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.

FEATHERED HEADDRESSES - "I thought you might like to see a photo of the hats Mrs. Elva Warrell of Arnold makes out of game-bird feathers. Most are made from pheasant feathers but one is of grouse feathers. She has made over 100 of these hats and has given them away to relatives and friends."—John M. Tryon, Callaway.

NOSTALGIA-"Nebraska and New York are a good many buffalo trails apart. However, your magazine brings Nebraska to my front door and I do enjoy reading about the West, which is not all Bonanza and Gunsmoke.

"The story, Blizzard of 88, brought a wave of nostalgia about another blizzard, 48 years ago in my hometown. We were grateful to the schoolmaster for letting school out early so we could head for home. In our case, the saving element was a long pole. My oldest brother took the front and his buddy the rear. In between were seven little kids, and they all stayed at our house that night.

"Mom simply baked more loaves of bread and hauled down another slab of bacon from the attic rafters. Next day dawned bright and clear and the whole school went off with well-packed lunch baskets." —Lou Lafforthum, Schenectady, N.Y.

CARDINAL IDEA-"How about taking some of the beautiful, and I do mean beautiful, pictures of Nebraska and have them made into Christmas cards? I think they would be really something. Your stationery is pretty, but it could use more pictures of our state, too." — Opal Harshfield, Sutherland.

If there is additional interest in this suggestion, the Nebraska Game Commission may explore it. — Editor

BUILDING A SMOKER-"No doubt, you have had a number of replies to Ira Clinkenbeard's request for directions on building a smoker from an old refrigerator. It is easy to do. Get an old refrigerator shell with the wire racks in it. Drill a hole in the side near the bottom. Put a one-burner electric hot plate in the bottom and run the wire through the hole. Put fish on the racks and a cast-iron skillet full of hickory shavings on the hot plate. Plug it in, then shut the door and sit back while the smoke builds up. Check once in a while to see if you need to replace the shavings." — L. D. Nuckles, Bockport, Texas

NEWS FROM HOME-"NEBRASKAland is our only available literature from home and is enjoyed by all. I'm a Bellevue resident, serving my time in the army and now stationed in Crailsheim, Germany. Our company has men from Omaha, O'Neill, Verdigre, and Kearney. I would enjoy an article on Nebraska's men in the service." —Sp/4 Craig Mallet, Co. B. 504 S/T Bn. A.P.O. 09151

STEEN'S RETIREMENT - "I want to pay my respect to M. O. Steen. His retirement will end an era. Regardless of what his critics say, he has quietly continued to push forward to better parks, lakes, and protection for wildlife. His going will leave NEBRASKAland better than he found it.

"Thousands of sportsmen from many states hope his successor will carry on and keep Nebraska the nation's mixed-bag hunting capitol. I wish Mel the best of everything in his retirement, and many years to enjoy it." —B. F. Wells, Des Moines, Iowa.

BLACK-FOOTED FERRET-"On July 28, 1952, we shot a black-footed ferret while hunting prairie dogs in Custer County. We didn't know they were so rare. If we had known, we would have given him to a museum for mounting.

"Also, Paul H. Wood of Staplehurst has a fine collection of 'fence' with some 800 varieties catalogued." —J. E. Miller, Lincoln.

PICKLED FISH- carried recipes and they have am looking for and pickling "In past issues you have for cooking wild game, been most interesting. I some recipes for canning (Continued on page 6)

OCTOBER, 1967 3  

OCTOBER

Vol. 45, No. 10 OCTOBER ROUNDUP SPITTLE OF VENOM Harold Orr FROST ON THE DECOY George Van Pelt LIFE WITH THE FRONTIER SOLDIER THE FEEL OF THE RIVER Charles Davidson PRAIRIE TIME MACHINE Lowell Johnson WALK A WILD RIVER NO TIME FOR TURKEY Ginger Jensen A FOREST IS SAVED Fred Nelson TWO-BIT DOG BOOTS John P. Breckenridge COOL CATS Bob Snow ELBOW ROOM APLENTY Rex Amack NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA George Schildman WHERE TOGO 1967 8 11 13 16 18 22 24 32 34 38 40 44 46 58 THE COVER: Joyce Simmons boils the kettle while John R. Stotts portages their canoe around Horseshoe Falls on the wild Niobrara Photo by Lou Ell NEBRASKAland SELLING NEBRASKAland IS OUR BUSINESS EDITOR, DICK H. SCHAFFER Editorial Consultant, Gene Hornbeck Managing Editor, Fred Nelson Associate Editor, Bob Snow Art Director, Jack Curran Art Associate, C. G. "Bud" Pritchard Photography, Lou Ell, Chief; Charles Armstrong, Steve Katula, Allan M. Sicks Advertising Representative, Ed Cuddy Advertising Representatives: Harley L. Ward, Inc., 360 North Michigan Ave., Chicago, III. 60601 Phone CE 6-6269. GMS Publications, 401 Finance Building, P.O. Box 722, Kansas City, Mo., Phone (816) GR 1-7337. DIRECTOR: M. O. Steen NEBRASKA GAME AND PARKS COMMISSION: Rex Stotts, Cody, Chairman; A. H. Story, Plainview, Vice Chairman; Martin Gable, Scottsbluff; W. C. Kemptar, Ravenna; Charles E. Wright, McCook; M. M. Muncie, plattsmouth; James Columbo, Omaha. NEBRASKAland, published monthly by the Nebraska Game, Forestation and Parks Commission. 50 cents per copy. Subscription rates: $3 for one year, $5 for two years. Send subscriptions to NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509. Copyright Nebraska Game, Forestation and Parks Commission, 1967. All rights reserved. Second-class postage paid at Lincoln, Nebraska and at additional mailing offices. OCTOBER, 1967  

SPEAK UP

(Continued from page 3)

fish, but they are hard to find. If you have any such recipes, I would like to have them sent to me." —Mrs. Clarence C. Hetrick, Douglas.

Can any of our readers help? — Editor

MEMORIES REVIVED-"I was very interested in the photos of the log cabins built by Judge Mathews of Victoria Springs in the June NEBRASKAland. This was the site of the first post office in Custer County which the judge named New Helena.

"My father, Harrey B. Andrews, and Judge Mathews came to Nebraska from Virginia in the early 1870's. Father settled in Cedar County about three miles northwest of New Helena. He cut and hauled the logs to New Helena where the judge built two log houses. Later, father cut and hauled the logs for the first schoolhouse.

"My older sister, Mary, was born in a bank dugout which my parents used as a home for approximately eight years. I was born 83 years ago in a sod house which they built about half a mile down the road.

"I have been a resident of Medford, Oregon for the past 30 years but get back to my native Custer County practically every year." —C. Henry Andrews, Medford, Oregon.

DOUGHBALL RECIPE-"I am a younger fisherman and enjoy fishing very much. The Elkhorn River is just south of my father's farm and I fish there a lot. But when it is dry and worms get scarce, I run out of bait. I have heard that doughballs are good bait, but I can't seem to find out how to make them. Can you help me?" —Dana Baker, Neligh.

Here is a tested recipe.

1/4-cup juice from canned corn 1/4-cup canned corn (crushed) Corn meal as needed to form a thick dough Flour as needed to achieve desired consistency

Bring corn juice to boil, stir in the crushed corn while boiling, and add corn meal until mass is solid but moist. Remove from heat. Add and knead in flour until the desired consistency is attained. When dough bait is to be used in cold water (below 50° to 55°), it should be left fairly soft. It will become harder upon contact with the cold water. Doughballs kept in the refrigerator in the summer become much softer when cast into warm water. A plastic bag of flour should be carried at all times so that lake-side adjustments can be made. Add flour for firmness, water for softness. Avoid long, whippy casts which can snap the doughball off the hook. — Editor

6 NEBRASKAland

The Beauty of NEBRASKAland.. FULL-COLOR PRINTS

Capture the beauty of NEBRASKAland with this wide assortment of photographic masterpieces. Select the scenes that match your decor from the 16" x 20" "G" series and the 20" x 24" "P" series prints in breath-taking color.

"G" series at 75 cents each or set of 4 for $2.50, and T series at $1 each or set of 4 for $3.50 postpaid. Clip out attached order blank and send for your prints-TODAY!!

NEBRASKAland State Capitol Lincoln, Nebraska 68509 Enclosed is $ check or money order for the prints I have indicated NEBRASKA'S 2 1/2 per cent Sales Tax does not apply when prints are mailed outside of the state. Quantity 16 x 20 Prints Price Quantity 6-1 "Snake Falls" 75c ea. G-2 "The Tall Pines" 75c ea. G-3 "Down in the Valley" 75c ea. G-4 "Smith Falls" 75c ea. Complete Set of 4 $2.50 ea. 20" x 24" Prints Price P-l "The Deer Hunter" $1 ea. P-2 "The Big Country" $1 ea. P-3 "Platte of Plenty" $1 ea. P-4 "The Quiet Way" $1 ea. Complete Set of 4 $3.50 ea. NAME. ADDRESS. CITY STATE ZIP

WHAT TO DO

August 28-November 12 —"Clouds Among the Stars," Planetarium, Lincoln September 27-October 28 —Atokad Park Horse Races, South Sioux City September 30-October 1 — Prairie Schooners Square Dance Festival, Sidney September 30-October 1 — Northeast Nebraska Threshers Reunion, Niobrara 1 — Kearney State College vs Peru State College, football, Band Day, Kearney 1-31 —Centennial Print Exhibit, Scottsbluff 1-31 —Centennial Print Exhibit, Chadron 2 — 108th Anniversary of Senior Headquarters of U.S. Army in Nebraska, Omaha 4 —Wrestling, Lincoln 5 —Regents Examination, all state 6 —Clarkson Style Show, Omaha 6-8 —Trans-Mississippi Philatelic Society Exhibition and Meeting, Omaha 7 — Wrestling, Omaha 7 —Annual Firemen's Ball, Lincoln 7 —Lord's Acre Centennial Sale, Endicott 7 —Fall-Festival, Doniphan 7 —Wayne State College vs Kearney State College, football, Parents Day, Wayne 7 —Chadron State College vs Peru State College, football, Chadron 7 — Farmers Day Celebration and Parade, Kimball 7 —Governor's Youth Safety Conference, Lincoln 7-8 —Midland College, football, Homecoming, Fremont 8 —American Legion and Auxiliary Turkey Supper, Howells 8 —Fall Festival, Brownville 8 —Open House and opening of two collections, Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 8 —Nebraska Sodhouse Society Centennial Convention, Holdrege 8-10 —Regional 4-H Tractor Operators Contest, Lincoln 9-10 —Omaha Symphony, Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 10 —Sioux County Fun Feed, Harrison 10 —Saunders County Extension Clubs Centennial Variety Show, Wahoo 12 —Columbus Day 12-Joslyn Film Series, "Bridle Path," "Song of the Earth," Omaha 13 —Peter, Paul, and Mary Performance, Lincoln 13 —Travelogue on Sweden, Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 13-15 —Rod and Custom Car Show, Lincoln 14 —Film-Lecture with Mr. Stan Midgely, Union College, Lincoln 14 —Centennial Columbus Day Parade, Omaha 14 —Kearney State College vs Dakota Wesleyan, football, Homecoming, Kearney 14 —Chadron State College vs Hastings College, football, Band Day and Homecoming, Chadron 14 —Peru State College vs Wayne State College, football, Peru 14 —Doane College vs Nebraska Wesleyan University, football, Crete 14-15 —Custom Rod and Custom Car Show, Lincoln 14-15 —Prairie Rockhounds Rock Show, Ogallala 15 —Centennial Banquet, Omaha 16 —Tuesday Musicale, Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 16 —Symphony Opening Concert, Omaha 18 —Wrestling, Lincoln 20 —Morning Musicale, Joselyn Art Museum, Omaha 20 —Nancy Wilson Performance, Lincoln 20 —Nebraska Wesleyan University vs Missouri Valley, football, Lincoln 20-21-Ak-Sar-Ben Coronation and Ball, Omaha 20-22-Platte Valley Gem Show, North Platte 21 -University of Nebraska vs Colorado University football, Lincoln 21 —Kearney State College vs Chadron State College, football, Band Day, Kearney 21 —Wayne State College vs William Jewell College, football, Homecoming, Wayne 21-Concordia Teachers College vs Northwestern, football, Homecoming, Seward 21-22 —Midwest Autorama, Omaha 21-22 —State Firemen's Convention, Columbus 22-George Kirby and the Kids Next Door Performance, Lincoln 22 —Chamber Music, Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 24 —United Nations Day 24 —Fiesta Americana, Community Concert, Lincoln 24 —All Nations Food Festival, Fremont 26-27 Nebraska (Continued on page 10)

OCTOBER Roundup

Goblins to gunpowder, homecomings to harvest rites, an enchanting month brews up some mighty bewitching action for NEBRASKAland

BEWITCHED BY OCTOBER'S spell, Nebraskans are gathering for magical merriment. Beneath the "Old Devil Moon" they are celebrating the ritual of homecoming and hosting harvest rites. Concoct a pleasure potion from these "voodooin's". The ghouls and goblins won't have a ghost of a chance to spoil your autumn high jinks.

