2 NEBRASKAland

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.

MARRIED THREE WOMEN-"In the January issue I read an article about Joseph Deroin or De Rain, Towns the River Built. He was my great grandfather and was a full-blooded Frenchman from France, but he did build the trading post mentioned in the article.

"He married three Indian women and each drew 80 acres of land on the Half Breed Tract which was never sold. My great grandmother was an Iowa Indian and she and her children came to Kansas and was alloted on the Iowa Reservation, located in Nebraska and Kansas, 18 miles from Falls City along the Missouri River.

"My great grandfather rode a white stallion and when he was killed, the Indian belief that a horse goes with his master was followed, so they killed the horse beside his master's grave. A lady in Falls City owns the land where the grave is located.

"Joseph Deroin or De Rain had a son, Balone, who was married 13 times. Later, he was killed over a white woman.

'There is a lot of history in that area of Nebraska and I wish that more of it could be preserved."-Nora Murphy, White Cloud, Kan.

SCENE FROM THE PAST-"The famous landmark, Mitchell Pass, is in the background of this picture of me and my show team pulling a Conestoga. With all the interest in the Nebraska Centennial, I thought it might help to recall our pioneer heritage."-Rolley D. Rose, Gering.

MORE BLIZZARD-"I was interested in the story of the blizzard on January 12, 1888, written by (Continued on page 6)

AUGUST, 1967 3  

SPEAK UP

(Continued from page 3)

Glenda Woltemath Peterson. I am not familiar with the territory she writes about. But I do know it's true.

"Our farm home was south of School District No. 11. This storm hit us just as school let out at noon. That night we had at our home our teacher and 21 kids. There were 7 in our family at that time, making a total of 29 to feed and keep warm.

"There are many things that could be told about that storm, and many that were never told." — Howard W. Crandall, Vancouver, Washington.

ARTIST —"I am enclosing two photos of paintings I have made of NEBRASKAland scenes. I am a painting contractor and do art work as a hobby. Nebraska wildlife and still-life are my favorites and I have been doing them for about 40 years. Some of the photos in Outdoor NEBRASKAland serve as inspirations for my work." —Arthur Ballmer, Cozad.

HOMESICK-"Have you ever written a story on how Nebraska got its name? We think it would make a good story and we would also like to see a story on our home country in the North Loup Valley which begins north of St. Paul.

"Our former home was in North Loup where every year they have a September celebration called Popcorn Days. Last year was its 75th Anniversary and the local newspaper published a picture of all the men who were present at the first celebration. — Mr. and Mrs. Larry Weiner, Pleasant Valley, la.

Nebraska got its name from the Omaha and Otoe dialects. The Omahas called the area "Ni bathaska ke", the Otoes called it, rr Nibrathka". The present name is a whiteman's corruption of these Indian titles. In both dialects, the names have the literal meaning; "flat water" or the expanded translation, "water flowing through a flat plain". — Editor

SCOUT'S REST HITS JACK-POT-"The story of Parks for People in the April NEBRASKAland was read by Gordon Laing in Nevada City, California. Guy Laing, Gordon's father, was at one time owner and operator of the Alamo Bar in North Platte, and a favorite story of oldtimers around here is how Buffalo Bill used to ride his horse through the Alamo's swinging doors, and up the bar for his refreshment.

"Mr. Laing wrote us and donated a collection of historical items: A band uniform worth $100, 15 Carl Henckel sketches, which have a value of about $75; 3 letters from Buffalo Bill to Guy Laing; 2 photos of a ranch where Buffalo Bill bought horses; 1 picture of the Gordon Silver Coronet Band; 1 picture of the Laing house, Buffalo Bill driving an 1887 Tally-Ho, with Gordon's father sharing the driver's seat; 2 silver spoons that belonged to Buffalo Bill, and a large photo, Buffalo Bill endorsed to Guy Laing. This goes to show the power of the press."-George W. LeRoy, Supt. Scout's Rest Ranch, North Platte.

MISTAKEN IDENTITY-"In the article The Third Hill in June, 1967 NEBRASKAland, there is one small inaccuracy. The writer mentions that what is left of the old steam wagon is in the Carriage House at Arbor Lodge. Unfortunately, the only reminder of the steam wagon that we have is a photograph. There is, however, in the Carriage House an oldtime steam fire engine which many people confuse with the old steam wagon." - Robert Killen, Section Chief, Division of State Parks.

6 NEBRASKAland AUGUST, 1967 7  

X MARKS THE SPOT

Try these easy-to-follow tips and you'll never be all at sea on a lake

LET'S SUPPOSE that you have | been sitting on that lake all day, and are you ever lucky! The fish have been biting right and left. In fact, you have been working your line like a Yo-Yo.

This is the hottest spot you have ever fished, and you can hardly wait to get back the next chance you get. But how will you find that same location? Water has a way of moving about from time to time. An X in the lake won't help.

Besides wanting to relocate a hot fishing spot, you might need to find lost fishing gear or an independent outboard that became unhinged.

If you are coming right back out on the lake, perhaps the simplest way to find that hot spot is to anchor a plastic jug with a cord tied to a rock. Use a brilliantly colored jug, such as orange. White is too much the color of whitecaps and is difficult to see.

Such a marker works best on shallow lakes of less than 20 feet depth. On deeper waters, the jug will drift away like a fishing bobber. Even on small lakes, a jug won't stay put too long, and it may flip a water skier or foul the prop on another boat. More important to you, however, it is a dead giveaway. Jugs attract fishermen like a dog draws hungry fleas, and you don't want every Tom, George, and Gertrude casting in on your hard-found hot spot.

A second and more discreet method is to use reference spots on shore. While you are out in that boat, drop anchor and scan the shore for an object that is easily recognizable. Then pick another one on the opposite shore in the same line, so that you are sitting on the axis.

Pick two others as near to right angles to your original references as possible. You will now be on the X formed by imaginary lines between these four points. It might help to draw your own map, as a return trip might find you have forgotten your references of the time before.

It takes a while to maneuver into position, but you can get into approximately the same spot by careful attention to your reference points. You're in business if the fish aren't on to your game.

If your boat is equipped with a good compass, you might take azimuth readings (degree readings) from two reference points on the same shoreline. Next time you go out, maneuver yourself into position until you get the same readings, and you're home free.

It's pretty tricky business getting there, though. You can simplify the whole process by starting out from 8 NEBRASKAland one of your reference points on shore and traveling along the back azimuth, taking readings on the other reference point until you reach the right one. In other words, if your reading from the middle of the lake to shoreline was 54°, your back azimuth or reading from shoreline to lake would be 180° plus 54°, or 234°.

When using a compass, remember to keep it away from metal that will attract the magnetic needle and affect the accuracy of your readings. Fiberglass and aluminum have no affect, but belt buckles, hunting knives, fishing tackle, and metal gas cans do. Keep them five to six feet away from the compass, or you won't get an accurate reading. If the compass is adjustable, follow manufacturer's directions to cancel out magnetic attractions on the boat, such as motors or cables.

Compass readings to the shore work only if there is something on shore to read. If there are no sunbathers or such, look for a reed bed or beaver lodge in the lake. Logs work, if they aren't afloat. These are temporary references though, as reeds, beavers, and logs move around a bit from time to time and from season to season. But then, even the fish don't stay put.

If it's a calm day, you might try timing yourself when traveling from the fishing spot to dock after you've taken an azimuth reading. But you must get the same speed on back azimuth in your return, or you will likely shoot right by your goal. Maybe going 10 minutes in one direction and 10 minutes in another will do the job for you.

A detailed navigational map, such as that for Lewis and Clark Lake, directs you to almost any spot, with the help of a compass. It's a good idea to orient the map to the lay of the land, so you don't go south when the fish are up north, and mark the spots you want to remember, for one inlet looks like another after zig-zagging around in your boat for awhile.

None of these plans will work at night, so forget them. You might try following a light on shore, but there is no guarantee that it will be there 24 hours later.

To make any of these plans work, you must keep your eyes open. No sleeping on the job. Still, the easiest way to deal with the problem is not to lose any gear in the first place and to catch all the fish you want the first day, so you can spend the second gloating over your friends about the wonderful spot you have to fish, without telling them how to get there. How can you, when you might not know yourself?

THE END AUGUST, 1967 9  

AUGUST Roundup

Booming guns, pounding hooves are one long roar as eighth month leaps into stride

AN OLD WESTERN trail will be the scene of an especially significant commemoration of Nebraska's Centennial August 16 through 21. An endurance horse race will put pounding hooves back on the Sidney to Deadwood Trail. Contestants will match their horsemanship and mounts in a six-day ride from Deadwood, South Dakota, to Sidney, Nebraska. Overnight stops will be at Hill City and Hot Springs in South Dakota and Crawford, Alliance, and Bridgeport in Nebraska where there will be festivities to welcome the riders. A stagecoach, medicine wagon, and a host of other riders will travel along the trail. Indian raids and hold ups will be staged to revive the Old West adventures. When the riders hit Sidney, August 21, the Centennial celebration and county fair will cut loose. A rodeo, parade, street dances, and barbecues are planned. A Hollywood personality will head the events. Each horseman who completes the ride will receive a piece of Black Hills gold jewelry. The winner will receive a trophy. Towns along the trail will sell tickets for rides on the stage to the next stop.

NEBRASKAland HOSTESS OF THE MONTH Michele Marqua The galloping pace of summer won't leave NEBRASKAland's hostess of the month, Michele Marqua, in the dust. The blonde coed from Creighton University in Omaha knows how to keep rein on the many county fairs, carnivals, and picnics that wind up summer in Nebraska with a bang. A sophomore, Michele already has come in first in her league in campus activities. In the 1966-67 academic year at Creighton, she was a varsity cheerleader for the basketball team, Queen of Diamonds for the Letterman's Club, and to top all honors, queen of College World Series. A sports fan, with a particular love for swimming and baseball, Michele also enjoys folk music and travel. She is the daughter of Mrs. Arline Marqua of Independence, Missouri.

The Pony Express Re-Run on August 12 through 19 will relive one of the most celebrated events in Nebraska's past. About 1,500 riders, recruited from saddle and 4-H clubs, will cover one mile each, riding only in the daytime. They will start west from St. Joseph, Missouri, and east from Fort Laramie, Wyoming. Overnight stops in towns along the route will be celebrated with Pony Express birthday parties. When the riders cross at Gothenburg on August 16, there will be a noon celebration. Special cachet envelopes, available to the public through the Nebraska Centennial Commission, will be carried by the riders.

Avid canoeists will make the Missouri River scene look much as it did 100 years ago when canoes were common transportation in Nebraska. The second annual canoe race on August 27 will start in Omaha's River Club Marina. Women and mixed couples will finish at the Plattsmouth River Club Marina, while the men's and boys' divisions go on to Nebraska City. All participants will receive awards with trophies going to the winners. Eighty-seven contestants competed in the 1966 race.

Bancroft will honor Nebraska's Poet Laureate, John Neihardt, on August 6 with a pageant, Black Elk Speaks, taken from his book of the same title. The second annual pageant performed by the 1966 cast will concentrate on the Sioux prayer guard. Dr. Neihardt will read the Sioux prayer. All other cast members are from Bancroft. Highlight of the pageant is the Indian Horse Dance performed by the Saddle Club. Other dances include the Firefly, Buffalo, Sioux Hoop, War, and Hunters. Neihardt's biographer, Mrs. Lucille Aly, English professor at the University of Oregon, and Cuming County Centennial Queen, Marilyn Ruehling, will be special guests.

Nebraska's Czech Capital, Wilber, revives the gay, carefree life of the mother country for two festive days on August 5 and 6. Wilber's 1966 celebration drew 50,000 visitors to the town which has a population of 90 per cent Czech or Czech descent. The whole community takes part in the celebration. Mom bakes the kolaches and may even sell them on the street corners. Pop plays the fiddle while the young folks dance the polka. All wear colorful native costumes. And just to remind visitors to come back next year, Czech souvenirs — native dolls or miniature kitchen utensils — are for sale.

"Art in Fixed Locations," an exhibition presenting the architecture and buildings of Nebraska today, goes on display at Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha on August 27.

"Clouds Among the Stars" sky show will feature the giant nebulous masses which appear as beautifully colored clouds among the stars. The show begins August 28 at Ralph Mueller Planetarium in Lincoln.

An old custom that has survived for centuries packs the NEBRASKAland August calendar. County fairs are held in preparation for the big State Fair next month.

Football fans get a special summer treat with the Shrine Bowl Game. All-Stars from North and South high schools compete in this August 19 clash at Memorial Stadium in Lincoln.

August's activities are the perfect end to a memorable summer of Nebraska's Centennial year.

THE END

WHAT TO DO

1 — Farmers Barbecue, Norfolk 1-3 —World War II Service Canteen Open, North Platte 1-4 —Burt County Centennial Fair, Oakland 1-4 —4-H Centennial Fair and Carnival, Fremont 1-5 —Red Willow County Centennial Fair, McCook 1-20-Exhibits, "The Rinehart Collection of Indian Portraits" and "Omaha Artists of Yesterday", Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 1-27-Sky Show, "Century of Stars", Mueller Planetarium, Lincoln 1-5 — RSROA Championships, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 1-Sept. 2 —Guided tours from tourist booth, Cozad 2 —"Country Western Night", Square Dance and Barbecue, Omaha 2-5 —Pawnee County Centennial Fair, Pawnee City 3-5 — Thayer County Centennial Fair, Deshler 3-5 — Polk County Centennial Fair, Osceola 3-5 —Webster County Centennial Fair and Rodeo, Bladen 3-5 — Furnas County Centennial Fair and Pageant, Beaver City 4 —Centennial Feature Race, Fair Grounds, Lincoln 4 — Centennial Celebration at site of Old Fort Atkinson, Fort Calhoun 4 —Centennial Day, Friend 4-5 — Centennial Homecoming Days, Clarks 4-5 — Centennial Celebration, Hickman 4-5 —Hay Days, Atkinson 4-6 —Sioux County Centennial Fair, Harrison (Continued on page 50) AUGUST, 1967 11

THE FENCE THAT WORKED

Barbed wire is as much a part of Nebraska as tractor. But it wasn't always that way. Plains were soaked in blood during wire wars

JOHN GLIDDEN and his son of DeKalb, Illinois looked like a couple of kids playing with a string and tin can telepnone that day in 1874. But this was no game. It was work —work that would change history for a farming America. The younger Glidden, perched on a windmill scaffold, was dropping pre-shaped barbs down a long, greased wire. His father, holding the other end, was setting each barb with a hammer, then binding it with another strand twisted around the center wire. So barbed wire was born, in an era of need and a spirit of invention.

Putting this new-fangled fencing material into production was not as simple as sitting on top of a windmill, however. The idea came from the thorny Osage Orange hedges that Westerners were trying to use for fences. The thorns kept cattle out of fields, out the hedge was so thick, it threw a shadow over a good portion of the field and sapped up all of the water in reach, leaving little or none for crops. So farmers began to search for other types of fencing.

Sod fences caught on for a while, but not for long. Chunks of prairie were stacked one on top of another to form a solid wall. But they were trouble. A quick shower could level several weeks of work and as many miles of fence in a matter of minutes. Repairing mud just wasn't profitable.

