Oregon Privileged Character. An officer in Massachusetts, finding trash on the ground, began to look for the offender. He decided to let the litterbug go, however, when he found the culprit, a black bear cub, digging in a trash basket. — Massachusetts Clean Up. An owner of a cottage in Maine used his wife's vacuum cleaner to get rid of a hornet's nest without losing a single hornet or getting stung. He then dumped the disposable bag and stingers into the stove. —Maine Show Closed. A New Mexico man, found using artificial light in a game and livestock area, told the game warden he was not trying to kill a deer, but was just showing one to his son. The judge had another opinion, however, and fined the man $200 plus court costs. -New Mexico Last Binge. Salt Lake City fathers have a new way to get rid of pigeons. Booze-soaked grain is spread around the favorite roosting spots of the birds. Once the pigeons are "flying high", the fathers bopthestaggeringpests with clubs. - Utah Noon for the Raccoon. At least one Maine game warden will lock his car when he goes hunting for deer poachers. Returning to his car, the game warden found his lunch being eaten by a raccoon. — Maine Duck Rest Station. Fifteen iced-up redhead ducks landed at a service station in Hugo, Colorado. With the help of a conservation officer, the station owner herded them inside to thaw out. The next day, after their warm-up rest, the redheads continued their flight. — Colorado Those Dead Movies. When his television started giving him a bad time, one Pennsylvanian went in search of the trouble. He found six buzzards perched on his antenna. He said he didn't mind two or three buzzards, but a half a dozen was too big a load even for television.— Pennsylvania That Cholorphyll. Green peas are rivaling several old stand-by trout baits. In 45 minutes, a California man caught five trout, all weighing one pound or more, using peas. —California Powwow Time. An Arizona game department employee, working in the field, noticed a bobbing red object 100 yards off the road. His curiosity got the best of him, so he walked towards the bouncing object. He found two Indians leaning against a log, while a third danced in expected Indian fashion around a campfire. The bobbing red object was the Indian's hunting cap. "We no hunt now," said one. "We have powwow."— Arizona Bruno Italian. A bear cub, struck by a car was rescued and nursed by a Pennsylvania game warden. The animal was fed every four hours with honey, milk, and scraps. Before long, however, the cub earned the nickname "the Italian Bear" when he started gobbling down macaroni, spaghetti, and pizza.— Pennsylvania Double Jeopardy. A Vermonter had to kill a bobcat twice to collect his bounty. Hitting the cat with his car, he tossed it into the trunk for dead. But, several hours later he had to shoot it again when an uproar under the lid indicated the cat still had eight lives left. — Vermont Careful Deer. Deputy Game Protector George Hido, on his way home one evening on a much-traveled highway, stopped to watch a doe standing along the road. The doe looked up and down the highway then went back into the woods, returning with a fawn. After watching and waiting again, she and the fawn safely crossed to the other side. —Pennsylvania
INFORMATION
(Continued from page 52)by the visitor on its good highways and rest areas, while out-of-state hunters especially laud the non-resident hunting information packets which are sent to them.
Out-of-state guests aren't the only ones who utilize the tourist booth service by any means. Nebraska wives stop in and ask the girls to tell them all they know about hunting so they can discuss it intelligently with their husbands when they return from their latest game getting. Nebraska hunters and fishermen call up and ask for the geese report, or where the trout are biting, or how the sunrise-sunset schedule works "just one more time".
Questions are seasonal the hostesses report. During the hunting seasons, the three hostesses at the Omaha station are kept busy issuing licenses. They answer questions on, "where are the birds, how good is the cover? and I've lost my hunting license, what do I do now?" to directions on how to clean game and recipes for the hunter's wife.
During the fishing season, a popular question concerns fishing rights on the Missouri River with a Nebraska license. The girls whip out the regulations and set the questioners straight. Another query from the over-65-year-olds, is: "Do we get free fishing licenses?" Unless the person is a veteran of certain wars, the hostesses tell them no.
At Christmas time, the hostesses are keptbusyrenewingNEBRASKAland subscriptions and accepting orders for Calendars of Color. But they're never too busy to help out the young shopper who seeks out their assistance and asks, "What can I get my parents for Christmas?"