"Alakadiddle, Alakazam", Nebraska's own Nancy Wilson appears at Lincoln's Pershing Auditorium for a concert of popular hits on October 20. A native Omahan, Miss Wilson ranks among the top vocal recording artists of the nation.

One week earlier, October 13, the Capital City welcomes two beards and a blonde. No, they're not Centennial celebrants but Peter, Paul, and Mary who will stage a revival of folk song enthusiasm.

Hunters whoop it up in October with the incentive of a veritable field day of trigger sport. The nine-day firearm deer season, October 28 through November 5, closes out the month with bangs from 24,400 rifles and pistols. For those more enthralled by the twang of the bow, archery deer season opened September 16 to run through December 31, closing briefly while the firearm enthusiasts take to the fields. Squirrels and rabbits are fine picking all 31 days, and, judging from last year, grouse should offer great sport.

As migratory birds begin to head south for the winter, alumni head back to their alma maters. University of Nebraska's Big Red squad is on the road with three away games: October 7 against Kansas State University at Manhattan; October 14 against the University of Kansas at Lawrence; and October 28 against Texas Christian University at Fort Worth. But, on October 21 fans can flock to Lincoln for a sure-fire battle, when the Huskers tangle with the University of Colorado Buffs at Memorial Stadium.

Gridiron tussles, homecoming splendor, and frolicking follies are in store for Kearney State College boosters, October 14, when they take on Dakota Wesleyan. Chadron State will also stir the turf that day while homecoming alumni cheer for a victory over Hastings College. Both games are afternoon contests and the kickoffs are scheduled for 2 p.m.

Meanwhile, Endicott gives thanks for the harvest and raises funds for the church budget at the Lord's Acre Centennial Sale and Celebration, October 7. Hay, livestock, used furniture, and other items are auctioned off. Every cent goes to the church.

Femme fatales will add beguiling looks to their bag of sorcery when they attend the Clarkson Hospital Style Show in Omaha on October 6. This money-raising project which will help finance an addition to the medical facility that will double its size will be narrated by a fashion editor from "Vogue" magazine. Sharing the spotlight with the 175 creations will be (Continued on page 10)

NEBRASKAland HOSTESS OF THE MONTH Sandra Lee Bronson

Fall makes the NEBRASKAland scene in a blaze of color and our hostess of the month is not one to let the hues go unadorned. An outdoorsy type, Sandra Lee Bronson sneaks a peek at October's collage of harvest gatherings and brisk autumn festivity. A 1967 Miss NEBRASKAland finalist, Sandy represented John F. Kennedy College of Wahoo where she is a senior majoring in elementary education. This pert, hazel-eyed blonde plays the clarinet in the school band and has acted in school plays. Sandy plans to teach for a year after graduation and then hopes to tour Europe. She is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. L. B. Bronson of Wahoo.

 

ROUND UP

(Continued from page 8)

two RCA Victor recording stars, hopefully Peter Nero and Vic Damone.

Philatelists (that's "stamp collectors" to the layman) will converge on Omaha, October 6 through 8, from a nine-state area for the Trans-Mississippi Exhibition. A special category, the Nebraska Centennial Court of Honor, will feature old post cards of state landmarks and 42 pages of philatelic materials in tribute to the late Senator George Norris. Carl R. Reuth, editor of Linn's Weekly Stamp News, will be speaker at the Saturday night banquet.

Mum's the word in early October when the University of Nebraska Field Lab at Mead and experiment stations at ScottsblufF and North Platte display a spectrum of chrysanthemums. Scores of varieties, developed by plant breeding, range in color from bronze to white. Exact dates of the showings will be determined by weather conditions and blossom maturity, and will be announced in late September.

Miss Teenage America 1966, Sandra Roberts of Milpitas, California, and Governor Norbert T. Tiemann will contribute to lectures and discussions at the Governor's Youth Safety Conference in Lincoln on October 7. Over 300 high school juniors and their advisors will be taught the "Seven Steps to Traffic Safety" in order to promote an all-out traffic safety program in their respective schools.

Fall Festival in Doniphan, October 7, is synonymous with fun. Children, especially, will be delighted by free carnival rides and candy. Adults scurry for a lucky chair in the cake walk. An auto showroom becomes a palatial hamburger stand, and the high school hosts an evening banquet and hometown play. All proceeds are contributed to a fund for cemetery maintenance.

Take 25 turkeys, 15 pounds of cranberries, 106 pumpkin pies, and 35 loaves of bread and add entertainment to the friendly chatter of 600 voices, and you have the magic formula of the Howells Turkey Supper. This fall function slated for October 8 helps finance veteran rehabilitation and child welfare. It is sponsored by the American Legion and Auxiliary.

Weaving, spinning, quilting, and pot-making demonstrations will display to guests of Brownville's Fall Festival, October 8, the origin of handcrafted pieces on sale at the Main Street open-air fair. Beadwork, ceramics, homemade jellies, and candles will be sold, as well, and visitors can take in the Riverside charm of the antique settlement by following conducted nature tours and roam through the Muir and Carson houses and the museum. Later there will be boos and hisses for the villain and cheers aplenty for the hero as an old-fashioned melodrama unfolds at the Brownville theater.

Curtain up! America's top tenor vocalist, James McCracken of the Metropolitan Opera will help launch the 30th season for the Omaha Symphony Concert series on October 9 at Joslyn Concert Hall.

From 1909 to 1968 the story of the individualized American car unfolds at the Sixth Annual Custom Auto Show, October 14, and 15, in Lincoln. Tentatively scheduled feature car will be the "Batmobile" from the T.V. series Batman. Other displays include some 80 antique autos, hot rods, and "voodoos".

Omaha and Nebraska high society turn out in lavish array for the Ak-Sar-Ben coronation and ball, October 20 and 21. This official opening of the winter party season recognizes outstanding families, and civic and professional leaders of Nebraska communities.

"Rejoice, we conquer", gasped the Marathon runner Pheidippides of ancient Greece nearly 2,500 years ago. The question October 22 will be "who rejoices?", as Tri-State Marathon contestants cover the official 26 1/4-mile course. This sports event begins in Falls City, with check points in White Cloud, Kansas and Rulo, Nebraska, 2 1/2 miles inside the Missouri border, Rulo, again, and Falls City. Spectators may watch the last laps from the football stadium in Falls City.

October, 1967, is the 450th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation. Of timely significance is the Reformation Sunday Festival of Faith on October 29 in Lincoln, when Protestants and Catholics join in combined worship. The Rev. David J. Bowman, a Jesuit priest from New York City, will present the sermon, and a choir of over 200 voices will offer musical selections.

Strudel, kolaches, hamburgers, ravioli, and "left overs from Expo '67" will be the delicious representatives of ethnic backgrounds in Fremont for the All Nations Food Festival on October 24.

So pack up your broomstick, your caldron, and cats. Indulge. Put your cares away. It's the witching hour in NEBRASKAland.

THE END

WHAT TO DO

(Continued from page 8) State Education Association Conventions, all state 28-Marching Band Festival, Lincoln 28-Wayne State College vs Chadron State College, football, Wayne 28-Kearney State College vs Hastings College, football, Kearney 29 - Protestant and Catholic "Festival of Faith," Lincoln 29 - Webster County Inter-faith Religious Musical Program, Red Cloud 31-Grace Fellowship Day, Grace Bible Institute, Omaha 31 - Halloween THE END 10 NEBRASKAland

SPITTLE OF VENOM

RATTLESNAKES WERE more than a million thoughts away that July day, so I was more surprised than alarmed when sudden fire lanced into my left leg. Casually, I pulled up my trouser, expecting the familar red of a bee sting. Instead, two ugly punctures, looking like rust-stained nail holes in white pine, leered from my untanned leg. Bright blood began oozing from the holes to mingle with a straw-color spittle of venom. I stared at the wounds, unable to comprehend their significance. Then it hit me. I was snake bit — bit bad.

"Get hold of yourself, Orr. You've messed around with rattlers for half your life. You aren't going to die right away," I gritted, fighting down a rising wave of terror. Luckily, the snake had wriggled away, for it never occurred to me that he could strike again.

Catching rattlesnakes alive is a hobby of mine, and over the years I have captured hundreds of them without being bitten. I live on a farm near Ainsworth in northcentral Nebraska, and work for the Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service. Part of my job is measuring land and I was "scaling" a milo field when the snake hit.

Shaking off the shock, I considered my predicament. Fortunately, it was only a little distance to my car and a snake-bite kit. Also, my brother-in-law, Ralph Keim, and his neighbor, Maynard Jones, were working about half a mile away. If I could make it to the car and on to them, I had a chance. Judging from the size and width of the fang marks, the snake had hit me mighty hard and it wouldn't be long before the poison spread through my body. Forcing myself to take it slow, I went to the car, dug out a tourniquet, and twisted it around my leg. I reached for the blade in the kit and then hesitated.

A recent operation had left me weak and shaky and I doubted if I could lance the punctures without passing out from the emotional shock of cutting my own flesh. Once I was unconscious, the deadly poison would race through my system until its lethal work was done. It was better to risk driving to Ralph and Maynard and let them treat me.

Things were getting hazy before I reached them, but I hung on long enough to tell what happened. Maynard took the knife and cut deep crisscrosses through the punctures. We didn't realize it, but Maynard cut almost too deep and severed a small artery.

Ralph drove as fast as he could while Maynard worked on me. Ainsworth and its hospital were 16 miles away and both men knew that time was against me.

The pain began with stomach cramps and grew into an overwhelming agony that burned through my every fiber. I blacked out, came to, went out again, and came to just as we reached the hospital. The next two days were a confusion of pain and peace, consciousness and unconsciousness, as doctors pumped antivenin into me and operated on my damaged leg. After six days I was released with instructions to take it easy.

During my hospitalization, one thought nagged me. Would I have the nerve to go after rattlers again? Three weeks later, I went snaking. No words can describe that first wrenching effort it took to reach down and grab writhing death, but I did.

THE END COLOR-SLIDE PROGRAMS Choose from many NEBRASKAland topics including SCENIC-HISTORICAL-CULTURAL interesting narrations. Ideal for schools, clubs, civic, social, and church organizations. Nominal fee. Write for more information JUNE EGBERT BOX 573, VALLEY, NEBR. 68064 OCTOBER, 1967 11   12 NEBRASKAland

FROST on the DECOY

Platte River ducks make game of shunning until Bud June sees the "light" by George Van Pelt

WE WERE enjoying perfect conditions for a December duck hunt, but the Platte's mighty mallards weren't giving us the time of day. Even Bud June's expert calling failed to swing the indecisive greenheads into our blocks. Something was wrong, for there were ducks galore, but we couldn't spot the trouble.

As the umpteenth bunch zipped downstream, Bud increased the volume on the "comeback". The birds responded, circling high overhead, and I thought for a moment we were in. But the ducks flared, spooked by some little detail they found wrong with our set. Puzzled, we watched the feathered tribe fade into the morning's bright haze.

Bud June, my brother, Tom Van Pelt, and myself were closing out the duck season on the North Platte River in western Nebraska. Accompanying us on the mid-December trip was Bud's nine-year-old Labrador, Pat. We were using a friend's blind located about two miles west of Melbeta in Scotts Bluff County on a south branch of the river. In that one county, the mallard population was estimated at more than 100,000 during the week of our hunt. The North Platte National Wild lite Refuge, and Lake Minatare just north of us, were holding the majority of the ducks, but the refuge lakes were beginning to freeze, and more and more quackers were being pushed to the river. Some would push on south, others would probably stay the winter.

 

Our blind was the river-pit type, constructed of creosoted poles and plywood covering. It was ideally placed in a natural stand of willows, with straw and branches to break its angular lines. I am a novice at shooting ducks over blocks, but even I could see that our location was a good one. Ducks flying from any direction were able to see our set up. In river shooting blocks should be placed so that trees and early dawn shadows won't stop the ducks from seeing the decoys. Our location didn't have any problems on that particular score.

We all think alike when it came to choosing waterfowling guns. Twelve gauges and short Magnum shells loaded with No. 4's were our unanimous choices We were depending on the heavy loads to score clean kills on the big full-feathered northern birds. However, 14 NEBRASKAland as the morning wore on I didn't think we would get the chance to use our firepower.

Bud June lives in Scottsbluff where he works as a salesman and Tom and I both ranch south of Harrisburg. Ranching keeps us busy and we don't hunt as much as we would like.

But today our licks were slow in coming. Bud is an old hand at duck hunting and the best shot, so we were counting on his experience to change our luck. Our blocks were set out in a variation of the old pipestem method with most decoys placed in the best looking water, and the rest in a natural zigzag line downstream.