Since wood was a scarce commodity on the plains, its use was almost non-existent. So pioneers used the next best thing—wire. Strung around a field, the smooth metal strand was everything the other attempts were not. It was cheap, required no water, gave no shade, and could withstand anything; anything, that is, except cattle. Calves squeezed under the barrier and if momma and poppa couldn't get between the strands they simply flattened the whole project.

So the field of fence invention was wide open. All it took was a little imagination and a lot of stamina.

Glidden first got his idea from a fencing exhibit at the 1874 Illinois State Fair. Among the displays was the newest thing in fencing. Metal diamonds were sandwiched between two strands of wire to make what the inventor hoped would be a reliable fencing material. But, though it looked formidable and worked fairly well, the process was expensive and it took time to wrap the diamonds in wire. On the way home, Glidden mulled the project over and came up with what he thought was a sure answer.

At home, he lopped off a few hunks of wire, dropped them into an old coffee grinder, and began to crank out barbs. After the grinder had bent the wire pieces to the correct angle, all the farmer had to do was to thread them onto a length of wire and mash them into place with a hammer. With several barbs thus set on the wire, Glidden held up his brain storm for his son's approval only to have all the barbs slide around the wire until they were pointing to the ground instead of at right angles to the center.

After such a setback, most men might have given up and gone into the mercantile business. But it was back to the old drawing board for farmer Glidden.

It didn't take long for him to discover what was wrong with his basic concept. But it took just long enough for one of his neighbors to also figure out that he should have twisted another wire around the one with the barbs to hold them at regular intervals. By the time Glidden had tested his improved wire and was ready to file for a patent so'was his nearest competitor.

In fact, the story goes that both patent filings were so close together that no one was sure which was first. In the months that followed, the issue became a legal shuttlecock as it was batted from court to court.

Finally, late in the year, Glidden won out and put his wire into production.

By 1880, factories were cranking out 40,000 tons of wire a year. Ten years later, output had tripled.

With that much wire on the market it seemed like everyone on earth would have his own private fence. But as much as the West had been looking for a fence that worked, everyone seemed to have something against barbed wire. Like all detractors, they found plenty of reasons for their views.

12 NEBRASKAland AUGUST, 1967 13  

Cattlemen, not necessarily noted for their soft-hearted attitudes, thought it too barbarous for fencing cattle. Farmers hated it because it did absolutely nothing to cement sagging relations with their cow-country neighbors. And cattle hated it because they couldn't run rough shod over it.

So the sale of barbed wire on a relatively open range posed a problem that became a promoter's nightmare. One intrepid soul in search of a quick addition to his $25 a week salary as a barbed-wire salesman decided to tackle the problem head on.

Ambling into a San Antonio, Texas saloon, John W. (Bet-A-Million) Gates started handing out samples of his wire over the bar. In a state where 99 per cent of the population was producing cattle and the other 1 per cent was making things to help produce the beef, Gates' flagrant disregard for tradition went over like a lead balloon. Some irate citizens threatened to run him out of town on a rail while others wanted to beat him to death with one. But Gates was a man who could think on his feet —he had to.

He proposed that he be allowed to build a pen in the middle of town and have the cowboys drive a herd of the meanest longhorns in Texas into it. If the wire kept the cattle in check, Gates would take any and all orders on the spot. If not, they could tack his hide up.

The next day dawned with almost every cowman in Texas on hand to watch the festivities. Drovers herded 40 of the biggest, meanest critters Gates had ever seen into his impromptu corral. The critters took one look at the spindly fence and decided to dismantle it. That was their first mistake. Barbs may be small but they can rip the fight out of ton-size steers without much effort. It only took two or three charges to discourage the cattle and by that time Gates had the bull by the horns. He sold 40 tons of wire that day.

Whether because of the Texas exhibition or not, the use of barbed wire took off like a prairie fire on a windy day. Things soon started getting out of hand.

In Nebraska, some of the big ranchers came up with a new motto. "If there isn't anything on the land, 14 NEBRASKAland fence it. If there is, move it off and THEN fence it." Unfortunately, they forgot that some of the land they were so neatly stringing wire around belonged to the federal government. And Washington officials weren't too happy about being booted off government land. In 1885, a law was passed to prevent wholesale fencing of public lands. Under this decree, ranchers like the Spade, Bartlett Richards' own private kingdom, and several British-controlled Sand Hills spreads, lost over half their total acreage.

But despite the fact that barbed wire caught on, there were still problems. Drovers from points south found themselves faced with a decision. Either they could drive their beeves around the fences, a distance of several hundred miles in some cases, or they could snip the strands and take their chances with unhappy landowners. So they took to cutting fences. Some outfits had special fence-cutting parties that preceded them while others simply had each drover pack a pair of wire cutters next to his six-gun. None of them ever thought of putting a fence back up, once the cattle were through.

Some of the episodes became veritable blood baths on both sides of the fence. Farmers had no qualms about pumping a load of buckshot into the nearest cowpoke when an outfit started across fenced land.

And no wrangler worth his beans was going to sit in the saddle and watch a cannon-packing sodbuster try to cut him down without a fight. So blood flowed freely for several years before the law stepped in with tighter restrictions and stiffer penalities to make the feud too costly for both sides.

In the wide-open cow towns, barbed wire had a place all its own. Standard procedure was to string up a rustler to the nearest cottonwood. But a length of wire made the job just that much more effective, even if it was a little more messy. Several boot hill graves that have been opened have shown that many an Old West bad man died with his boots on and a length of Mr. Glidden's invention around his neck.

Barbed-wire improvisation is not limited to western history, however. In each of the World Wars, thousands of miles of barbed wire were used to repel infiltrators and to delay massive assaults. Any veteran who ever stormed an enemy position can attest to the wire's effectiveness. Prisoners of war have their escape attempts cut to almost nil when confronted with an eight-foot barbed-wire fence. To increase its effectiveness some masterminds added electricity just for a jolt.

For some, spiked wire is a collector's item. One of the outstanding collections in Nebraska is at Homestead National Monument at Beatrice. Seven different types of early barbed wire are on display there, tracing the development of fencing in the homestead era. Mrs. Eli Wasserburger of Crawford has one of the best private collections of barbed wire in the state. Her collection is on display at her husband's service station. Another display is in the Nebraska State Historical Society at Lincoln.

Today barbed wire is as much a part of American agriculture as the tractor. There are several different types of the same basic wire, but they all do the same thing: keep the "ins" in and the "outs" out. Production techniques have changed and wire quality is much better now, but in the main, barbed wire has changed little from the day that John Glidden slammed that first barb home.

THE END AUGUST, 1967 15  

TO SHOOT A BOWL OF SOUP

by Fred Nelson With 27 pounds of snapper in hand, I'm afraid to hang on and more afraid not to

TWENTY-ONE POUNDS of mad snapping turtle are 21 pounds of trouble. I know, because I had every ounce of them by the tail one day last May. I was afraid to hang on and more afraid to let go. To make matters worse, I couldn't see what I was doing for the already murky water of the shallow lake was muddied by our struggle. There wasn't room for a two-hand hold on my adversary's tail, so I clenched my left hand even tighter and hung on, hoping the snapper wouldn't snake his head around and clamp me. Earlier, I had had a peek at his broad and ominous-looking head and knew he had bite to spare. Snapping turtles haven't any teeth, but the hardened sheaths of their jaws can inflict painful wounds.

Jaws weren't this snapper's only weapons. He whipped his tail around and I felt the stinging cut as he jammed the back of my hand against the sharp edge of his carapace. Grabbing my left wrist with my right hand, I pulled to the right, trying to keep that tail straight and my hand away from those snapping jaws. Somehow, the turtle threw his hind legs back and raked me with his claws. One of his horn-hard hooks jabbed into a knuckle and then ripped free. But the reptile was weakening and after another flurry or two, I managed to lift him out of the water and splash my way to the bank.

Our two-minute battle was the climax of an adventure that had begun three hours before when Chuck Kemptar of rural Cairo, Nebraska and I started snapper hunting in the lakes on his father's ranch.

Chuck was between ranch chores and had a day to spare, so he invited me up to "shoot a bowl of soup . W. C. "Bud" Kemptar, Chuck's dad, promised to join us later on if he could.

"Buy a box of .22 long-rifle hollow points for that little auto-loader of yours, (Continued on page 56)

AUGUST, 1967 17

AIRBOAT ESCAPADE

by Bob Snow Zipping across sandbars and skimming shallows are all part of the game for Al and Clara Knaub. Their craft is answer to a catfisherman's prayer

TIE WRIGHT BROTHERS are given credit for revolutionizing transportation with their flying machine. But few people realize that in a left-handed way they also played a key role in changing the fishing picture on the Platte River. Now this may not sound important to some, but if you're a catfisherman like Al Knaub, then these two brothers are real fishing heroes. You see, an airplane engine is largely responsible for Al's fishing successes with his airboat.

But, I wasn't interested in history when Al, a fellow Lincolnite, gunned the airboat's engine, for my taste buds indicated it had been a long time since I had put a catfish on a platter. On most catfishing trips I am a bank pounder, but this time I was riding in style from one snag to the next.

Al and his wife, Clara, are real die-hard catfishermen. There is hardly a day in spring, summer, or fall that the two aren't at their cabin, just north of Cedar Creek, or on the river nearby. Although their airboat is only a year old, this husband-wife team has fished every snag and deep hole within a six-mile stretch from the home port. Last year, they claimed 721 catfish and this year are out to break that record.

As the airboat skimmed over the water at full throttle, Clara zipped up her blue jacket, for it was chilly on the river. Suddenly, the loud whine of the engine settled to a gentle whir as Al pulled up on the throttle, letting the current swing the boat sideways Al gave the engine a little more power and we headed 18 NEBRASKAland toward the bank and a fallen log festooned with several branches — a perfect place for catfish.

Al cut the motor as we neared shore and when the bow hit the bank, he scampered up the deck, carrying a long steel rod. Pushing the rod into the ground, he grabbed a rope, fastened to the rod and the bow of the craft, and walked it back to the boat. He gunned the engine to move the craft's square nosed bow flush with the bank and tied the rope to the steering wheel, before killing the engine.

"When you get done fishing today, your wife is going to think you took a sunbath in a feed yard," Al jibbed, taking out a plastic container of prepared stink bait. "This stuff has a distinct odor that catfish only seem to like."

Earlier that morning, I was informed that if I couldn't take a ribbing and defend myself with some quick comebacks, I was going to spend a pretty miserable day on the river, for jibbing is half the fun on a Knaub fishing trip. Even before I climbed aboard, I knew this was going to be a chuckle-filled day, whether we caught any fish or not.

"I don't care what my wife thinks if I have some fish to prove that it was worthwhile," I retorted. "But, if I go home Ashless, I want you to come along and explain to my wife why I smell like a sewer and didn't catch any fish."

Clara's line was in the water before I had rolled the evil-smelling stink bait into a ball and placed it on the No. 08 treble hook. At Al's suggestion, I used his 6V2-foot rod equipped with an open-face spinning reel and 40-pound-test monofilament. Al explained it might be fun to use a lighter-test line, but in snags, it is a headache when you have to stop fishing to put on new terminal gear or lose a fish to a snapped line.

AUGUST, 1967 19  

I cast toward the snag and let the current carry the line closer. When its oblong sinker settled on the bottom, I tightened the line. Following Al's and Clara's lead, I propped the rod on the boat's side, letting the butt rest on the box-like seat that runs parallel with the sides. The Knaubs claim you can't possibly hold the rod still enough to catch a cat with their method of fishing, because you have to be able to detect the slightest little nibble by the erratic bouncing of the rod tip. The normal quiver of the hands can destroy this little peck, and fool you.

"The water is still a little cold for real good catfishing. The cats are just nibbling, not really taking the bait like they will when the water warms up. If you're not ready for them, you will go home Ashless," Clara explained, watching her rod tip.

The Knaubs never fish a hole longer than five to eight minutes. If they don't have any luck by then, they figure the fish aren't going to bite. As the minutes ticked off, each of us concentrated on our rod tips. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clara's hand move quickly for her rod. A quick jerk and the hook was set. A pound-and-half channel cat came to the top, did a belly roll, slapped his tail a couple of times, took another dive, and then came to the surface again. The scrapper didn't give up until he was on board, unhooked, and placed in a burlap sack that was tied to a motor support.

Al and I were elated with Clara's catch, but our male fishing egos wouldn't allow us to show too much satisfaction. Besides, if we didn't come through with some fish of our own, we would be in for a real troublesome day on the river. Al calls his water skimmer, rThe Clarabeir, and claims he wasn't thinking about Howdy Doody's clown when he named it.

Five minutes passed after Clara's first fish and we hadn't had another bite, so Al decided to head upstream to another hole. One thing about the Platte, you don't have to look hard to find snags, holes, or undercut banks. With the airboat we could pick the best spots on both sides of the river and along the many islands that are in it.

After a luckless next stop, we moved to a spot opposite a rather large island. An undercut bank, deep water, and a few hidden snags made it a perfect place for catfish to set up housekeeping. Clara, sitting on the end of the oblong seat near the back of the boat, picked up her rod and tossed in before Al shore-anchored the craft.

"Most of the time, she'll catch a fish before I even get a line in," Al grinned as he picked up his rod. "Heck, everytime we go out, she's got the advantage, because I do all the driving. I figure she gets about 10 more minutes of fishing each time out."

"Would you like me to take the helm?" she queried. "I can remember a few times when I did and..."

The conversation ended abruptly as Clara pulled back on her rod. The sulking fish stayed deep, trying to find a line-breaking snag, but after a little coaxing he came up for a tail-splashing look around. As she hoisted the pound-and-a-quarter fish aboard, it was obvious that we were in for it from Clara.

"Now that's what I call just by a whisker," she said as she examined her prize. One of the barbs of the treble hook had caught a barbel and that was all that held the fish.

"Don't know if we should allow you to keep that one," Al said. "But I suppose a fish is a fish, no matter how you hook him."

"When you start catching fish, I'll stop hooking them by the whisker," Clara laughed. "Until that time I will catch them any way I can. Besides, I wanted to give you fellows a chance. I figure if I whisker-hook them, a few will get away so I won't build up such a commanding lead."

As she threw the fish into the burlap sack, my rod tip bounced hard once, and a "Bob, you've got a bite" made me grab frantically for the rod. A quick jerk was to no avail. The fish was gone, and so was my bait.

"What were you doing?" Al laughed. "Thinking about the fish you're going to catch, or about how you got on the wackiest boat on the Platte. To catch fish you've got to be alert."

"No excuse," I mumbled, rebaiting. "But let me tell you, if a guy misses a fish around here, he really has to face the consequences. I'm going to be darn sure I get the next one."

A little embarrassed by my first miss, I decided that catching Platte River cats by the Knaub method isn't easy. The angler has to be ready for that rod-tip bounce, and if he isn't, the bait stealer will be on his way. I knew I had to set the hook before they cleaned off the bait and that was going to take plenty of concentration.