"I guess when people see us sitting in a booth," Marilyn says with a grin, "they just can't resist asking us questions, whether we know the answers or not."
If the hostesses don't know the answers, though, you can bet your last Nebraska Centennial button that they can refer you to someone who does. Quite a few visitors have asked Marilyn about the prehistoric game and fish in the state. She refers them to the State Historical Society. One of the Lincoln hostess was almost thrown when one young man wanted to know about all the animals in the city.
"I told him that we had quite a variety in the local zoo, but he wanted to know all the animals native to Lincoln, like squirrels, so I told him I thought the College of Agriculture could help him."
Perhaps one of the best-remembered visitors is the young, out-of-state girl who ran into the booth one Saturday with her mother and announced that she was in town for the weekend to get married but the courthouse was closed. They didn't have blood tests and the judge wasn't in, so what could they do? After Diane placed several phone calls, the necessary arrangements were made and the couple were married that evening.
"Just another day of helping visitors," recently-married Diane says with a smile.
THE ENDPERCH ON ICE
(Continued from page 11)ice to my rod. Another nod like that and I would have my first perch.
"Come on, don't play, take the bait," I said to the unseen nibbler.
Suddenly, as if the fish could read my mind, the bobber disappeared. I bent down, quickly overhanded the line, and tossed a perch onto the ice. Four flops and he was frozen. The yellow perch was only seven inches long, but on a cold day he looked bigger than Moby Dick.
Evidently, a school was moving into the area to feed. To keep them there, a baited rig had to be in the water at all times. With little regard for the chilling temperatures, I took off a glove, and broke through a skim of ice in the minnow bucket. My willing, but cold fingers tried to snatch a not-so-willing minnow that didn't want to feel the bite of the frigid air.
My second rod nodded that it was also playing with a perch. With trembling fingers I impaled the small minnow on the hook and lowered the first rig into the hole, then ran to the other fish stick. The perch was still mouthing the bait. I flipped him out onto the ice, just in time to notice that the rod I had just set was dancing for attention.
My job as a lab technican at Sutherland Medical Clinic keeps me pretty busy, so on my day off I try to relax. And in my book, relaxing means fishing but if this pace kept up, I would need a busy day in the lab to rest up.
I quickly baited the rig and dropped it back in. The day seemed warmer now because of the fast-action fishing. I grabbed the other rod, flipped a third fish on the ice, and noticed another customer was tugging for attention.
I had to make a decision. I could either go with one rod and slow down the blistering pace, or run like a greyhound between the two lines. It is important to keep a baited rig in the water to hold the school, so I decided to make like a race dog.
Less than 20 minutes later, I finally found time to slip a glove on a hand that had made one too many plunges into a cold minnow bucket. Next time I would bring a small dip net. On the ice were 29 yellow, black-barred perch, a catch rate of better than one fish a minute.
Catfish Bay, on the southwest corner of the reservoir, is a favorite summer fishing hole for me, but now it was winter and its ever-dancing water was hibernating under eight-inch ice. Even so, its waters were productive. The water isn't deep, five feet at the most in the bay. My finny opponents take a liking to the bay early in the ice-fishing season and then as winter thickens the ice, they apparently move out to deeper water.
I took my frigid stake out between the holes, and picked up a thermos of coffee. As the steaming-hot liquid trickled down my throat, I kept an eye on the bell-shaped holes. They were portholes to 54 NEBRASKAland pleasure,outdoor pleasure,on a flat, unblemished plain of ice.
The bobbers had been quiet for 10 minutes and I took the time to catch my breath and clear the slush from the holes. A little castor oil or glycerin dropped in the holes would have kept them clear for a while, but in my hurry to get to the lake I had neglected to bring any.
As I sat down, the float on the right danced ever so gently.
"Must be another perch," I thought.
I shuffled over to the ice gap in time to see the bobber disappear into the depths. I quickly grabbed the line and jerked the hungry perch onto the ice. As I baited the rod, my second fish stick let me know that it was here for action.