"We have a good spread here," Bud said. "It's supposed to give the impression that the birds have just set down with some still moving up to feed with the others. A good feeding chuckle helps the pattern work but sometimes it isn't necessary."

I knew that the Scottsbluff hunter was one of the top callers around. I really think he could entice a duck into his lap if he had a decoy for a hat. If he wasn't worrying, why should I? Bud's advice made me feel better but it didn't improve our situation a bit.

Two drakes nearly caught us flat-footed before Bud managed to draw them back for a closer look. I was offered first shot, but my first try was a sad case of the just-too-eager blues. Banging my head and shotgun on the blind's roof didn't help either. It slowed me up, and when I finally leveled I rushed my shot. Pat flashed out to retrieve the bird that I didn't hit and it took Bud a little doing to convince the anxious Lab that I had missed.

Bud had hardly resumed telling us some of his ideas on decoy spreads when I spotted a low-flying foursome skimming upstream. Our guns were up before Tom's disgusted, "fish ducks," broke the momentary silence. We let them go.

"That's what I thought from the way they were flying," Bud said, "but I wanted to make sure."

We resumed our vigil only to have duck after duck flare wide of our blocks. Competition, too, had entered the scene as several prospective customers veered away to join a noisy hen in another channel. By now, even Bud was showing concern.

Finally, a curious mallard circled around to come in for a better look-see and my brother Tom got the first score on the difficult coming-in-from-behind-shot. Action was picking up, but considering that ducks were seldom out of our sight, they definitely weren't decoying as they should.

The day was cold and bright. A haze seemed to increase the light, but it held back the sun's warmth. At first, I hadn't noticed the chill, but as my anticipation waned, the cold became penetrating.

Bud's "Now I see it," brought Tom and me to attention. "Look at those decoys. See anything wrong?" He paused briefly. "They're icy and reflecting light. That's our problem."

"But we dunked them to remove the overnight frost," Tom said.

"We are going to have to dunk them again," Bud told us. "Earlier the air was so cold that the water froze before the decoys could dry and that put a glaze on them. That doggoned sunlight really reflects."

"I'll bet we would have had at least three more if we had discovered that jinx sooner," I added, following Bud and Tom out of the blind to help rinse off the shiny blocks.

"Don't fret. This won't take but a minute. A little over two dozen decoys is just the right number of blocks. You have got to have a good-size opening or the ducks won't come in, especially these northern birds. They like a wide open space like a gravel bar, so they won't be bumping into other ducks when they sit down," Bud reassured me.

Tom was interested and questioned Bud about the decoy placement.

"Yes, that's important, too," Bud continued as he dunked a decoy into the water. "If you don't get them placed right, the ducks might drop in too far away or too close for good shooting."

As we scooted back into our hide-away, I admired the big black Lab and secretly envied his owner. Seeing that dog work on Tom's mallard had already doubled the pleasure of the hunt for me. He was so exuberant and eager to please that watching him was a real treat.

A straying decoy interrupted my thoughts. Bud saw it and raced out in pursuit. He caught the getaway, started back, and had to chase down another. All of the decoys had anchors to secure them. They held fairly well in the rather swift current of the North Platte, but once in awhile one would break loose. Bud believes that mallard decoys are the only kind necessary in this area, since pintails, teal, and other ducks decoy to them readily. Besides, 98 per cent of the area's ducks are mallards.

After correcting our trouble, the payoff wasn't long in coming. Out of the next small bunch, I picked a handsome drake just as the set-winged bird lowered his gear. Watching the colorful creature as he dropped in was nearly hypnotic, but I somehow squeezed off a shot. The resulting splash was like a command to Pat. He made a quick clean retrieve and I had my first duck.

From then on, Bud pulled mallards in like a "pied piper", although (Continued on page 49)

OCTOBER, 1967 15

Life with the FRONTIER SOLDIER

Work detail, guard duty, drills, and parades — foot sfoggers knew the backbreaking toils endured for 43 cents per day

PVT. BILL COCHRAN lifted his navy-blue forage cap. The midsummer Nebraska sun was hot, and rivulets of sweat ran off his forehead. A salty trickle found his eye and he swore mightily. An ax wasn't a proper tool, he thought, not for a frontier soldier, who had enlisted to stand tall in a saddle, slay hostiles by the hundreds, and romance the ladies.

Two short months ago Bill was home, enjoying the comforts of civilization. Now he was a long, long way from his Pennsylvania farm, his relatives, and friends. Comforts he once took for granted were already becoming hazy in a mind that was almost as weary as his sunburned body. He had enlisted seeking adventure, but the adventures the dime novels had promised were nothing more than words dreamed up by a writer who hadn't crossed the Mississippi River.

Unlike most frontier soldiers, Private Cochran could scribble his name, but like most, he failed to keep a diary of what seemed to him an uninteresting life. You won't find his name in a history book, but his name is in the dusty archives of a long-forgotten company roster. The annals of history have immortalized captains, majors, colonels, and generals who tamed the West, but for the most part it has forgotten the Bill Cochrans, Bob Maceys, and John Murphys. Like their officers, these enlisted men did what had to be done, and often better than the brass-wearing graduates of West Point.

The backgrounds of men manning Nebraska's forts were widely diversified. Negro troopers fought beside ex-Confederates, while immigrant soldiers from Ireland, Germany, and France shared a bottle or a battle with the American born. Yale and Harvard graduates rode with men who never knew the inside of a school, and suave easterners drilled with easy-going sod busters. When the bluecoats had to fight, they fought hard and well with a cold and calculated fury that won the enemy's respect.

Their reasons for enlisting were as varied as their backgrounds. Some, like Cochran, joined for adventure, while others signed up to escape economic doldrums. Hoodlums and petty thieves enlisted to escape the law, while others signed to escape from their mother's tight apron strings. Many joined to get away from boredom of a job, and still others signed because they thought it was patriotic. Ail of them soon learned that a frontier army seldom knew the exhilaration of combat. Instead it faced endless hours of backbreaking, often degrading toil.

Whatever the case, one thing was for sure. They were in the army for five years and for a mere $13 a month, they would sweat in the summer and freeze in the winter from sunup to sundown, seven days a week. Because transportation was slow in the unsettled West, furloughs were almost unheard of. Passes for a day or two were issued, but towns were often several miles from the fort. And unless the trooper could borrow a horse or beg a ride in the post ambulance, town was moon-far away.

A soldier's life was one of mere existence, rather than adventure. Reveille sounded at 6 every morning, and breakfast was at 6:30. From there on, it was two drills a day, fatigue duties (work details), or guard mount, a retreat parade at sunset, and lights out by 9:30 p.m. A break in routine was a welcome change and escorts or patrols to and from settlements were sought-after duties. Reports of Indian horse stealing filtered into the fort quite often, and patrols were sometimes dispatched to look into the matter. But usually the investigation was nothing more than a ride in the country to question a prominent settler. Soldiers weren't particularity concerned about lost horses, but they welcomed the escape from the boredom of garrison duty.

Like all fighting men, the frontier soldier was a complainer, and his top gripe was fatigue duty. Veteran and rookie alike claimed that they knew the business end of an ax or shovel better than their tools of war —the rifle and bayonet. They claimed the government was exploiting cheap labor when it came to some jobs, and in some instances their complaints were justified. Civilization demanded roads, so the soldiers turned road builder. The nation wanted a communications link to span the country, so the army kept telegraph wires tight and straight, and society wanted transportation, so the enlisted man served as a (Continued on page 52)

OCTOBER, 1967 17

THE FEEL OF RIVER

Six of us make history of sorf on two-day float down the Republican by Charles Davidson

WE DIDN'T KNOW it when we started the float trip on the Republican River from McCook to the lower end of Harlan Reservoir, but we did make history of a sort.

"You actually mean it's never been done," I asked, when Nebraska Conservation Officer Bill Bonsall mentioned that we were, to the best of his knowledge, the first to float the 120-mile stretch.

"That's right," Bill assured me. "Even if it has been floated, I'll bet it wasn't done in runabouts. Only nuts would do what we're doing."

"That makes sense," I said, "but if being a bit silly is the only prerequisite, we are a perfect crew."

It was hard to imagine a more diversified group than the six of us who had joined up for this Republican River odyssey. However, we were all ready, willing, at least partially able, and we had one thing in common —the love of a challenge. Early in July, Bill had contacted the others to see if we could all get together on the long motor-float. Everyone jumped at the idea and now, a week later, we were on the first leg of our excursion.

Our fleet consisted of four boats —three identical aluminum runabouts and a square-stern aluminum canoe. Harold "Torp" Haeker, an irrigation man, used the latter craft, while Drs. Neil Stuhmer, optometrist, who owns Patterson's Harbor Resort Marina at Harlan, and Paul Huebner, a dentist, manned matching runabouts pushed by 71/2-horsepower motors. Since one of the boats was pushed by 18 horses, Bonsall, myself, and our NEBRASKAland photographer, Allan Sicks, selected it. Neil, Bill, Paul, and Harold are from Alma. Allan's home base is Lincoln. I'm the outstate representative for the Game Commission's Information and Tourism Division stationed in Alliance.

OCTOBER, 1967 19  

We were all in the mid-20's, except for the "Old Man", a title we applied to Bill. Captain would have been more apt, for Bill was the one indispensable member. He knew the river and since part of the float would be in his patrol territory, we depended on him for stream information as well as guide service. The trip was a new experience for me, so I was all eyes. Interested in my new surroundings, I wasn't paying much mind to my companions' chatter until Bill's, 'Bartley Diversion 'round the bend," shifted my attention.

I had never encountered an irrigation diversion dam before, so I anxiously awaited the appearance of this one. As we closed toward the bend, I reviewed the events which led up to our present adventure. It began long before when I inquired about the possibility of a float trip on the Republican River from Swanson Reservoir to Harlan Reservoir, but Bill knew the river well and clued me in.

"Above McCook there won't be enough water to float a matchstick," he informed me, "and besides, we won't have time. A canoe might make it from Swanson to Harlan in a week, but it would entail a lot of portaging on the upper end."

We had only two days to spare and with two diversion dams to tackle on the way, I realized we would be cutting it pretty close, so I accepted Bill's alternative of a McCook-to-Harlan float. Our group met in McCook the night before the float to finalize our plans and after the briefing, we turned in, for the next day promised to be a long one. We hurriedly picked up last-minute supplies and chowed down the next morning before beginning our odyssey. We launched above the McCook" bridge at 8:45 a.m., with our boats loaded to the gunwales with gear and gallons of gasoline.

It took the six of us more than an hour just to get all the stuff from our cars into the boats. Pioneers yes, but modern pioneers, softened and pampered by years of easy living. Lewis and Clark would have laughed at our "necessities", but everything we had seemed to be something we couldn't be without. A recent rain had raised (Continued on page 48)

OCTOBER, 1967 21

PRAIRIE TIME MACHINE

Grand Island's Stuhr Museum whirls back years to days of soddy and resolute settler by Lowell Johnson 22 NEBRASKAland

FROM DREAM to reality was a long time, but the Stuhr Museum of the Prairie Pioneer at Grand Island is worth the wait. The dream of establishing a museum began more than 50 years ago with a group of German settlers who knew the importance of preserving their heritage. These early-day pioneers are now memorialized in one of the most unusual, extensive, and impressive developments in the nation. It has the potential of being one of NEBRASKAland's top attractions.

Although the museum building itself more than justifies the humble dreams of those early settlers, it is only the beginning. The entire 267 acres comprising the museum complex will join the main building in bringing the past to the present, for the past is there to see and feel and explore.

Original buildings, once the homes of families who turned over Nebraska's native prairies to expose the agricultural wealth beneath, have been re-established at the site. These homes are being restored to their original condition and will have authentic furnishings. Many of the buildings now situated at the museum are formed in a village. There are business places, sheds, homes, and a grand depot, not grand in size, but grand in tradition. Poised in front of the depot is a steam locomotive, tender, and several railroad cars which will soon become the center of attraction for youngsters and old-timers alike.

A brief journey around the grounds is like stepping into a time machine and whirling back the years, for the imagination needs little coaxing. Even now, before all the necessary preparations have been made to add character to the interiors of the buildings, there is something magical about the town. Visitors make the town live, yet it is only a small part of Stuhr Museum's total enchantment. The primitive road which takes the traveler from the museum building to the village leads on to other marvels.

Down the road a bit is the pride and joy of a prairie community, a sparkling green and white church whose 50-foot belfry is visible for miles around. Further down is a log-cabin settlement, looking as if it were still the crude but sturdy abodes for hardened frontiersmen and their families.

These things are only part of the final product, if there ever can be an end to such a development. Future plans call for a log fort, sod houses, and a complete wagon train drawn into a circle to protect the travelers from marauding Indians. And not far from the wagon train will be the source of its apprehensions, an Indian encampment. An entire Indian village may also find its way into the present, along with another segment of Nebraska's former business scene, a trapper's camp. A trading post will be located conveniently near to provide the trappers with the necessities and niceties of their day.

