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.

CAN'T SING-"I wish to call your attention to two paragraphs of the magazine article, Old West Sing Along, in the July NEBRASKAland.

"It quotes Elmer Langass as knowing where the song, I've Got No Use For Women, originated. Elmer is a resident of Newman Grove and has been for some 60 years. True, he came from Norway but is not of royal lineage, and the story of an unlucky love affair is wholly untrue.

"When Mr. Langass read your account of his life, he was very much offended, and said that he never sang the song, for he cannot sing." —Mrs. LeRoy Larson, Newman Grove.

This is undoubtedly a coincidence and a similarity in names. The statement in NEBRASKAland came from page 11 in Treasury of Nebraska Folklore, compiled by Roger Welsh of Nebraska Wesleyan University who in turn collected it from R. E. Carlson, who as a boy in Madison County, remembers hearing the song sung by anrrold Norwegian named Elmer Langass". It is also mentioned in a pamphlet published by the Nebraska State Historical Society in conjunction with a Federal Writers' Project in October 1938. Since the song dates back to the 1870's and '80's it is obvious that the original Elmer Langass and the present Mr. Langass are not one and the same. — Editor

FORMER NEBRASKAN- It is of interest to me to read the experiences of the pioneers in your magazine. I was born in Howard County near Farwell. My grandparents homesteaded in this area during the '80's, and I spent my boyhood in the Dannebrog-Nysted area prior to attending the University of Nebraska." — Henry A. Larsen, Pasadena, Calif.

TOO MANY PHEASANTS?-"I enjoy reading the NEBRASKAland very much and find it to be a factual, practical periodical that can help both the resident and non-resident hunters and fishermen. But something has caught my eye in the September issue that I cannot keep quiet about.

"Nothing is intended by this in a harmful manner toward anyone, yet I was   concerned greatly when I read; 'So and so alone bagged 155 birds up to December 8, 1966, and felt they had some of their best hunting yet to come'.

"No one loves to hunt more than I do. No one likes to fill their legal daily bag more than I, but isn't this going just a bit too far? I know that we seldom harvest roosters to the point of destruction of the species, but when does one go beyond the sportsman stage to the game hog? As I said, I mean nothing harmful to those in this article for I am sure that each one of them are all fine, honest law-abiding sportsmen. But can our wildlife sustain such a continued onslaught of one man killing 155 birds of species in a single season? Is a good hunt only measured by the heap of game we can pile in the floor of our automobile?

"We hunted in Nebraska last year and enjoyed it very much. Four of us brought back 44 birds for a 5-day hunt, far short of the legal limit. We could have stayed on and killed our limit but such was not our only reason for going. The country, the association with good friends, watching good dogs work, and seeing that sly ringneck flush behind us, these are all little things that add up to a good hunt. If everybody chased my old buddy, Chinese Charlie, and killed 155 of his kin every season, who could show our grandkids what it's like to go on a good hunt?"—Bert Robertson, Vermillion, S.D.

Nebraska's pheasant population is underharvested with spring counts showing at least one cock for every three hens. Biologically a spring-sex ratio of 1 cock per 10 hens would not affect production. Some NEBRASKAland residents do enjoy pheasant hunting and find their work schedule provides ample time for this activity. A survey of Nebraska residents shows that only three-tenths of one per cent of the hunters harvest more than a hundred pheasants a year. Since the surplus is available, why not allow hunters the opportunity to shoot a hundred-plus birds? — Editor

STORY MATERIAL-"After having visited most of the places known to us and enjoying a visit into the past — actually a real lesson in history for our three children- I decided to write and see if in one of the upcoming issues your writers would feature several^ of the many places here in the eastern part of our state.

"Actually, this letter is twofold. I know of a place that perhaps your magazine might be interested in. In Cass County, near Weeping Water and Avoca, there stands a lovely old stone house, which was built by my great grandfather, Christoff Meyer, in about 1880. Christoff built this two-story stone house from stone that he cut and hauled from a nearby quarry. This house is still standing and until about two years ago was occupied. The property is no longer in our family, but is owned by Oscar Domingo, a banker at Weeping Water.

"However, if additional information is needed, I am sure that any one of my seven aunts and uncles living in Nebraska could furnish many interesting facts about the house which they visited when their grandparents, Christoff and Helena Meyer, were still living there. For 113 years, members of this family have lived in Nebraska, mostly in Cass County. My grandparents, Peter and Mary Jorgenson, spent all of their married life in and near Avoca and of their 11 children, 10 of them lived in Nebraska, also" —Mrs. Richard L. Newville, Ralston.

ANOTHER RECIPE-"I read in the October NEBRASKAland that Mrs. Hetrick was looking for a recipe for pickling carp. I have used this one several times and everyone agrees that it tastes good.

"Skin and fillet carp (one quart of meat equals two pounds) Do not cut the fillets into small pieces first, just place the fillets in an enameled pan or crock. Use 1/2-cup salt and enough white vinegar to cover, this is put on cold. Leave this in your refrigerator for six days.

"Pour off the liquid and cover the carp fillets with cold water and let them stand in the refrigerator for three hours. If you leave them too long they will get soft.

"Remove the carp fillets and cut into desired-sized pieces, to pack in jars. For each quart of carp meat you will need about 2 teaspoons mustard seed, 2 teaspoons while peppercorns, 8 bay leaves, 8 or 10 little red peppers, and some chopped onions. To pack in jars, (wide-mouth jars work fine as you can pack the meat firmly which helps keep the fillets firm-fleshed for good eating.) first put enough carp pieces to fill the jar about %-full, add some onions, spices, and bay leaves, and proceed to fill the jars in layers, packing firmly as you go.

"Finally use 1/2-cup water, 1/2-cup white vinegar, and 1/4-cup sugar. Mix together, bring to a boil, and pour over the fillets hot, screw on lids, let stand till cool and then refrigerate. They will be ready to eat in about four days and will keep indefinitely in the refrigerator." —Arnold A. Jelinek, Grand Island.

PICKLED CARP —Here is a recipe for pickled carp.

1 3-pound carp 1/2-cup salt 1 quart vinegar 1/2-cup sugar 1 quart water 2 heaping teaspoons of pickling spice placed in cloth bag

Boil vinegar, water, salt, sugar, and spice. Simmer 20 minutes. Skin the carp, score, and cut into three-inch pieces. Place in brine, bring to a boil, and simmer for 15 minutes. Place in open bowl, preferably crockware-do not use an aluminum pan.-Mrs. M. F. M., Omaha.

6 NEBRASKAland DECEMBER, 1967 7   ONE? PHONE Someone! At lowest station rates. After 8 p.m. Call home. Tonight. LINCOLN TEL. & TEL. CO.

I USED MY HEAD

by Merl Sheldon as told to NEBRASKAland

HAD ANYONE CORNERED me before that raw day last December and asked what I thought my final fate would be, I might have guessed anything except drowning. I consider myself a better-than-average swimmer, so when I started across the iced-over Platte River that morning, the possibility of drowning was far from my mind.

Everett Sheldon, a cousin, and I were hunting Canada honkers from our pit blind bordering the Game Commission's Clear Creek Refuge, a little south and a bit west of Lewellen. I live in Kearney where I run a machine shop, specializing in pipe contracting, but during the goose season I might as well move to the Lewellen area.

We had been in the blind less than an hour when a good flock of Canadas heard our chatter and came in over our dry-land blocks for a look. We dropped two and retrieved them. A second bunch followed shortly, barrelling in hard and fast. We picked out a pair and pulled on them, emptying our guns. This time our hits left a lot to be desired, and the honkers made it to the refuge befor dropping. A saner man would not have considered it for a moment, but I wanted those birds, not because I hate to see game wasted, but primarily because the one was probably the biggest I had ever killed in all my years of goose hunting. I figured that if I took it slow and easy, everything would go all right, and if I did get into trouble, my swimming ability would get me out.

To be extra safe I cut a 12-foot limb, which carried horizontally, would catch me if the ice broke. I left my shotgun behind and set out, clad in chest waders. Freezing temperatures had raised the river about five feet, making it almost a mile in width, and bringing it very close to our blind, which under normal conditions is the refuge's required 100 yards from the river's edge. I expected the first 100 yards to be the toughest. Here, the river raged, filled with floating pans of ice. It really put me to the test, but timing myself I dodged all the huge chunks. I was wondering how to get up on the solid ice when a berg moved toward me. I got a foot on it, and levered myself belly-style out of the 2V/2-foot-deep water. So far, so good, with only 150 yards more to 8 NEBRASKAland reach the goose. Still carrying my limb, I set a direct course for the bird.

He was within 15 yards of me when the bottom fell out of everything. I went down, hoping the limb would save me. It was false hope, however, for the ice broke for some 30 or 40 feet across and the limb had no purchase. I went down, lost the limb, and came up cold and wet. I began grabbing for everything, and the sharp ice cut my hands severely as I tried to pull myself up. Frustration led to exhaustion as the ice kept breaking. Again, I went under and again, coming up where I had gone down. I had to keep my head, for I was getting nowhere fast. I had moved nearly 300 yards downstream. The waders were the problem. If I could get them off I could get out, but there wasn't a way.

Just as I thought my bad luck had reached its limit, all heck broke loose. In my frantic efforts to get back out on the ice, a monstrous piece broke off, creating a vacuum about 35 feet in diameter, which dragged me under. Luckily, I had enough warning to catch a breath, for the current caught me immediately, and pulled me far under the ice. The channel must have been a good 10 to 15 feet deep, for my feet never touched. I was sure I had reached the end of my rope. Everett had given up on me, too. He was thinking he would have to be the one to tell my wife. My thoughts were perhaps a bit more chaotic, but I remember thinking how horrible it would be to drown in that cold water. All my swimming ability was for naught unless I could get free of the burdensome waders.

What I needed was a miracle, but I really didn't expect it when it came. Suddenly my feet hit sand. Instantly, I doubled up and with all my remaining strength, jammed my head against the nearly four-inch-thick ice. Believe me, that's a good way to get a headache. The blow left me groggy and smarting from a gashed head, but I had broken through — now there was a chance. As I rested my elbows on the ice to muster up some strength, I saw that the current had carried me for about 100 feet under the ice. Somehow, I had held my breath.

Still, I was a long way from being home free. My waders must have held about 30 gallons of water. The weight stopped me from climbing onto the ice, while my fingers were too cold and numb to undo the straps. Regaining my wind after a few minutes, I slid the boots off by breaking the (Continued on page 12)

DECEMBER, 1967 9

NEBRASKAland HOSTESS OF THE MONTH Cynthia Jennings

A DELIGHTFUL addition to any Christmas festivity, December's hostess, Miss Cynthia Jennings is issuing an invitation to all to help trim her tree. The daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Henry B. Jennings of Kimball, Cynthia is a 1964 graduate of Kimball High School and is now a senior at Hastings College. A member of Sigma Tau Sigma social sorority, this brown-eyed blond enjoys all sports, listening to good music, and dancing. Not one to let the world pass her by, Cynthia is a member of Eastern Star PEO, active in drama, a member of the Hastings College Inter-sorority Council, and has served on the Womens' Inter-Dormitory Council. She was also a contestant in the 1967 NEBRASKAland Beauty Pageant.

DECEMBER Roundup

Christmas spirit roams through state, putting added sparkle to myriad events of snowy month

JOLLY OLD SAINT Nick has a bagful of excitement in store for NEBRASKAland during December, judging from the state's calendar of events. From start to finish, December is a month of crackling action and hearty fun. From drama to bazaars, there is never a let up in the pace, for across Nebraska, homefolk are going to usher out 1967 in grand style.

The University of Nebraska gets things off to a singing start on December 1 as their vocalists stage a thrilling production of Handle's Messiah. Traditionally the voice of Christmas, this offering is just a beginner as the University Singers present their annual Carol Concert on December 3.