Al pointed to a shady stretch of water that had produced some nice fish in (Continued on page 51)

AUGUST, 1967 21

by Dr. Don Welsh as told to NEBRASKAland Magazine Here's a hobby where you con be young or old, big or small, and still come in a winner. Streamlined fliers do work, you get glory 22 NEBRASKAland

HERE'S A HOT tip for racing fans. If and when Nebraska ever gets around to establishing parimutuels on racing of carrier pigeons, lay all you've got on a speedy little winger called Blurr. His past performances indicate that he will fly in the money in long races.

One of the better birds in my loft at Kearney, you can take Blurr 500 miles in any direction, turn him loose, and chances are he will be in the top three winners. Unlike the tourist who arms himself with a compass and a map for any trip over 200 miles, Blurr navigates the entire stretch purely by instinct. Landmarks play no part in this cross-country flyover, because Blurr and his competitors have never flown the course before.

The racing pigeon, not the kind that sits on statues, is more fortunate than a tourist in another respect, too. He doesn't have to stop for gas, food, or rest rooms. In fact, he'll fly 500 miles non-stop, making the trip in 12 to 14 hours, depending on weather conditions. On arrival at the loft, the 16-ounce bird will have lost one-third of his body weight from the flight, but after a drink and food he's as perky as when he left.

In this sport of queens, a bird that flies 500 miles in one day is considered the equivalent of a four-minute miler in track. Blurr has never won a race, but he is a consistent performer and has several seconds and thirds in over 5,000 miles of racing competition.

Pigeons have a definite personality. Blurr is rather docile and seems to like children. Some of the other birds in the loft are bullies and fights among them are common. Others are extremely jealous, but Blurr is sort of a middle-of-the-roader. All pigeons are proud, and cocks strut around their wire homes as if they were castles and they were princes. Homing pigeons have a right to be proud, for they have served their countries well in time of war. In World Wars I and II, pigeons gave up racing bands for message capsules. The English and Americans think the birds played such important roles in their war efforts that they have awarded some pigeons special medals for devotion above and beyond the call of duty. One of the greatest, Cher Ami, flew through heavy gunfire to deliver a message that eventually saved the lost battalion of World War I fame. Enemy gunfire blew off a leg and destroyed an eye, but the gallant bird flew on to deliver her message. She got the Distinguished Service Cross.

The pigeon is no longer used by the military, but the courage and instinct to fly to a home loft no matter what the odds are still very much part of the bird's personality. During the dove (Continued on page 50)

AUGUST, 1967 23

From zoo in Omaha to historic view in Scottsbluff, community parks offer potpourri of pleasure for every age and taste

THERE IS something priceless about a dream. It is so real and yet so fleeting, often ending just as it begins. There are dreams that build a future and cement a past. There are dreams that bring the calm of yesteryear and a promise of the future. Nebraska creates such dreams. Dreams for the young —not only in body, but in spirit. They are called community parks.

Nebraska's dreams begin in the east in a park known as Pioneers in Lincoln. They begin with a great buffalo that watches over the state capitol from his pedestal at the park entrance. How many boys have hunted that beast in their imaginations? This, no one will ever know. Yet, they are certainly drawn to it as they are to the giant Indian who gazes   out over the park's interior. Like the buffalo, the Indian is symbolic of Nebraska's Old West heritage.

But parks, like dreams, are not confined to areas. The roses in Blair's community park are among the most beautiful of Nebraska dreams. There, a footbridge is the threshold that opens to a wonderful dream of flowers, bringing to life the pioneer dream of beauty on the Plains.

Nebraska City has a dream called Steinhart Park, while Omaha's Riverview Park in conjunction with the Henry Doorley Zoo provides impromptu dreaming for the whole family.

Dreams come in all sizes and shapes in Nebraska. One of the larger ones is Norfolk's Ta-Ha-Zouka Park. Here, but for the grace of geography, a dreamer would find himself beside a south seas island lagoon, while at Kearney's community park, a mysterious tower conjures young visions of medieval knights rescuing fair maidens. Parents can explore the hidden coves of a natural creek while the youngsters enter the lists.

At North Platte, in the fork of the North and South Platte rivers, wild waterfowl come and go at Cody Park. For the sportsman, the dream is something of a nightmare, since none of the birds on the grounds can be hunted, but there are no restrictions on camera or sketch pad and many find the wild ones willing models for their photographic and artistic talents.

AUGUST, 1967 27     NEBRASKAland

In Alliance, gateway to the Pine Ridge, the formal gardens and Grecian columns of its community park might well have belonged to the stately holdings of an Athenian nobleman.

At Scottsbluffs Riverside Park, where pioneer horses once trod, today's autos sweep around a wooded turn to discover the panorama of Scotts Bluff National Monument shimmering in the distance.

It would take a lifetime to explore the secrets of each park, and almost as long to mention them all. Practically every community in the state has a park that offers enjoyment to all. NEBRASKAland will explore them in future issues.

All parks are the culmination of dreams. They began in the minds of men, and then became realities. Few communities would trade their park for anything, for it is something very special. Where else in this hustling world of ours can the public find time for private dreams?

THE END AUGUST, 1967 31

SUMMER "SLEEP OUT"

Nebraska ground squirrels are champ snooiers when mercury blows its top. Their rest is close to death, but it's cool. Estivation is little understood

MANY OF US, wilting in the August heat, have wished that we could "hole up" to escape the blistering sun. We can't, but some Nebraska mammals can. This "sleeping out" the hot, dry days of late summer is called estivation, and is akin to the more familar hibernation or winter sleep of certain mammals, reptiles, and amphibians. Although only a few of Nebraska's mammals, notably ground squirrels, estivate, most of the state's wild residents "slow down" when the mercury blows its top.

This summer siesta is nature's way of protecting certain animals against the enervating and sometimes fatal effects of excessive heat. In true estivation, the animal's respiration, circulation, and temperature drop to barely discernable levels. The sleeper is in the twilight zone of suspended animation—the little death.

For example, the thirteen-lined ground squirrel, a flashing, sinuous bundle of activity through most of the summer, goes deep underground to escape the fiery sun of August and early September. In a comfortable den, several feet down, the squirrel curls up in the fetal position with his head curled toward his groin and his tail wrapped close to his ears. His breathing and body metabolism are at low ebb. He is cold to the touch and cannot be wakened by an ordinary poke or shake. He is oblivious to his surroundings and has the aspect of death even to a slight stiffening.

Researchers are not sure what influences rouse the squirrel from this trance-like state, but cooling weather is apparently the alarm clock. Once awake, the thirteen-liner seems none the worse for his summer snooze.

Although Nebraska's ground squirrels are classic estivators, the state's frogs and toads become dormant when their environmental stresses become too great. Their sleep is not true estivation since metabolism and respiration continue at slightly higher levels than in hibernation or estivation, but muscular activity is at a minimum. These amphibians dig deep into the bottoms of drying ponds and streams until they find mud moist enough to meet their limited needs. After the ordeal of heat and drought abates, the amphibians resume their normal activities. Practically every Nebraskan can recall seeing thousands of tiny spade-foot toads after a hard, late-summer shower. Folklore claims that it rains toads are not true. The moisture merely releases toads from their dormancy.

Toads can stay dormant for surprisingly long times. There are well-authenticated reports of them surviving for years after being inadvertently sealed up in walls or well cases. After being freed, the toads recover quickly and pick up their normal existence.

The crayfish has a specialized way to beat the heat. When the sun evaporates his watery domain to a critical level, he entombs himself in a burrow and seals himself off from the world. When nature relents and conditions improve, the crayfish reemerges and resumes the tenor of his ways. Naturalists call this tomb-like retreat from the thermometer, encapsulation.

Many other animals enter a period of reduced activity during the hot days, but do not estivate or go dormant in a true sense. The frisky chipmunk, who lives every minute of every daylight hour during most of the summer, forgoes his usual frantic activities and holes up when the days become too scorching. Deep in the cooling earth, the chipmunk doesn't eat, for eating results in digestion and digestion begets heat, so he doesn't place any added strain on an already heat-stressed system.

Small herbivores or vegetable eaters are more prone to wait out the hot periods than the carnivores, but practically all animals gear down when the temperatures shift into high. Birds do not become dormant, but they do seek shade, reduce their flying and singing, and more or less loaf out the hot days. Nature makes it easy for the feathered ones to do this and still obtain enough food for their needs. Hot dry weather is the optimum for insects and they are usually available in great numbers. Many plants also seed late in the summer and make their contribution to the birds' diet.

Nebraska's fish face a grim future when ponds and streams dry up. Contrary to popular belief, the bullhead cannot survive extended droughts by burrowing into the mud and waiting for the rains. It is true that his oxygen requirements are less than those of other fish and that he can survive longer than say a bass under adverse conditions. However, when all of his water goes, he goes, no matter how deep he is.

Snakes must avoid excessive heat or perish. Cold blooded, their bodies match the temperature of their surroundings and have no physiological cooling mechanisms, so they must find protection. Underground dens, rocks, buildings, and other shelters are their life preservers when the mercury zooms. Ten minutes exposure to 100-degree temperatures will literally bake the life out of a 30-inch rattlesnake.

Although this summer lull is particularly noticeable in the wild, domestic animals are affected to some extent. Beef and dairy cattle do more loafing than eating with a resulting loss in meat and milk production. Horses slow down and seem less spirited. Poultrymen notice a decline in egg production unless their hens are in a controlled environment.

It is said that animals have three choices when exposed to adversity. They can migrate to a more amendable environment, adjust and adapt to conditions, or perish. Estivation, dormancy, and "loafing" are three methods of adaptation to hot-weather stresses.

Man, not so well specialized, but much more ingenious, solves the problem a different way. When the August sun threatens to fry the sky, he surrounds a tall cool one.

THE END

AUGUST, 1967 33   by Glenda Peterson

RED CLOUD IS a quiet Nebraska town, uneventful and patient under the prairie sun. It has two hotels and a motel, and six places where visitors can eat. The business district runs for three blocks and is bordered by quiet streets lined with modest houses of Red Cloud's 1,500 citizens.

The only town by that name in the world, Red Cloud isn't so unlike any other prairie town of similar size — except for one thing. It is the hometown of author Willa Cather, world renowned for her poignant portrayal of pioneer life on the prairies and a 1922 Pulitzer Prize winner.

Willa Cather came to Red Cloud from Virginia in 1883. The change from the mountainous beauty of the East to the parched, treeless, almost waterless plains of Webster County was painful for the nine-year-old, but later she came to love this country and made it the location of several of her novels. In fact, Willa Cather never escaped what she had learned while growing up in Webster County, and seemingly she never wanted to. The author considered the span between 8 and 18 the formative years in a writer's life, and most of these years Willa Cather spent in Red Cloud.

Red Cloud citizens, proud of their daughter author who brought world-wide recognition to their little town, decided to make the most of it, with Mrs. Mildred R. Bennett the motivating force. In 1946, she and her doctor husband moved to Red Cloud where Mrs. Bennett did on-the-spot research for a book on the girlhood years of Willa Cather. In 1951, she published The World of Willa Cather.

But Mrs. Bennett wanted to do more than just write a biography. While doing research, she discovered that a number of personal items belonging to Willa Cather were still in the community, and she thought they might be of historical interest to others.

In March of 1955, Mrs. Bennett invited a group of friends and relatives of Willa Cather, eight in all, to 35   form a memorial foundation with four primary goals in mind.

1. To perpetuate an interest throughout the world in the work of Willa Cather.

2. To identify and restore to their original condition places made famous by Willa's writings.

3. To provide for Willa Cather a living memorial in the form of art and literary scholarships.

4. To secure the bonding, insurance, and housing of a permanent art, literary, and historical collection, relating to the life, time, and work of Willa Cather.

There was already a world-wide interest developing in the writings of Willa Cather, and the foundation would work more on that, too. But first, it set about collecting personal items belonging to the famed author. Others in the community supplied correspondence, family albums, and other nearly forgotten possessions of Willa Cather.

The first Willa Cather Memorial Museum was opened in just over a year after the charter meeting, in temporary headquarters over the State Theatre. The citizens were proud of their accomplishments, and rightly so. Even though the museum was open only two days a week, nearly 300 visitors from 15 states and 3 countries visited it that first year.

But foundation members wanted permanent quarters for the Willa Cather collection. They had their eyes on a three-story, red-brick building built in 1889 by Silas Garber, fourth governor of Nebraska and founder of Red Cloud. The building had first been the Farmers' and Merchants' Bank. After the bank went broke, the structure became the city hall and finally the home of the city light and water departments. In November of 1959, the Cather Memorial Association 36 NEBRASKAland purchased the historical landmark as permanent headquarters. Today, visitors from all over the U.S. and many foreign countries climb the marble steps to the memorial and pay tribute to Willa Cather.

The building, of Gothic design, is a curiosity in itself. It looks more like it belongs on the streets of Old Europe than in southern Nebraska. Two tower rooms are reached by a winding stairway, and in the walled backyard are two underground dungeon-like rooms which have foot-thick walls and barred windows. A 1907 newspaper account claims the rooms were used to keep drunken and disorderly people out of mischief when Red Cloud was a not-so-tame frontier town.

The memorial is manned by volunteers, and Girl Scouts help guide city tours on weekends and during summer vacations. From May 1 to the first of October memorial doors are open from 1 to 5 p.m. The rest of the year tours are by appointment only.

Red Cloud's pride in Willa Cather is well deserved. The famed writer was the first woman to receive an honorary degree from Princeton University. The hood she wore to receive this honor as well as some of the others worn when she was granted honorary degrees from the universities of Nebraska, Creighton, California, Columbia, Michigan, Smith, and Yale are on display at the memorial along with her personal possessions. Other displays depict scenes from her books.

But to really become acquainted with the Willa Cather period, when citizens called her "a young curiosity shop," the visitor must travel some of the miles that she traveled. Willa preferred her horse and buggy even when autos were in vogue.

Mrs. Bennett and her co-workers have made it easy to follow the trails of Willa Cather. They mapped out and printed brochures for both a city tour and country tour to favorite childhood spots of the author. Some of these locations and the people who lived there later became the prototypes for the Cather novels.

In Red Cloud is the house where she lived from 1884 to 1890, and Dr. Cook's old drug store where Willa worked while going to high school. She wrote about Red Cloud many times, attributing fictional names to the town as it suited her. Red Cloud is the Sweetwater of A Lost Lady, the Frankfort of One Of Ours, the Haverford of Lucy Gayheart, the Moonstone of The Song Of The Lark, the Black Hawk of My Antonia, and the Hanover of O Pioneers!

In the country just southeast of Red Cloud is the cottonwood grove where the Cather children and their friends played and picnicked. Willa later said that in order to write well, she had to get up feeling 13 years old and all set for a picnic in that grove. The same spot was later the setting for A Lost Lady.

On south, a visitor can climb the bluff on the south side of the Republican River to the grave of Alice Blue Cloud, daughter of Chief Red Cloud, namesake for the town. On a quiet afternoon in 1912 while revisiting this bluff, overlooking the expansive Republican River Valley, Willa saw a plow against the sun and later described the scene in My Antonia.