Waterways, including the Wood River, will intersect fields of native grasses. A large plot will be designated a recreation area with camping and picnic grounds for the modern traveler. Plans for the future also call for establishment of wild-animal, zoological, and botanical exhibits, and an agricultural demonstration field. A working farm, with buildings and equipment recently retired from actual use, will be on display for the benefit of future generations.

While the "hinterlands" of the museum carry their own allure, the center of attraction is the main building which by contrast and design serves as the focal point.

The building has meaning, and even in its construction there was significance. The pouring of concrete for the first-floor ceiling was the largest project of its kind in the history of central Nebraska. About 1 million pounds of cement went into the pour which went on for 14 hours. Finish work continued for another seven hours.

The entire building was constructed in place by extensive use of reinforcing steel and multitudinous forms. Special plastic cups were used on the underside of the overhanging roof to add design and acoustical qualities. Even before the building started, a special preparation was needed underground t6 support the massive weight.

A unique innovation known as vibro-flotation was employed to stabilize the sand upon which the structure rests. The process involved a long tube which punctured its own (Continued on page 49)

OCTOBER, 1967 23

24 NEBRASKaland

WALK A WILD RIVER

From a mere trickle to surging torrent, moody Niobrara has many vistas to unfold as it ambles across NEBRASKAland

THE INDIANS ALL had a name for it-Spreading River, Big Water, Rapid River, Running Water, and Surprise River. French explorers mapped it as "L'eau qui court", the water that runs. Today, we know it as the Niobrara, which is as close as the white man could get to the Omaha-Ponca name, Ni obthatha ke, water spreading and flowing through a plain.

OCTOBER, 1967 25   26 NEBRASKAland

A mere trickle in Sioux County where it enters Nebraska, the Niobrara widens and deepens as it surges to meet the Missouri near the town of Niobrara. No roads parallel it, and few cross it. Now a portion of the "Running Water" is included in the Wild Rivers Bill put before Congress to preserve it and others in their natural state. And, that stretch of the river still not harnessed for power or flood control is the only Nebraska stream included in the act.

While man has managed to deface parts of the Niobrara with the rusting hulks of autos and other assorted trash, much of this rambling river remains untouched and unspoiled. The upper reaches are havens for trout. On downstream, as silt clouds the water, catfish take over.

The valley of the Niobrara has many wonders to unfold, as the river ambles across northern Nebraska. A shy mule deer and her fawn edge up to the water for a morning drink. Swift antelope frolic along the shore, and a graceful blue heron swoops low over the lazy water. Wild turkeys lurk in the underbrush, and a sly coyote lies in wait for an unsuspecting rabbit. In fall and spring, the skies overhead are crowded with high-flying ducks and geese looking for a spot to rest.

OCTOBER, 1967 27   28 NEBRASKAland

All seems serene, but like a moody child the river can change suddenly — from a gently rolling stream to a rampaging torrent, as it rushes through rapids and bulls its way between rugged limestone bluffs. It froths and foams, gleaming white and silver in the summer sun, while gnarled driftwood bears mute testimony to its passing frenzy.

OCTOBER, 1967 29   30 NEBRASKAland

With its cottonwoods, pines, and occasional cedars, the Niobrara valley is a sharp contrast to the surrounding grasslands of the Sand Hills. Here and there, ranch houses encroach, and man's further trespass is evidenced in frail footbridges suspended precariously across the stream.

From the scenic Pine Ridge to picturesque Horseshoe Falls to Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge with its buffalo and longhorns, this independent river called the Niobrara tumbles its way across the traditional hunting grounds of the Sioux and Pawnee. An oasis to the pioneer, this untamed stream remains a place to seek the solitude of nature. Still sparsely settled, the Niobrara becks all who have a yen to get away from the madcap antics of the 20th Century. Yield to the siren call and see for yourself.

THE END OCTOBER, 1967 31

NO TIME FOR TURKEY

Each stoke of call draws a lovesick tom nearer. Minutes are hours as we face showdown by Ginger Jensen

WHEN I HEARD that first faint gobble, my heart leaped into my throat. I hadn't really been too sure what I was listening for, and the sound was so far away that at first I thought it was the wind blowing through the pines. My husband, Ron, had the same thought, as he looked at me questioningly, "Did you hear it, too, or is it just a figment of my imagination?" Our host, Floyd "Stu" Hissam, hadn't heard it. But he got out of the jeep as Ron began stroking the cedar-box call.

Immediately there was a frantic gobble, so loud and distinct that I thought the old Merriam's turkey was going to jump in the jeep with me. I was so excited I wanted to squeal. We had just heard, for the first time, the thrilling gobble of a wild torn answering the call of ahen.

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon in late April. We were high in the hills of the George James Ranch west of Crawford, Nebraska. And this was our first spring-turkey hunt.

With Stu's encouragement, we had decided two weeks earlier to try our luck at hunting the elusive Merriam's. Stu told us that the spring season offered the most thrills in hunting these magnificent birds since they have to be called in.

"They're a cagey old bird at this time of year," he said.

The actual chances of getting one are pretty slim."

But promise of an exciting hunt was enough to convince us that we wanted to try.

Not knowing anything about turkey hunting, and finding it difficult to hit the broadside of a barn with a baseball bat, I decided to let Ron handle the shooting end while I handled the camera. So, we boarded a plane in Lincoln with camera and a 12-gauge, double-barreled shotgun, plus two suitcases filled to the brim with hunting gear, including a box of No. 2's, and flew out to Chadron in the northwestern corner of the Nebraska panhandle that is considered prime turkey-hunting country.

From there we were going on to Fort Robinson State Park and hunt the Pine Ridge. Thanks to friendships with many of the residents of the area, including Stu, John Kurtz, superintendent of the park, and George James, on whose ranch we were hunting, Fort Robinson is almost like a home away from home to us.

Our plane touched down at 11 p.m. and when that first blast of cold air hit me, I started wondering if I had brought enough clothes. It was going to be real, real cold by hunting time —only four hours away.

Stu was there to meet us, and by the time we settled down at Fort Rob, it was close to midnight. Three o'clock in the morning was just around the corner, and I doubted that either of us would get much sleep. But by the time we had had the traditional "hunter's breakfast" of pancakes, bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, and coffee, we were ready.

It was even colder than I thought it was going to be, so I wore all the hunting clothes I had intended, plus some I hadn't. I had only taken the bottoms to my "long John's". John Kurtz was worried that I would get cold, so he gave me a padded jump suit that belonged to his wife, Pat. The suit was a little too big, and I probably would have scared any decent turkey into the next county, but I was warm.

We piled into a pair of jeeps and headed toward the James Ranch. We gathered in the kitchen to decide who would go where. According to John, he and George had seen about nine torn turkeys up by the spring tank a couple of weeks earlier. Some of us would go above the tank and hunt down.

Hunting with Ron and me were three men from Spencer, Iowa. They had flown in the afternoon before for their first Nebraska turkey hunt. Bob Cloud is the area manager for a chemical company, Frank Hart owns an automobile agency at Spencer, and Mabry Cornwall is a partner in a law firm.

As we bounced and jolted our way up a "road", I kept wondering who would feed our dogs in the event we never returned. The road, when it existed at all, consisted of two deep ruts heading up into the hills. We literally climbed over logs and good-size rocks and skirted the rims of what seemed to me bottomless canyons.

We got above the spring tank and Stu started letting one member of our party out at a time. Both John and Stu had told us that the secret to spring turkey hunting is to be completely hidden and quiet.

"Hide under a tree or fallen trunk. Stroke your call a few times, then sit perfectly still and wait. Don't move a muscle except your eyes, and those only if it is necessary. Wait about 15 to 20 minutes. If you don't hear anything, move on," they mentored.

According to Stu, the Merriam's sounded just like an old barnyard turkey. But having never been around a farm for any length of time, this did about as much good as telling me a horse goes "neigh".

But we were game, so we started on the long walk back down to the bottom of the canyon. We had been out almost two hours when I heard it. Ron was asleep. "Wake up," I whispered to him so loud they could have heard me down at the tank. "I hear a turkey —work your call." Just as he looked up bleary-eyed, we saw Frank Hart on the ridge across from us. What I had heard was Frank trying his call.

My doubts were dispelled when we finally reached the tank. There, under a tree, was the first Merriam's turkey I had ever seen. He had been shot by Dennis Shimmin, assistant superintendent at the fort. Dennis had been hiding behind a fallen tree trunk just east of the tank when he first heard the turkey several ridges away. He stroked his call and waited.

Later he told us that suddenly the turkey popped over the opposite ridge, working his way down. Every so often he would stop, beat his wings on the ground, and then strut toward what he thought was a hen. Dennis let him get to within 20 yards (Continued on page 56)

OCTOBER, 1967 33

A FOREST IS SAVED

by Fred Nelson Slowly making its way back after a 1965 fire, Halsey faced a graver threat. Could the ips be stopped?

DIRGE-LIKE SOUND filled the forest as chain saws bit into the strickened pines. One by one, the trees fell, casualties in the battle against the "ips," voracious little black-brown bark beetles so small that you have to look twice to see them once. Almost 500 people were fighting the beetles, fighting to save the Nebraska National Forest near Halsey from almost certain annihilation. The men had to stop the bugs. If they failed, the ips would go into second and third-generation hatches and become unbeatable.

JLuckily^the infested trees were easy to identify. Yellowing, fading needles and bits of "frass", sawdust-like deposits on the pines, were the clues. The fading was pronounced enough to show up on aerial photographs, and these were used to keep track of the spreading insects. Experts estimated that some 60,000 pines were infested with concentrations running from 1 or 2 trees per acre to a high of 250.

The solution was simple, but its execution was complex. All infested trees had to be marked, cut, limbed, and sprayed with lindane, a powerful and 34 NEBRASKAland somewhat toxic insecticide. Unless the ips were whipped, the rapidly multiplying populations would girdle and kill the healthy pines by sheer numbers.

On June 12, 1967, this threat to Nebraska's man-planted forest was declared a major emergency by the Regional Forest Service office in Denver. Immediately, men and materials from other national forests were dispatched to Halsey.

The struggle between man and bugs was the climax of a bizarre chain of events that began in May 1965, when lightning touched off a raging two-day fire that destroyed almost 7,000 acres of trees and more than 11,000 acres of rangeland. Not all of the trees in the burn area were killed, but they were weakened and their sap flow lessened.

Unknowingly, the stage was set for a pandemic of ips, but theibresters weren't worried. Nebraska was east of the beetles' normal range and none had ever been reported in the state's woodlands. Two years later, the ips hit.

The beetles were discovered by accident when foresters were investigating root rot in some jack pines. Entomologists were called in and by the last of May, it was evident that the forest was imperiled. No one knew where the ips came from, but foresters suspect two possible sources. The bugs could have ridden OCTOBER, 1967 35   in with a tourist from an infested area, or perhaps they had hoboed in on a flatcar of pulpwood.

Healthy trees can stand a normal infestation of ips, since the beetles bore into the inner bark and drown in the tree's sap before they can reproduce to dangerous levels. However, the fire-weakened trees of Halsey, with their minimum sap flow, provided perfect host conditions for the insects. There was enough moisture to sustain the bugs, but not enough to drown them.

Multiplying rapidly, the ips were always pushing to find new homes for their increasing numbers. This population pressure forced the ips to select healthy pines, girdling them until the trees were literally bled out.

District Ranger Dan Heinz, five months at Halsey, didn't have time to ponder the interlockings of fate that had spawned the danger to his forest. Like a general preparing an attack, he had to estimate the situation, decide where to hit first, and marshal the manpower and materials to do the job.

The Forest Service couldn't do it alone. Some independent contractors could be hired, but the biggest share of the manpower would have to come from outside sources. Two Job Corps camps, the Pine Ridge unit at Chadron and the Box Elder group in South Dakota, seemed to be the best bets. Boys from the Kearney Training School were also likely prospects. The Nebraska National Guard could be counted on to furnish vehicles and drivers. Denver cut the red tape and soon the Job Corpsmen and the boys from Kearney were on their way. A quick tally showed that approximately 460 people would be available for the big push against the ips.

Jim Webb, logistics officer at Halsey, faced a tremendous task. Somehow, he had to round up everything from cots to cookies and he had to do it quickly. Some of the needs could be filled by other forests, but much of it would have to come from Nebraska. Chow for the young army was a giant problem in itself. Then, Jim discovered just how helpful Nebraskans can be. A church group in Halsey prepared and served hundreds of meals to the workers while cafes in Thedford and Halsey stretched their facilities to the upmost to take care of the overflow.

The boys from Kearney and the Job Corpsmen could be tented in the forest, but older workers needed better facilities. Ranchers and townspeople met the need with offers of rooms and beds.