Setting lights and the Christmas story to music, Minden, the Christmas City, kicks off its "Light of the World Pageant" on Sunday, December 3. A return performance is scheduled for December 10. Centering around the town square, the pageant includes the lighting of the county courthouse while a seasonal drama is staged on all four sides of the glowing building. Each program lasts approximately 30 minutes. This year a Lincoln firm is planning tours to the Light of the World.

Drama takes on a lighter tone in Lincoln as the University Theatre kicks off the month with "Misanthrope" on December 1 and 2. The production will be held again on December 15 and 16. The "Delicate Balance", an Edward Albee effort, will go on stage December 8 and 9 and again on December 17, 18, and 19. The card for December 22 and 23 is still unscheduled, but players will present one of the two plays again.

Lincoln's Pershing Auditorium will be a busy place during the month with the Nebraska Annual Conference of Methodist Churches scheduled there for December 1. Lincoln Southeast High School and Lincoln East High School will meet for a battle of the nets the next night. Grunt and groaners take over the auditorium on December 8 and 9 for the Great Plains Amateur AAU Wrestling Championships. And pros in the sport will move in for All-Star Television Wrestling on December 13. December 15 and 16 will see the Nebraska State Education Assembly while the Elks Lodge moves in for its annual Childrens' Christmas party on December 22.

Things are jumping in Omaha, too. Omaha University gets things under way on December 1 with an art exhibit entitled, "American Print-Making Show". The exhibition runs through December 20. Adding natural beauty to man's handiwork, the Omaha Beauty Contest graces the Dodge Street campus on December 6.

Gunners throughout the state will have to do some shutting down during the month. The latter half of NEBRASKAland's split goose season winds up December 19. Ducks and mergansers will be safe after December 5. The 1967 hunting permits are invalid after December 31. Gunners must have the 1968 ticket if they want a New Year's go at upland game.

Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha, always a top contender for the state's busiest place, will hum with a variety of activities in December.

San Francisco and the famous bay area will be the topics for the December 1, Dick Walter travelogue. The presentation is scheduled for the concert hall and will begin at 8 p.m. Music lovers will find Joslyn their cup of tea during the month as the Joslyn Chamber Music Series continue with the Fine Arts Ensemble on December 3. This special 20th Anniversary Concert is slated for 4 p.m. in the museum's concert hall. The sound of music goes on December 11 and 12 with the Omaha All-Orchestral Symphony. Again the place is the concert hall. The time is 8 p.m.

Movie lovers will want to attend Joslyn's Film Series, "World Without Sun" and "Basilica of Saint Croce" on December 14. American artists will have their days beginning December 31 when "Drawing U.S.A., The Third National Biennial Exhibition" opens at Joslyn.

Arm-chair globe trotters will have the chance to pick up bargains from around the world in Lincoln, December 5 through 7. The YWCA Annual Christmas Bazaar is scheduled for the Nebraska Union basement, featuring items imported from the far corners of the earth. The affair is ideal for late Christmas shopping.

Basketball fans will have the times of their lives as Big Red takes to the boards again. The freshman-varsity game is scheduled for December 1. There's more netting action on December 11 and 13 when the Huskers match basketball with the University of Hawaii at Honolulu. On December 23, the University of Wyoming will journey to Lincoln. From December 27 through 30, the Huskers will be in Kansas City for the Big Eight Tournament.

There is little doubt that there is something for everyone in December's NEBRASKAland. Of course, Christmas is the highlight of the month and that's the way it should be.

THE END

WHAT TO DO

December 1 — Messiah — University of Nebraska, Lincoln 1 — "American Print-Making Show"—Omaha University, Omaha 1 —Nebraska Annual Conference of Methodist churches, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 1 — Dick Walter Travelogue-Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 1 —Basketball-Freshman vs. Varsity-University of Nebraska, Lincoln 1 —Basketball-University of Wesleyan vs. Southern State Teachers College of South Dakota, Lincoln 2 —Basketball-Lincoln Southeast vs. Lincoln East High, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 3 — University Singers Carol Concert, University K of Nebraska, Lincoln 3 —Joslyn Chamber Music Series, Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 3-6 —Midwest Retail Farm Equipment, Omaha 3 —Light of the World Pageant, Minden 4 — Basketball-University of Nebraska vs. Calif. State, Lincoln (Continued on page 51) DECEMBER, 1967 11   ...Our Business Is Selling NEBRASKAland

I USED MY HEAD

(Continued from page 9)

suspenders. Calling on strength I didn't know I had, I pulled myself onto the ice, thanking the Almighty it held.

Saved from drowning, the next peril was frostbite. Weakened by the ordeal, there was little chance I could make it back across the open water. Everett had followed me down the stream and watched my progress through field glasses, but he was still 300 yards away. He yelled to me not to worry, but to stay put, while he left in the pickup for the nearest farmhouse and a phone. Meanwhile, I s^ied a bridge plank, frozen in the ice, and walked to it. That 10-foot, 3 x 12 proved a lifesaver. I sat on it, doubled my shoeless feet up under me and rubbed them vigorously with my blue hands. My feet were numb and I knew that if I didn't get some feeling back, I would lose them. Despite my long exposure, I was thinking clearly and knew I wasn't in shock —not yet, anyway.

Everett was back in 20 minutes. A crowd of local residents and hunters began gathering on the south shore and were tossing around ideas on how to reach me. They considered a boat, but the idea was discarded as being too dangerous because of the floating ice. Finally, a helicopter was decided on as the only answer. Don Hunt, the local conservation officer, radioed Alliance for one, just as I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get off that iceberg. Eventually it came, looking like a big, beautiful angel dropping straight from heaven.

Phil Brown and Ed Parkin of Don Brown's Flying Service made the flight from Alliance in 35 minutes. The first plan was to use a rope ladder to ease me to shore, but I had been on the ice for more than 2Vfe hours and my hands were too cold to grasp anything. As a last resort, Phil flew over to the bank, dumped Ed, and maneuvered the two-seat chopper into position to make a direct pickup. I crouched on hands and knees, ready to make a desperate grab for the skids if the downdraft broke the ice. With remarkable airmanship, Phil lowered the skids into the water. It was a dangerous maneuver, but this was an emergency. I crawled off the ice into the helicopter and safety.

Three hours from the time I started after the geese, I was put in an ambulance and taken to the hospital where the doctor said I would lose four toes, but when he came back to check on me, I had improved. After all I'd been through, I wasn't about to lose a few toes to frostbite.

I went home that night with quite a story to tell my wife, but at least I was alive to tell it. My feet still had to be ice-packed, my hands were badly cut, and my head had a gash in it, but considering how close to death I had come, I was in good shape.

Three days later, I went goose hunting again.

THE END DECMEBER, 1967 13

TIME MACHINE ON THE OVERLAND TRAIL

Nebraska's past takes on added glow and real meaning when lived firsthand by Paul Lima as told to Warren Spencer 14

SHRILL SCREAMS RENT the morning air like the ripping of a great fabric. In an instant, speeding shafts streaked toward us as the Sioux war party bore down on our wagon train. Frantically, I dove for the cover of my wagon and the big Sharps that was there. An arrow thudded into the wooden bed beside me, and I whirled to find a brave almost close enough to touch with my rifle barrel. Fighting back panic I pulled down on my speeding target. Smoke and flame spat from the barrel as its leaden missile hurtled toward its mark. Suddenly, time seemed to be suspended. Then, as though etched by some artist's hand, a small, black hole appeared in the brave's chest. An invisible force grabbed him by the nape of the neck, pulled him bolt upright, and then lifted him from his pony. Slowly he fell away from his mount and lay on the prairie, kicking out his life.

I reached down and scooped up a handful of dirt from the ground, letting it trickle through my fingers. It was hard to imagine that the incident I had just relived had taken place over and over again along the Overland Trail. Now the old trail is as peaceful a path as you would ever want to travel. But it wasn't always like it is today. A century ago, each trip could be a date with death.

My name is Paul Lima. I own and operate a clothing store in Nebraska City, an occupation that keeps me pretty busy. A history buff from the word go, I always manage to take time off for my hobby. My vacation trips along the old trails are interesting adventures that appeal to my historian's nature. When it comes to living in the past, the imaginative Walter Mitty of motion-picture fame has nothing on me. I can stand at the site of some historical incident and project myself into the action that happened there a century ago. Take my last visit to old Fort Kearny at Nebraska City.

The blockhouse stands on lower Central Avenue at Fifth Street, practically in the middle of town. Yet on the day of my visit, it was as though the fort stood in another dimension. Gazing at its log walls, I found myself living an era; the opening of the West.

Far across the Missouri River, I saw a tiny speck on the eastern horizon. At first, it was just a line of dust. Then, slowly, like a giant serpent inching its way across the prairie, the string of white-topped wagons drew closer. Outlines of bonneted women could be seen aboard the Conestogas as bearded, hatted menfolk cursed lumbering oxen over every inch of the way. It seemed an eternity before the creaking train crept through the Missouri River and set first wheel onto what is now Nebraska.

As they drew closer, the blockhouse of Fort Kearny came into focus. Its top story, sitting at an angle, looked as though it were ready to slide onto the DECEMBER, 1967 15   prairie at any moment. A dozen smaller cabins dotted the landscape around the fort. Blue-coated soldiers darted among them, preparing for the wagons' arrival. It was a short distance from river to fort and before long, animals were tethered, cooking fires lit, and travelers were swapping tales of the trek with soldiers of this frontier outpost.

Garrisoned for protection against Indian attack, Fort Kearny was a gateway to the West. And with its location on the Nebraska boundary, Nebraska City soon was supplying and hosting more immigrants per day then any other settlement in what is now NEBRASKAland.

That evening, travelers and soldiers exchanged tales of life back east, frontier hardships, and the trail ahead. But travel the next day meant early bedtimes and well before the thirst for information was quenched, campfires burned low and flickered out.

At dawn, the smell of fresh coffee floated through the air as men yoked their animals and women prepared to break camp. And then, as methodically as they had come, the wagons began to wind their way to the west and a new life.

It is hard to explain how I come out of my daydreams, but my insight disappears in favor of cold reality whenever I want it to.

Since I live right there, Nebraska City has always ranked high on my list of day-dreaming sites. But my mental adventures have often come from outlying areas.

Perhaps I should explain the method in my madness. My particular interests lie in the Overland Trail 16 NEBRASKAland and the rich history that was made along it. Despite its singular name, the trail was really the amalgamation of all the overland paths leading across Nebraska. The major ones, the Oregon and Mormon trails are most often credited with the title. Yet there are the cattle and stagecoach trails, not to mention the Pony Express Route, closely following the Oregon, that also comes under the same heading. With such a diversity in locations and areas, my dream traveling is one of the most strenuous "easy" pastimes in the world. Not only must I travel half way across the state for a date with the past, but on arrival, it often takes walking to get to the heart of the situation. Things didn't happen on the Overland Trail with posterity in mind. And what was a main thoroughfare then may be a cow pasture now, away from roads and civilization.

Perhaps one of the best examples came when I was traveling the southern or main branch of the Oregon Trail as it snakes through Jefferson County. Some time earlier, I had read of the discovery of George Winslow's grave in the area, so I decided to take a look.

The spot is five miles north and one mile west of Fairbury, west of Nebraska Highway 15. The gentle valley is little changed from the days when endless wagon trains cut their ruts into Nebraska's sod. Sitting on a small knoll overlooking the grave, it was easy for me to see what had happened there long ago.

Nothing moved on the rolling prairie except the plodding oxen as they made their way toward the California gold fields in 1849. Most of the travelers were just ordinary folk of the day. Disillusioned by failure in the east and filled with a lust for gold that stalked everyone, they decided to try their hand at the country's greatest get-rich-quick scheme.

George Winslow was like the rest, a born optimist. He was just a member of the flock, one of the many who would never finish the trip. On May 29,1849, Winslow took sick. Cholera was a common occurrence along the trail, often wiping out entire trains. So, to take precautions against an epidemic and to rest for the long trek ahead, George's fellow travelers laid over in camp for three days. By then, George was improved and the train pushed on. By June 5, the party was in what is now Jefferson County in southeastern Nebraska and were optimistic that things would go well.