In 1890, the same year that Willa left Red Cloud for the University of Nebraska in Lincoln, the town had a bustling population of 3,000 and supported 5 newspapers. Eight daily passenger trains, four heading east and four west, passed through on the Burlington and Missouri Railroad between Kansas City and Denver. A massive, cheerful depot greeted the passengers. Now that the main line of the railroad has been moved to Hastings, a single freight whistles a daily greeting to Red Cloud. The tired depot was moved a short distance from its former location to make room for a smaller building. Long-range plans include renovating the depot.

The 3-hour, 53-mile country tour takes the visitor to the Miner Ranch, southwest of Red Cloud, a favorite picnic place of the town-dwelling Miners and their little friend, Willa. Here the children investigated the ranch sodhouse with its wooden floor, plastered walls and shingled roof, and hunted for arrowheads along nearby Indian Creek.

Also on the tour is the Dane Church. When Yance Sorgenson, a Norwegian immigrant, came to Webster County to farm, he hired a man named Ondrak, a Czech who had studied art in Prague and Munich, to paint a picture above the altar. Ondrak's speech was broken, he walked with a limp, he cared not whether his clothes matched, but he could paint. For the Dane Church he finished a crude reproduction of "Christ in the Garden." Later when a tornado destroyed the little church along with Ondrak's "masterpiece", he cried, "My Yesus! My Yesus! Blown all to hell!"

Willa Cather's family were more fortunate than some when they arrived in 1883. Willa's grandfather had settled here six years earlier, so the Cather family joined him on the old homestead, and took over his house when the older Cathers returned to Virginia.

But some of the immigrants made their homes in the shelving clay banks, north of the Republican River. Willa Cather described one when she wrote about the Shimerda dugout in My Antonia. These dark, pitiful dugouts weren't abandoned until time and money became more plentiful.

There are 25 places of interest on the Catherland Country Tour, but (Continued on page 50)

AUGUST, 1967 37

HEAT WITHOUT FIRE

by Lou Ell With this handy gadget, Mama can stay home and still cook your trail-side grub

TiE DAY HAS been long and tiring. A big buck has eluded you after a tiring chase. Your camping partner is worn out from endless casts in the trout stream. You're both so hungry you could eat a groundhog raw, but you haven't got the energy to scrape together a decent meal. Sitting on the table of your camping trailer is a rather large box. It is a gadget called a fireless cooker, and it has been there since you left that morning. You lift off its lid. The aroma of steaming ham and beans hits your nostrils, and you can scarcely believe the food has been cooked from raw ingredients over a period of many hours, without using a smidgen of artificial heat.

But it has!

The principle of the fireless cooker is not new. Great-great-grandma used one during the pioneer days, and before that, it was a common item in her homeland across the sea. It is based on the simple fact that anything brought to a high heat to begin with, and insulated well enough so that the heat is lost very slowly, will continue to cook until the temperature drops below the level needed for that particular food.

Dry hay was used for insulating material in the early boxes. This was replaced with ground cork and other more efficient insulators as they were discovered. Today's insulation is styrofoam.

Where can you get a fireless cooker? If a commercial model is available, I don't know of it, so that means you build your own. Its construction is so simple that even if you have five thumbs on each hand you can make one. And it is a classic project to keep your 14-year-old-son out of trouble for a weekend.

Here's the list of materials you'll need:

A straight-sided cooking container, with a well-fitting lid.

Three or four square feet of asbestos paper.

One two-foot by eight-foot chunk of rigid foam insulating material, two inches thick, from your local builder's supply.

Approximately twelve square feet of strong, corrugated cardboard.

One roll of two-inch masking tape.

One bottle of Poly-vinl glue.

One five-pound bag sidewalk patching cement. (This is necessary for the metal-lined cooker only.)

The size of the cooking container is regulated by the amount of food you will require. The cooker works best when the pot is brimful with food, so judge accordingly. A half-gallon capacity is right for two men. Either earthenware or metal containers work well. Earthenware simplifies construction somewhat, and inexpensive kitchen canisters are just the checker. The container shown in this article was originally filled with cheese. Most earthenware can stand the high temperatures necessary to bring food up to cooking heat.

For clarity in construction directions, we will assume the use of earthenware. Building the box for either container is exactly the same, except for two minor adaptions necessary if a metal kettle is used. These adaptions will be given at the end of the construction details.

In the finished cooker, the container must be surrounded with four inches of insulating material, top, bottom, and sides. Measure the outer diameter of the pot and add eight inches. Cut as many squares of the foam insulation as you need to build a pile eight inches higher than the cooking container. To cut the foam, score it deeply with your pocket knife along penciled guidelines, then snap the piece off over the ledge of the workbench, just as you would a piece of glass.

Glue two blocks together to form the four-inch thick bottom of the insulator, and two others to form the top. Lay the two chunks aside.

Cut a strip of asbestos paper as wide as the cooking pot is high, and long enough to wrap once or twice around the container. Close the seam with a strip of masking tape.

Set the asbestos-wrapped pot in the exact center of one of the remaining insulating blocks, and draw around it. Remove this circle from the block with a sharp knife or a saber saw.

The wrapped pot should fit snugly into this hole. Use the block as a pattern and cut as many more as needed to envelop the pot. Remove insulation where 38 NEBRASKAland necessary to form slots for the wire bail on the container.

Glue the hollow blocks together, spread some glue on the outside of the asbestos around the cooking pot, and slip pot and all into the hole. When the glue sets, the pot can be pulled out, leaving the asbestos sleeve inside the insulator as a permanent part of it.

Take the solid block you made for the bottom of the insulator, and glue the well block to it. Cut a circle of asbestos and glue it inside the well bottom. Slip the food container back into the well. It should be a sliding fit, and when in place, its top rim should be level with the top of the well.

Place the lid on the cooking container, and pick up the remaining four-inch-thick, solid-insulating block. Hollow out its underside to make room tor the pot lid and permit the block to rest solidly on the well section. Line the lid depression with asbestos. The asbestos paper will mold to any depression if you dampen it first. In its wet state, the paper is extremely fragile, so handle it carefully.

With the top insulating block in place, the cooking pot is completely enclosed in a large cube of foam.

Remove the top insulating block, and measure the size of the lower cooking well block. Cut corrugated cardboard panels to form protective sides for it. These should be long enough to extend at least one inch above the top level of the cooking well, so that the top insulator block can be pressed rapidly into place later. Reinforce bends and joints with wide masking tape. Make a separate cover to enclose the top insulator block, and to telescope two or three inches down over the lower box. This completes the cooker.

Now for the two modifications to the foregoing instructions if you use a metal cooking pot. The cooker well must be 1 1/4 inches deeper than the cook pot is tall. This extra depth is necessary to accommodate the "heating stone" used to hold the food at cooking temperature for a longer period of time. Cast the heating stone from the sidewalk patching cement. Form a circle of tin or stiff cardboard the same diameter as the cooking pot, set it on a level surface, and pour in 1 1/4 inches of mortar. When it begins to set, make a small depression in the concrete pancake, and put in a little wire loop. The loop must be level with, or just below, the surface of the stone.

Let the slab cure in the sun for several days after you remove the form, so that all internal moisture is gone. Otherwise the stone is likely to explode the first time you heat it up. It is wise to cast two stones to begin with, in order to have a spare in case of breakage. The stones can be reinforced with pieces of window screen wire if you desire.

Now, for that hot ham and bean supper after you've been pounding the boondocks all day. Remember, you started the meal in the morning before you left for the field.

If your cooker is the heating-stone kind, put the heating stone in the oven of the range, and set the heat to 300°. Remove the cooking container from the insulating box. Put 2 1/2 cups of precooked, dehydrated beans, and a cupful of cubed ham into the pot, and season to taste. Pour in enough water to fill the kettle almost to the brim, put on the lid, and bring the food to a full boil on top of the stove.

Have the open cooker on the table beside you. With a wire coat hanger, hook the heating stone out of the oven, place it in the well of the cooker, lower in the pot of boiling food, and clap on the top insulating block. This rapid transfer is extremely important to lose as little heat as possible. Put the top cover on the box, and go hunting.

With a little practice, you will be cooking chicken and noodles, macaroni or spaghetti, beef stew, corned beef and cabbage, and any number of other dishes in this rig. Generally speaking, long-cooking vegetables such as carrots or potatoes should be cut into rather small pieces so that they are thoroughly heated before going into the cooker. Remember that food chunks not brought to the same temperature as the boiling water before going into the cooker will absorb heat, and probably lower the overall temperature enough to cause cooking to stop.

Once you get the hang of using it, the fireless cooker will prove to be a valuable vacation camping gadget that permits more carefree time in the open, and keeps you well fed in the bargain.

THE END AUGUST, 1967 39  

FIRST LADIES IN MINIATURE

by Natalie Hahn Authenticity is watchword as wives of 31 governors become living dolls forever

BEING CALLED a "living doll" appeals to mosi women, and Nebraska's first ladies are no exception. Now, 31 governors' wives will be dolls forever, thanks to a group of Omaha women.

The regal apparel worn by the chief executives' ladies at their husbands' inaugurals is being preserved in miniature on 17-inch dolls. The idea for this unusual collection originated with and has been developed by the Distaffs, wives of the doctors at the Lutheran Medical Center in Omaha. Completed early this year, the project had two goals.

Proud of Nebraska's heritage, the Distaffs were eager to contribute to the Nebraska Centennial and, at the same time, call attention to the need for a new Lutheran hospital in Omaha. The doll collection is a natural, for it is simple to point out that "Times change in hospitals, just as they do in fashions". Heading the project was Mrs. Morris H. Brodkey of Omaha.

When Mrs. Arthur Weaver, first lady from 1929-1931, heard about the project, she summed up the general feeling of the first ladies in general. She was delighted at the idea of "becoming a beautiful doll".

Intensive research began in 1964 by a committee of 15 Distaffs, under the direction of Mrs. William Weingarten, and authenticity has been the watchword. Each of the dresses had to be an exact replica of the one worn by the first ladies. This involved a detailed investigation and careful attention to detail. The doctors' wives-turned-researchers claim they hadn't spent so much time studying since their school days.

In the beginning, questionnaires were sent to all living first ladies, asking for complete particulars on their inaugural gowns. Replies poured in from the first ladies or their families. However, all leads about an inaugural gown of a governor's family were quickly followed. With some James Bond-type maneuvering the Distaffs rummaged library stacks and scoured family files to obtain clues to the designs and materials of the gowns. Newspapers, other files, documents, and books on Nebraska history were also used as sources of information.

After all of this detailed gumshoeing, a great deal of data has been compiled about governors wives. Of Nebraska's 32 first ladies, only one remains a woman of mystery. Apparently, Mrs. Ezra P. Savage, first lady from 1901-1903, never had a photograph taken after she was 10 years old. Other information on Mrs. Savage is also lacking, consequently she is the only governor's wife not now represented in the collection.

In many instances, sketches were made of the gowns by relatives or friends of the first ladies. Most materials from the original gowns were too old to be used, but samples were often obtained. However, material from the jacket of Mrs. Robert Cochran's inaugural gown was used to make the replica of her dress. She was first lady from 1935-1941. Fabric from the original gown also adorns the doll of Mrs. Samuel McKelvie, first lady from 1919-1923.

The search for authenticity carried things even further in the case of Mrs. George L. Sheldon, first lady from 1907-1909. Not only was the lace from her gown used to decorate the replica, but her hair was made into the doll's wig.

Generally, fabrics used to make the gowns had to be hand-dyed to match the desired shades. Gathered in folds of chiffon and taffetas and decorated with laces, furs, and beads, all of the doll costumes were delicately hand-sewn. Mrs. Angeline Sudyka of Omaha, Mrs. Nebraska of 1966, was the official seamstress and hair stylist, and she did all of the intricate costume copying and the painstaking stitching.

Forty hours went into the making of the doll's dress of Mrs. Adam McMullen, first lady from 1925-1929. A microscope was used to pick up the delicate designs within the material for the doll costume.

The replica of the inaugural gown worn by Nebraska's current first lady, Mrs. Norbert T. Tiemann, required the most time and expense. The detailed beading on the pale-green fabric required 53 hours, and materials cost almost $14. Costs for the entire doll project were underwritten by the Medical-Dental Staff at the Lutheran Medical Center and L. C. Heine, past president of the LMC Board of Trustees.

Costumes were not the only hurdle, however. Dolls worthy of this splendor had to be found, and companies from coast to coast were contacted to AUGUST, 1967 41   submit a high-quality model before a suitable solution was reached. Mrs. Lita Wilson, of Lorain, Ohio, who designed the Princess Grace and Jacqueline Kennedy dolls, made the original mold, and Mrs. Anna Mae Pitts of Muskogee, Oklahoma, cast the heads, arms, and legs. Mrs. Leona Miller of Omaha made the bodies and assembled the dolls.

After assembly, the dolls are made to look as much as possible like the first ladies they represent. Each doll's wig is shaded to exactly the right hair color and styled in authentic coiffures of the day.

In addition to hair style and shading, attention was paid to exact eye color of the first ladies. Even shoe styles, ranging from high-top, five-button styles of old to today's slim pumps were reproduced. Mrs. McKervie's shoes were even hand-painted to obtain the necessary detail.

Accuracy of the gowns and the dolls themselves make the collection a most valuable one. Genuine in every detail, they recall the glamour of the inaugural balls. Evidence of the varied styles is seen in the high collars and ruffled sleeves of the 19th Century, the hip-swingers of the Roaring Twenties, and the full skirts and lowered necklines of the '60's. The change in fashion is most apparent in the abundance of fringe, ribbon, velvets, and dark colors in the gowns of a few generations ago.

Mrs. Val Peterson, first lady from 1947-1953, calls her inaugural ball gown "strictly nonconformist". It was black. However, she liked it so well, she wore it out.

Research on the women's side of the state's political spotlight proved exciting. Histories and biographies reveal a great deal about Nebraska's first ladies. Some were considered top hostesses, others were known for political interest, and many were philanthropic leaders.

It is interesting to note that Mrs. Silas Holcomb, first lady from 1895-1899, was one of the few first ladies to be photographed wearing glasses. Her spectacles were of the pince-nez variety, which were popular with fashionable women in the Gay Ninties.

Mrs. Frances Dawes, who was official hostess from 1883-1887, was known as one of the friendliest ladies in the Capital City. Her favorite pastimes included making doll dresses for the neighbors' children and driving her spirited bay horse, Dexter.

Mrs. Charles Bryan, who was first lady from 1923-25 and again from 1931-35, started the collection of photographs which now hangs below the spiral staircase at the Governor's Mansion. It was during her husband's second term as governor that the State Capitol was completed.

At the request of the Distaffs, Governor Frank B. Morrison proclaimed May 27, 1965, as Nebraska First Ladies Day. The Morrisons, as well as all other living governors and their wives, were official guests at a special kick-off luncheon. Since the doll collection was completed, it has been on display in many parts of the state and may be seen at Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha until September 1. After that, it will again go on the road until the end of 1968. Where the collection will find a permanent home is still to be decided, but anyone interested in a doll showing should contact the Lutheran Medical Center in Omaha.