Mrs. Eleanor Horst, manager of the 4-H Camp, turned the camp dining room into an around-the-clock mess hall. The Job Corps furnished cooks and helpers to prepare and carry food to the boys in the camps. The young fellows were eaters. One grocery bill alone came to $1,900 and that didn't include the meat. A minor stalemate in cookie making was licked when Eleanor bought a 20-gallon refuse can for a mixing bowl and a canoe paddle for a stirring spoon. Besides feeding the bug fighters, the camp continued its regular 4-H activities.

Webb scoured Omaha by phone and had 50 new chain saws flown in. Denver chased down all the lindane in the country and kept it coming into Halsey. Other supervisory personnel pitched in to establish "gook" dumps where the insecticide, mixed with diesel oil, could be jeeped to the spray crews. One by one, the details were ironed out and within three days, the project was rolling.

Ranger Heinz had a full quota of important but less tangible problems. Working from aerial photos and visual reports, he selected the priority areas and organized his crews under the leadership of experienced men. These were time-consuming chores, but not half as worrisome as the human unknowns.

Felling trees is dangerous work and chain saws are treacherous machines. Could the inexperienced boys from the cement jungles of America's greatest cities be trusted with potentially dangerous tools? A crash safety-training program was set up and the boys took it to heart. Time was of the essence, but for safety, it was decided to limit the workday to eight hours. The boys were diligent in observing all the safety precautions and there wasn't one serious injury during the whole operation.

There was another possibility that no one wanted to talk about, but it was there and it plagued the men in charge of the Halsey project. Would the kids work? They would and they did, and before the last tree went down, hard-bitten forest men and city-bred boys were 36 NEBRASKAland the best of friends with a great deal of mutual respect for each other.

Spotters, followed by six-man crews of sawyers and sprayers, marked the infested trees. Checkers followed the cuttings, looking for trees that were missed. Today's healthy looking tree was often tomorrow's fader, and checkers were probably the busiest men in the whole operation as they checked and re-checked their sectors.

The boys from Kearney were assigned areas of light infestation. Young and full of zip, these youngsters enjoyed the hide-and-go-seek aspect of finding the marked trees. The older youths of the Job Corps were more efficient in the hard tree-by-tree labor of cutting and spraying. One young sawyer surprised veteran treemen with his production. Greener than grass, he fell 180 trees in one day. Experienced fallers consider 200 trees, a great day's work.

Heinz could only shake his head when camp overseers reported that the boys still had the energy to chase cows after eight hours of back-breaking toil in the stifling-hot woods. Almost reluctantly, he signed an order forbidding the Job Corpsmen from making like amateur rodeo stars.

On the evening of June 22, Dan laid it on the line at the regular debriefing session. To whip the ips and save the forest, each of the crews would have to down 150 trees every day until the 30th. The next night, the ranger could hardly believe the reports. Every crew had beaten the quota. From then on, it was all downhill and the job was done on June 28 —two days early. About 97 per cent of the ips were destroyed and the few that remained were no longer a threat. Hot-line crews could easily keep them under control.

When the time came for summary and review, no one argued when Dan said that the success of the whole operation hinged on the Job Corps and the boys from Kearney. "Without their dedicated efforts," he declared, "this forest would have been lost. There isn't anything else to say."

THE END OCTOBER, 1967 37

TWO-BIT DOG BOOTS

by John P. Breckenridge With easy-to-make foot gear, Rover can romp over sandburs like they aren't even there 38 NEBRASKAland

RIDICULOUS OR CUMBERSOME as rubber boots for dogs may sound, they're perfect. You wear appropriate protective hunting boots, so why not your dog? Both of you will find happier hunting, your dog because he is protected from torn and punctured feet, and you because of the heap of money and trouble you will save.

A paw torn open on thistles or some other hazard means your faithful companion won't do much hunting for quite awhile. The master who does attempt to work a dog with perforated pads won't get much co-operation, but more important, he invites additional injury to his animal.

Boots will not chafe your dog's feet, since the brogans can be comfortably made to fit any size foot. They are a breeze to put on and take off. Don't worry about a lost boot either, because they can be replaced for about the cost of the next shot you squeeze off.

The whole secret behind these dog boots is as long and as big around as a bicycle inner tube, or if your faithful hunter has big slough feet, it's a motorcycle tube for him.

Once you have the inner tube, fitting your dog is no problem. Just cut the tube into lengths of about 10 inches. Slip your pooch's foot about 5 inches or halfway into the 10-inch tube section. Next, just fold the remaining half over the top of his foot and up his leg. Then, secure the new boot firmly with a length of tape. I have found that black electrician's tape works best. But, be sure to avoid getting the sticky tape on the dog's hair. It really smarts when someone removes tape attached to your hair, and your dog will yelp, too.

When fitting the dog, remember to use enough tape to anchor the boot to his leg and to hold it snugly in place around his foot. Don't forget to leave enough room for his toenails when you fold the rubber up to be secured. From your experiences with boots, when the fit is too short you won't wear the boot. Remove the boots at the end of a hunt, or the dog's feet will get hot and sweaty. Putting talcum powder in the boots isn't a bad idea and even poking small venilation holes with a hot needle or sharp object will keep your hunter happier with his new footwear.

Boot sizes come in a large range. The largest bicycle tube measures 2.125 inches in diameter and is ideal for dogs with small feet. Big-footers can sport motorcycle tubes with size diameters of 2%, 2%, or 3 inches. If you find it is necessary to go above the three-inch diameter larger sizes are available.

If you have not used dog boots, don't be disturbed when your dog goes into a high kicking cancan. He'll forget them when the hunting starts, and he is able to rip and tear through sandburs, cactus, and other hazards that stop a barefooted dog.

Cost of your dog boots is almost nothing. Used inner tubes can be purchased at a fraction of the price of a new one, and I have yet to meet the dog whose vanity causes him to insist on brand new tubes. Dog boots are manufactured commercially and can be purchased at a practical price, but making custom-fit boots is considerably less expensive and can be a lot of fun for you. And, your dog will appreciate your thoughtfulness.

THE END NEBRASKAland proudly presents the stories of its readers. 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, NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln 68509. Send photographs, black and white or color, too, if any are available. OCTOBER, 1967 39

COOL CATS

Area anglers say the Loup Power Canal is made for fish. One go of its 36-mile stretch and I'm set to agree by Bob Snow

THE WHINE of the 31/2-horsepower outboard was a knife through the early-morning quiet, but snoozing riverside life seemed unconcerned as Don Rickner and Gene Kneifel dropped anchor in the Loup Power Canal. Although the early-July countryside was not yet awake, both men assured me that catfish in the area had no bedtime. We were using two boats, with Gene and Don in one, and Allan Sicks, Game Commission photographer, and I in the other. It was my first go at canal catfishing, but with our two companions acting as guides, the odds on catching fish were pretty good. The two are cousins, both own service stations in Columbus, and have fished the Loup and Platte rivers and the Loup Power Canal for a good share of their lives. The canal has been a fish haven since the late 1930's. Its 36-mile stretch was built to furnish electric power to Columbus and several other communities, but to anglers its power production is secondary.

The canal gets its start when water from the Loup River is diverted into the channel southwest of Genoa. It winds north and east, passing north of Monroe, and heads back south after leaving Lake Babcock. The canal ends when it empties into the Platte River south- east of Columbus. A dirt road runs along most of the canal, so boats aren't really needed except on Lake Babcock and adjoining Lake North. Anglers may use boats on any part of the canal provided they do not have motors. However, motors are allowed on all parts of Lake Babcock.

40 NEBRASKAland OCTOBER, 1967 41  

Earlier, we had stopped at Gene's combination service station and bait shop to pick up a variety of fish attractors. Catfish can be finicky eaters, hitting minnows and stink baits at times, while at other times preferring worms or crawdads. As we headed up a deserted highway leading to the lake, Gene braked to a stop. Don, flashlight in hand, hopped out of the truck. During the night, sand toads move to the warmth of the pavement, and early-morning hours are perfect times to gather these catfish enticers. We each planned to use different baits. Don had minnows, both alive and dead. Gene chose crawdads and toads, and I was going to dangle worms and minnows.

The ripples had barely disappeared from Rickner's first cast when his rod bounced gently. Still sleepy, he glommed onto his fly rod with its closed-face spinning reel. The rod tip dipped again, and the Columbus fisherman countered. The fly rod let the fish give 42 NEBRASKAland his best, but he wasn't any lunker. After a few seconds Don hoisted the small drum from the water, removed the hook, and decided to let him grow.

On the angler's second cast another fish found the live minnow and Don set the hook on a small white bass. The fish fought vigorously against the six-pound-test line, but his struggle was short.

My rod evidently was jealous, for it took a small bow as Don was unhooking his fish. As I reeled in, a white bass slapped his tail a couple of times on the water and then gave up. My sinker had just touched bottom on the next toss when another fish stole the minnow. The bait robber was probably another white bass, but it was hard to say for certain. You can find anything from walleye to crappie in the canal and every catch can be a surprise until it surfaces. I was fishing with two rods, and as I rebaited one, my ultra-light rig arched almost to the water's surface. The customer on the other end stayed deep, keeping his identity a secret. He was big enough to buzz the drag, but I finally hoisted him over the side. It was a carp.'

I didn't have to wait long for action after rebaiting, for another white bass hit and tried to beat a retreat.' Relatively new in the canal, white bass average between seven and nine inches with a few adult spawners going well above that size. Mine, though, was run-of-the-mill.

Upping anchor, Don and Gene moved to a hole that had produced some nice catches in the past. Nibbles were keeping me busy, so I was satisfied to stay put.

"How's the fishing down there?" Gene hollered. "Want to move up here? They seem to be biting pretty well."

"What are they hitting on?" I yelled in reply.

"They're taking minnows and.." Kneifel's words faded as he yanked back on his rod. A one-pound channel catfish belly rolled when he felt the No. 2 hook, and then headed for open water. The bait-shop owner pumped his rod and soon lifted the fish. He held him up for our benefit before throwing his catch into the wire basket.

"As I was saying, they are hitting minnows and crawdads," Gene smiled. "I still think stink bait is best, but I'll go along with you purists for the time being, especially when I'm catching fish."

"Are you hooking the crawdads through the tail and tearing off the pincers?" I asked.

"Through the tail, and I leave the pincers on unless they are too big. But Don always tears them off. It's a matter of preference," was the answer.

I cast a shiner toward a partly submerged stump hoping a catfish would be waiting. I didn't have to wait long. There was a tap, a wait, a tap, and a wait. On his third try I whacked him. The fish was quick, for the familiar tug never came.

"They're hitting real easy, so play with them a little before you set the hook," Don suggested.

A catfish gobbled down his minnow and he set the hook. The flathead was only frying-pan size, but he added variety to our take.

"Fishing is awfully slow this morning," Gene commented, surveying our total of five cats. "Usually you can come close to catching a limit before they start letting water out at the Columbus powerhouse. When they release the water, fishing is done until later in the evening."

The cousins race stock cars as a hobby, and the night before our fishing trip, they had taken two autos to an Omaha track. Each car was damaged in a smash-up, and the pair had to get them in running condition by the weekend, so the two planned to knock off fishing at 1 p.m. to work on (Continued on page 54)

OCTOBER, 1967 43

Pheasant & Rabbit Hunting In Newman Grove Hunting Privileges-Lodging and Home-cooked Meals HILLSIDE HUNTING LODGE Jack & Carola Reigle Newman Grove, Nebraska Phone 477-2367 For hunting and accommodations that are sure to please, try MEDICINE CREEK LODGE Cafe Modern Cabins Resident and non-resident Permits Game Cleaning and Freezing Service 7,000 acres of open hunting Camping available Located 2 mi. west, 8 mi. north and 2 mi. west of Cambridge. Write Medicine Creek Lodge, Cambridge, Nebraska 69022 Phone 697-3774 Zrade Winds marina Located six miles east of Loup City on the east side of Sherman Dam Trailer rental. Modern trailers with all facilities... cooking, refrigeration, bath. Can accommodate from 24 to 30 hunters. Parking for overnight campers. Boat rental (fishing and runabout) Cafe, Ice, Groceries, Gas and oil Fishing equipment, Bait, Fishingand Hunting permits Plentiful pheasants, ducks, and geese Phone 185 Roy D. Wooden, Manager Loup City, Nebraska 68853

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Safe Spot. At least one elk in Arizona is a wise one. The day before the elk season opened, officials at a state wildlife refuge received word of an attack on the cyclone fence around the preserve. Investigating, they found a 1,200-pound bull elk demolishing part of the fence. Evidently, he was trying to get inside before he became legal game outside.— Arizona

Henpecked. A sportsman reported that he saw five wild torn turkeys crossing a road near Penfield. A week later, five hens crossed the road at the same place, going the same way. Had the toms been so long gone that the hens went after them, or were they just doing a follow up and keeping an eye on their spouses? — Pennsylvania

Invisible Fish. At an outdoor show in the East, a prankster filled an empty aquarium with water and put up a sign saying "invisible fish". Visitors flocked to the display. Some asked where the fish were caught and what bait was used. Another man claimed he had caught a similar fish, but the cat ate him. He was disappointed because a friend had told him invisible fish were delicious.— New York

Year of the Hunter. Students still sit and daydream about getting out of class to hunt and fish, and they still have teachers tearing their hair. In a Kentucky classroom, a teacher asked her class to name the four seasons. One young lad raised his hand and proudly recited. "There's deer season, squirrel season, quail season, and I forget the other one."—Kentucky

Fishing De Luxe. In Germany after paying for a fishing permit, you must also pay the landowner for using his pond or lake. For every fish caught there is a fee, and angler must also give his catch to the landowner. Finally, if you want to keep your catch, you must buy the fish back from the farmer. — Germany

Ringing Ears. A live bear stuck his head into a lady camper's tent at an Arizona campground. The startled woman politely asked the bear to leave, but the animal refused. Picking up her frying pan, the lady banged her visitor over the head. When a Game Commission biologist stopped to check the disturbance, the woman asked him if the bear would return.