But the elements have a way of changing plans in an instant. On June 5, a tremendous thundershower struck in all its fury. So severe was the storm that nearly all were drenched by the time it was over. For George Winslow the storm was a death warrant. He suffered a relapse and on June 8, 1849, his hopes of wealth ended for all time.

As I watched, eight strong men, tears washing their ruddy cheeks, carried his body to its grave in the peaceful valley. A headstone was carved from the red sandstone which dotted the area, and the pioneers commended George Winslow to the eternity of watching over the path west. I glanced down at the same sandstone slab, its lettering as well-preserved as if it had been carved yesterday. For the first time I appreciated the West. Death was a constant companion on the Overland Trail. Men, women, and children fell along its winding length like trees before a hurricane. Yet even as they fell, they helped make history.

One of the many sacrifices was Mormon Winter Quarters in Omaha. Each of (Continued on page 56)

DECEMBER, 1967 17

Box Supper At Balfe

by Lloyd E. Sowers Gunman wasn't Santa Claus and his pistol wasn't a toy

DECEMBER 24, 1920 was clear, cold, and quiet in the Sand Hills. The thermometer showed below zero and we knew that come evening the temperature was going to drop even more. Zero weather, however, wasn't going to interfere with the social activities of the hardy Sand Hillers who were looking forward to a Christmas program and a box supper at the school. The children and the "tee-cher" of the Balfe School, two days south of Gordon, had advertised the event many weeks in advance.

Twenty children were involved. The Rawls and Kerchner families would be there and of course the Morris family, since Bruce and Marguerite had parts in the program. The (Continued on page 51)

19

[image]

Carol concert in Capitol rotunda draws state dignitaries, visitors as season's glow begins

THIS SEASON OF SEASONS

THERE IS A special glow abroad in the land. That most festive of seasons has come to NEBRASKAland and infused the Plains and its people with the spirit of joy, laughter, fellowship, and well-being. It is the time of tinsel and taffy pulls, sleigh bells and mistletoe, Good King Wenceslaus and jolly old St. Nick.

From border to border, that special glow prevails. Shoppers hustle and bustle through crowded stores. Children giggle in nervous anticipation as they wait their turn to climb on Santa's knee. The postman's bag bulges with greetings from afar, and home fires lure the wanderer back to hearth and home.

State is one great glow as lights of yule beam the tidings of goodwill

But, there is a deeper meaning to this gay yuletide season. Nebraskans know they celebrate not just any holiday, but a very special birthday. That is the heart of that certain glow, for each and all celebrate in their own way. Carolers raise their voices in joyous song at town squares, hospitals, children's homes, retirement villages, and most any neighborhood. To some, it is remembering the forgotten ones in many ways, both big and small. Still others bedeck their homes and communities with decorations, humble or ornate, for all to enjoy.

For many, the special glow is created with lights-all kinds of lights. Blue lights, green

20 NEBRASKAland DECEMBER,1967 21   22 NEBRASKAland DECEMBER,1967 23  

lights, twinkling lights, still lights, strings of lights, spotlights. From Lyman to Rulo and from Lamar to St. Helena, NEBRASKAland beams its message of good cheer throughout the land.

While here and there a few cynics may "bah" and "humbug" their way through the season, nearly all, Christians and non-Christians alike, are caught up and bask in the contagious yuletide spirit. Home after home and community after community is festooned in its own particular way for this very special time. Minden dons its garb to become "Christmas City" once more, and at Hemingford, a miles-long diorama is again set carefully into place. Forever symbolic of the pioneer determination that carved a great state, the Capitol stands in splendid array, etching its bold outline even more emphatically against the horizon. Inside, a gigantic fir symbolizes a people's kinship and adds the season's warmth to the marbled halls of government.

Across the state, church bells ring out their joyful invitation to join the shepherds and Wise Men of long ago, as flickering candles play a tune of highlights and shadows on the manger inside. In the loft, a choir prepares to lead a congregation in the moving strains of "Silent Night".

Elsewhere, strings of bulbs decorate the livingroom floor and youngsters clamor impatiently as a tree is slowly installed in its place of honor. A Salvation Army volunteer nods in silent satisfaction as still another bulb is added to the "Tree of Lights". A whole town turns out for the community caroling and tree lighting on a courthouse lawn, and a lone figure puts the finishing touch on an emblazoned ranchstead as he fastens the last lights in place atop a towering windmill. Collars turned carelessly against the cold, enthusiastic judges make their rounds to determine who had done the best job of illuminating and decorating their homes and yards, for everyone from tiny tot to senior citizen is moved to play some part in this celebration of celebrations. They display their creativity and ingenuity in a multitude of ways — from stable scenes of all shapes and sizes to lighthearted Santas and Rudolphs.

Every business, big or small, reflects the spirit abroad in the land, and mundane billboards, too, broadcast a greeting to passersby. Even the row on row of streetlights, blinking traffic signals, and gaudy neon signs blend into and become a part of the festive scene.

Snow may fall and cold winds blow, but they, too, are a necessary ingredient, for somehow the drama would be incomplete without them.

From far overhead, the moon and the stars bathe the prairies in their own majestic splendor, just as they did at a little place called Bethlehem nearly 2,000 years ago. While man can but mimic these heavenly lights, he tries. And, though pale by comparison, man's efforts nonetheless remain a tribute to his zeal as he pays homage to this Season of Seasons.

This, then, is the magic of NEBRASKAland at yuletide. Her lights radiate from without and within, inviting all to join in the celebration of this most solemn and yet frivolous of times. Few spots on earth can rival such magic.

THE END DECEMBER, 1967 25

CURIOUS ABOUT BROOKIES

Black-over-white lower fin identifies trout on left as brook. Rainbow, middle, brown, right by Charles Davidson

CRAWLING ON HANDS and knees, I made the last few feet to the log and peered over it for a glimpse of my quarry. My approach had been a good one, for he hadn't moved. Looking at him I felt the same thrill I get from a successful stalk on big game, but my elusive target wasn't a wild turkey or a wiley whitetail. Instead, it was a brook trout, and he was set up for the catching.

Carefully I took the fly by the bend of the hook and stripped out about eight feet of line. Trees and heavy ground cover prevented me from making a normal cast with my fly rod, so I got into position for a bow-and-arrow cast to the pool's head end. Still holding the fly in my left hand, I clicked on the drag and bent the rod back into a bow. A snap of the wrist sent my offering snaking toward a spot well above the fish, but my black gnat glanced from an overhanging twig and fell short, dropping ahead of the 10-inch brookie. It was a poor cast, but good enough, for the gnat had hardly started to sink when the trout walloped the fly with the ferocity of a cheated-on redhead.

He had spunk aplenty, but not enough weight, and even on the light leader I had no difficulty easing him onto the sloping gravel. Picking him up, I debated momentarily whether to keep him and finally decided that he would do for some pictures I wanted. To keep him fresh, I slipped him on my nylon stringer, stuck its pointed end in the ground, and dropped my trout into the current. Satisfied with my first keeper of the day, I moved on to the next hole. Catching him was doubly sweet, for my partner, Ben Heckman, and I had tried a pond earlier and drew blanks. Like every fisherman, I 26 NEBRASKAland get a little discouraged when the first spot fails to pay off.

I live in Alliance and work as the outstate representative of the Nebraska's Game Commission's Information and Tourist Division. Whenever I can, I like to fish the Pine Ridge trout streams. The previous hooking of a few small brookies while fishing for browns and rainbows had perked my curiosity about these colorful little scrappers.

Jack Peterson, the Commission's District One fishery supervisor, gave me the lowdown on them. He told me they weren't numerous in Nebraska, but that some of the streams and ponds held brookies. He surprised me when he mentioned that the state record was a 5-pound, 1-ounce beauty. At the end of our talk, Jack suggested I contact Ben Heckman. According to Jack, Ben was one of the better trouters, and if anybody knew where to catch brookies, he would. By the time I left Jack, I wanted to catch some brookies and was ready to fish anywhere.

Ben farms southeast of Crawford on White Clay Creek. His place keeps him well occupied, but he's an avid trout fisherman and seldom passes up a chance to go if his chores are done. When I contacted him, he was eager to go and suggested a pond.

The night before, the mercury dipped to 22° to bring the first frost of the season. However, all the white was gone by the time I pulled into Ben's driveway. He came out and extended an invitation for coffee. We decided, though, to get right after the trout. We drove south on a gravel road and came to a large pond.

Ben was confident. "This place has produced some dandy trout. Brooks will probably reach a couple of pounds, and the browns are real monsters."

"Let me at them," I said, jumping into my waders. Ben was already booted up and his nine-foot fly rod was rigged and ready to go.

"This dam was built to hold water for irrigation," he explained, "but it's kind of low now. They've been drawing it down quite a bit lately. This pond is on leased school land and you have to have permission to fish it, but I've taken care of that detail, so we don't have to worry about trespass."

Ben left me and started down the hill to the far side of the pond while I put together a two-ounce ultra-light spinning outfit and headed down the incline. Ben has probably forgotten more about trout fishing than I'll ever know, so I planned to stay close to him for some expert advice. No purist, I intended to try worms, grasshoppers, and flies. From my research on brookies, I knew that they're fond of shelter, and can often be taken through open areas of water cress, near brush piles, or submerged logs. The lake had several brushy areas within range so I cast to these, but I got nary a nibble. As I crossed a point of land, I saw the wiry form of my fishing partner across a small inlet. Like me, he hadn't had a strike, and was ready to try another spot. He was puzzled by (Continued on page 55)

DECEMBER, 1967 27

SAND HILLS STONEHENGE

Similar to English namesake, Antioch ruins figure in sacrifice, too

THERE IS A WORLD, apart from the real world, in a lonely stretch of the Sand Hills near Antioch. A quiet place, its only sounds are the whisper of the wind as it dances around great archways and the rustling caress of the prairie grasses against great pillars. At dawn as the sun turns the east to blood, the jumbled ruins are etched in stark relief against the lighting sky.

What are these ruins? What is their purpose? To some, versed in pagan religious lore, these columns and arches could be a city of the dead, a temple of sacrifice, or a shrine to the unknown gods of an unknown people. To most Nebraskans, they are objects of little more than curiosity. To an Englishman, they could be America's Stonehenge, for these two sites, one, just 2/10 of a mile west of Antioch, and the other, 3V2 miles west of the community on Nebraska Highway 2, are very much like the ruins of his own Stonehenge, deep in the midlands of the British Isles.

Scientists are still trying to unravel the mystery of the English Stonehenge, but most agree that this ancient pile had some religious significance long before Caesar's hard-bitten legions landed on the island. Many of the learned men believe that there is some spiritual relationship between the movement of the sun and the position of the great structures. They surmise that Britain's Stonehenge is really a gigantic calendar which signaled the beginning or possibly the end of pagan rites.

Built of concrete and steel, it is evident that Nebraska's ruins were not the site of ancient ceremonies, but rather monuments of the 20th Century world of progress and forced decay. In a way, Nebraska's Stonehenge has figured in sacrifice — sacrifices to the gods of war.

When World War I broke out, Germany's valuable potash deposits were lost to the United States. Like the gold-rush towns of a generation or two before, Antioch's population skyrocketed when it was found that the alkaline lakes of the Sand Hills held potash crystals. Potash commanded a high price, but the refining was costly. Still, factories sprang up to turn Antioch into a "Little Pittsburgh" of the West. Potash, needed for explosives, fertilizer, and a hundred other items, DECEMBER, 1967 29   played an important role in American's war effort, and Nebraska supplied its fair share of the valuable stuff.

When the war ended and supplies were once more available from foreign sources, the Antioch bubble burst. By 1921, the last factory was closed and the sites abandoned to the heavy hand of time.

Just as a story of power, beauty, tragedy, and life is concealed in the Old World Stonehenge, so is a story of power, beauty, tragedy, and life concealed within the ruins of Nebraska's Stonehenge. The power of the sun is evident in the Antioch Stonehenge, for it transforms the forlorn remmants of concrete and steel into objects of beauty. It takes an artist's eye and a photographer's knowledge to capture this beauty in its entirety, but it is there for the seeing.