Many are the lovely ladies who have graced Nebraska's executive mansion. And, as new first ladies take over their duties, they, too, will be represented.

Each of Nebraska's lovely first ladies will have a place for all time in this authentic and enduring collection of "beautiful dolls".

THE END AUGUST, 1967 43

Richmond Canyon becomes burial ground as flash flood claims toll. Only two remain to tell trek's tragic tale by Robert J. Golonka

SENSING THAT THE day's journey was ending, the dog, Shepik, streaked ahead of the caravan toward the cottonwood tree that stood like a sentinel in the valley. Behind him, Joseph Kavalec, the leader of the group, pulled up his horse and halted the three covered wagons at the mouth of Richmond Canyon, near Cambridge, Nebraska, and then rode on to find a suitable camping place. There was no hint of the terrible tragedy that was only hours away.

On this evening of May 26, 1885, the canyon bottom, thick with lush grass and touched with golden light from the setting sun, appeared to be an idyllic spot to the 16 tired and trail-weary immigrants. They had left Brainard, Nebraska, 20 days before, bound for Hayes County where they planned to settle.

When Kavalec reached the cottonwood, he ordered Shepik back to heel the cattle. Then, he signaled the wagons to move down the decline to the small, crystal-clear stream that twisted through the canyon and into the Republican River about a mile away. The caravan, carrying the four Bohemian families, creaked to a stop. Immediately, nine children spilled but and raced to the stream.

Three of the youngsters belonged to Joseph and Fannie Kavalec. John and Mary Macek had one boy, and Jakub Lang, who had left his wife in Brainard, had his two daughters with him. John and Annie Osmera, who did not have a wagon, but shared with Kavalecs, had tina. Reaching the stream, the children cupped their hands to drink, then began splashing each other with the cool water.

Over at the wagons, John Osmera unyoked the ox-teams and led the cattle to graze some distance from the camp. Then he walked on, hunting for rabbits and prairie chickens for the evening meal.

On the way back, he began to think how lucky he had been to meet Joseph Kavalec the fall before. Kavalec, a recent immigrant from the Old Country, though already a land-owner, was eager to move westward to homestead the rich, free lands of western Nebraska. After selling his farm, Kavalec had organized this small caravan, and persuaded Osmera to join the expedition.

From their homes in Brainard, the pioneers faced a trek of 350 long miles, so they spent months preparing for the journey. The fall before the men worked in the cornfields to make a little stake. When winter came, they made the frameworks for their wagons while the women sewed canvas covers to shelter themselves and their few possessions from the elements.

When spring came, they made their last-minute preparations. Oxen were shod, wooden casks were filled with water, and the wagons loaded with provisions, personal belongings, cooking utensils, rifles, ammunition, and grain for the oxen and the eight head of cattle they were taking.

Ready at last, they set out on May 6, 1885 along the Poney Express (Continued on page 55)

AUGUST, 1967 45

INTERSTATE INTERLUDE

Nebraska's cement and brick "welcome mats" set pace for national rest areas by Warren Spencer

WHEN HIGHWAY engineers poured two parallel strips of concrete across Nebraska, stuck eastbound and westbound signs on them and called the road Interstate 80, they created a monster. The road was fine. But there was a mesmerizing influence that no one had counted on. Driving ease made minds wander, mirages appear, and people die.

Nebraska's Department of Roads came up with the answers. They called them rest areas, state safety patrolmen called them great, and traveler comments ranged from delightful to darn useful.

The rest area program began in May 1964, when the first bid was let on a site near Alda in central Nebraska. Under the supervision of the Nebraska Department of Roads, the plan has been in high gear ever since.

Basically centralized sanitary facilities with picnic shelters radiating toward the fringe, their main objective is safety. They provide rest rooms, a chance for the traveler to stretch his legs, and a place to grab a picnic snack along the Interstate. And since rest areas offer a break from high-speed driving, they keep the motorist alert and alive.

There are now 7 rest stops open to the public along the Interstate, and another 17 are planned. Single-side units are open at Goehner, Alda, and Gibbon. Kearney and Cozad boast facilities on both east and westbound lanes. Yet, all proposed units are not confined to the four-lane giant. Thirty additional areas are planned for primary roads on the perimeter of the state. McCook now has the only one in operation. These two-lane hostels are being completed at the same rate as those on the larger thoroughfare.

Davy Driver is the gent footing the bill for these improvements, and the touch is so light he hardly notices it. Primary road areas are financed by the state's highway-beautification funds while those on Interstate 80 are built by a 90-10 per cent arrangement with the federal government footing the larger portion. Even then, there are a lot of state dollars wrapped up in a rest area that may run from $125,000 to $205,000. When the whole thing is broken down, Nebraska's rest areas still take up only one or two per cent of the total interstate construction cost.

Some people feel that the facilities are too expensive. Yet, where else can they find tiled rest rooms, hot and cold running water, and brick picnic shelters? It takes money to hook up each of the areas to power lines, build individual sewage treatment facilities, and drill wells for 26 sites.

46 NEBRASKAland AUGUST, 1967 47   48 NEBRASKAland

Based on economic theory and unknown public reaction, early areas sported only four-unit picnic shelters. Later, 6 and 10-unit shelters were provided, depending on the amount of traffic in a particular area.

Grounds and sidewalks are something of an experiment in psychology. All are designed to relax the patron. Sidewalks are curvilinear, carrying the driver away from his car and then back to it. The idea is that if a sidewalk goes directly to and from a point, that is all that it will be used for. If it ambles or curves, it invites a stroll, taking the driver on a short walk to stretch stiff muscles before he resumes driving.

For the first-time visitor, another relaxing factor is sparkling cleanliness. Officials feel that if rest rooms and grounds are kept clean, they not only present a better image of the state, but they invite the user to keep them that way.

Most of the rest areas come in pairs. There is one on each lane, east and west. And each pair has its own caretaker. He is a resident of the area, hired on a full-time basis to take care of the facilities. He is a local because he knows most of the people in the area and that makes it easier to get a lead on vandals. And he is a full-time employee because there is a lot to do. He is in charge of everything from sprucing up the main building to mowing the lawn. For larger jobs, a roving maintenance team is never far away. Caretakers do not have a free hand, however. At the outset of the project the Department of Roads prepared an instruction manual for caretakers and it is religiously passed on to each addition to the staff.

While the caretakers keep a close watch over the stations to make sure they remain in one piece, they have help. Safety Patrol troopers stop in for a once-over every time they pass and emergency vehicle drivers, cruising the Interstate to aid stranded travelers, make a habit of checking up. So the facilities are seldom left all alone. However, should something go wrong inside while no one is around, there are warning signals to alert passersby. A power failure or temperature below 40° activates a red light atop the central building so that mobile "inspectors" can either remedy the problem or notify someone who can.

Nebraska has set something of a precedent with their roadside rest areas. Though the facilities were known long before interstates, these modern editions are the first attempt to build really nice use areas to help and host the public. More and expanded ones are on the way.

One proposed area, south of Lincoln, will sport an observation point oriented toward the capitol building. Another at the Gretna Interchange between Lincoln and Omaha will have an air-conditioned tourist information building. From a rear deck a visitor will get a cineramic view of the rolling Platte Valley. AH of these innovations are designed to spice up the travelers' stops and make the areas as inviting as the roads.

Facilities that are now in use are just a sprinkling of those on the Department of Roads' horizon. This summer, all sites along the completed Interstate will be under construction and should be finished by midwinter. The rest of the chain is scheduled for completion about the same time as the highway.

With rest areas coming on strong in Nebraska, other states are beginning to catch on. For now, however, Nebraska has a jump on the competition and is fast becoming a state where tourists look forward to stopping.

THE END AUGUST, 1967 49

WHAT TO DO

(Continued from page 11) 4-6 —Centennial Pawnee Days, Genoa 4-6 —Centennial Trail Ride, Dodge 4-6 —Polish Days, Loup City 4-6 —Rock County Centennial Fair, Bassett 5 — Salt Creek Wrangler Kids Horse Show, Lincoln 5 —Shrine Circus, Columbus 5-6 —Annual Threshing Bee, Bridgeport 5-6 —Sixth Annual Nebraska Czech Festival, Wilber 5-6 — Little Britches Rodeo and Free Barbecue, Oshkosh 5-6 —Pine Ridge Gun Collectors Annual Show, Crawford 5-8 —Franklin County Centennial Fair, Franklin 6 —Boone County Quarter Horse Show, Albion 6 —Capital City Marathon Run, Lincoln 6-Second Annual Neihardt Day-"Black Elk Speaks" Pageant, Bancroft 6 —Centennial Celebration and Picnic, Lawrence 7-9_4-H Fair and Horse Play Days, Falls City 7-10 —Nance County Centennial Fair, Fullerton 7-9 —Cedar County Centennial Fair, Hartington 7-9 —Deuel County Centennial Fair, Chappell 7-10 —Nance County Centennial Fair, Fullerton 8-11 —Gage County Centennial Fair, Beatrice 8-Sept. 4 —Horse Races, Columbus 9 — All-Star Pro-Wrestling, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 9 —Centennial Water Carnival, Seward 9-12 —Garfield County Centennial Fair and Rodeo, Burwell 9-12 —Harlan County Centennial Fair, Orleans 10-12 —Kearney County Centennial Fair and Pageant, Minden 10-12 —Wayne County Centennial Fair and Barbecue, Wayne 10-13 —Stanton County Centennial Fair, Stanton 10-13 —Blaine County Centennial Fair, Dunning 11 — Centennial Celebration, Picnic and Parade, Craig 11-12 —Centennial Pageant, Kimball 11-13 —Postmark Collectors Club Exhibition, Omaha 11-14-Sherman County Centennial Fair, Loup City 11-13 or 18-20-Butler County Centennial Fair, David City 12-13-Weigand Marian Family Fun Days, Crofton 12-13 —Community Recognition Days, Gretna 12-13 —Midwest Gun Show, Omaha 12-13 —Centennial Days at Camp Merrill, Fullerton 12-14-Round-Up and Rodeo, Ogallala 12-19 —Pony Express Re-run, St. Joe to Fort Laramie 13-Saddle Club Horse Show, Crete 13 —Horse Show, Cambridge 13-Sertoma State Golf Tournament, Hastings 13 —Community Churches Dinner, Parade and Carnival, Lawrence 13 —Buffalo Barbecue and All Denomination Worship Service, Fullerton 13 —Picnic, St. Stephens 13-IKF Go Kart Race, North Platte 13 — Plains Quarter Horse Association Show, Gering 13-Saddle Club Playday, Winside 13-16-Kimball County Centennial Fair and Pageant, Kimball 13-25 —National Agricultural Youth Institute, Lincoln and Halsey 13-18 —Nemaha County Centennial Fair and Pageant, Auburn 14 —Sioux County Quarter Horse Show, Harrison 14 —Old Settlers' Picnic, Indianola 14-16 —Centennial Celebration, Sargent 14-16 —Centennial Cavalcade, Hastings 14-16 —Dundy County Centennial Fair, Benkelman 14-16 —Greeley County Centennial Fair, Spalding 14-16 —Keith County Centennial Fair, Ogallala 14-17 —Phelps County Centennial Fair, Holdrege 14-18 —Adams County Centennial Fair, Hastings 15 —Seventy-seventh Birthday Celebration, Dixon 15 —Catholic Church Festival, Grafton 15-18 —Centennial Fair and Pageant, York 16-19 —Centennial Celebration and Pageant, Gothenburg 16-19 —Dawes County Centennial Fair, Chadron 16-19 —Cass County Centennial Fair, Weeping Water 16-19 —Saunders County Centennial Fair, Wahoo 16-21-KMTV Centennial Amateur Golf Tournament, Omaha 16-21 —Endurance Trail Ride, Deadwood to Sidney 17 —Centennial Parade, Fairbury 17 —Centennial Day, Madison 17-18-Old Settlers Picnic, North Bend 17-19 —Boyd County Fair, Spencer 17-20 — Pierce County Centennial Fair, Pierce 17-20-Thomas County Centennial Fair, Thedford 17-20 —Hitchcock County Centennial Fair, Culbertson 17-20 —Box Butte County Centennial Fair, Hemingford 18-19 —Lincoln Drug Show, Lincoln 18-20—Johnson County Centennial Free Fair, Tecumseh 18-20-Wheeler County Fair, Bartlett 18-20-Rock Show, Crawford 18-20 —Grant County Centennial Fair, Hyannis 18-20-NEBRASKAland Square Dance Vacations and Callers Clinic, Norfolk 18-20 —Madison County Centennial Fair, Madison 18-20 —Cherry County Centennial Fair, Valentine 18-21 —Hall County Centennial Fair, Grand Island 19 —Salt Creek Wrangler Horse Show, Lincoln 19 —Free Barbecue, Crawford 19 —Drum Majorette Contest, Omaha 19 —Shrine Bowl Game, Football, Lincoln 19 —Black Powder Shoot and Parade, Holbrook 19-20-Fall Festival, Curtis 19-20-Midwest Teen Fair, Omaha 19-27 —Omaha Indian Tribal Powwow, Macy 20-Odd Fellows Lodge Pancake Feed, Wellfleet 20 — Rock Creek Pageant, "Echoes of the Oregon Trail", Fairbury 20 —Stock Car Races, Stuart 20-23 — Cheyenne County Centennial Fair and Centennial Celebration, Sidney 20-23 — Dodge County Centennial Fair, Scribner 21 —Cheyenne County Quarter Horse Show, Sidney 21-23 —Dixon County Fair, Concord 21-23 —Perkins County Centennial Fair, Grant 21-23 —Loup-Valley County Centennial Fair, Ord 21-24 —Otoe County Centennial Fair, Syracuse 21-23 —Seward County Centennial Fair, Seward 21-24 —Hamilton County Centennial Fair and Rodeo, Aurora 21-23 —Dixon County Centennial Fair, Concord 21-23 —Frontier County Centennial Fair and Corn Show, Eustis 21-25 —Holt County Fair, Rodeo, and Centennial Celebration, Chambers 21-23 —Custer County Centennial Fair, Broken Bow 21-25 —Buffalo County Centennial Fair, Kearney 21-23 —Gosper County Centennial Fair, Elwood 22 —Hamilton County Old Settlers Picnic and Homecoming, Aurora 22-24 — Fillmore County Centennial Fair, Geneva 22-24 — Lancaster County Centennial Fair, Lincoln 22-26 —Sarpy County Centennial Fair, Springfield 23 — District Dairy Show, Hemingford 23-25 - Fall Roundup-Barbecue, Bayard 23-28 — American Legion Regional Baseball Tournament, Hastings 24 —Saunders County Centennial Celebration and Picnic, Mead 24-27-Howard County Centennial Fair, St. Paul 24-26 — Chase County Centennial Fair, Imperial 24-26 — Boyd County Centennial Fair, Spencer 24-27 — Logan County Fair and Rodeo, Stapleton 24-27 —Saline County Centennial Fair, Crete 24-27 - Frontier County Centennial Fair, Stockville 24-27 — Dawson County Centennial Fair, Lexington 24-27-Cuming County Fair, West Point 24-27 —Douglas County Centennial Fair, Waterloo 24-27-Clay County Centennial Fair, Clay Center 24-27 — Sheridan County Centennial Fair and Rodeo, Gordon 25-27 —Hooker County Centennial Fair, Mullen 25-29 — Lincoln County Centennial Fair, North Platte 25-27 —Antelope County Centennial Fair, Neligh 25-29 —Dakota County Centennial Fair, South Sioux City 25-26 —Fall Round-Up and Barbecue, Bayard 26-28 — Knox County Centennial Fair, Bloomfield 26-28 —Garden County Centennial Fair, Lewellen 26 — Nebraska Centennial National Sand Hills Show, Newport 26-Brule Day, Brule 27 — Centennial Canoe Race, Omaha to Nebraska City 27-IKF Go Kart Race, North Platte 27 — Centennial Exhibition Pro Football, Oakland Raiders vs. Denver Broncos, North Platte 27-Oct. 1-Exhibit, "Art in Fixed Locations", Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 27 —Saline County Rodeo, Crete 27 —Country Music Contest, Brownville 27 — Centennial Barbecue, Springview 27 — Holt County Pioneer Day, Inman 27-30 — Boone County Centennial Fair, Albion 28 —Ethnic Group Festival, Omaha 28-30 —Washington County Centennial Fair, * Arlington 29-31-Merrick County Centennial Fair, Central City 28-Sept. 1 — Order of the Arrow National Conclave, Lincoln 28-Nov. 12-Sky Show, "Clouds Among the Stars", Mueller Planetarium, Lincoln. THE END

CATHERLAND TOUR

(Continued from page 37)

perhaps none were more inspiring to Willa Cather than The Divide. This broad plateau between the Little Blue and Republican Rivers found a place in her heart and in her writing. In O Pioneers! she talks of the "open face of the country". This flat land was a striking contrast to the mountainous country where she spent the first nine years of her life and made a great impression on her. Today, broad expanses of wheat wave in the wind much as the fields of red grass did when Willa first saw this country. Later, she described the windblown grass as having the motion of galloping buffalo.