"Not until his ears stop ringing," the man answered. — Arizona

50 NEBRASKAland

FROST ON THE DECOY

(Continued from page 49)

range just as we were changing positions. I worried they might see us because I had been told that wary, gun-shy birds are especially adept at spotting movement. It is true that when ducks are in sight, hunters should keep still. Evidently though, this group was too occupied with our dummies and Bud's enticing "come-on" to see us.

Before I really realized what was happening, a hen plopped down among our decoys. I leaped into position and the hen, who nearly had a heart attack trying to lift off, offered an easy shot, but I passed her up for a drake that had zipped in behind me. One shot dropped him. A fine specimen, he reached the four-pound mark, a good one to finish on.

We were all filled, but we stuck around to see if a few more mallards would drop into our set up. Bud told me he often played the watching game.

"The best way I know to learn about duck hunting is to stay put after the shooting is over and watch and listen. Nothing will give you a better idea of feeding patterns and the types of water ducks like. I have stayed in the blind for hours just listening. Listen, listen, listen. I think that's the best advice I can give. Nothing else helps so much that I know of. You don't have to be a hotshot caller to score, but the better you get, the more fun you'll have.

"Soft, simple calls will do when you're getting started," he continued as we readied our gear for departure. "You shouldn't overdo it until you master the art. Just get their attention and settle for making the decoys seem alive."

I left the North Platte River a bit more knowledgeable in the art of duck hunting because you can't hunt with an expert like Bud without learning something, even if it's only a little thing like watching for icy decoys. But I had acquired something else — something I couldn't have been taught in a hundred years. It's the seeing of mighty mallards on the wing, the anticipation of that moment when they decide, set wings, lower gear, spill air frantically, and drop in — that moment is the true reward of duck hunting.

THE END

ELBOW ROOM APLENTY

(Continued from page 44)

shooting, while the remainder offers ideal habitat for pheasant, quail, and other small game. The reservoir is located between Republican City and Alma on U.S. highways 183 and 136. Five national wildlife refuges in Nebraska are operated by the Bureau of Sport Fisheries and Wildlife. The refuges excede 150,000 acres and serve up a variety of hunting under certain regulations. Hunters must check with the refuge superintendents for specific hunting dates and requirements.

The bureau also operates 20 rain-water basins. These basins are spread through southeastern Nebraska with locations in 6 counties, and cover about 5,600 acres. Signs bordering the areas read, "Waterfowl Production Area, Open to Public Hunting". Clay County leads the list with about 1,400 acres, while Filmore County is next with about 1,000. York, Phelps, Gosper, and Kearney counties follow in order. Several different species of ducks can be found in the basins. Teal, mallard, pintail, redhead, and shoveler are most common, giving the hunter an excellent opportunity for shooting action. Pheasants are also an important part of the basins' hunting opportunities.

About 50 state-recreation areas offer nearly 40,000 acres of public-access land for hunters, hikers, fishermen, and other outdoor recreation seekers. Every area is open to public hunting from October 1 to April 1 unless otherwise designated.

Generally, these areas provide pheasant, quail, and rabbit hunting, and many provide waterfowl shooting. Big game can also be found on many of them. These are spread across the state and contain the game animals and birds common to their particular section. Like the special-use areas, most of the recreation spots are open to waterfowlers. Those that are closed are so posted.

For example, the Alexandria Lakes Recreation Area, five miles east of Alexandria in southeastern Nebraska, is open to the shooting of webfeet while all but two of the Salt Valley Recreation Areas near Lincoln are closed to waterfowl shooting.

The Cropland Adjustment Program (CAP) is the newest provider of public-access lands in Nebraska. Similar to the old Soil Bank program, it differs in a few respects. The CAP was authorized by the Food and Agriculture Act of 1965 and was initially put into practice in 1966. Thus far, it gives Nebraska sportsmen approximately 111,000 acres of open land. Although just about every county has CAP ground, the bulk lies in the south-central and southeastern portions of the state. The Nebraska Game Commission is involved with the program, but basically CAP is administered and financed by the Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service (ASCS).

Landowners who enter into a long-term agreement under the CAP have the option of additional payments by improving their fields for wildlife. A contract requires the owners to free the land for certain public uses, including hunting. CAP land is designated with large green and white signs, and the boundaries are marked with similar smaller signs. These acres are open for hunting, hiking, fishing, and trapping without specific permission. Other uses are at the discretion of the landowner.

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Not all landowners who enter into CAP take the option to improve the land for wildlife, and unless their land is posted with the signs, permission is therefore required. For hunting on posted CAP lands specific permission need not be obtained because of the prior agreement with the co-operating landowners. Even so, sportsmen should respect this privilege and conduct themselves accordingly. Generally, CAP lands OCTOBER, 1967 51   provide excellent prospects for nearly all game native to their area. Since the landowners are not farming the land, ample cover is provided.

More and more land is being set aside for public use, so the combination of special-use areas, federally-managed land, recreation areas, and CAP land promises a bright future for outdoor recreation here. Thanks to these various programs, that old-fashioned elbow room that Daniel Boone use to talk about is a reality.

THE END

FRONTIER SOLDIER

(Continued from page 17)

watchdog for the railroads. To quell tempers and appease the men, the army often awarded the "pick-and-shovel warriors" a gill of whiskey a day for a tough job. Sometimes the bribe worked, other times it didn't. The men had to drink the red-eye as it was issued rather than hoard it and then go on a real bender.

Frontier soldiers knew the jobs around the fort had to be done and they were willing to do their part, but they didn't want to be too quick at it. They weren't slackers, but they played the angles. The enlisted men not only built forts, but once they were constructed, the foot sloggers were busy remodeling them. If there wasn't a corral to repair, there were buildings to whitewash, and if the buildings were whitewashed, the officers quarters had to be expanded. Nebraska's forts were often a long way from a fuel supply, so details were sent out daily to keep the home fires burning. Water wasn't much of a problem with most of the outposts along a river or creek, but water still had to be hauled to the compound.

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With thousands of people crossing the plains, one of the troopers' major duties was furnishing escorts for immigrant and supply trains, cattle herds, and paymasters. The job gave the soldiers a chance to act like the fighting men they were, but the work was tiresome, especially if they were playing nursemaids to frontier greenhorns.

Guard mount was one of the highlights of the military day. With bugles sounding, the relief guards, in full uniform, were inspected by the sergeant major, who announced the password and duty assignments. Then the officer of the day made an inspection before the soldiers marched to their posts for the usual two hours on and four hours off. Soldiers of the day didn't relish the prospect of guard duty, for it entailed a lot of spit and polish that had to be done on their own free time, and there was precious little of that.

'You get your meals, boarding, and clothes free, plus $13 a month to boot," the recruiting sergeant would tell a prospective recruit. What he didn't tell him was that for 43 cents a day he had to build roads, ride wire, and maybe fight Indians. He got his meals free, but the sergeant forgot to tell him that the diet was mostly hardtack, baked beans, 52 NEBRASKAland salted bacon, coffee, and some locally contract-supplied range beef.

Frontier forts were isolated and fresh vegetables, eggs, butter, and milk were almost unheard of. Rations at a fort sometimes ran low and on such occasions, it was bean soup or beef hash three meals a day for days on end. Milk and eggs could sometimes be obtained from settlers, and they were usually purchased from company funds. If the soldiers were fortunate, a break in the diet came at Christmas or Thanksgiving when turkeys and other special foods were served by the company mess.

What the army wouldn't do for the soldier, he did for himself. Gardens were common, and often companies competed to raise the best plot. An enlisted man with an exceptional green thumb was relieved of his duties during the growing months to make sure that fresh vegetables were in the summer diet. Extensive gardening was done at Forts Sidney and Laramie due to effective irrigation systems. One post chaplain had a 10-acre plot for the raising of vegetables. Soldiers serving in Nebraska were fortunate. Venison, rabbit, grouse, turkey, antelope, and buffalo were welcome additions to the chow.

Few men expected luxurious quarters on the frontier, but most hoped for more than a cot and footlocker in a rather bleak room. In the crowded barracks, a man had little time and less space to himself. A new recruit found his bed far from the windows during the hot summer and far from the stove in the winter. An enlisted man had to have seniority to push someone out of a better bunk location and be tough enough to do it.

The pay was low, but it was enough to get him in trouble. "Hog ranches", shacks with bars and poker tables and ladies of easy virtue, sprouted up close to most military outposts. Pay-day head-quarters for off-duty servicemen, these hog ranches took care of a month's wages in one night.

Gambling halls, drinking dives, and houses of accommodation did little to help the morals of the troopers. The soldier drank bad whiskey and was charged high prices for it. The men were lonely and were willing to shake boredom by spending money and civilians knew it.

With the dreariness of the frontier, excessive drinking was a severe problem. During the 1880's, 1 of every 25 men serving in the army was treated for alcoholism. At Fort McPhearson between 1870 and 1874, an average of 11 men per year were treated as confirmed alcoholics. The army, attempting to curb drinking, banned whiskey at the fort, but soldiers, always a shrewd lot, were not to be outdone. Vanilla extract, cologne, and anything else with alcoholic contents went down the hatch as did liquor smuggled into the post.

When the Seventh Cavalry pulled into Beatrice on its way to the Dakotas, a guard was immediately placed at the door of the bar to keep soldiers out. Not to be done out of money, the bar owner had men sneak quarts out onto the street and sell the whiskey on the sly. When the soldiers' money ran out, the owner agreed to take army blankets in exchange, a common trade back then. When the troopers saw the liquor seller throwing their blankets in a room behind the bar, the men went through a window to retrieve their whiskey-buying government merchandise to start the cycle all over again.

Saloon keepers, willing to take chances to make a buck, were crafty in their methods. In 1889, after war games in western Nebraska, a farmer was given permission to sell watermelons inside the camp. Some melons sold for 10 cents and others a dollar. In the dollar melons was a bonus, a pint of whiskey, and the enlisted men made sure the secret didn't leak out.

Punishment for drunkenness bordered on the barbaric. One method was to bind the offender and then gag him with a bar of yellow army soap. Left in a drunken daze for several hours in this condition, the results were revolting, often devastating, and always left a lasting memory.

Drunks were also tied to wagon wheels with the hub squarely in their backs. A half hour was misery and a half day was unbearable. Soldiers staggering around the fort with a whiskey bottle in their possession were given the task of burying the bottle. A whiskey-bottle funeral demanded a 10-foot square by 10-foot deep hole. Punishments for other offenses such as stealing, insubordination, and neglect of duty were used on drunks as well. Hanging by the thumbs, a month in barracks 13 (the brig), loss of pay, a bust in rank, and extra duty were common punishments.

At the top of the list was desertion. Between 1867 and 1891, peak years in the Indian campaigns, nearly one third of the men recruited deserted. Reasons for desertion varied. Often a new recuit went AWOL after fellow soldiers, seeing the new man would never make a good campaigner, continually picked on him until he could no longer take it. The method weeded out weak men, but it also cost the government money. Deserters had the habit of hitching onto government property, even horses, before leaving.

Recruits, unable to adjust to the monotonous and lonely life, were the first to go over the hill, as were those who joined for adventure. During the Black Hills gold rush, many veterans decided a chance at a million dollars was better than a sure $13 a month and became gold seekers. During the spring when construction work on the frontier picked up, desertions were common. The jobs, many similar to the work the soldiers were doing, paid good money compared to the military pittance.

To curb desertions, the army offered $30 rewards to citizens, Indians, and soldiers for the return of the men. The reward was incentive for some bounty hunters, but most frontiersmen held no malice for those who wanted to escape military life. In some forts, a patrol was kept on constant alert to track down deserters. Army Indian scouts, when available, were effective man hunters.