Just as ancient druids sacrificed life at Stonehenge, so that others may live, so is life sacrificed in the Sand Hills Stonehenge. The druids there are not priestly figures in flowing robes. Instead, they are the strong of nature —the coyote, the bullsnake, the hawk — sacrificing the weak —the rabbit, the mouse, the fledgling bird —but the purpose is the same. Some must die that others may live.

There are several other striking similarities between England's wonder and Nebraska's relic. Both lie on a great plain, and from a distance both have similar appearances. Both were built because of a need, and when that need was fulfilled they were left to rot in time. Both were a product of human ingenuity, and each lends itself to a mysterious beauty.

Henry James said old Stonehenge, "stands as lonely in history as it does on the great plains." These same words describe the potash factory arches. The history of these ruins is known by some, but forgotten by most, for that is man's way.

To some, these piles of rubble near Antioch are nothing more than eyesores. But for those who take time to study their design there is a mysterious beauty in these tall arches and stately columns. Maybe 2,000 years from now, an archeologist will stumble across the remains and proclaim them the Sand Hills Stonehenge.

THE END 30 NEBRASKAland

END THE TRAIL

Sixteen years of greed, gun, fire, and fear bring doom to millions of buffalo in Republican Valley by W. Rex Amack

THUNDEROUS HOOVES struck furiously at the snow-covered prairie as fear mounted in the shaggy wild-eyed animals. Steam clouded the frosty air from the huge, hair-matted bodies. A stumbling bull made a break from the herd, but the cracking sound of the white man's "killing stick" echoed through the valley, and the monster fell to his knees. A snort, and the craggy buffalo smashed to earth. Crimson blood gushed from the beast's quivering nostrils, staining the innocent snow in the Republican River Valley with the mark of death.

On a nearby hillside, a grin crossed the unshaven face of the grubby, ill-smelling buffalo hunter. His name was Wylie Smith.and there were hundreds like him in Nebraska. His gun boomed again and a cow fell dead. The herd began to move even more restlessly, the scent of blood driving more fear to their hearts. Smith shook the snow from his sodden trousers and gave a quick hand signal to his companions scattered about the slopes. Another animal headed for the open, only to be crumpled by a heavy bullet from a powerful rifle.

A hundred buffalo later, Smith stood up and waved for the skinners to bring up the heavy hide wagons and begin their work. Stiff arid cold from crouching in the wet snow for hours, the hunter signaled the others in as he reached into his heavy coat for a bottle of whiskey.

Hundreds of buffalo lay dead in the small valley. Some still lived, crippled, and mad with pain. Others were piled on one another, bleeding and belching as life drained slowly from their huge bodies.

As the hunters gathered around Smith for a pull at the whiskey, a straggling rifleman mumbled something about seeing some redskins.

"Stop mumbling and say your piece," the leader said in a gruff voice, shoving the hunter the bottle.

"Why are those blamed Indians always poking their noses in our business?" a greenhorn blurted.

"Shut up," was Wylie's quick reply. "You'd be concerned, too, if those dead critters out there were your lifeblood. Ever}' dead buffalo means a hungry redskin."

Smith headed toward the supply wagon. The other hunters converged on the dead buffalo to help the skinners. The stench of (Continued on page 53)

33

NEBRASKAland From on High

Photography by Lou Ell Flying is ideal way to see of o glance the infinite beauty here, where the West begins

AN INDIVIDUAL, flying over NEBRASKAland, looks down on a canvas of infinite variety and impressive beauty, for few other areas offer landscapes so rich in texture and so diverse in feature. Bold with color and panoramic in sweep, this state, 500 miles wide and 250 miles long, is a three-dimensional composition of nature's artistry and man's handiwork. There are three divisions in this panoramic masterpiece, dictated by topography, for NEBRASKAland belongs to both the East and the West.

Each division contributes to the overall majesty of the view from on high, yet each has an identity and a charm of its own. Seen from above, Nebraska is a blend of the massive and the minute, the contrast and the complement, the timeless and the temporary.

In this panoramic trilogy of earth and water, plain and hill, lake and river, nature begins with a gentle brush and a velvety touch, then growing bolder and perhaps impatient, she works with a firmer, harsher hand until texture and rendition are strong and vivid, huge in composition and dramatic in execution. This transition of style and subject is very evident from the perspective of the sky where the eyes have a seven-league sweep from horizon to horizon. Nature begins her artistry in NEBRASKAland from east to west —right to left.

34 NEBRASKAland DECEMBER, 1967 35  

Nature's work in the east starts with the quiet elements of color and structure, 36 NEBRASKAland the green of a forest, the swell of a hill, the blue of a lake, the flow of a valley, the gold of a harvest, and joins them all with an eye to color and harmony. The textures are soft, subdued, and almost passive, yet they have an eye-pleasing charm, for they are of the simple, the familiar things of life.

Here, the viewer can see that the earth is benign, almost supine to man. The DECEMBER, 1967 37   few clashes and conflicts that do appear are not strong discords in the pleasant pastoral that spreads below. Homes and farms, cities and towns are quiet in tone, symmetrical in design. There is just a hint of the change to come in the western edge of this panorama, but tactful, it prepares without shocking.

The middle panel, the center belt of Nebraska, is in sharp contrast to the 38 NEBRASKAland gentle theme of the east. The land becomes rougher, the dominance of nature more pronounced. Its hills are higher, its valleys deeper, its colors grow bolder, the works of man paler and less significant. A softness that belongs to the east gives way to a shaggier, more masculine texture. There is the hint of conflict here, conflict between the various forces that make and shape the earth. A conflict that is repeated in the works and the philosophies of men who call this transition zone their home. The meadows lose their verdant mantle and don a coarse and wiry brown that rolls across the hills as though seeking escape. Water is no longer a mirror of the sky; it has its own individuality, its own character, and the visitor knows that nature's mood has changed. No longer is she content with pastel shade and gentle touch.

DECEMBER, 1967 39   40 NEBRASKAland

Like an artist, who suddenly turns from miniatures to murals, nature's efforts in western Nebraska are executed on a grand and an abrupt scale. Every element, every subject on this western third of the canvas is huge. Detail is forgotten in favor of broader concepts. Structure is emphasized and size becomes the criteria. Nature's impatience with the small and the subtle is everywhere evident. Renditions are stark, colors are strong, almost over-vivid in intensity. There is a newness, an unfinish, an urgency here, and no one flying over the craggy hills, the ocher buttes, the sheer canyons can fail to sense it.

This is a part of Nebraska, so broad in scope, so far-reaching in concept that only air-borne eyes can see it in its entirety. Man, always an interloper here, tries to soften the angular gauntness of the land with swirl and curve, terrace and contour. His efforts are but infinitesimal. There is no doubt, that here in western Nebraska, nature is the master and man is the servant. Yet, with all its magnitude, all its impressiveness, this land retains a charm that can not be denied. No one can fly over western Nebraska without feeling a tinge of regret when the last butte, the last pinnacle, the last canyon fade beneath the wings.

THE END DECEMBER, 1967 41

COTTONTAIL

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . "Population explosion" is more than a term to rabbits. With them it's a way of life — the only way by Norman Dey Game Supervisor

COTTONTAILS can be easily and accurately identified by most people. They are found in a wide variety of habitats, from grass lawns to heavily wooded river bottoms. Two species of cottontails occur in Nebraska. The most common is the eastern cottontail, Sylvilagus floridanus, which is found throughout Nebraska. The desert cottontail, Sylvilagus Audobonii, occurs in the western portion of the state and is very difficult to distinguish from the eastern cottontail.

However, desert cottontails can be identified by the length of their ears, which are longer than those of the easterns. The desert cottontail also tends to lighter coloration on the top of his head, neck, and back.

The desert cottontail is found in association with the high plains, while the eastern is found in agricultural areas and along wooded waterways. Along the Platte River in the panhandle of Nebraska, the two species are found living together in the transition zone between the river bottoms and the high plains.

Although the eastern cottontail is found throughout the state, only small numbers are present in some portions of the panhandle and the Sand Hills. The eastern edge of the range of the desert cottontail is the Sand Hills and loess hills and canyon country south of Platte River. These barriers have stopped the desert cottontail from coming into eastern Nebraska.

Two species of jackrabbits occur in Nebraska that could be confused with the cottontail, but size alone should separate the jackrabbits from the cottontails. Jackrabbits are twice as large and are found in open agricultural areas.

The young of a cottontail can be easily distinguished from those of a jackrabbit. Jackrabbits are able to move about the day they are born. Their eyes are open and they are completely covered with fur. "^ottontails are born naked and their eyes aren't open are a week old.

ottontail's reproductive potential is very high. Iding begins in late February and continues •joughout the summer and into the fall. Gestation takes about 30 days and the first young of the year are born in early April. An adult female is capable of breeding the day after she gives birth to a litter of young. This allows for a potential litter of young every 30 days throughout the breeding season, or 7 litters in one year. Copulation stimulates ovulation, making this possible.

Some females, born in early April, are capable of reproduction before fall, thus adding to the production potential of the population. Males, however, are not capable of breeding before the following spring.

Litter size averages 5 young, thus the potential production of a single female rabbit is 35 young per year. Mortality of young rabbits is very high. Only 65 per cent of the rabbits born live longer than the first month, and only 35 per cent live to be a year old. The normal life expectancy of a cottontail is well under a year.

Although cottontails are born helpless, they grow rapidly. When they are a week old their eyes are open and within 10 days they wander about near the nest. By the end of the first month they are weaned and on their own.

Just prior to giving birth, the female prepares a nest. These nests are usually located in shallow depressions, in some cases in areas of sparse vegetation. The nest is lined with fur from the female's body. In towns, cottontails frequently locate their nests in blue-grass lawns. Young are so cleverly concealed that they can be mowed over without their presence being noticed. Most 42 NEBRASKAland of the juvenile mortality occurs while the young are still in the nest where they are susceptible to adverse weather and predators.

The numbers of rabbits in any given area depend upon the habitat available. Where sufficient food and cover exists, cottontails are usually present in large numbers but rabbit populations are subject to rather drastic fluctuations. They can go from exceptional highs to lows in only one year. These fluctuations, although not completely understood, seem to occur because of social stresses and possibly disease.

Cottontails are the primary targets of hunters in most states. In Nebraska, they are most frequently hunted late in the winter when there is snow on the ground. Rabbits are able to withstand considerable hunting pressure. Where adequate cover exists, it is impossible to over-harvest a rabbit population. Cottontails are fine game animals and run well for dogs. Their habit of circling back to home territory is often their undoing. Hunters, wise in the way of rabbits, wait until the bunny makes his return.

From outward appearances, the rabbit has very little chance for survival, but his fantastic reproduction potential and his ability to adapt to various habitats insure that the cottontail will be here for years to come.

THE END DECEMBER, 1967 43

44 NEBRASKAland

A DAY FOR SHARPTAIL

by George Hanson as told to Gene Hornbeck

HEAD HELD HIGH, the setter worked into the wind along a yucca-covered slope in Nebraska's Sand Hill country. Her wagging tail verified the fact that she was following a thread of scent on the brisk wind. From my vantage point atop another hill, I watched as she puzzled out the bird's wanderings. Edging into a grassy pocket at the bottom of the hill, she paused for a second, drifted slightly to her right, and locked up in a stylish point.

"Point," called my hunting partner, Bob Fields, who was close to the dog.

"Take him," I answered, hoping the bird or birds would hold.

Bob took off at a trot until he was in range. Then, walking carefully, he moved in. A sharp-tailed grouse, cackling like a witch with a new broom, burst from the cover. The hunter swung his superposed on the bird, tracked him for an instant, and then touched the trigger. The grouse hung, seemingly suspended in the air for a moment, before plummeting into the hillside. We had our second sharptail of the day, but the first we had shot over the dog.