The last stop on the circular tour returning to Red Cloud is Crooked Creek, just as enchanting today as it was when Willa played there. Willows drop their branches along its bank, the same "twinkling" willows described in A Lost Lady.

Willia Cather said:

"The ideas for all my novels have come from things that happened around Red Cloud when I was a child. I was all over the country then, on foot, on horseback, and in our farm wagons."

Even though in The Library Magazine of 1900 Willa Cather called Red Cloud a "sunscorched, dried-up, blown-away little village", she never lost her affection for the places she had known as a child and the people who lived there.

A historical marker at the intersec- tion of U.S. Highway 281 and State Highway 4 tells how the people of Webster County feel about Willa Cather. In 1965, Governor Frank B. Morrison dedicated the marker proclaiming the western half of Webster County as Catherland but the author's greatness is not limited to a single county. All of Nebraska and half of the world join Red Cloud in proclaiming Willa Cather as a great author.

THE END

SPORT OF QUEENS

(Continued from page 23)

season in Kansas, an over-excited hunter zeroed in on one of my homing pigeons, and although he seriously wounded the bird, the racer fluttered back to his Kearney loft in spite of a pellet-ridden wing. Still another bird from the Welch loft showed a well-developed homing instinct in an Oklahoma-to-Nebraska race. The pigeon flew to an oil pool, and thinking it was water pranced right in for a drink. His feathers became saturated with oil to make flying nearly impossible. But 30 days later the oil-covered bird struggled into town to roost in his home loft, his long adventure over.

Nature gave the homing pigeon his inborn instinct to home, but since the early 1800's, man has lent a helping hand through a process of selective breeding. But even though pigeon fanciers have improved the homing instinct, they are still searching for the why and how of this 50 NEBRASAKAland ability. Today, the one-gram brain of the bird is puzzling some of the better minds in the country. Various theories on a pigeon's homing instinct have been put forth. Some experts claim a pigeon takes a fix on the sun to determine his way home, while others have said that the bird follows the magnetic lines of force which encircle the earth. Each theory has its serious drawbacks.

The mystery is still unsolved and may remain so for years, but to the man who owns a flock, the how or why doesn't really matter, just as long as his birds have speed, endurance, and that strong homing ability. Breeding plays a part in speed and endurance, but even more important is proper training, diets, and knowledge of a particular bird's personality.

Like the ugly duckling, the new-born squab is hardly the Prince Charming of nature's world. By the time he reaches 12 weeks, the young bird begins to look like the magnificent specimen of winged fowl he really is. Ready to start his training at this age, the pigeon must be made to feel at home in the loft. If the trainer is successful in this, the young bird will make every attempt to make it back to the roost.

Young racers start with a 5-mile flight, and gradually increase the distance to 75 to 100 miles. This gradual increase teaches the young bird to orient himself and home in as quickly as possible. Later on, the pigeon is put to his first supreme test. He is taken nearly 300 miles away from the loft and released. Out of 70 young birds released in this test for survival of the fittest the pigeon fancier can expect only 30 to return, and out of that 30, only 18 or 20 may someday develop into good racers. Normally, a pigeon hits his stride or rather his wings as a three-year-old.

Pigeons mate for life and so strong is their marital attachment that male or female will go to great lengths to find their mates. One pigeon, bought from a fancier in Cozad, was taken to a loft in Columbus where he was mated. A pigeon will stay in a strange loft if he has a female companion to keep him there. When the loft was moved to Kearney, he was mated again with another hen that was flying from the new loft. This hen died, and when the cock discovered this, he flew to Columbus to his former roost. Not finding his first mate there, he flew to his original loft in Cozad, and still out of luck, flew back to Kearney.

Fanciers take advantage of pigeon personality to insure that a bird sent to a race will wing his way home as quickly as possible. There are three common methods used: the widowhood, jealously, and parental-care systems.

In the widowhood system, the male pigeon only sees his mate when he returns from a training toss or a race. After a few flights he soon learns that it might be wise to turn on the speed, because the faster the flight, the sooner he can bill and coo. In the jealously method, the hen is removed from the loft for a few days, and her mate is permitted to look for her. When he finds her, she is being courted by another good-looking male. Before he has time to break up the new romance, the bird is shipped away to a race. It is amazing how fast he will return when he realizes that another bird is moving in on his nesting box.

The most common method of inducing speed is to appeal to the pigeon's parental instincts. If a pigeon is setting on eggs that are about ready to hatch, or if the pigeon is feeding young, you can be sure that if the bird is shipped off to a race, he or she will pull out all stops on the flight home.

The Belgians, originators of the racing-pigeon sport, are quite resourceful in using this method. These ingenious people hollow out an egg and put a worm or fly in it before taping it back together. Just before the race they put a hen on the egg, and when she feels the vibrations, she thinks it is going to hatch. Shipped away, the hen will go full tilt to get back to her eggs. It's a mean way of inducing speed, but it is often quite effective and in Europe where people bet on pigeons as if they were race horses, it pays off.

Racing pigeons have been bred to sustain flight for as many as 14 to 16 hours per day. Like ducks, they have a tremendously strong back and large pectoral or breast muscles. Unlike the duck, however, the pigeon seldom flies over 800 feet, and usually speeds along at lower altitudes. Races of 800 to 1,000 miles are not unheard of, but most pigeon fliers prefer distances that can be flown in one day. The classic races are the 500 milers.

When the pigeons come flapping down the homestretch in a 100-mile or even a 500-mile race, minutes or even seconds makes the difference between winning and losing. Each bird, before being shipped by train or airplane to a designated release point is banded. A release time is indicated on the shipping crate, and when the bird arrives at the loft, the band is placed in a special pigeon timer that records the hour, minute, and second. Because lofts of competitors may be great distances apart, the winner is determined by the bird who flies the most yards per minute. To achieve this figure the fancier takes the number of seconds from release to countermarking, (placing the band in the clock), and divides it into the number of 60-yard intervals from release point to loft. On a calm day, a pigeon will fly 1,173 yards per minute or 40 miles an hour, and with a good tail wind the bird may fly 1,760 yards per minute or 60 miles per hour.

The often unpredictable nature of the pigeon makes the sport an exciting and exasperating one. A pigeon after a 500-mile non-stop race may perch in a tree or on the eaves of the house near the home loft. Banging a feed can and whistling will sometimes bring the bird to the loft, but many races have been lost because the bird is just too tired or too obstinate to fly another 10 yards to his screened home, mate, and counter-marking.

Men, women, girls, and boys find the sport of raising and racing pigeons a fascinating family hobby where you can be big or small, strong or weak, young or old, and still be a winner.

In Nebraska, the sport is growing with racers and pigeon clubs located almost in every part of the state. So, the next time you see someone open a wicker basket and 20 or more birds take to wing, don't run up and ask him what new game bird the Game Commission is releasing. Chances are he's just a pigeon racer, doing what he likes most to do.

THE END

AIRBOAT ESCAPADE

(Continued from page 21)

the past. I was learning the airboat angling game fast and before Al had shut off the motor my line was in the water, but Clara managed to throw in even sooner. As the weight settled to the bottom, her rod tip bounced once. A quick jerk of the rod and another cat was in the sack.

"Three for three," she said with a smile. "Usually, I will have missed one by now, but I guess this male competition is doing me some good."

Al didn't grin or laugh, he was too busy watching his own rod and luckily mine. "Bob, you've got another bite," he yelpled.

This time I was ready. I gave the rod a tug like a dentist pulling a wisdom tooth. The catfish on the other end yelled ouch, came to the surface, and slapped his tail a couple of times. After losing one cat, I knew life would be unbearable if I didn't bring this one in. The 30-second struggle seemed like a 24-hour war, but finally the fish was bagged.

"Now, that's how you catch fish by the airboat method," Al grinned. "You're one up on me, so I'm not going to tell you next time you have a bite."

Clara reminded us that the score was three to one to nothing, and that if things kept going, she would let us fish partners and beat us both. I had an inkling that I was coming into my own in this new way of catfishing and assured her that she might be the one who would need some help.

"She's quite a fisherwoman," Al said as he retrieved his line and threw it out again. "She nearly always beats me when we come out. But what the heck, it's fun. You know we kid each other quite a bit, but when you're out here several times a week and are sitting in the same boat for hours at a time together, you more or less need a sense of humor, otherwise you would get tired of each other. Clara is one of my favorite fishing partners."

Our five minutes were up so we moved on. To run an airboat on the Platte you have to be half river pilot and half fisherman. You have to pick your way through dangerous shallows and spot obstructions well in advance for airboat speeds are nearly 40 miles an hour. As an angler, the airboater has to recognize fishy holes at a glance and know the craft's capabilities so he can maneuver.

At our next stop, Clara suggested I move to the end of the boat where she claimed I was bound to catch a fish. She offered Al the middle seat, but he declined, saying that he could catch them from where he was.

As the weight hit on the bottom, my rod tip bowed. Unprepared for the quick hit, my (Continued on page 54)

AUGUST, 1967 51

BLACK-FOOTED FERRET

by Charles L. Homolka Land Acquisition Agent This masked bandit is definitely on the nation's wanted list—Wanted Alive! Experts claim only 20 are left

DURING THE FRONTIER days many masked 'bandits ended up with their pictures on posters above the inscriptions "Wanted! Dead or Alive". One exception was a group of "masked bandits" who somehow managed to survive although they raided, terrorized, and killed in many a western town. Today, if their pictures did appear, they would read, "Wanted! Alive".

These particular masked bandits are the black-footed ferrets, Mustela nigripes, and the towns they raided were those of the prairie dog. Their elusive and inconspicuous habits coupled with their rarity caused the black-footed ferrets to be known almost exclusively only to their victims. Today, they are still rare, elusive, and inconspicuous. Very little has been learned about them except that their numbers have decreased.

The black-footed ferret, a member of the wreasel family, looks like a yellow mink with buffy-yellow above and light underneath. He is readily distinguishable by his black feet, black tip on his tail, and the black mask across his face.

John J. Audubon and John Bachman were the first to describe this animal. Their descriptions were based on an imperfect skin which was sent to them from the lower Platte River by Alexander Culbertson in 1851. Nearly 25 years passed before the animal was reported again.

In 1877, Elliott Coues wrote that he was able to discover only five or six fragmentary skins. When Clinton Hart Merriam wrote his Synopsis of the Weasels of North America in 1896, he reported having less than half a dozen specimens with which to work. This shows that the black-footed ferret has always been quite rare, even when the West was first being explored and settled. Today, they are possibly the rarest mammals on the North American continent.

They are believed to be almost entirely dependent upon the prairie dog for existence. Since the prairie dog is being wiped out in many areas, the black-footed ferret also faces a grim future. Other food sources include rodents, birds, and reptiles, but there are very few reports to substantiate this theory. In Custer County, a ferret was sighted carrying a thirteen-lined ground squirrel.

The plight of the black-footed ferret was discussed by the Executive Committee of the American Committee for International Wild Life Protection in 1952. As a result of this meeting, a survey was attempted to determine the number and the distribution of this species. Field employees of the Fish and Wildlife Service, Soil Conservation Service, and the National Park Service were canvassed in an effort to collect vital information.

In the 1952 survey, South Dakota reported the most ferrets, followed respectively by Montana, Nebraska, Colorado, North Dakota, Wyoming, Texas, New Mexico, and Utah. They appear to be the most numerous in the area from central and western Nebraska to the southwest corner of North Dakota. About 60 ferrets were tallied in this survey. In 1962, the total population was estimated at 20 animals. They may have decreased since then.

Black foots have been reported from the following areas in Nebraska: In May of 1946, a ferret was captured in a prairie dog town in the northwestern corner of Banner County. A dead one was found on a road south of Overton in Dawson County in March of 1949. During the summer of 1952, a ferret was seen in a prairie dog town, 20 miles west of Broken Bow, and another was sighted in a prairie dog town, 10 miles south of Ansley. Two ferrets were sighted in Banner County, one in 1952, the second in February of 1953, near a road southwest of Harrisburg. "Occasional sight records" were made in Dawes and Sioux counties.

One of the most recent sightings of the black-footed ferret in Nebraska occurred near Ogallala in May, 1964. It was seen by C. G. Pritchard of the Nebraska Game Commission. These elusive animals have been known to occur farther east in Nebraska than sightings indicate. In 1914, Lawrence Bruner reported that a black-footed ferret was killed within a quarter mile of his home at 2314 South 17th Street in Lincoln sometime in the early 1890's. Other specimens have been reported from as far east as Hamilton, Clay, Webster, and Dodge counties.

Since these animals are so rare, wildlife and conservation authorities are interested in learning the whereabouts of any specimen. If you should see a black-footed ferret, let the Nebraska Game Commission or the area conservation officer know. Try to pinpoint the animal's exact location and try to ascertain what he was doing at the time of sighting. Recovery of a dead black foot should also be reported.

Efforts must be intensified to keep this fascinating and mysterious animal from joining the ranks of the extinct. Although he is probably the only remaining representative of the once numerous bands of masked bandits which roamed the Plains, this particular group is definitely, "Wanted! Alive".