By 11 o'clock I was almost wishing that my luck would take a turn for the worse. I was tired and wanted another cup of coffee. My wish was granted, but not before 50 perch lay frozen on the icy surface.
On past forays, I had attempted to outguess the fish by picking up my equipment after a run, and moving to another spot where I thought they might be. But, after a full morning of angling, I decided to stay put. Even if I didn't catch another fish the rest of the day, I had enough for several dinners. Perch through the ice taste better than perch caught in open water for winter does something to them. Their flesh is firmer and sweeter.
My wife, Marian, had fixed a lunch, and the thought of a fish dinner made me hungry. Anxiously, I unwrapped a sandwich and ate in a lonely world on a breezeless day, on an almost-deserted hike, in the world that had few problems.
A guy can't beat ice fishing. There are no flies or mosquitoes, and the hot-rod boaters have long since left the lake. An angler can fish in the middle of the lake or 20 feet from shore, depending on his whim. Ice fishing isn't uncomfortable if you dress warm. Insulated boots and insulated underwear will keep you warm, but once you get cold, well, you've had it.
I've hard-water fished ever since I can remember. Back in my younger days I used to take a block of wood and stick a curb finder in its end. Then I would pound two pegs into the block, put an eye on the tip of the curb finder, and wrap a line around the pegs. I had a great time with that homemade rig.
Now, they make short fiber glass rods for ice fishing. Some fishermen use old bait-casting or spinning rods, but these are too bulky and you can't handle them quick enough for fast-action ice fishing.
My afternoon angling was slow, but the memories of the busy morning kept me on the ice. My mind must have been a million miles away when the bobber first went under to snap me back to reality. As the rod inched its way towards the hole, I grabbed it and jerked a perch out of the water. A feeding school was in the neighborhood again. The bobber on the left went down and I made a sliding retrieve. Action had picked up once again.
The rest of the afternoon turned into a baiting game. I didn't have to wait long for action with two rods in the water and a school of hungry perch nearby. As fast as I baited one rig, I grabbed the other. I don't have any explanation for my luck except this. I wear an old hat on outdoor excursions. My wife has thrown it away three times and three times I have retrieved it. I am not superstitious, but after a day like mine a guy can't help but wonder if it doesn't bring just a little luck.
At 4:30 in the afternoon I looked up from my angling chores. The ice around me was thick with yellow perch. I bent down and started putting my day's catch in the five-gallon bucket. It was soon filled and I tucked a few fish in my pockets. The final tally was 94 perch, not bad for a day's work. The blue-ice diamond called Sutherland Reservoir had been kind.
After picking up the pail, I walked over and stuck a piece of wood in each hole. I wanted to leave marks at this fishing hot spot for I would probably visit it again on my next day off.
You can talk about summer fishing all you want to, but after catching 94 fish in one day, you will get a sharp argument about the pleasures of hard-water fishing from me. You can't beat that blue-white sparkler called Sutherland for action fishing.
THE ENDHAPPINESS IS A DUCK HUNTER
(Continued from page 15)are snake bit, today," I said, watching a smudge of high-flying ducks wheel over the bay.
"Guess so," Doc agreed. "If we don't get them in by another hour, these birds will be done flying and we might as well forget about them."
I had been watching a flock for quite a while. I had first picked them up when they lifted off the big lake and had watched them settle down again. Several times, they had repeated the performance and each move was bringing them a little closer to our blind. On their next lift, I decided to highball them and see if I couldn't turn them toward our spread. They caught my call and leveled off, heading straight in toward our set. Both of us hurried our shots and missed but Doc had noticed something.
"Those ducks started to flare just before we came up. I think our decoys are shining and that spooked them, even so, we should have clobbered a couple of them. Those lead birds were within 30 yards of the blind before they wheeled," he said.
We looked at the decoys and sure
enough, they were glistening. The chop
had splashed them and the wet surfaces
were picking up and reflecting the sun.
It was worth a try, so we brought our
decoys in, rubbed them off, and placed
FEBRUARY,1967
55
most of them in close to shore where
they had some protection from the
waves. We put a few on the sandbar to
represent loafing ducks and went back
to the blind.