The next time experienced hunters tell me grouse are tough, I'll answer, "Amen"

Our day had started some three hours earlier when my English Setter, Dawn, vaulted out of the back of our station wagon, made a long cast and then paused to look out over the awesome expanse of the Sand Hills. She turned to me as if asking, "Where do I find birds, boss? No trees, very little brush, nothing but grass and yucca."

Frankly, I felt the same way. This was the first time I or the dog had hunted sharp-tailed grouse. Our hunting experiences have been limited to ruffed grouse and bobwhites in the DECEMBER, 1967 45   southeastern part of the United States. Dawn had some seven years experience on these birds and knew how to find them, but I knew that prairie grouse would give her some trouble.

Bob, a fellow employee of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, grinned when I asked, "Where do we start?"

"Let's give the dog the wind and work north into those rough hills. The birds may be in the meadows or the low hills ahead, but they will be tough to get in on. I prefer to flush them into the rough choppies and then work on them."

Bob doesn't claim to be an old salt on sharptails, but he had hunted them last season after coming to Nebraska from Montana. He is the manager at Fort Niobrara Refuge at Valentine, where he wrangles a big herd of buffalo and longhorn cattle. His job is much like that of any rancher running a big spread, but his stock is a little different to say the least.

We were hunting on another refuge, the Valentine complex, that is primarily a waterfowl refuge, but it has thousands of acres of prime grasslands that are open to public hunting when the waterfowl season is closed. Ned Peabody, the manager of the waterfowl refuge, was going to join me after lunch, since Bob had an afternoon appointment.

My job as a fisheries biologist at the Central Fisheries Station in Princeton, Indiana had brought me to Valentine for a demonstration of a new fish-control chemical. I had an extra day, so the two refuge managers offered to see that I got some action on prairie grouse before I had to head back east.

Our hunt got underway when Bob popped two shells in his 12-gauge superposed and I followed suit with my side-by-side 20-gauge. Bob was shooting lowbase No. 6's. I was using maximum loads of the same shot size. Both of our guns were bored modified and full.

"You'll find that full barrel handy at times on these sharptails," Bob coached as we hiked across the meadow. "I am afraid they aren't going to hold too tight for the dog. When we get a point, get in fast, grouse would rather fly than get prodded by a dog with a cold nose."

"Got you," I grinned. "I can't see how you can miss a bird out here when there isn't anything to get in the way."

"Nothing but distance," Bob offered, "and sometimes it's deceiving. A sharptail can put a lot of it between him and the gun and generally he does just that."

Our conversation ended when Dawn locked up on a not-too-classic point. The setter held until we got within 20 yards of her. Then she lifted her head, broke, and swung out on another cast. Checking, we found a box turtle sunning on a patch of bare sand.

"I don't think she'll point turtles anymore," I laughed. "She's probably as embarrassed as a pointing dog can get right now. It will take a few more mistakes before she comes up with consistent hunting. That's why I'm anxious to get her into a bird or two, so she can see what is going on."

Once across the meadow, we began a gradual climb into the hills. The grasses began to thin and we ran into patches of sand bared by the prairie winds. I was finding that a step upward doesn't always mean a step forward in the sliding footing of the Nebraska Sand Hills.

We were barely in the hills when our first flock of grouse flushed about 200 yards ahead. Evidently, they had been watching our approach and didn't want any part of us.

"These birds are fliers," I commented, watching them sail into another range of hills approximately a mile away.

"I've seen them go farther than that," Bob answered, "but there will be some that fly up along the hills and drop in as singles and doubles, so we can get to them."

His predictions were borne out 30 minutes later as we hunted the tops of the hills. A half dozen birds flushed about 150 yards ahead, scattered, then dropped in about a quarter-mile ahead.

"Stay off the tops of the ridges," Bob coached. "Work below the crests and through the pockets. We should be able to get to some of those."

Bob had dropped down behind a rise out of sight when I heard his 12-gauge blast twice. The dog worked toward the shots and I followed to check on my pal's 46 NEBRASKAland success. Besides, I wanted to see a sharptail close-up. Bob saw me and held up a bird.

"Missed him the first round," he said as the dog sniffed at the dead sharptail. "That full-choke barrel stoned him on the second shot, though."

"Young bird," Bob explained, showing me the wing of the sharptail. "The outer two primary feathers are ragged and pointed, indicating a young of the year. In the old birds, the feathers are more rounded and smooth as they have been molted and are new."

"Spoken like a true game man," I added, reflecting on Bob's biological information. "Does that make any difference in the eating qualities?"

"Very little. The old bird may take a bit more cooking but I don't find much difference in the taste."

"These grouse are dark-meated, aren't they?" I inquired.

"Right, both the sharptail and the prairie chicken or pinnated grouse have dark meat."

Dawn wasn't interested in our discussion and moved off to get back to the business of finding birds. We dropped into a big pocket, put about 75 yards between us, and moved over the hills again. Standing along a sidehill, I watched the old dog working below me. She was making game. Head held high, she pussy-footed into the wind, stopped, checked the air currents, and then moved quickly toward the downhill side of the pocket.

Years of hunting with her told me that action wasn't far off. Moving toward the dog as quickly as I could, I saw her glide into a perfect point. Head up and tail ramrod straight, she was locked in on her first sharptails. Instead of hurrying in as Bob had told me, I, like most bird-dog men, reflected on the always-inspiring sight of a favorite pointing dog doing what he was born to do. The birds didn't wait for nostalgic nonsense, though. A pair burst out of the cover and since I was more than 50 yards away, all I could do was watch them sail out of sight.

The dog, usually steady to wing and shot, broke and wanted to give chase, but she turned on command and came back, looking somewhat crestfallen at my goofing up our first chance at these elusive prairie targets.

It was nearing noon before we had our next chance at birds. The day was clear and the September sun was pushing the temperature to near 75°. Bob reflected that the weather was perfect for grouse hunting as the birds tended to sit a little tighter on the shady sides of the hills during the heat of the day.

The dog cruised ahead and went out of sight. Hiking toward the top of a hill, I stopped to look for her, and just in time to see the little tableau that began this story.

"I think she's got the idea," Bob called. "This one held good and she locked tight on him. I know what you mean now about (Continued on page 50)

DECEMBER, 1967 47

TASTE OF RABBIT

by Bob Snow Here's easy formula in how to train your wife to cook bunny

SOME SPORTSMEN are natural born dog trainers, but are utter failures when it comes to handling wives. I haven't had much luck with dogs, but my friends consider me one of the best wife trainers in the business. In four short years, my wife, Ellen, has been trained to bait fish hooks, keep tabs on my sporting equipment, and clean all kinds of fish and wild game without so much as a fuss. Besides that, when it comes to cooking, she is one of the best.

But, my training program has one fault. Ellen won't cook or clean rabbit. For four years, I have gone bunny hungry and my auspicious title of wife trainer has been in jeopardy. I have turned liar to protect that title, telling my cohorts that I hate rabbit when actually it rates right up there with chicken in my eating department.

Early this fall I divulged my secret to an understanding bachelor and an experienced camper. He offered to serve up an outdoor meal, if I provided the rabbit. I jumped at a chance to savor the taste of rabbit once again, and the next day we were out beating the brush. When a long-ear exploded from a thicket, my meal ticket was a well-placed shot. Although the weather was still warm, I knew the fast-moving bunny couldn't have tularemia, or rabbit fever. If a rabbit is infected with the disease, he will act sickly, and take his time in a getaway.

While bachelor Allan Sicks prepared the fire, I started cleaning the rabbit. There are two quick and easy methods of skinning a bunny. One is to make a circular cut around the middle of the body, grasp the edges of the severed skin with a hand on either side of the cut, and pull away from the middle toward either end. The other method is to tie the hind legs together and hang the animal on a nail or hook. With a sharp knife, cut around the feet and slash a little to secure a hold on the skin. Then simply pull down, peeling off the skin like a glove.

With my job completed I sat back and let my partner fulfill his part of the bargain. Rabbit, western-style, is a simple recipe and all you need is a knife, a rabbit, five strips of bacon, and plenty of time. With the knife, cut two forked sticks and a straight stick for the spit. After skewering the rabbit on the spit, fasten the strips of bacon with small whittled twigs. Al explained that wild rabbit is a dark, dry meat, and the bacon is needed to moisten it. Barbecue sauces can be used to braise the bunny, but we wanted to keep the meal simple. After 1V2 to 2 hours of turning the rabbit over the coals, depending on his size, you are ready to eat.

Overland travelers in 1849 couldn't have done a better job of fixing cottontail. After the mouth-watering meal in the primitive surroundings, I decided that if I could train my wife to cook pheasant, then bunny wasn't that far out of the picture. On my next hunt I deliberately brought a rabbit home. Amid shouts of, "Don't bring that thing in my house," and "Why did you bring a rabbit home?" I quietly went about the task of cleaning the cottontail. Putting the rabbit to soak for an hour in cold water with one tablespoon of salt, I phoned Mrs. Min Carter, the head homemaker for the Martha Gooch Kitchen in Lincoln. If anyone knew how to cook rabbit, she would. My plan was to pick one of the harder, but yet tastier recipes. I am the world's worse when it comes to cooking, and my wife knows that, so I figured once I stepped into her kitchen domain, she would lend a hand. Min recommended Wild Rabbit In Wine and since the ingredients were available, I went along with her suggestion. All I needed was:

1 1/2-pound dressed rabbit 2 teaspoons salt 1/2-teaspoon pepper 3 tablespoons butter or fortified margarine 3 tablespoons flour 1/2cup onions, finely cut 1/2-cup canned mushrooms 1/2-teaspoon thyme 1 tablespoon parsley 1 bay leaf, crumbled 1/2-cup red wine 1/2-cup mushroom liquor 2 cups water

With the ingredients gathered, my next step led me to the kitchen. I have trouble following model-car directions, so I was a little shaky as I carefully read the recipe. The first step called for cutting off the fore-legs and hind legs, separating the hind legs at the joint. Then the saddle had to be cut into three pieces, dividing the section nearest the head end by splitting it down the backbone.

Feeling like the Cornhusker football team with a fourth down on the one-yard line I plunged into the next step of melting the butter with the onions and mushrooms until the onions were soft and slightly brown. Then placing the onions and mushrooms to one side, I added the flour. After mixing thoroughly, I added the water, mushroom liquor, and wine. The directions left out this step, but I poured a small glass of wine for myself to steady my nerves, and whet my appetite. Next I added the thyme, parsley, bay leaf, salt, and pepper, and placed the pieces of rabbit in the pan and covered it. The rabbit must steam for iy2 hours or until tender. One-fourth pound of fresh mushrooms with Mi-cup water may be substituted for the canned mushrooms and mushroom liquor.

My wife didn't offer to help, but instead went into the front room and watched "Mission: Impossible". With the kitchen a wreck, I decided the hardest part of cooking rabbit was cleaning up the mess afterwards. As I sat down to my do-it-yourself rabbit dinner, Ellen wandered in. I ignored her as I ate my finger-licking-good bunny. Curiosity had taken hold, and she offered to help clean up the mess in trade for a small bite. After the first, she asked for a second, and in the end I had to share most of the bunny with her. I had won a major battle, but not the war.

Two weeks later, I was fortunate enough to hit another bunny. Ellen hinted that she would fix him and picked Jugged Wild Rabbit as a recipe. This elaborate-sounding deal called for:

1 dressed rabbit 2 teasoons salt 1/4-teaspoon pepper 1 1/2-cups water 2 cloves 1/2 bay leaf 2 slices onion 1 slice lemon 1 tablespoon catsup 2 tablespoons butter or fortified margarine 2 tablespoons flour

Cut the rabbit up into pieces as in the preceding recipe and combine all the ingredients except the flour and shortening. Place the rabbit and sauce in a covered pan and steam for 1%-hours or until tender. Melt butter, blend in the flour, and add the liquid from the rabbit. Cook until thick, stirring constantly. Pour over the rabbit and serve.