THE END 53

AIRBOAT ESCAPADE

(Continued from page 51)

reactions were a little slow. The belated jerk brought the hook, weight, and line zinging from the water and over my head.

"You can't catch fish that way," Clara laughed. "More than once I've almost hooked Al in the ear with an over-excited yank like that."

Grabbing some more bait from the container, I made a vow it wouldn't happen again. I let the line sink into the same hole, hoping for a return bout. As I bent down to pick up a rag to wipe my hands, the rod tip bounced again. In an awkward position, I made a valiant effort to set the hook, but for the second time in a row, the cat made off with my bait and pride, to leave me with a pair of chuckling companions.

"You realize that you're not doing our cause any good," Al smiled as he handed me the bait can. "My wife leads us with three fish, and you have already missed three."

"Must be something I ate last night," I retorted. "Must have dulled my reflexes and impaired my vision. Next time I come, I am going to eat plenty of carrots and spinach."

Clara was busy watching her own rod. It dipped once and Clara reeled in a nice catfish.

"Must have been the one that was giving you all the trouble," she said as she unhooked the one-pounder. "You probably scared him away with that third time is a charm business."

Al said he first got the airboating bug when he went out on one with a Fremonter. After they hooked several cats in an hour's outing, Al decided this was the only way to fish the Platte. The next step was to build an airboat, and after many long hours of fiberglassing the craft and tinkering with the airplane engine, it was ready for the water. On the initial launching Al caught several cats and knew the work was worthwhile.

"Beyond the Call. JJ One of the unsung heroes of your own community is your local independent insurance agent. He probably doesn't have the Congressional Medal of Honor, but he surely does deserve the heartfelt thanks of the people of your city. He offers service "beyond the call of duty" — service represented by the extra things he does for you without payment. Being a local man, he is the first one you look for to do work on the school board, hospital drive, or public-safety campaign. He is a local unsung hero, a member of— The Nebraska Association of Insurance Agents your Independent Insurance § agent SERVES YOU FIRST EST* TECUMSEH HEART OF THE NEMAHA VALLEY

When Clara hooked her sixth cat to my one and Al's none, we knew this day would be a conversation piece for several trips to come. Al hadn't had a decent bite all day, and I had stretched my string of misses to four. Clara missed one, but she claimed that the odds were bound to catch up with her. We were at least five miles from port, and Clara and Al hadn't fished this part of the river since the year before. The Platte has a way of changing channels from year to year and the only way to find deep holes is to test the water depth.

With the boat barely inching through the water, Clara took an oar and periodically tested for depth. When the oar didn't touch bottom, she tapped Al on the shoulder and he turned for shore. A quiet stretch of water with a log barricade looked like an excellent catfish pool.

Clara repeated her suggestion that Al take her seat in the middle. This time he took her up. He was lighting a cigar when I yelled, "You have a bite."

He yanked hard, but the nibbler was gone.

"Guess we are even now," Al mumbled.

"First decent bite I've had today and I missed him."

"You have to concentrate," I needled. "You can't catch fish by lighting a cigar."

"I'll give up smoking, if that happens again," he came back.

While we were talking, Clara was fishing. After her seventh catfish ended up in the sack, Al and I knew that she was building up a lead that we couldn't exceed, unless we got awful lucky and came up with limits.

"Clara and I are fishing right next to each other," Al said. "You would think, that just once they would take my bait instead of hers. It all smells the same."

"Maybe it is the hand lotion I'm using," Clara chuckled.

"If that's the case, I'm going to start using some," Al replied. "Maybe the human scent is too strong."

I wasn't ready to give up and neither was Al. When my tip signaled a cat, I quickly snapped the rod back, and thought I had tangled with Moby Dick. Staying deep, and not showing, the fish moved dangerously close to the snags. With the 40-pound test line, I figured I could horse him away from the area and get him close to the boat. When he finally came to the top, I saw that my "white whale" was nothing more than a strong-willed one-pounder. But the fish proved one thing, I was finally catching on to the Knaub method.

By the time Clara caught her eighth fish, Al and I were barely grunting to each other, but with the clock pushing 5:30, we decided to start back. As we headed down river, Al had one more place he wanted to try. He must have been saving the best spot until last, because the hole had the biggest snag we had seen all day. I gave Al the end of the boat for his last try. As our stay neared the four-minute mark, Al's rod tip finally dived. One quick tug set the hook. My fish wasn't a Moby Dick, but this one had to be. For 20 seconds the fight was more or less a stand off. But Al wasn't about to let the ornery one get the best of him. The airboater coaxed the fish toward the craft and triumphantly lifted him over the side.

"I haven't caught the most, but I have caught the biggest," Al said with a grin. "He'll hit three pounds, if not bigger. Just right for the frying pan."

As we headed for home, we spooked a lone mallard and he tried to outdo us as the airboat raced over sandbars and swung around log obstacles. Finally he 54 NEBRASKAland veered to the right and was gone. It is then that I grew reflective. In a way we were as free as a mallard on this river and could move up and down the channel at will.

Airboating on the Platte is more than just a way of fishing, it is a way of living. And whether you catch 3 cats or 30, the river still possesses that one quality that makes every outing on it so worthwhile. It gives you a chance to get away from it all.

THE END

HORROR IN THE NIGHT

(Continued from page 45)

trail west. At the end of the 14-mile days, there was always the problem of finding a suitable place to camp with good water and grazing for their animals. Once a camp site was found, they could settle down for a welcome rest, though often the howling of wolves and coyotes disturbed their sleep.

In the morning, the immigrants were up with the sun. Digging a hole for a fire, the women fed it with cow or buffalo chips, to cook the breakfasts of potato pancakes, biscuits, bacon, and eggs. This was supplemented at times by rabbit or prairie chicken, depending upon the hunter's luck of the previous day.

But tonight the camp, the water, and the hunting, were all about perfect. They were within a few days of their destination and this cheered them. John Osmera whistled as he came back to the camp and turned his game over to the cooks.

"We'll have a feast tonight," Fannie Kavalec said, her face rosy as she watched the stew bubbling over the fire.

"Everything is good," Annie agreed.

"Ja, we no have to be stingy," Mary Macek observed as she mixed the biscuits. "This night we rejoice."

They had reason to be happy, now that the journey was almost over for hardships and hazards had been numerous. Rough terrain, steep hills, and rivers had strained the men and the wagons to the utmost. The constant threat of storms and the fear of prairie fires disturbed the men. They talked over what they might do if they were caught in a big and dangerous prairie fire and all agreed to drive straight through the flames to reach the burnt out area behind it. The problem of crossing rivers was solved by hitching all the oxen to one wagon and taking them across one at a time.

Blissfully unaware of any danger, they ate and then gathered about the campfire to talk about their good fortune, and sing some Old Country songs. It was a night, brilliant with stars and calm with an atmosphere of serenity. By 9 p.m., all were asleep.

At 9:30, the frenzied barking of Shepik awakened John Osmera. He stepped outside the wagon to see what was wrong, and found himself ankle-deep in water. Shouting to the others, he woke them at once. But the water was flooding in and Lang's wagon began to move in the steadily rising water.

A flash flood, spawned by heavy rains from farther up country, was racing southward, gaining force as it came. Run off and the rapidly swelling feeder creeks were adding their volumes to the once-placid stream and now it was becoming a seething, merciless torrent.

At first the men were not too alarmed, believing they had time to save their wagons and their belongings. They tried to guide the floating wagons to safety by grabbing the tongues, but the rushing water was too overwhelming. Osmera decided to save his family first, then worry about his wagon. He gathered up Johnny and Mary, and carried them to a nearby hill.

Starting back, he found himself in waist-deep water. Still, he could see his wife and baby at the front of the wagon, so he half-walked and half-swam against the flood. As he reached the wagon, and leaned forward to take Christina, the swift current spun the wagon in a circle. The tongue lashed around and struck him, knocking him off his feet. Struggling in vain against the mounting flood that swept all before it, Osmera saw the wagon with its precious cargo whirling away into the darkness.

Returning to the hillside where he had left the children, Osmera found they had vanished into the night. Joseph Kavalec was there, and he told a tragic tale of failing to save any of his family. Jakub Lang had rescued his daughters, but there was no sign of John Macek, his wife, and son, or of the oldest Osmera boy, Joseph, who had gone to spend the night with the Maceks.

Teaming up, the men began to search in the darkness for any other survivors. Their calls went unanswered, but they did see a light in a farmhouse about three-quarters of a mile away. They ran toward it, hoping to get help. When they reached the open door, they saw Mary and Johnny safe inside.

John Osmera cried out and joyously gathered his children into a great bear hug. Mary wrapped her arms around her father's neck and asked, "Where is mama?"

Their father couldn't answer.

A lantern moved from the outer darkness and a voice called.

"Do you know if the bridge is out?"

"What bridge?"

"The railroad bridge a mile west."

In the face of this new catastrophe, the men forgot about their own tragedy and ran to the bridge. It had been washed out. They ran up the tracks, frantically waving lanterns to flag down the oncoming train. Luckily, the engineer saw them and the passengers were saved.

On the way back to the farmhouse, the men heard a cry in the dark. Heavy clouds had moved in, and by a flash of lightning, they saw that John Macek was stranded in the top of the big cottonwood in the center of the valley. The water, now 28 feet deep, made his immediate rescue impossible, so the men had waited nearly seven hours before they could get close enough to throw him a rope.

Macek had witnessed the whole horrible tragedy. He told the other survivors how he had been swept toward the tree, barely managing to grab hold of the branch and hauled himself out of the raging torrent. Unable to swim, he could not save his wife. He told of how his own son and the oldest Osmera boy had swum to the tree and hung onto his legs until their strength gave out and the merciless current carried them away.

Nourishing a faint hope that by some miracle the others had been saved, the exhausted survivors continued their search. Within a few days, however, all but one body was recovered, that of little Christina Osmera.

Grief-stricken, the pioneers buried their loved ones in the Cambridge cemetery, overlooking the valley where the tragedy occurred. Passengers on the rescued train and the village of Cambridge took up a collection for the unfortunate immigrants. The money was used for new provisions, and to repair the wagons, some of which were found as far as eight miles away.

After two more weeks the survivors went on, but fertile land could not compensate for their intolerable losses. All of the men filed for homesteads, but none of the heartsick families stayed the winter in western Nebraska. When John Osmera returned to Brainard that fall, he was greeted by Shepik's warm tongue and excited barks. The shepherd dog, bramble-torn and unkempt, had come the 350 miles on his own power and sense of direction.

On the north edge of the "old highway" five miles west of Cambridge, Nebraska, close to where Richmond Canyon once was, is a little-visited stone monument which commemorates the courageous and tragic story of this handful of pioneer immigrants who made part of the history of Nebraska.

The monument, with a simple terracotta medallion and inscription, was dedicated on May 26, 1924. Sponsored by D. F. Neisanger of Cambridge and the Nebraska State Historical Society, it reads:

"In memory of Fannie Kavalec, Mary Macek, Annie Osmera, and six children, pioneer Bohemians drowned in this canyon, en route to their homesteads in Dundy County, Nebraska on May 26, 1885."

Still the full pathos of this pioneer tragedy cannot be conveyed by a monument, but there are two people still living in Brainard who can tell the whole poignant tale. They are Mary Osmera and her husband Bohumir, both 87. Mary, who married a second cousin of the same name, is the only living survivor of the flood. In her memory alone, remains this unique chapter in Nebraska history.

THE END OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland proudly presents the stories of its readers themselves. Here is the opportunity so many have requested—a chance to tell their own outdoor tales. Hunting trips, the "big fish that got away", unforgettable characters, outdoor impressions-all have a place here. If you have a story to tell, jot it down and send it to Editor, OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln 68509. Send photographs, too, if any are available. AUGUST, 1967 55

TO SHOOT

(Continued from page 17)

zero it in for 35 yards, and have at it. Maybe you can "shoot" a story in the bargain," Chuck had instructed.

I like turtle soup and as managing editor of NEBRASKAland, I'm always on the lookout for a good story. Since Cairo is only three hours from Lincoln I didn't need much selling.

"We have several shallow lakes on the ranch, cutoffs, and backwaters of the South Loup River, which have good snapper populations. We'll try what we call the big lake first," my host said as he tossed a five-tine fork in the pickup.

"Use it for probing and recovery. Shoot a snapper and he sinks right away, but he doesn't go far, especially if he is hit in the head. After you shoot, wade in and start probing. When you feel the tines hit the shell, ease the fork under the turtle, lift up, and grab," the young rancher said, seeing my quizzical look.

We drove to the big lake and I donned a pair of hip waders while Chuck loaded the rifles and clued me in on the area. The lake was about a mile long and 50 to 100 yards wide. It fish-hooked through a winter pasture and ended in a swamp beside a little-used county road. Full of water-killed trees, submerged snags, and dotted with growing cattail and moss the lake is almost perfect habitat for snappers.

"This lake isn't as innocent as it looks. There's a channel, 12 to 15 feet deep, and possibly 30 yards wide, right down the middle of it. The edges are shallow, but if you get out there in the center, you swim for it," my host warned.

"Guess we had better try for inshore snappers then," I replied. "No way to recover them out in the channel."

"Right. But be careful in the shallows, too. The bottom is mucky and you can sink down pretty fast," the rancher continued.

My auto-loader was equipped with a 4X telescope while Chuck carried his favorite slide-action. His rifle wore iron sights, so we agreed that I would take the long-range shots while he worked on the close-in targets. As we started out, my companion cautioned me about shooting across water.

"Shooting into water is tricky. There's always the chance of a ricochet, but this lake has pretty good banks for backstops and hollow points are supposed to break up on impact, so if we are careful, there isn't much chance of a stray bullet konking a steer or ventilating one of us, but be sure to check your background before you squeeze one off," he warned.

We sauntered along the bank, watching the edges for the tell-tale "knob" that could be a snapper's head but we didn't see any for the first hour. The little telescope was worth its weight in gold for checking out the suspicious lumps and bumps that looked like turtles but were sticks, snags, roots, and other accumulated debris instead.

We were making small talk when Chuck suddenly paused, lifted his rifle, and fired. I saw the bullet splash, but I couldn't see any target.

"Wade in right there and probe with the fork. I am not sure I got him, but the splash looked mighty good," Chuck said, racking in another cartridge.

I probed around but the sensitive tines never hit anything, so after 10 minutes I gave up and rejoined the rancher.

"Must have missed him," Chuck griped. "From the size of his head, he looked like a good one, too."

"Funny about snappers. Once they get past babyhood, they don't have to fear any predator, except man, yet the bigger they get, the more wary they become. A case of becoming more and more careful and less and less curious, I guess. About all you ever see of an old snapper is his head sticking up. Once in awhile, you can see a bit of his back above the water but he doesn't show much of himself. For as tough as they are, snappers are mighty elusive," the rancher continued.

We hunted for another hour but the turtles weren't co-operating. Chuck blamed their scarcity on the cold snap of a week before.

"Darn things must have crawled back in the mud and haven't come back out," he decided.

"Well, it's hot enough to change their minds today. Let's take a break under that cottonwood. These hip waders are boiling me," I suggested, wiping the sweat from my face.