The switch apparently made the difference for the ducks began to pay more attention to the spread. A couple of times, flocks came in close but not quite close enough. As the morning wore on the flights thinned out and it looked like we would be running out of ducks before we scored.
A single bored over the bluffs, turned down the shore line to the west and came in toward our blind. It seemed an age before he got in range but when he did, Doc and I pulled the bang-bang trick on him and he never knew what hit him as the double charges slammed home.
It took some tall pleading with the calls to lure more ducks into range but finally Doc and I got one apiece. He had claimed the first single so it was up to me to get my second mallard for a two-day grand slam. I won't forget that last bird because Doc won't let me.
A lonesome hen came in from the north on a head-on course for the blind and then switched directions. She went east for a quarter of a mile and then reversed herself and came west like a streak. I had been watching her all the way and figured that she would come right in over the decoys if she kept her flight pattern. I had her all to myself with plenty of time to pick up my swing and get the proper lead.
She was only 20 yards away when I stood up to pull the routine stoning job. But that particular shell wasn't destined to kill a duck, it did, however, make a spectacular splash in the bay. Rattled by the miss, I over adjusted on the second shot and was too far ahead of her. By that time, she had 40 yards and was reaching for more when my desperation shot caught up and dumped her.
Doc was in a reflective mood as we drove home. "You know a man doesn't live long enough to learn all there is to know about duck hunting. What would you say was the key to our successes on these two hunts?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know. Lots of ducks, I guess," I replied.
"No. It was the little things."
"The little things?"
"Yeah. Like figuring out that the sun on our faces was spooking birds yesterday and that wet decoys were keeping them cautious today," he said.
"I guess you're right but with 6,000 ducks around, you would think there would be 8 that weren't so darn observant," I argued.
"Oh, all of the dumb ones have long since been killed off. It's late in the season, you know," he countered.
It's fun to hunt with a smart duck hunter but it doesn't pay to argue with one.THE END
MELTING HEART
(Continued from page 17)Storage has gained by having a convenient and remarkable point of reference for its preservative powers. Their "keep" of 26 years is still good and cold.
Sonja Henie, who retired from making public appearances in 1960, now lives in Los Angeles and in private life is Mrs. Niels Onstad. If Sonja should ever return to Omaha, with or without skates, there might be an embarrassing moment. Especially if someone proved brave enough to lug out my lump of valentine. She would have to disown it on the spot or admit the lapse of 26 years; a thing Hollywood queens are rarely eager to do.
As for me I know the trail is long cold, and the heart is only green ice, but I still have a warm spot somewhere for the durability of my hand-carved heart. "I cannot cast you out, so melt away my valentine."
THE END
"Sprechen sie Deutsch?"
YOUTHFUL VIOLATOR
(Continued from page 41)know that conservation officers are extremely active during the regular seasons and that chance contacts are more numerous. Rather than risk on-the-spot contacts with the officers, these youngsters time their activities accordingly. Fortunately, willful violators are in the minority.
By June, the pendulum has swung the other way and more adults are fishing, swimming, and boating. Johnny isn't going to sneak that extra catfish or dry gulch that squirrel when he knows others are around to see him do it. The same is true for the peak hunting months.
What motivates a normally strait-laced kid, who wouldn't steal a dime if he was starving, to break the game and fish laws? Perhaps, the American philosophy that game and fish belong to everyone instead of the individual is partially responsible for this. Many people do not consider a game or fish law infraction a crime, claiming that they are merely taking what belongs to them. Such an attitude is very wrong but'it does have some influence on an individual's respect or lack of it for the law.
However, conservation officers believe that violations by youngsters are the result of availability rather than deliberate attempts to break the law. The bird is there, the boy is there, and he has a gun. Fun, not morality is uppermost in his mind when the bird goes up.
How can youngsters be taught to respect and obey the law and to understand that game and fish laws are established and enforced for the benefit of all? Adult attitudes toward the laws have a great influence on the youngsters. If father, older brother, or favorite uncle are sticklers for obedience, the kid is pretty apt to follow their lead. If adults flaunt the law and bring in an extra pheasant or a couple of over-the-limit ducks, the youngster is prone to copy their actions.