The taste of jugged rabbit was new and refreshing. I had finally won the rabbit wars after four long years of convincing. I can't take all the credit for the thousands of bunnies in Nebraska had something to do with it. Next time we have rabbit, it will be fried. The recipe is simple. Just cut the rabbit into small pieces, sprinkle lightly with salt, paprika, and flour. Beat together one egg and Vi-cup butter, heated very hot, and brown rabbit in the butter. Add V4-cup water, cover closely and place in 325° oven. Cook until tender. Thicken drippings for gravy, add sour cream.

One thing for sure, there are almost as many recipes for cooking rabbit as there are long-ears in in Nebraska. The NEBRASKAland Magazine has featured several recipes ranging from rabbit burgers to hasenpfeffer in past issues. By this time next year, I plan to be well versed in bunny recipes. No longer do I have to pass up a shot at a cottontail. My wife has found the taste of rabbit tantilizing, and my title as a wife trainer is safe.

THE END DECEMBER, 1967 49

A DAY FOR SHARPTAILS

(Continued from page 47)

shooting over a good pointer, it sure is a lot bigger kick than booting the birds out. Besides, I would never have flushed this one, he was 75 yards to my left and I was almost past him."

We hunted back as Bob had to leave. Dawn was having more trouble as she had to quarter into the wind. A few minutes after Bob's second bird, the dog overran a pair as she was going downwind. She pointed for an instant, but a third bird flushed almost instantly and we never had a chance.

My second moment of truth came when the dog swung into a large, heavily-grassed pocket. Her tail and gait indicated that she was making game. She edged toward the downhill side of the pocket, topped a slight rise, and came in on a solid point. Evidently, the birds were below her, so I cleared the distance in time that would put a dash man to shame. It would have been just as well if I hadn't, because as I topped the rise, a grouse, 20 feet away, blasted into the air with unnerving, "cut, cut, cut, cut, cut ". The little 20 jumped to my shoulder and I swung as the bird angled downhill. Cinching down on the trigger, I sent a load of No. 6's blasting after him and drew a clean miss. A half-dozen others clattered into the air at my shot. I was so unnerved by them that I touched off the full-choke barrel at a bird less than 20 yards away and got nothing.

"No trees, no brush, not even any distance," Bob chuckled. "How can you miss them?"

"I think I'm shooting pepper out of this thing," I said dejectedly. "Boy, what a setup for a double, and I couldn't hit one."

"Don't feel too bad," Bob consoled. "You and Ned should get into more birds this afternoon. Right now, I have to head for that afternoon appointment."

We stopped by the refuge headquarters and Ned came out to check on our success.

"Thought you guys would fill this morning," he chided. "Three grouse aren't that hard to come by, or are they?"

"They are," I answered. "We saw birds, but Bob is the only one who can hit them."

After a couple of hasty sandwiches, Ned and I drove to the southeast part of the refuge and hiked into the sharptails' domain again. Success came quickly.

Ned was the first to score when he flushed a single. One shot from his side- by-side 20-gauge did it. A few minutes later, I flushed three birds, but they were out of range, then Ned flushed a pair that were too far out, but he started walking toward the spot. His knowledge of the birds paid off as a laggard cackled up about 15 yards away. Ned got him.

My turn came when Dawn went on point in a swale 50 yards ahead of us. I trotted in and a single broke cover with the usual flurry of wings and the laughing cackle. This time however, I pulled down and touched off the 20, dumping the bird at 35 yards. It is hard to say who was the more pleased with our first Nebraska sharptail, the dog or me.

"See, there's nothing to it," Ned grinned. "This is all good heavy pasture and some of the birds should hold. Let's work west into the wind on the north side of these hills and then work back on the south."

The afternoon range of hills was not as high as the one we had hunted earlier, but the cover was much heavier. The hills are mostly big bluestem, and little bluestem, switch, and wheat grasses. I also noticed an abundance of wild rose and Ned told me their hips are one of the more preferred fall-and-winter foods of grouse.

The refuge manager was having better than average luck. Ten minutes after my score, he jumped another single off a hillside, but this time, the bird got underway a little faster. Ned hurried his shots and missed both.

"I zigged when he zagged," he called. "Let's swing around to the south side and work back. We've about run out of hills."

I was just turning back when Dawn pointed near the crest of a sharp hill. It took almost 150 yards of climbing to get to her, but the birds held until I came puffing up. Three came winging out of a rose patch. My first shot was way 50 NEBRASKAland off, but a bit more concentration helped me connect on my second. The setter made a feeble attempt to retrieve, but being tired and dry, she decided I could fetch my own bird.

"Two and two," I called. "Now, let's see who gets that third one first."

Glancing at my watch, I couldn't be- lieve that it was nearly four. Just enough shooting time remained for us to work back to the car. The hills began to take on a new look as the sun dropped toward the western horizon. The light became warmer and accentuated the greens of the bayonet-leaved yucca. Shadows lengthened and a coolness began to settle in.

"Point," Ned called from across a small valley.

"Get in quick," I called. "She'll hold, but maybe the birds won't."

"Right," Ned called, trotting toward the dog.

He had barely gotten the words out of his mouth when a single vaulted out of the grass, powered about 30 feet into the air, and then sideslipped with the wind. Ned caught him with a crossing shot and the grouse upended and plunged into the sidehill.

"Full house! Now, it's your turn," he yelled.

My third bird came when we were only 400 yards from the car. I had just struggled up a sidehill and was crossing a saddle between two choppies when I almost stepped on a grouse. I amazed myself by dropping him at less than 30 yards.

We trudged back to the car and for the first time I felt the toll of the hills as my muscles protested every step. Dawn was not much better, for she needed help getting into the station wagon.

The end of our hunt took a story-book conclusion as the setting sun skimmed across the endless hills, turning them into a shadowy, orange-hued sea of grass. Mallards, teal, and other puddle ducks dotted the many lakes and ponds along the road and a great blue heron flapped lazily across a marsh as we drove home. Like many others who have hunted these intriguing hills for the sharp-tailed grouse, I was already looking forward to the next time.

THE END

WHAT TO DO

(Continued from page 11) 4-5- Nebraska Veterinary Medical Association, Lincoln 4-5-6 —Basketball-Nebraska Wesleyan Midwest Tournament, Lincoln 5 ~- Basketball-University of Nebraska vs. University of South Dakota, Lincoln 6 — Omaha Beauty Contest •- Omaha University, Omaha £ — Close of duck season, statewide 5— Close of merganser season, statewide 5-7 —YWCA Annual Christmas Bazaar-University of Nebraska, Nebraska Union, Lincoln ' — Basketball-Lincoln Northeast vs. Lincoln Southeast, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln ' ~Ak-Sar-Ben Scholarship Luncheon — Omaha University, Omaha o-9 — Basketball-University of Nebraska vs. Washington State, Coleman, Washington °"9 - Great Plains Amateur AAU Wrestling Championships, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln °-9- Great Plains Amateur AAU Wrestling R Q^kampionships-Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 8-9 — "Delicate Balance", University of Nebraska Theatre, Lincoln 9 —Nebraska Wesleyan vs. Wayne State Teachers College, Wayne 10 —Light of the World Pageant, Minden 11 -13 — Basketball — University of Nebraska vs. University of Hawaii, Honolulu 11-12 —Omaha Symphony All-Orchestra —Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 13 —All-Star TV Wrestling-Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 14-"World Without Sun", "Basilica of St. Croce", Joslyn Film Series, Omaha 14 —Basketball —Lincoln Northeast vs. Lincoln High, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 15 —Basketball-Nebraska Wesleyan vs. Concordia Teachers College, Seward 15-16 —Nebraska State Education Delegate Assembly— Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 16 —Basketball-Lincoln East High vs. Pius X, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 16 —Basketball-Nebraska Wesleyan vs. Dakota Wesleyp.n, Lincoln 19 —Goose season ends, statewide 19 —Snipe season ends, statewide 20 —Basketball-University of Nebraska vs. Michigan State, East Lansing 22 —Elks annual Childrens' Christmas Party, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 23 — Basketball-University of Nebraska vs. University of Wyoming, Lincoln 25 —Christmas Day 27-30 —Big Eight Basketball Tournament, Kansas City 31 - End of archery deer season THE END

SUPPER AT BALFE

(Continued from page 19)

three Fanarow children arrived on the same old gray mare that they rode daily to and from school. Mr. King and his four children would arrive on horseback. Mrs. King would not be present as she was at home preparing Christmas dinner for the following day. Mr. Dalton was director of the school board and he would be on hand, along with his daughter.

They all represented the homesteaders and Kincaiders, wresting a living from Nebraska's fertile but reluctant soil. The ranch owners generally sent their children to the various town schools to the north, but that didn't matter, for everyone was welcome and they all came.

Activities had started the preceding Saturday. The Triangle F Ranch provided the teacher, accompanied by a few children, with a team and a bobsled to make the 20-mile round trip to the Snake River to select and cut a Christmas tree. It was a beauty.

People arrived early that night. Finally, the little frame building was packed with men, women, boys, and girls. The program opened with the singing of our National Anthem, a rendition I shall never forget. The children, one by one, or in small groups, unfolded the Christmas spirit in this cold, white vastness. Appreciative applause followed the close of each recitation or dialogue.

Santa finally arrived. I'm sure that all of the children knew the Santa Claus story. However, the thrill of his arrival was very apparent.

The old-fashioned box supper was the next event. Funds raised would be used to build a shelter for the riding horses of the children. These suppers were very expensive for the time. The cheapest one cost $7.50 and the one most sought after sold for $23. Of course, the last box was purchased by the teacher against spirited bidding by the husband of the lady who prepared that particular beauty. He ran the price up to $15. The husband, Mr. "Mac", was foreman of the Half Diamond D Ranch.

And now the dance. A concertina, fiddle, and guitar provided various rhythms until dawn. Square dances, polkas, and an occasional waltz kept the group in good spirits until the strains of "Home Sweet Home" signaled the close of the activities.

Suddenly, it was whispered about that Mr. Mac was (Continued on page 53)

DECEMBER, 1967 51   KAWASAKI MOTORCYCLES 50cc to 650cc Importer and Distributor Masek Sports Gering, Nebraska PLAN A NEBRASKA STATE PARK VACATION Write for more information: Nebraska Game and Parks Commission-State Capital, Lincoln, Neb. 68509

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Safe Hunters. More than 3 million young Americans have been trained in safe-hunting techniques under the National Rifle Association's Hunter Safety Program. Future should be less accidental. — South Carolina Wildlife

Soulful. The true conservationist is more concerned about what the preservation of certain natural resources will do for his soul than for his pocketbook. — Wildlife Crusader

The Difference. The big difference between skiing or snowshoeing and game hunting is that skiers or snowshoers, never clutter up library walls with stuffed skiis. —New York Conservationist

Duck Stamp-67-68. Design chosen for the 1967-68 Federal Duck Stamp is that of a pair of Old Squaw ducks resting on a northern ice floe. It was created by Leslie C. Kouba of Minneapolis, Minnesota. This is the second time he has won the design contest.—New; York Conservationist

Careful Hands. While hunting, fishing, or camping, wash and rinse your hands, but before you dry them, put some vinegar over them as you would hand lotion. The acid acts as an astringent and closes the pores, keep the skin from becoming rough and dry. — Colorado Outdoors

Plastic Bomb. Food bags and containers of plastic can melt into enclosed "bubbles" in a campfire, then explode with violent and dangerous force, a camper from Pennsylvania reports.