If a man didn't desert, there was another way out of the lonely, boring world of frontier military life —suicide. The War Department records show that a ratio of 76 out of 1,000 men killed themselves in a period between 1879 to 1888. Serious alcoholism was often a contributing factor to self destruction.

Not all soldiers were heavy drinkers, deserters, or suicide victims. Many had various ways of passing time, some legal, others illegal. Gambling was outlawed on every post, but rules were made to be broken. Poker games, ranging from barracks low-stakes card shuffles to highstakes, go-for-broke sessions in the back rooms of hog ranches, were favorite pay-day pastimes. Semi-professional gamblers, usually the best soldiers in the fort, were common at outposts.

For those who saved money or had spent their pay checks, there were other activities to while away the hours. Libraries, such as the one at Fort McPhearson, gave the men a costless pastime, provided they could read. Post schools for the children of soldiers and for troopers wishing to learn fundamental reading and writing were common.

Various sports kept the enlisted man's interest. Company baseball teams competed with each other. Fort Robinson had an all-post team made up of colored soldiers of the Ninth Cavalry. They and their white comrades of the Eighth Infantry competed with other frontier teams in the mid-1880's. Horseracing, footracing, and other betting affairs satisfied the urge to pick a winner on Nebraska's wide-open prairie racetrack. Hunting was another favorite sport and boxing matches added excitement to a soldier's life.

Variety shows and theatrical productions, produced and directed by the soldiers, kept minds busy, especially during winter months when cold winds curtailed outside pleasures. Fort McPhearson, located on the Overland Trail, from time to time had professional entertainers passing through and they were often conned into performing for the soldiers.

Dances and similar social gatherings were held, but the events were not exciting to the soldier. In a land of too many men and too few women, partners of the opposite sex were scarce and often soldiers had to be content to dance with each other.

OCTOBER, 1967 53  

No story of military life would be complete without mentioning the army sergeants. They were rough, because their men were rough. Gaining three stripes through promotion wasn't easy on the frontier. A sergeant had to have the respect of his men and to gain that respect he often had to take on each man under him in a knock-down drag-out fight. If he won, he kept the rank. If he lost, the men would not co-operate and a sergeant who could not control his men was soon demoted.

Many sergeants were excellent except for their pay-day drinking. Some were busted one month, only to regain their rank the next because of their ability to lead men. A sergeant with his chevrons attached with pins was common. Officers could be mighty vigorous about enforcing military discipline on the post, but when the carbines began to crack, they knew that the three-stripers were the men who made the difference between survival or loss of scalp.

The frontier soldier's life was not as glamorous as television and movies make it. It took men, tough men, who fought, worked and died in a hard environment to tame the West. But tame it they did.

THE END

COOL CATS

(Continued from page 43)

the wrecks and get them in shape for competition.

At the powerhouse, the two decided to bank fish below the dam, rather than lower a boat down a steep incline to the water. They suggested I fish the snags, 200 yards down canal from the structure, and work my way to the dam.

The Columbus powerhouse area and Lake Babcock aren't the only fishing hotspots along the canal. The Monroe powerhouse, a mile north of Monroe, produces some good catfish, walleye, and a few crappie. But catfish aren't limited to the powerhouses and lakes. Brush piles, dead trees, and undercut banks along the entire stretch of the canal are catfish castles.

Gene is a never-sit-still-angler. If he doesn't get a bite in 10 minutes, he moves to another spot. We knew he was after a limit when he hauled out a jar of stink bait so ripe that only flies and catfish can stand it.

"I'm going to sponge fish now," he said, dipping a small red sponge into an oatmeal-like mixture of shad and brain bait. "I don't cover the sponge with the stuff, I just let it soak up the smell."

Don gibed that he wouldn't touch the stuff with a 10-foot pole. "Gene catches plenty of fish with it, but once you get it on your hands, you smell like dried shad for days."

Gene worked his way up the bank toward the powerhouse, casting toward fallen logs and debris. Don and I stayed put, hoping a cat would pass our way. Both of us were using minnows and didn't get a nibble, but distant shouts 54 NEBRASKAland from a rock dike on the opposite side of the canal, near the powerhouse, indicated that our companion was scoring.

We wasted little time gathering our gear. Fishing from the powerhouse wall is legal, but caution is a must. The stinkbait fisherman had claimed four cats and was working on a fifth by the time we had picked our way along the riprapped dike. The fish weren't big but all were eating size.

As Gene unhooked his fifth cat in 20 minutes, Don noticed minnows working next to the cement walls of the powerhouse. He felt we might be able to come up with some cats of our own and maybe some drum, crappie, or white bass if we used minnows for bait. The vertical drop down the cement wall to the water is about 15 feet, so Don let out enough line to dangle his bait a foot or two below the surface. He had claimed three fish during our early-morning excursion and he was sure he could equal Gene's catch.

I had just lowered my line over the side when Don hooked a cat, so I reeled in to give him room. The fish made a run for freedom, but Don had the situation in hand. We had fished three hours that morning for five catfish, a carp, and several throw-back white bass. Now, in a matter of 25 minutes, our total catch of catfish from the powerhouse was 6.

The cats usually run small down here," Don said. "I don't mean to say there aren't big fish below the powerhouse, they are just harder to catch."

As the angler watched his rod, he commented that catfish reaching 20 pounds or more have been coaxed from the Loup Canal. Although bluegill aren't common, the canal did produce the state record of two pounds, eight ounces.

The minnows were having a field day next to the wall, so Don lowered his line near a school. A hungry crappie, thinking the impaled minnow was part of the scurrying crowd, latched onto the bait. Running back and forth in an effort to shake the hook, the fish wasn't about to give up. As Don attempted to raise him from the water for the long ride up the wall, the fish flopped back and forth vigorously. Just as Don reached for the squirmer, the acrobatic crappie shook loose and splashed into the water.

"Well, there goes a good-size crappie," Don laughed. "Any fish with that much spunk deserves freedom."

Gene was nearing his limit. Don had hooked six channel cats and one flathead and was satisfied with the day's catch, but Gene hadn't moved from his hole, so when catfish No. 10 came knocking he was ready. Battling current and rocks that could sever the light monofilament, the determined angler carefully worked his catch toward shore.

"He's small, but I'll keep him," Gene decided, adding the take to his catch. Tomorrow morning, I'll take you to the Loup River to catch some real good cats."

Catfishing on the Loup River is often phenomenal in mid-July and August when the river is down. The low water forces the fish to congregate in the deep holes, but this time the river was still too high from recent rains to make angling exceptional. Still, the Columbus men promised me some fish. They are seldom skunked, so we made plans for a 7 a.m. go at the river.

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The next morning was bright, hot, and windy. At Gene's station, we picked up a few minnows and the stink bait. His bait shop is about seven years old, and all earnings from it go into a college fund for his five children.

"We really don't need to take bait with us when we fish the river," Don commented. "Cats go for the sand toads that we find in rocks and the sandy beaches along the Loup."

As we pulled to a stop, Gene shucked his shoes and jumped out of the car. Fishing the river correctly is a no-shoe, get-wet proposition. Don and Gene had rigged their line with two 1/16-ounce split shots, and each carried a bucket holding extra weights, hooks, and bait.

A sandy beach directly across the river looked like fertile hunting grounds for the small sand toads. Gene and Don were halfway across by the time I waded in. The weather was warm, but the water wasn't.

"That ought to wake you up," Gene shouted over his shoulder. "Now that your eyes are wide open, maybe you can catch a fish."

Don took the right flank, Gene the left, and I bulled my way up the center as we pounded around dead trees and bushes in search of the toads. If the fish were as hard to find as the toads, we were going to spend a miserable morning. Don explained that usually you can catch as many toads as you want in a matter of 10 minutes by prowling the sands. Our morning take, though, was shy.

We headed back to the river to do some fishing with a scant collection of four hoppers. I impaled a minnow and waded out. Gene cut across the river and sat on some rocks, letting his line drift next to an undercut. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him reel in quickly.

"We're in the catfish business, now," he shouted. "The darn toads are hiding in these rocks."

Fishing the Loup River is something like angling for trout. You wade to find the holes, and then let your bait float naturally into the fish hideouts. To be successful you must know the river or be able to recognize certain areas that look fishy. Cutbanks and fallen trees are excellent catfish havens and always worth a try.

As we moved up the river, Don tried several holes. The fish were biting, but not hitting hard. After several misses, I was about ready to quit. Don wasn't having any better luck.

"If you fellows would forget about the smell and use some of this stink bait, you might catch yourself some fish," Gene kidded.

Gene had taken two cats with his sponge bait. He knew the technique of letting the fish run before setting the hook. Sponge fishing is hard to master, and even old-timers will miss a fish from time to time. Gene always leaves some slack in his line and doesn't set the hook until a fish runs it out.

A dead tree, some still water, and an undercut bank looked promising, so Gene drifted his line into the spot. A channel catfish, figuring on a tasty meal, got a surprise when Kneifel set the hook. The two-pounder headed for the log, but Gene pumped the rod and picked up line. That catfish kept a date with the stringer.

Not to be outdone, Don headed for some snags and let the current carry his toad toward the tangles. The bite was a long time in coming, and when it did, it came in a series of three short taps. On the third hit, Don was ready, and the cat was hooked.

"It is just too early in the summer for good fishing, especially with all the rain we've been having," Don said. "I've seen times when we could be real picky about keepers. If they didn't run a pound-and-a-half or bigger, we threw them back."

As the fifth catfish of the day ended up on Gene's stringer, the two men decided to head for town and more repair work on their racers. Fishing had been slow, but there had been enough action to keep me interested. I didn't have any fish to show for the four-hour morning, but I had had my chances. I had taken a few the day before, so the trip was worth it. I'm ready to try again.

THE END

NO TIME FOR TURKEY

(Continued from page 33)

before he raised over the trunk and shot. His prize weighed out at 18 pounds.

By this time Frank, Bob, and Mab, who had been as unsuccessful as Ron and I, joined us and we started back to the fort for lunch.

There were more turkey stories flying around the fort than there were turkeys. One successful hunter described how he bagged his. "I called and he answered. Suddenly here he came —head down — running right at me. He never looked up.

Another hunter told that suddenly he was confronted by five or six toms. "The largest one," he said, "seemed to tell the others, 'Stand back, I'll handle this,' and he charged like he was at San Juan hill."

It had been a long morning, but there was still that afternoon and the next morning before we had to start home. So Stu, Ron, and I again went back up into the hills, over roads that were even worse than those we had traveled that morning. Every so often Stu would stop the jeep and Ron would try the call.

Just when I decided we would never hear a turkey, there it was —that faint gobble of our first Merriam's. It really did sound just like an old barnyard turkey. My heart stopped beating, then leaped into my throat when he answered again from just around the ridge from us. It wasn't cold, but all of a sudden I was shaking so hard I was afraid the old torn would hear my knees knocking. Stu whispered, "Be perfectly quiet. Don't step on any twigs."

We followed him up the side of the ridge, hid under a tree, and waited about 10 minutes. Stu sounded the call once more. Immediately, the Merriam's answered, a little to our right. Very quietly and very slowly we changed positions. Ron and Stu were sitting in front of me. We were dead still. The directions of that morning, "Don't move anything but your eyes," came back to me.

It seemed an eternity that we sat there — perfectly still —almost afraid to breathe. Then suddenly below us, the turkey started pecking his way out of the brush. I knew Ron and Stu could see him, but I was afraid to take a chance on moving. Every so often he would stop, "putt", and then continue. He got closer and closer. I thought to myself, "Why doesn't somebody shoot?"

All at once there was dead silence. Again, nothing but the wind blowing through the trees. Where did he go? At one instant he was there, and the next he was gone. No bird could possibly disappear into thin air like a phantom, not even one that can run like a deer. But turkeys have the eyes of a hawk. He must have known we were there, because he was gone.

Stu looked at the top of the ridge across from us. "Can you make it?" he asked.

It didn't look too bad. There were trees all the way up and a cow path cutting along the side. Besides, if a woman goes hunting, she has to keep up and not complain. So up the side of the ridge we went. I soon doubted my sanity. I was gasping for breath and my legs felt like warm jelly. I'll never make it, I thought to myself. All I wanted to do was lie down under a tree and try to keep my lungs from bursting.

Then, several yards above me, Stu broke over the top of the ridge in a dead run. He fired three shots and then stopped. "Did he get the turkey?" I wondered. I forced my leadened feet up that last stretch to look over the top. There was nothing there.