The desire to be "one of the boys" is also an important influence on a boy's behavior. Kids, especially teen-agers, want to belong. If their "gang" disregards the rules, the kid will do it, too.
Teen-agers live in the right now with little regard for the past or much concern for the future. Thus, they are susceptible to on-the-spot temptations. If the opportunity presents itself, the kid is going to take it and to heck with the consequences.
Although rural-oriented adults are prone to believe that most game and fish violations are committed by city youngsters, statistics do not support this. A check of the 1966 records show that more violations are committed by small-town and farm youths than by city youngsters. Again, it's a question of availability; more temptations exist in the country and they are more convenient.
A kid in Omaha or Lincoln might be weak enough to break the law, but he won't find a hen (Continued on page 58)
NEBRASKAland TRADING POST
ClassifiedAds:15centsaword,minimum order$3.00.May,67closingdote, March1 BOATING KAYAKS—One-man $19.50; two-man $24.50; Sailboat $44. Exciting Sitka Kayak Kits known world wide for speed and safety. Assemble in one afternoon. Free pictorial literature. Box 78-N, Brecksville, Ohio.44141. DOGS WANTED—AKC and FDSB puppies, all breeds. Also purebred and registered kittens. Excalibur Kennels and Cattery, P. O. Box 362, Omaha, Nebraska 68101. GERMAN SHORTHAIR PUPPIES. Outstanding A.K.C. pedigrees furnished. Sire-Champion Duisburg's Heidi's Kraut. Dam's lineage Pheasant Lane's Stormalong. John Nelson, Box 306, Creighton, Nebraska.Phone 179W FISH BAIT ICE FISHERMEN: Wax Worms. Nebraska grown. 60 $1 10; 250, $3; 500, $5; 1000, $9. Postpaid. Dean Mattley,St.Paul, Nebraska 68873. GUNS AND AMMO NEW, USED AND ANTIOUE GUNS, send for list including Browning O & U's, Weatherby, Winchester, Ithaca, Colt. Ruger and others in stock for sale or trade. Send large self-addressed 10c stamped envelope or stop in. Bedlan's Sporting Goods, just off U.S.136, Fairbury, Nebraska. MISCELLANEOUS STONEGROUND CORNMEAL. Most complete line Health Foods. Many processed daily. Come see us or write. Brownville Mills, Brownville, Nebraska. COLLAPSIBLE Farm-Pond Fish Traps; Animal Traps postpaid. Free information, pictures, Shawnee 3934-AX BuenaVista,Dallas 4,Texas. OLD FUR COATS restyled into capes, stoles, etc. $25 We're also tanners, and manufacture fur garmets, buckskin jackets and gloves Free style folderHaeker's Furriers,Alma,Nebraska. 600 ASSORTED SWEET ONION PLANTS with free planting guide. $3 postpaid. TOPCO, home of the sweet onion," Farmersville, Texas 75031. AUTOMOBILE BUMPER STRIPS. Low-cost advertising for Special Events, Community Projects, Resorts, Motels, Tourist Attractions, Organizations. Write for Free Brochure, Price List and Samples. Reflective Advertising, Dept. N, 873 Longacre, St.Louis,Missouri 63132. FOR SALE: 2 bedroom year-around home with garage on Johnson Lake. Fully insulated, electric heat, 2 lots. Wonderful retirement home for sports or outdoor interested couple. Jack Bellamy, Elwood, Nebraska 68937. BLACK WALNUT tree nursery stock. "America's Johnny Walnutseed" Decorah Nursery, 504 Center Avenue, Decorah, Iowa 52101. We do the planting. SOLID PLASTIC DECOYS. Original Do-It-Yourself Decoy Making Kit. All Species Available. Catalog 25c. Decoys Unlimited, Box 69E, Clinton, Iowa 52732. RABBITS POSSIBLE to earn $10,000 Yearly Raising Angora Rabbit Wool and Breeding Stock for us. Information 25c coin. American Angoras, Malta 17, Montana. SCUBA EQUIPMENT BOB-K'S AQUA SUPPLY Nebraska's largest Scuba dealer. U. S. Divers, Sportways, Voit, Swimmaster, Scubrapro. Air Station, Regulator Repair. Telephone 553-9483, 1419 South 46 Avenue, Omaha, Nebraska. TAXIDERMY GAME heads and fish mounting. 