Edwin Delo said during a recent camping trip, the mother of a family camping nearby threw a plastic bag into their campfire. He said that it apparently heat sealed, then "exploded with the violence of a shotgun blast." A youngster nearby was showered with molten plastic and was severely burned. — Michigan Conservation

Stag Party. Failure of the partridge stocking in Utah back in 1932 was a mystery for a while. The 100 birds purchased from an eastern game farm simply failed to reproduce. Biologists discovered that^the birds were all males. - Utah

Super Doves. Returns from the dove banding projects of the Arizona Game and Fish Department produced a "200-year-old" white-winged dove and a jet setter. Tag on the whitewing killed in 52 NEBRASKAland Mexico showed it was banded in 1955 in Arizona, making it 11 years old or 3 times as old as its normal lifetime — translating it into human terms gives it the 200-year comparison. The "jet setter" was banded in Arizona in 1965 and turned up in Guatemala, traveling more than 2,500 miles. — Oklahoma

Some Rod. Game Protector Church on routine stream control, came upon men cutting trees and brush away from power lines. Church noticed a hook attached to one of the men's pockets. Further investigation showed a tree trimmer, three inches in diameter and 12 feet long with a hook and line tied to it. What a fishing pole! —Pennsylvania

Fox's Bacon. A Maine game warden came so suddenly upon a vixen that she dropped her groceries. The mother fox had been carrying a rabbit, two woodcock, and a red squirrel, all apparently intended for her litter of young.— Maine

Hare's Breadth. A motorist claims he missed a collision with a bear by a hare. He hit a rabbit and that slowed up the car, or he would have hit a bear, who was crossing the road a few feet ahead.— Maine

Second Sight. A hunter claimed he killed his buck with a bow and arrow, but the Wisconsin game warden was suspicious. Using a hospital X-ray machine, the game warden found a rifle bullet in the arrow wound. — Wisconsin

Free Ride. Bats carry their newborn young with them for a few days after birth. The young bat clings to its mother's fur as she flies about in search of food. — South Carolina Wildlife

Sweet Slumber. A hunting guide and his wife did not get much sleep the night their cat got out and tangled with a skunk. The cat had crawled into their bed for consolation. They spent the rest of the night spraying the house and the cat with deodorizers. — Michigan

Machine Age. The ancient Indian art of totem-pole carving has gone modern. An expert carver in British Columbia has been using power chain saws the last several years to help cut his work time on totem poles. He has made one 55 feet high. —Canada

End of a Gun Law. In a recent session, four Pennsylvania legislators introduced a bill to repeal a gun law which was en- acted in 1751. The old statute had pro- hibited the firing of a gun without a special license from the governor. The law was enacted to control pioneers who fired shotguns up chimneys to clean them out.— Pennsylvania

SUPPER AT BALFE

(Continued from page 51)

outside, "acting up". It wasn't long before the whispering changed to excited conversation.

"Mr. Mac is really getting out of hand. He thinks the tee-cher paid too much attention to Mrs. Mac during the supper and he is going to get him."

Just then the door flew open and in came Mr. Mac, hair in his eyes, hat pulled down over his forehead, and a gun in his hand.

It was several minutes before the teacher realized that this affair was just a gag. What a relief!

At dawn the party was over. The teacher was asked by the King family to have turkey with them. When he arrived, Mrs. King was at the door. "Tee-cher, I want to show you something."

In each of the two ovens attached to the kitchen stove was an enormous golden-brown turkey. What a feast on that Christmas Day in 1920.

How did I remember all of the incidents of that eventful holiday? I was the "tee-cher".

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 tips, 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.

END OF THE TRAIL

(Continued from page 33)

the dead animals filled the air with nauseating odors. Greenhorns who made "gut" shots would know better next time. Blood and intestines oozed onto the snow as the skinners worked. They wore greasy aprons that were soon covered with blood and fat as their sharp knives rose and fell. First, they ringed the neck close behind the horns, then slit the skin down the grass-fat belly from the throat to the tail and down the inside of each leg to the knee. The head was then staked securely to the frozen ground by a rod driven through the nostrils. A rope tied to shaggy hair on the back of the neck was then hitched to the horses. A quick whip-crack and the skin was ripped free.

Most of the men hated the work. It was a gruesome, bloody, filthy job. Yet, it was a highly profitable venture. Besides, the slaughter of the buffalo was unofficially endorsed and promoted by the army as a way to tame the Indians.

This far-sweeping slaughter of the buffalo contributed mightily to Indian wars and uprisings. Indians demanded that the white man stop wasting the buffalo. As the Indians rebelled, the military sent more and more soldiers to protect the settlers. The army men had to eat, and nothing was more accessible than the buffalo. "Meaters" were contracted to bring in so many buffalo per day. Also, army expeditions moved into the massive herds with cannons and killed hundreds of the animals just for the sport of it. The more buffalo killed, the angrier the Indians became, but even as the Indian raged, the buffalo hunters continued the slaying.

The buffalo, the American bison, once freely roamed America as far south as Mexico and as far east as the Potomac River. The thundering animals spread into Canada and onto the western coastal plains. But, the true home of the American bison was the Great Plains region. He roamed the wide-open prairies in vast dark herds that were uncountable and apparently even inestimable. In the early 1860's, estimates of the buffalo population in the Great Plains ranged from 50 to 150 million animals.

The great Republican herd, one of four such herds in what is now the United States, was named for the Republican River between Kansas and Nebraska. Buffalo had a peculiar habit of grazing into the prevailing winds and this characteristic led them in casual circles, 300 miles in diameter. These migratory circles often overlapped and each herd wintered on land where another had summered and vice versa. The Republican herd summered normally between the Black Hills and the Big Horn Mountains and then dropped south for the winter. This put them along Nebraska's southern border where Smith and his crew of hunters and skinners slaughtered thousands of the animals for their hides. Hundreds of other crews, just like Smith's, were killing the huge beasts for the same reason.

Before the white man, nothing the Indians did changed the drift of the tremendous Republican herd. Each spring the herd was larger than before as new calves added to their numbers. The Indians became completely dependent on the buffalo. He was their sole subsistence, providing shelter, food, clothing, and fuel. Even the corn-planting Pawnees needed the buffalo.

No animal ever adapted himself to his environment as well as the shaggy DECEMBER, 1967 53   buffalo. Half the size of today's entire nation, his home stretched between the tRocky Mountains and the Missouri River and reached beyond Texas. The buffalo was incredibly strong and feared nothing. Diseases were unknown and the treeless prairies allowed few predators to attack him. His shaggy coat and his habit of facing into the wind protected him from the furious blizzards that took a toll of lesser animals.

It was said by many that only two natural forces could ever erase the huge population. Another ice age, which would push the beasts out of the land, or a great drought. It seemed this huge, craggy beast with a camel's hump and a lion-like mane was on the stretching prairies for good.

But, the buffalo did leave the Great Plains. It was not freezing ice or a great drought that caused his near-extinction. It was something far more grotesque and unbelievable. A macabre removal caused by thousands of "civilized" men like Smith who came West, bringing with them animals fast enough to overtake the buffalo and weapons capable of wholesale slaughter.

With the end of the Civil War, thousands of unemployed soldiers turned buffalo hunters. They flocked westward, slaughtering thousands of buffalo. As the hunters grew in numbers, they killed more and more buffalo, taking the hides and maybe a tongue or two, but leaving the carcasses to rot on the prairie. Buffalo boom towns sprang up overnight. Gambling and lawlessness ran unchecked as the grizzled men killed buffalo by day and drank and fought by night. Such colorful characters as Wild Bill Hickok, Lonesome Charlie Reynolds, Phil Sheridan, James Armstrong Custer, and Buffalo Bill Cody all participated in the hunts.

Easterners came West seeking the excitement of a buffalo hunt and paid good money for it. Several men, including Buffalo Bill, hired out as guides and came back with stuffed money pouches after taking the greenhorns on safaris. There were many ways to capitalize on the buffalo, and men were quick to find them. Railroad companies sponsored "Great Buffalo Excursions" where hunters could shoot the beasts directly from the train. Often, not even the hides were taken.

For the first few years of this massive slaughtering, the Republican herd showed little change. The herd did not change its drift with the wind and did not change its migratory circle. But, man soon changed this pattern. As time crept on, the herd began to dwindle in numbers and the animals became wilder. The Indians complained they could no longer catch the shaggy beasts because they were too wild, and since many Indians were too poor to buy guns, their crude arrows and stone-headed spears became ineffective.

In the early fall of 1864, Colonel Robert Livingston, military commander of the sub-district of Nebraska, ordered a line of fires to be set from a post on the Blue River to Julesburg, a distance of 180 miles. His motives were two-fold. One, to deny the Indians graze for their ponies. Two, to drive the buffalo south of the Republican River. Set in early morning, by midday the wind-driven flames were a solid wall of fire southward across the prairie. Animals of all species fled. The buffalo stampeded, and rabbits and varments rushed ahead of the flaming wall, many to be caught eventually. For several days the fire swept southward, the vicious flames destroying everything in their path. The wintering Republican herd was caught in the fire and thousands of buffalo died. But, not one Indian was killed. They backfired to protect themselves, their camps, and their herds, then ate cooked game as they hurried over the blackened region seeking green lands again.

Although the great fire did not kill one Indian directly, it did kill a lot of buffalo, so the fire achieved its purpose after all. For the way of the buffalo was also the way of the Indian. The army soon learned of the red man's dependency on the buffalo and felt that if there were no buffalo, there would be no Indians. As gruesome as it may sound, this theory was advocated as a method of controlling the savages.

Everything seemed to be against the buffalo. Indians sometimes set spring fires to hurry the grass for their winter-weakened ponies and often this "hurrying" hurried thousands of the shaggy monsters to their deaths. Extremes of nature, quicksand, tornadoes, and lightning, all took their toll. Yet, despite all this, the buffalo was in no great peril until he faced the killing rifles.

By 1883, the day of the buffalo was past. Gone like the breezes that swept over the tall buffalo grass, the Republican herd was all but exterminated from the Great Plains. Greenhorns who had watched train loads of buffalo hides come into Kansas City and heard the wonderful tales of huge warehouses crammed with hides, spent thousands of dollars outfitting for hunting parties. When the hunters arrived where the Republican herd was supposed to be, they found only huge swarms of hungry buffalo gnats and a few shaggy creatures that wouldn't pay for the hunters' whiskey.

The great buffalo slaughter of almost a century ago is all but forgotten now. History devotes only a paragraph or two to this macabre interval in Nebraska's past, so for most of us, the wholesale elimination of these magnificent creatures has no real significance. Yet, we should not dismiss the presence and subsequent passing of the buffalo so lightly. No other mammal has ever had so much influence on the destiny and development of a continent.

STATEMENT OF OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT AND CIRCULATION Act of October 23, 1962; Section 4369, Title 39, United States Code 1. Date of Filing: September 20, 1967 2. Title of Publication: Outdoor NEBRASKAland 3. Frequency of Issue: Monthly 4. Location of Known Office of Publication: State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509 5. Location of the Headquarters or General Business Offices of the Publishers: Wildlife Bldg., State Fairgrounds, Lincoln, Nebraska 6. Names and Addresses of Publisher, Editor, and Managing Editor: Publisher. Game & Parks Commission, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 69509 Editor: Mr. Dick H. Schaffer, 200 Indian Boad, Lincoln, Nebraska Managing Editor: Mr. Fred Nelson, 4014 N Street, Lincoln, Nebraska 7. Owner: Game & Parks Commission, M. O. Steen, Director, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509 8. Known Bondholders, Mortgagees, and Other Security Holders Owning or Holding 1 Percent or More of Total Amount of Bonds, Mortgages or other Securities: None 9. Paragraphs 7 and 8 include, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears upon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of the person or corporation for whom such trustee is acting, also the statements in the two paragraphs show the affiant's full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and conditions under which stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon the books of the company as trustees, hold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of a bona fide owner. Names and addresses of individuals who are stockholders of a corpor- ation which itself is a stockholder or holder of bonds, mortgages or other 10. securities of the publishing corporation have been included in paragraphs and 8 when the interests of such individuals are equivalent to 1 percent c more of the total amount of the stock or securities of the publishing corporatioi Extent and Nature of Circulation: Average No. Copies Each Issue During Preceding 12 Months 69,723 Single Issue Nearest to Filing Dat Septembe) 70,000 A. Total No. Copies Printed: B. Paid Circulation': 1. Sales Through Dealers and Carriers, Street Vendors and Counter Sales: 2. Mail Subscriptions: C. Total Paid Circulation: D. Free Distribution (including samples) By Mail, Carrier or Other Means: E. Total Distribution (Sum of C and D) F. Office Use, Left-over, Unaccounted, Spoiled After Printing G. Total: I certify that the statements made by me above are correct and complete: (Signed) Dick H. Schaffer 11,000 50,386 61,386 5,532 66,918 2,805 69,723 10,800 50,906 61,706 5,393 67,099 2,901 70,000

Alive, he was responsible for a culture that by its very nature could not be compatible with the advance of civilization. Dead, he was responsible for the decline 54 NEBRASKAland and virtual destruction of that culture and the establishment of a new and completely different way of life in Nebraska and the rest of the West.