We sat down where we could watch a good expanse of the water and lapsed into silence. I kept scanning through the scope but there wasn't anything that even resembled a snapper in the acre or so of water before us. Finally, Chuck stirred and looked at his watch.

'Tve got to make a long-distance phone call, so I think I'll hike back to the truck and go in. I'll be back in an hour or so and we'll hunt a little more toward evening," he said.

I didn't want to quit, so I suggested that he swing by and take my waders and the fork back with him, while I walked back to the road. After his call, he could pick me up on the road.

It took only a minute to slip out of the boots and into my shoes when Chuck brought the truck around. After he left, I walked a couple of hundred yards and settled down on a little point that jutted out into the lake. A fringe of willows offered some shade and an old log provided a convenient backrest, so I sat down and resumed scanning.

The snapper was well out in the channel when I first saw him. Like any good submariner, he was periscoping before emerging. All I could see was his lance-shaped head and a short stretch of neck, but through the scope, these were enough to identify him. He submerged after a few seconds, but a momentary V of water indicated that he was swimming toward the shallows and if he held his course, he would become within 10 to 12 yards of me. I waited and waited but he didn't reappear, so I decided that he had veered off. There was a half-submerged log to my right that looked promising, so I forgot about that snapper and started looking for another. I was slowly sweeping the scope back and forth when the water suddenly parted and there was my turtle.

I fought down my growing excitement and leveled the crosshairs right between his eyes. Just as I squeezed off, I realized my sight picture was a bit too low. There wasn't much of a splash from the bullet, so I dropped the rifle, grabbed a stick, and practically ran into the water. My second jab glanced off his shell, so I plunged the stick deeper and somehow managed to get it under him. I lifted hard and raised the snapper just enough to see his tail. I made a frantic grab with my left hand. Then all heck broke loose.

The turtle was badly hurt but he was a fighter. He hooked his front feet over a sunken branch and may have snapped on it for an anchor. My first tug convinced me that it was going to be tough to dislodge him. I tried to whipsaw him loose, but he wasn't giving up that easily. In my excitement I had dropped the stick and now I didn't have any way to use my right hand, so it settled down to a one-hand-one-turtle tug-of-war. Finally, I felt a little give and pressed the advantage. Old armor plate's wound was taking its toll and after what seemed an hour, but was actually about five minutes, I swung him high. It took me 10 minutes to settle down after the fight and even then it (Continued on page 58)

56 NEBRASKAland

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

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FISrT MOUNTING A SPECIALTY—Crappie, bass, trout, walleye, Northerns and other trophy fish. Two to three week delivery until fall. 20 years experience. Livingston Taxidermy, Mitchell, Nebraska. KNOW the joy of nature! In your own basement or garage you can tan all kinds of animal skins or furs. Even make your own buckskin. Three effective and inexpensive tanning methods—$1. Send to: Taxidermist, 12729 Cryer Avenue, Omaha, Nebraska 68144. THE BIG WINNERS ARE. NEBRASKAland Classified Advertisers Because: More than 60,000 NEBRASKAland readers form an active buying market for all types of products. From sporting equipment to health foods, all are sold through NEBRASKAland classified ads. NEBRASKAland's reading audience keeps growing, but NEBRASKAland's classified advertising rates remain LOW...only $.15 per word with a $3.00 minimum. • Classified advertising in NEBRASKAland is attractively displayed so no advertisement is lost. The classified section consistently has high readership. Most important, NEBRASKAland classified advertising SELLS! So whatever you want to sell or buy, you'll hit the jackpot with NEBRASKAland classified advertising. For Winning Results, Use NEBRASKAland Classified Ads ...Our Business Is Selling NEBRASKAland OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air SUNDAY KGFW. Kearney (1340 kc) 7:05 a.m. XRGI, Grand island (1430 kc) 7:40 a.m. WOW, Omaha (590 kc) 7:40 a.m. KMMJ, Grand island (750 kc) 7:40 a.m. KXXX, Colby, Kan. (790 kc) 8:00 a.m. KBRL, McCook (1300 kc) 9:45 a.m. KAMI, Cozad (1580 kc) 9:45 a.m. KMA, Shenandoah, la. (960 kc) 10:00 a.m. KODY, North Platte (1240 kc) 10:45 a.m. KLMS, Lincoln (1480 kc) 11:00 a.m. KIMB, Kimball (1260 kc) 11:15 a.m. KVSH, Valentine (940 kc) 12: Noon KOGA, Ogallala (930 kc) 12:30 p.m. KICX, McCook (1000 kc) 12:40 p.m. KFOR. Lincoln (1240 kc) 12:45 p.m. KCNI, Broken Bow (1280 kc) 1:15 p.m. KUVR, Holdrege (1380 kc) 2:45 p.m. KNCY, Nebraska City (1600 kc) 5:00 p.m. KRVN, Lexington (1010 kc) 5:40 p.m. KTNC, Falls City (1230 kc) 5:45 p.m. KCOW, Alliance (1400 kc) 7:00 p.m. KFAB, (Mon.-FH.) Nightly MONDAY KGMT, Fairbury (1310 kc) 1:00 p.m. KSID, Sidney (1340 kc) 6:30 p.m. WEDNESDAY KJSK, Columbus (900 kc) 1:30 p.m. FRIDAY KHUB, Fremont (1340 kc) 5:15 p.m. WJAG, Norfolk (780 kc) 4:15 p.m. SATURDAY KCSR, Chadron (610 kc) 6:15 a.m. KOLT, Scottsbluff (1320 kc) 11:45 a.m. KAWL. York (1370 kc) 12:45 p.m. KHAS, Hastings (1230 kc) 1:00 p.m. KRFS, Superior (1600 kc) 1:00 p.m. KBRX, O'Neill (1350 kc) 4:30 p.m. KMNS. Sioux City, la. (620 kc) 6:10 p.m. DIVISION CHIEFS Willard R. Barbee, assistant director Glen R. Foster, fisheries Dick H. Schaffer, information and tourism Richard J. Spady, land management Jack D. Strain, state parks Lioyd P. Vance, game CONSERVATION OFFICERS Chief, Carl E. Gettmann, Lincoln Ainsworth—Max Showalter, 387-1960 Albion—Gary L. Balrz, 395-2516 Alliance—Gary Bussinger, 762-5517 Alliance—Richard Furley, 762-2024 Alliance—Leonard Spoering, 762-1547 Alma—William F. Bonsall, 928-2313 Arapahoe—Don Schaepler, 962-7818 Benkelman—H. Lee Bowers, 423-2893 Bridgeport-Joe Ulrich, 100 Broken Bow—Gene Jeffries, 872-5953 Columbus—Lyman Wilkerson, 564-4375 Crawford—Cecil Avey, 228 Creighton—Gary R. Ralston, 425 Crete—Roy E. Owen, 826-2772 Crofton—John Schuckman, 388-4421 David City—Lester H. Johnson, 367-4037 Fairbury—Larry Bauman, 729-3734 Falls City-Raymond Frandsen, 2817 Fremont—Andy Nielsen, 721-2482 Gering—Jim McCole, 436-2686 Grand Island—Fred Salak, 384-0582 Hastings—Bruce Wiebe, 462-8317 Hay Springs—Larry D. Elston, 638-4051 Kearney—Ed Graving, 237-5753 Lexington—Robert D. Patrick 324-2138 Lincoln—Leroy Orvis, 488-1663 Lincoln—Norbert Kampsnider, 466-0971 Lincoln—Dale Bruha, 477-4258 Long Pine—William O. Anderson, 273-4406 Norfolk—Robert Downing, 371-2675 North Platte—Samuel Grasmick, 532-9546 North Platte—Roger A. Guenther, 532-2220 Ogallala—Jack Morgan, 284-3425 Omaha—Dwight Allbery, 558-2910 O'Neill—Kenneth L. Adkisson, 336-3000 Ord—Gerald Woodgate, 728-5060 Oshkosh— Donald D. Hunt, 772-3697 Ponco—Richard D. Turpfn, 7913 Syracuse—Mick Gray, 269-3143 Tekamah—Richard Elston, 374-1698 Thedford—John Henderson, 645-5351 Valentine—Elvin Zimmerman, 376-3674 Valley—Daryl Earnest, 359-2332 Winside—Marion Schafer, 286-4290 York—Gail Woodside, 362-4120 AUGUST, 1967 57

TURTLE SOUP

(Continued from page 56)

and even then it wasn't over. The snapper kept trying to crawl back to the lake and time after time, I had to pick him up and toss him farther back from the edge.

After I got myself sorted out, I picked up the rifle and administered the coup de grace. My first shot had hit just at the jointure of carapace and plastron and although it was no doubt a mortal wound, it would have been a long time before the snapper died. After I analyzed the situation, I was doubly glad that I had recovered him.

My shoes were a squishy ruin and my clothes a mess from the watery muck, but rather than take time to clean up, I decided to hike to the road and wait for Chuck's return. I was about halfway across the pasture when I saw the pickup coming. Suddenly, it stopped and Bud, Chuck's dad, bailed out with a rifle and ran to the water's edge. He half raised the rifle and then relaxed. Before I reached him, he was sitting down, watching the water.

"I saw a snapper out there as I came by, but he went down just as I got to the bank. Chuck is still tied up," Bud explained.

"Well, I'm going to wring myself out while you are waiting," I replied.

My second sock was about squeezed dry when I saw the water break and the turtle's head come up. I pointed it out to Bud. His shot was a good one. There was a quick boil in the water followed by a string of bubbles and I figured Bud had scored dead center.

"How are we going to recover him? That water is pretty deep out there," I asked.

"There is a pair of chest waders in the truck. Why don't you get them and try to ease your way out? If it's too deep, forget him," the rancher suggested.

There was a broom in the truck, so after getting into the boots, I picked it up for a wading staff, grabbed the fork, and gingerly eased myself into the lake. After a few jabs, I felt the tines hit and gradually eased them under the snapper. After a little manuevering, I got him up where I could grab him.

We weighed both turtles at the ranch and my earlier estimates of 18 and 5 pounds were shy. Mine weighed 21 pounds and Bud's, 7.

It took us an hour and a half to dress them out and after we finished, Bud turned and asked,

"How much you figure your time is worth?"

"Oh, for argument, let's say a dollar an hour. Why?"

"Well, Chuck, you, and I have spent about eight man-hours to get two snappers, not to mention gas, shells, and wear and tear on clothes and the truck. You can buy a can of prepared turtle soup for about 37 cents," Bud needled.

"Yeah, you're probably right, but I believe like the Arabians. 'Allah doesn't subtract from man's alloted span, the time spent in the chase.' I'll make up the cost on the other end," I grinned back.

And that's what I plan to do.

THE END

WHERE-TO-GO

SAY SNAKE to some people and they will instantly visualize a slithering reptile. But say snake to northcentral Nebraskans and they think of a life-giving irrigation project, a water playground, and beautiful Snake Falls, all created by the fast-moving, ever-twisting Snake River.

The river, starting in eastern Sheridan County, meanders into Cherry County to help fill Merritt Reservoir, 25 miles southwest of Valentine. Merritt Reservoir, completed in 1963, is an irrigation project of the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation. Here, the cold and clear Snake is slowed up momentarily by earthen Merritt Dam to form 2,700 acres of water pleasure. Nearly 7,000 acres of land with shelter houses, picnic tables, and fireplaces make this a Sand Hills haven for hunters, anglers, boaters, picnickers, and campers.

Released from the dam, the Snake River rushes on to cascade over the Snake Falls, 23 miles southwest of Valentine, to create a highly dramatic scene of all-season charm. These falls are the largest in Nebraska and the serenity and sense of remoteness of the surrounding country are outstanding. The beauty of the trees and cliffs gives the area a distinct western atmosphere.

Below the churning falls, the river gathers momentum. The waterway is aptly named as it loops through a series of right-angle bends. Following through the canyon, the river forms small rapids, roars over submerged rocks, and dodges over, under, and through the fallen trees that try to block its passage toward its final destination, the picturesque Niobrara River.

While in the area, visitors can stop at two other state recreational areas, Ballards Marsh and Big Alkali Lake. Ballards Marsh, 20 miles south of Valentine, on U.S. Highway 83, has 1,000 water acres and 600 acres of land complete with picnic tables, drinking water, fireplaces, and toilets.

Big Alkali Lake, 12 miles south and 4 miles west of Valentine, on U.S. Highway 83 and Nebraska Highway 483, offers 1,000 water acres and 15 land acres to hunters, fishermen, and boaters. Facilities include picnic tables, drinking water, fireplaces, and rest rooms.

This is a land that is relatively unchanged from the days of Indian and buffalo. Lush prairie grasses still billow across the rolling hills to provide prime grazing for sleek Herefords and chunky black Angus. The terrain is dotted with small potholes and a now-and-then tree to give the area the traditional look of the West. Men use this vast expanse but they cannot bend it to their will.

Nature lovers need only to take a few steps off any of the highways in the area to see shore birds, ducks, deer, jackrabbits, and occasionally a coyote.

Visitors to the far western part of the state can see an active reminder of Nebraska's past, the water-powered Champion Mill. It is located eight miles southwest of Imperial. The mill is believed to be the only water-powered one still operating in the state.

Huge native stone, hauled by Thomas Scott when he built the mill in 1886, supports the massive wooden structure, which creaks and groans as the tireless water supplies its motive power.

The mill is an active reminder of the days when wagons lined up for several blocks waiting to unload their wheat and have it ground. While waiting, area farmers shopped in the town, making the mill the center of village economy.

The three-story mill had to give up its flour-milling during World War II because of the labor shortage, but it still rolls and mixes feed with the power that was the mainstay of 19th century millers.

The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Carl Hill, still depend on the mill for their livelihood, but many visitors also enjoy it for its history and beauty. Several artists and authors have captured its charm.

The mill dam across the Frenchman River forms a lake which further enhances the scenic beauty of this still-active survivor of a former era. The Game Commission has developed a small recreation area beside the dam where visitors may view a piece of yesterday's machinery still competing in today's busy high-powered world.

THE END 58 NEBRASKAland AUGUST, 1967 59

YOU'RE IN PINE RIDGE COUNTRY

A western blend of history and scenic beauty is yours when you visit the Pine Ridge Country, the outdoor recreation and vacation highspot of Nebraska.

No other region can boast such attractions as Chadron and Fort Robinson State parks. Chadron is renowned for its rugged splendor and Fort Robinson is remembered for its historic value during the western Indian wars. Toadstool Park and Agate Fossil Monument complete the list of unusual attractions.

For the outdoor family, there are spotless camping grounds equipped with modern accommodations, cool fishing waters, and the very best in mixed-bag hunting. Deer, antelope, and wild turkey are three big reasons why the Pine Ridge region is called Nebraska's "big game capital".

Whether you plan a quick weekend trip or a full vacation, Pine Ridge Country fills the bill best —best in scenery, best in camping, hunting and fishing, and best in western hospitality.

This summer plan to see Nebraska's most beautiful vacationland, the Pine Ridge Country.

For an informative folder on the Pine Ridge Country's highspots, write either to Box 646, Chadron, Nebraska 69337, or the Crawford Chamber of Commerce.