The torn had run up the other side of the ridge and was at the top when Stu and Ron got there. He "putted" and soared off the edge like an eagle. We had come close, but not close enough. That day's (Continued on page 58)

56 NEBRASKAland

NEBRASKAland POST

Classified Ads: 15 cents a word, minimum order $3.00. January, 68 closing date, November 1 BOATING KAYAKS—One-man $19.50; two-man $24.50; Sailboat $44. Exciting Sitka Kayak Kits known world wide for speed and safety. Assemble in one afternoon. Free pictorial literature. Box 78-N, Brecksville, Ohio. 44141. DECOYS SOLID PLASTIC DECOYS. Original Do-It-Yourself Decoy Making Kit. All Species Available. Catalog 25 cents. Decoys Unlimited, Box 69E, Clinton, Iowa 52732. DOGS HUNTING DOGS: German Shorthairs, English Pointers. Weimaraners, English. Irish, and Gordon Setters, Chesapeakes, Labradors, and Golden Retrievers. Registered pups, all ages, $50 each. Robert Stevenson, Orleans, Nebraska. WANTED AKC PUPPIES and purebred kittens. Excalibur Kennels and Cattery, 908 North 40th Street, Omaha, Nebraska 68104—Bird Dog Specialists. ENGLISH Pointers—excellent gun dogs. Pups ready for fall hunt. M. D. Mathews, M. D., St. Paul, Nebraska 68873. AKC Black Labradors; Outstanding pedigrees furnished. Pups, dogs, stud service, $65 up. Kewanee Retrievers, Everett Bristol, Phone 376-2539, Valentine, Nebraska 69201. FOR SALE: A.K.C. German Short-haired Pointer, male 1 year old. Started. Findrew Nelson, Creighton, Nebraska. Phone 304. MALE REGISTERED A.K.C. springer spaniel 2V2 years old. Trained two seasons on pheasants. John Esch, Box 93, Merna, Nebraska. A. K. C. Labrador puppies sired by F. C. & A. F. C. Jetstone Muscles of Claymar and two other litters with Bigstone and other top pedigrees. Contact: O'Cedar Kennels, J. M. Sweeney, Box 63, Mead, Nebraska. GERMAN Short-haired pointers whelped June 7. Arthur P. Mortensen, Jr. Pine Bluffs, Wyoming 82082. Phone 308-244-3443. WEIMARANER PUPS AKC bloodline quality. Reasonable. Mv best litter. Blankenau's Weimaraners, Dodge, Nebraska 68633. SHELTIE PUPS (Miniature Collies) sable and white, champion stock, companions and lovers of children, AKC. $50. George Rotter, Cortland, Nebraska 934-7658. GUNS AND AMMO NEW, USED, AND ANTIQUE GUNS. Send long addressed lOc-stamped envelope for list, or stop in. Bedlan's Sporting Goods, Fairbury, Nebraska. MISCELLANEOUS STONEGROUND CORNMEAL. Most complete line Health Foods. Many processed daily. Come see us or write. Brownville Mills, Brownville, Nebraska. COLLAPSI3LE Farm-Pond Fish Traps; Animal Traps, postpaid. Free information, pictures, Shawnee, 3934-AX Buena Vista, Dallas 4, Texas. AUTOMOBILE BUMPER STRIPS. Low-cost advertising for special events, Community Projects, Resorts, Motels, Tourist Attractions, Organizations. Write for Free Brochure, Price List and Samples. Reflective Advertising, Dept. N, 873 Longacre, St. Louis, Missouri 63132. CUSTER GAMELAND. On-the-farm hunting-accommodation $13 first day—$12 for each additional day. For reservations contact Mrs. Sidney Grint, Sargent, Nebraska 68874. TREASURE HUNTERS! Prospectors! Relco's new instruments detect buried geld, silver, coins, minerals, historical relics. Transistorized. Weighs 3 pounds. $19.95 up. Free catalog. Relco-B68, Box 10839. Houston, Texas 77018 YOUR NAME, ADDRESS AND ZIP CODE on your own rubber stamp. Just $2. Also any straight-line stamp. Ray's Rubber Stamp Shop, 1514 Y Street, Omaha, Nebraska 68107. WILL TAKE four or six hunters to hunt pheasant, squirrel, rabbit, quail, and deer. Good hunting place for $8 a day, 3 meals, farm home, and freezer. Mr. and Mrs. Reinhold Wiese, Wausa, Nebraska 68786. SLEEPING, EATING, and land to hunt on. Cleaning and freezing facilities. R. H. Mackeprang, Bloomfield, Nebraska 68718. Phone 373-4938. PHEASANT HUNTERS. Clean comfortable rooms, home cooking for hunters at our farm. Parking for campers. Boyd Richards, Benkelman. Nebraska 69021. Phone 423-2929. LAKE McCONAUGHY — Deeded lots available. These lake-front lots are located next to some of the finest fishing on the lake. For commercial or personal uses. For more information write: Lakeshore Development Company, Oshkosh, Nebraska, or Phone 772-3550. SCUBA EQUIPMENT BOB-K'S AQUA SUPPLY Nebraska's largest Scuba dealer. U. S. Divers, Sportways, Voit, Swimmaster, Scubrapro. Air Station. Regulator Repair. Telephone 553-9483, 1419 South 46 Avenue, Omaha, Nebraska. TAXIDERMY KARL SCHWARZ Master Taxidermists. Mounting of game heads - Birds - Fish - Animals - Fur Rugs - Robes - Tanning Buckskin. Since 1910. 424 South 13th Street, Dept. A., Omaha, Nebraska. GAME heads and fish mounting. 40 years experience. Cleo Christiansen, Taxidermist, 421 South Monroe Street, Kimball, Nebraska. SAVE YOUR TROPHY through taxidermy. Nineteen years same location. Satisfaction guaranteed. All types of leather tanning for jacket or glove making. Livingston Taxidermy, Mitchell, Nebraska. TRAPS LIVE TRAPS, all sizes. Mouse to dog. Collapsible or rigid. Carrving cages. Free literature. National Live Traps. Tomahawk, Wisconsin 54487 FISH TRAPS, collapsible. Pond-lake types. Animal, bird traps. Free catalog and trapping secrets. Sensitronix, 2225-F63 Lou Ellen, Houston, Texas 77018. When Writing to the Advertisers, Please Mention You Saw it in OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air SUNDAY KGFW, Kearney (1340 kc) 7:05 a.m. KRGI, 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-.dOOO kc) 12:40 p.m. KFOR, Lincoln (1240 kc) 12:45 p.m. KCNI, Broken Bow (1280 kc) 1:15 p.m. KUVR, Holdrege (13*?0 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.-Fri.) Nightly MONDAY 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. KGMT, Fairbury (1310 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 Lloyd P. Vance, game CONSERVATION OFFICERS Chief, Carf E. Gettmann, Lincoln Ainsworth—Max Showalter, 387-1960 Albion—Gary L. Baltz, 395-2516 Alliance—Marvin 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 Fremont—Andy Nielsen, 721-2482 Gering—Jim McCole, 436-2686 Grand Island—Fred Salak, 384-0582 Hastings—Bruce Wiebe, 462-8317 Hay Springs—Larry D. Elston, 638-4051 Kearney—Ed Greving, 237-5753 Lexington—Robert D. Patrick, 324-2138 Lincoln—Leroy Orvis, 488-1663 Lincoln— Norbert Kampsnider, 466-0971 Lincoln—Date 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 Ponca—Richard D. Turpin, 7913 Sidney—Raymond Frandsen 2682 Monterey Drive 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 Winsfde—Marion Schafer, 286-4290 York—Gail Woodside, 362-4120 OCTOBER, 1967 57

NO TIME FOR TURKEY

(Continued from page 56)

hunting was over and we only had Sunday morning left.

The travel alarm went off at three the next morning. For some reason it seemed terribly cold in the room, but it was early and we were at a higher altitude than we were used to. It was snowing and the view was breathtaking. Snow frosted the trees and slopes in a beautiful white blanket, while a heavy mantle of fog hung over the top of the ridges. The wind was still and complete silence covered the hills like a thick veil.

If I thought the roads the day before were treacherous, we were in for a real thrill today. What had been visible ruts Saturday, were now snow covered. It was slick as glass, and at times the wheels of the jeep would skid dangerously. At one spot in particular we jolted into the side of a bank and started to tip.

"I've never lost complete control," exclaimed Stu.

"Never?" questioned Ron.

"No," Stu retorted, "but I just did."

Finally the jeep righted itself and started down the hill —sideways.

As on Saturday, Bob, Frank, and Mab dropped off above the spring tank, agreeing to meet us there in about an hour. Due to the snow, only two turkeys answered our call that morning. We must have gotten too close to one, because he flew off just as Ron was sliding down a hill to a hiding place. We kept calling without an answer, and soon it was time to pick up the others.

Frank and Bob were waiting for us, but Mab had not come in. We waited and waited. Stu was worried. Walking on the snow-covered needles that morning was like trying to walk on ball bearings. "He could have fallen and broken a leg," Stu said. John told us the day before that if we got lost to fire three shots. But who wants to admit they are ever lost? Stu decided to go back where Mab had gotten out of the jeep and track him down.

Later, we learned that Mab must have walked five miles before he stumbled on a farm house. When we got there the woman told us, "Yes, a hunter came in here. Said he was supposed to meet everyone at the tank. But we didn't have any idea what tank he was talking about, so we took him to the fort."

We gave him a bad time, but with all our ragging, we were glad he was safe and not still up in the hills.

The sun finally came out, and within 20 minutes all the snow was gone, but our plane was to take off at 5:30 p.m. and we had packing to do. Our turkey hunt was over. Ron hadn't fired a shot and neither had the men from Spencer at the time we left. But it had been a great weekend.

We came close —50 yards close to scoring, but we weren't discouraged. If anything, we were more determined than ever to get a turkey during the spring season. What had started out as a typical hunting trip had turned into a challenge — one that I am going to answer next spring.

THE END

WHERE-TO-GO

THE RAMBLING Missouri River is a master of legerdemain. With more tricks up her sleeve than a vaudeville magician, she can be as docile as a kitten or as rugged as a mountain lion. One of her most exciting conjurements is DeSoto National Wildlife Refuge. Called DeSoto Bend, this unique impoundment is 8,100 acres of enchantment and a prime playground for Nebraska and Iowa.

October's winged migrants —blue, snow, and Canada geese, mallards and pintails — drop in for a feast of corn and winter wheat. Less gregarious species like plovers and terns are also visible from refuge roads and boundaries. With prior reservations and permits, people can watch the birds as the birds watch the people watch the birds. However, one must be an early worm to catch the bird or wait for a rerun on the late show, as dawn and twilight are the gathering times. School groups and camera bugs are encouraged to contact federal officials at the refuge headquarters for autumn observation tours.

The refuge is closed to visitors without special permits from September 15 to May 1, though ice fishing is allowed in January and February. May brings mushrooming, and connoisseurs tramp the woods in quest of these delicacies.

This natural wonderland teems with plant and animal life. Tall cottonwoods gossip with a warm wind as their fuzzy seeds float to earth in a summertime blizzard. Along the lake are lagoons thick with brown cattails while the sloping shores are dotted with delicate yellow and white blossoms of wild clover. River pilings with roosting fishermen are reminders of the years when the hungry river ate into fertile fields, its appetite uncurbed by man and his works.

Animals, both winged and four-legged, play hide and seek with their two-legged observers at DeSoto Bend. The corn fields hold ring-necked pheasants and white-tailed deer, while swarms of songbirds perch in the treetops to watch earth-nesting waterfowl and quail. A fox squirrel barks as beaver, muskrats, opossums, minks, and raccoons scurry through the undergrowth. Cottontails play along the blacktop road and loaf on its glistening white-rock shoulder.

Roped-off pools and a permanent tent-shaped bathhouse are landmarks on the spacious DeSoto Bend swimming beach. This sandy stretch at the peninsula's upper tip divides the fishermen from the swimmers. To the east, speed boats and skiers are a dime a dozen, but to the west a "No Wake Zone" creates an angler's idyl. Both Iowa and Nebraska fishing licenses are honored, but sportsmen must obey regulations of their respective states as well as the special federal decrees.

Far across the state there is another attraction, totally different in concept, but as rich in interest, for here the NEBRASKAland visitor finds Scotts Bluff National Monument looming before him. At the foot of this natural memorial lies a modern and inviting facility —a "museum minus the mustiness." —the Scotts Bluff National Monument Visitor Center.

The Landmark Room, one of three exhibit chambers, portrays the area's geological formations and explains the origins of fossils. Visitors learn of the early human inhabitants and are told the legend of Hiram Scott, a fur-trapper of the 1820's, whose final fate is surrounded in mystery.

Long treks west are illuminated in the Oregon Trail Room, the heart of the center. Mementos of the pioneers bring to life the ordeals of early settlement.

The third room is the William Henry Jackson Gallery where 40 original watercolors of this famous American artist and pioneer in photography are displayed. Jackson crossed the plains as an ox driver in 1866 and made landscape sketches as he went along. From these, he created living-color compositions of the tablelands of his day that are both appealing and authentic.

THE END 58 NEBRASKAland