40 years experience. Cleo Christiansen, Taxidermist, 421 South MonroeStreet,Kimball,Nebraska. TAN your own hides. Hair on or off. Complete easy-to-follow instructions and formulas, $1. Complete Home Tanning Kit, $4.95. Postpaid. Western Products Company, Plymouth, Iowa 50464 SAVE THAT TROPHY through taxidermy. Lifelike mounts at reasonable prices. Eighteen years in the same location. Also hides tanned, for gloves or jacket making. Livingston Taxidermy, Mitchell,Nebraska. TRAVEL TRAILERS MUSTANG Travel trailers and Pickup Campers. 14' to 24'. Dealer information MUSTANG, Box 130,Gering,Nebraska. NICKELS CAMPER AND TRAILER SALES, Weeping Water. Nebraska. In Stock, pick-up campers: Freeway, Del Rey, Covered Wagon, Hill Crest. Pick-up covers: B & B Toppers. Travel Trailers: Bon Aire, Covered Wagon, Be Camp. From standard to self-contained. We rent 8 and 10 ft. pick-up campers, travel trailers and tent type trailers. Over 30 units in stock. Open every day, evenings, and all day Sunday. See our display at the Omaha Sport Show, February 17-26.Phone 267-4855 or 267-3195. When Writing to the Advertisers, Please Mention You Saw it in OUTDOOR NEBRASKAlandOUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air
YOUTHFUL VIOLATOR
(Continued from page 56)pheasant on Dodge or O streets and doesn't have as many opportunities to commit an infraction. On the other hand, a boy who lives in the country will see 1 to 100 pheasants every day.
The popular conception that today's kids are cocky and consider trouble with the law a mark of distinction is not true in the outdoor field. With few exceptions, kids are "shook" when they are picked up by a conservation officer.
"They don't give you any trouble. They're polite, truthful, ashamed, and usually scared," says M. O. Steen, Director of the Nebraska Game Commission. "The kids are not so worried about the legal aspects of the infraction as they are about mom and dad's reaction."
Parents' reactions vary. Some are shocked and upset when they learn that their offspring are in trouble. They take disciplinary action against the boy or girl by withholding allowances, or denying them the use of the car. Others tell the arresting officer that they are glad the boy or girl was picked up and that maybe it will teach the youngster a lesson. Very rarely will parents condemn the officer for making the arrest.
"Most mothers and fathers have a very sensible attitude toward the situation. They usually tell the officer that if the youngster is old enough to hunt, he's old enough to know the rules," the director said.
Although the number of youthful violations is climbing in Nebraska, it is well below the population growth ratio and conservation officers are encouraged by this. They credit education with helping to keep under-age violations to tolerable limits.
Organizations like church youth groups, 4-H Clubs, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, schools, and sportsmen's organizations are playing a key role in educating and encouraging the youngsters to obey the laws. Rules pertaining to the outdoor field are explained at meetings of these organizations and whenever they can, officers conduct seminars on gun, water, and boating safety and explain season dates, bag limits, and the reasons for them. In the field, the officer often helps the young sportsmen with tips on how to hunt or what lure to use on the big ones.
Besides these people-to-people contacts, the Nebraska Game Commission puts out a wealth of audio and visual information. Digests of the hunting and fishing regulations or changes in policy are published in newspapers and aired on radio. Season dates and bag limits are given national as well as state-wide publicity.
"Our biggest and best hope is education," Steen claims with deep conviction. "We're too realistic to believe that we can ever eliminate the problem but we do know we are making progress."
The pace of that progress is, in the final analysis, up to the youngsters themselves, for only they can obey or disobey the rules. The choice is theirs to make.
THE ENDWHERE-TO-GO
J.M. McDonald Planetarium Rock Creek HatcheryIN TODAY'S world of giant telescopes and man-made satellites, space-conscious people discover answers to their questions at planetariums across the country. One such institute, the House of Yesterday's J. M. McDonald Planetarium at Hastings, provides adventure among the stars as well as intriguing information about the great expansive universe.
The planetarium, a gift from the J. M. McDonald Foundation, became part of the House of Yesterday's complex in 1958. The popularity of the sky shows has been reflected in a steadily growing number of viewers each year. In the past 12 months, 11,660 people have watched the shows.
Step through the moon-shaped portal to the planetarium and you're set for an unforgettable journey through time and space. Adventure is in the air as high-fidelity music sweeps visitors to their seats as the daylight fades. As evening steals upon the scene, the stars gradually appear.
A special projector, the Spitz Model A-3P, brings the stars to life by throwing their images on a 24-foot domed ceiling by means of pinholes and lenses. This projector lets viewers see the night sky as it is viewed from any place on earth, at any hour, and at any time of the year. Acquired by the planetarium in 1965, this ball-shaped instrument is one of the most realistic available, and it affords prime sky viewing.
Stars and planets zoom into bright focus as viewers embark on a dark voyage through mysterious skies. A movie projector also supplements the show. As galaxies magically unfold, viewers are also brought up to date on space projects that constantly move man ever nearer to the stars. Upcoming natural phenomenal, such as eclipses, are also given top billing.
In addition to the different star forms, viewers can see the planets. The moon in its 10 phases and the sun also streak across the miniature sky.
Visitors to the J. M. McDonald Planetarium rarely see the same show twice. The presentations follow the sky itself, and as the seasons change so does the miniature sky. Live lectures with plenty of time to answer questions accompany each show. The lecturers are Milburn Erickson, Curator of Astronomy; Richard Schellhouse, a physics student at Hastings College; and Miss Chanda Galloway.
From June to August, shows are scheduled at 11 a.m., and 2 and 3:30 p.m., Monday through Saturday. Sundays and holidays have performances at 2:30 and 3:30 p.m. From September through May, weekday shows are at 3:30 p.m., with Saturday, Sunday, and holiday shows at 2:30 and 3:30 p.m.
School groups with appointments during school hours are admitted free. Group shows can also be arranged during the evening. Admission price for adults is 50 cents. Children under 12 pay 25 cents.
An adjacent park makes the House of Yesterday and J. M. McDonald Planetarium a popular stop for tourists.
An arm-chair journey to the stars may well be exciting, but adventure also awaits right here on earth. In fact, the Rock Creek Hatchery located three miles north, one mile west, and another three miles north of Parks, is educational as well as interesting.
Trout lovers will especially go for this southwest hatchery as it is concerned primarily with the production of rainbow trout. For example, in 1965, fish production consisted mostly of yearling rainbow trout for the put-and-take lake at Two Rivers State Recreation Area. Fingerling rainbows and browns were also produced and stocked in western Nebraska streams.
The eggs are received from commercial or trade sources in January. They are then hatched in special hatchery troughs with the resulting fry held in small troughs until large enough for transfer to rearing ponds and race ways.
Trout can also be observed in rearing units year-round at the hatchery. In addition to trout, rock bass, largemouth and smallmouth bass, and bluegill are also reared at the hatchery.
An enjoyable day is in store for visitors to the Rock Creek Hatchery. Picnic tables and shade make the hatchery ideal for a family outing.
THE ENDNEBRASKA'S LAND
by MABEL L. KENDRICK Nebraska is a virile land With canyons, buttes, and streams; With winter snows and frozen lakes And summer sun's hot beams She molds a fearless race of men With strength to build their dreams. Nebraska is a lovely land With beauty everywhere; Her sunsets grand and prairies green With scenes beyond compare Instill within her citizens, A love of beauty rare. Nebraska is a fruitful land With food for everyone; Her livestock fine, her grain and fruit A-ripening in the sun Provide her folk with food to share With others who have none. Nebraska is a friendly land With welcome in the air; Her spacious skies, her beck'ning trees And pleasant prairies fair All symbolize the cordial folk Who live and labor there.