History had been made. Man looked back at his doings, wondering whether he had done right or wrong, knowing the answer but never admitting it. He said the buffalo could not have survived with man in a modern society and passed it off at that. The beasts were gone, now it was time to exploit the land again with new get-rich-quick schemes.

THE END

CURIOUS ABOUT BROOKIES

(Continued from page 27)

our failure to catch trout in what was normally a hot spot.

"I almost always pull something from under this brush." he told me. "Something's wrong and I can't figure it. When they're not hitting, you might as well try some other place."

As we started back, I noticed that the inlet to the pond was teeming with tiny creek chubs. I wondered if they were the reason we had failed to get strikes, or if the brooks were spawning. Unlike the brown or rainbow, the brook trout is actually a char, spawning from early in September through November. As sure as Ben had been about catching the brookies, I was positive there had to be a reason for our failure. Back at the car I asked Ben what he thought.

"I don't believe that spawning affects their catchability much in a stream," he told me. "Here, I'm not sure. I was always under the impression they hit better, but from what biologists tell me, they don't eat, and if that's the case, they must hit because they're mad. One other thing which might affect our bad luck is that brookies have never been stocked in this pond. They simply moved down out of the creek, reproduced, and really took hold, so we're not dealing with hatchery trout. That might have a bearing."

"I don't believe that spawning affects their catchability much in a stream," he told me. "Here, I'm not sure. I was al- ways under the impression they hit better, but from what biologists tell me, they don't eat, and if that's the case, they must hit because they're mad. One other thing which might affect our bad luck is that brookies have never been stocked in this pond. They simply moved down out of the creek, reproduced, and really took hold, so we're not dealing with hatchery trout. That might have a bearing."

His statement about natural reproduction surprised me. Later, I learned that brookies reproduce in several of the streams in this area. At first, I figured they were native, but after checking I found out that cutthroats were the only trout native to the state and they were quite limited. The brookies were first stocked in Nebraska around 1892, but regular stocking has long since been discontinued. As we drove away from the pond, I asked Ben what he used for baits.

"Oh, just worms," Ben replied, "in the pond, brookies stay pretty deep and except for very early in the morning and late in the evening they won't take top-water offerings. I like to fish flies, but flies have never produced for me here".

"I thought brookies were easy fish to catch," I said. "Aren't they known as eager midday feeders?"

Ben took my question as a statement but recognized the concern in my voice. "Don't worry," he assured me, "we'll get them yet".

Afternoon had caught up to us before we rolled to a stop on the West Hat Creek Road, west of Crawford. Leaving the car, we planned to work upstream. On these small Pine Ridge streams, a fisherman must use a hunter's prowess to bag his game, so Ben and I approached quietly.

There was a hole on both sides of the crossing. Ben took the lower end and I went in above. As far as I could see there was only one way to fish the upper pool without scaring the trout and that was from a high bank. Racing halfway up, I crawled the rest of the distance to the edge and peeked over.

Trout were scattering everywhere. I had goofed. The shadow of my rod tip had hit the pool and that was all it took to send the fish scampering.

Cussing myself, I dropped a worm in just for the heck of it. If the current would carry it back under a cutbank I might get a taker. It did and I did. The trout must of met me halfway on my offer of free food, for he hit almost immediately. He was a nice one, too. I couldn't see him, but my ultra-light was doing everything but making button-holes. Then, suddenly, I was Ashless. I was sure he had been stung by the hook, but I had nothing but time, so I drifted the worm through once more. Again the fish hit. This time I had him. Keeping a taut line, I hustled down the bank and played the trout ashore. At first glance I saw it wasn't a brook, but a rainbow, and while disappointed, I realized I had at least broken the ice. Now, our luck was now bound to change. I tried the drift-through once more, arousing no interest. From past experience, we knew that one fish per hole is the usual take, so we moved on upstream.

Two holes and 10 minutes later, Ben stalked and landed our first brookie of the day, pulling the fish out of very dense cover. Soon after, I caught a five-incher and examined him closely. The brookie has one characteristic that easily distinguished him from other trout. Vivid black-over-white marking on the front edge of the lower fin stands out like a stop sign. Other color characteristics are dark-gray overmarkings over an olive-green background which forms a mottled effect on the back. The lower parts of the body fade into a lighter color and a red or orange line extends laterally along the length of the body. Numerous red and pale yellow spots dot both sides, each spot faintly surrounded with a blue circle. A brook trout is indeed one of our most colorful species. After examining the little fellow, I let him go.

For awhile I fished behind Ben, watching him operate. He's Mr. Cool on a stream, a master with the fly rod. For the small streams he uses a 3V2-foot leader. He claims the longer leaders get loused up and are less accurate. When worm fishing, Ben relies on a No. 6 hook fished with no weight. He fishes flies much the same way, allowing his selections to drift just under the surface.

Ben managed another brook and picked up a brown trout or two while I ran into nothing but trouble —reel trouble, line trouble, and frustration trouble. Finally, I got back in the groove and took a brook —too small to keep.

Ben and I compared successes and decided to try Monroe Creek and the possibility of bigger brookies.

Again we headed west, this time for Harrison. We turned north there toward the Gilbert-Baker State Special Use Area, a 2,437-acre tract managed by the Game Commission. We parked just below the camp area and found Monroe Creek running clear and cold.

My fly rod and a black gnat got the nod for this try. I went downstream while Ben started upstream. Monroe is a small stream, hardly more than a rivulet in places, but it does have some pools which we planned to fish. My only problem was the angle of the sun. It gave me fits. To properly drift the pools meant DECEMBER, 1967 55   being on the wrong side, for it put the sun behind me and cast my shadow across the stream. I'd worked through six or seven good holes before I overcame this and took my first brookie from Monroe Creek. He was just a seven-incher, not big enough to convince me that brook trout fishing was worthwhile. Then, just below me, I saw what looked like a 10 or 12-inch brookie in a pool I could fish. The stream took a bend and from the other side I could pull a good sneak without worrying about the sun, so I moved. Five minutes later, I had the 10-incher described earlier and the fun was just beginning. In the next five holes, I scored on four more brookies, and one was a little bigger than my first "lunker". Having found the knack, I worked on downstream, enjoying the freshness of the shady creek and testing my stalking prowess. I didn't catch any browns or rainbows, but I didn't care, the way those brookies slammed a fly was well worth the effort I had to make to reach them.

It was getting late, so I began to work back. I still hadn't tied into a trophy-size brook, but I knew there was one around and some day I would get him. Meanwhile, I was satisfied with my five brookies.

Ben had taken his limit, so we loaded up and took the road home along the White River, pleased with ourselves. We hadn't taken any monsters, but it had been a most successful, enjoyable, and beautiful day. I had finally satisfied my curiosity about the brookies, and I knew I would be hunting them again. For fun instead of knowledge.

THE END

TIME MACHINE

(Continued from page 17)

my visits to this shrine conjures new understanding of the drama which was staged there during the fateful winter of 1846. Over 300 pilgrims perished at what is now State Street and North Ridge Drive in Omaha, four blocks west of U.S. Highway 73. As I stood at the base of a statue portraying a grief-stricken mother and father standing over the open grave of their child, that terrible winter suddenly took on new significance. It was no effort at all to imagine myself as one of the Saints and to see the Quarters as he saw it.

Wagons and rude shelters were strewn across the frozen prairie like the dens of a prairie dog town. Here and there, smoke from a cooking fire rose in the stinging air. In one of the rough leantos, a mother bent over her sleeping child. Her lips moved in a silent prayer for his safety. In another hut, a bearded man lay under a mound of quilts and blankets as gaunt, weathered friends sat nearby in stony silence. Sickness was everywhere and no one was spared as the scourge struck young and old alike.

Outside, heavily-coated figures chipped at the frozen ground as they hewed out a final resting place for another victim. As I watched, winter waned into spring and the earth thawed, flowers grew and the grass again turned green. It wasn't long before strength returned to the pilgrims. And then it was time to move on. But as the wagons ground westward the fresh graves marked the spot where history was made in a peoples' search for the "Promised Land".

Not all of the history along the Overland Trail dealt with death and tragedy, however. There were places where hardship yielded to pleasure. Just south of the present city of Kearney, on the Interstate 80 cutoff, Fort Kearny boasted one of the most infamous of these pleasure stops. Resting almost in the shadow of the fort, Dobytown meted out its own brand of pleasure to soldier and traveler alike.

I had spent some time at the fort, now under restoration, and had heard of the town from an amateur historian He told me that none of the original structures are left. Only a stray bottle or a shard of pottery recall the days when Dobytown was the swingingest place between Omaha and Denver. It didn't really matter whether there were any buildings or not. It doesn't take much more than a bit of information to set my time machine in motion.

The mud street made it almost impossible to tell where street ended and buildings began after a good rain. But the horse soldiers from the fort, west of town, and countless gamblers and women of questionable virtue couldn't care less what the town looked like. They were there for their own reasons. The women and gamblers were there for the gold they could fleece from army and its payday. The army was there to take advantage of a good time.

Poker games ran all night in the town's myriad saloons and gambling halls. And if there were any objections from localites, a bullet from a .45 usually took care of complaints. In fact, at one time, the cemetery near Dobytown outstripped the town itself for residents. Nevertheless, new prospects streamed in. Few stayed, howeyer.

Dobytown wasn't exactly the most likely spot to bring up kids, or even get more than an hour's sleep at a time. As far as the hard-core residents knew, religion came out of a bottle so there was no need for churches. And no one read the labels on the red-eye bottles, providing there was any, so establishing a school was out of the question. The town was as wide open as any on the face of the earth. In 1865, 6,000 wagons rolled through the place.

But in 1871, Fort Kearny was deactivated and with the supply of military coinage gone, Dobytown withered on the vine. Within a year, the elements had reduced the buildings to the prairie from whence they came and Dobytown passed into Western history. Its passing was not mourned.

Like Dobytown, several of the landmarks of the past have gone by the wayside with the progress of civilization. O'Fallon's Bluff, once a landmark for the westward migration is fast becoming a part of the expanding network of Interstate 80. Just south of Sutherland, O'Fallon's was the scene of one of the more prominent murders in Nebraska's past. I know because I was there, in spirit, if not in body.

The campfire flickered in the distance and as I topped the gentle rise, I looked down and saw three figures lounging near it. A briefcase near one distinguished-looking gentleman bore the lettering "Hon. A. W. Babbitt".

It rang a bell deep in my subconscious. Babbitt was the Secretary of Utah Territory, en route home after a visit in the east. It was August 25, 1854.

I started down the incline to join the trio when an arrow whizzed through the night air to imbed itself in an unsuspecting throat. The victim slumped to the ground and in an instant, a Cheyenne raiding party was on his two companions.

Instinctively, I dropped to the ground and lav still to watch the infamous murder unfold. The Indians were good at their work. It took only seconds to dispatch the remaining whites. And then the raiders were gone, taking what they wanted, destroying the rest. Again my ability to relive the past had led me into a hidden world.

While O'Fallon's Bluffs may not be one of the best-known historical sites in Nebraska there is one site that will last as long as man has a will to preserve history. It is Windlass Hill.

Located southeast of Lewellen on U.S. Highway 26, Windlass Hill has probably claimed more hopes and dreams in its nearly 45° slope than any other site along the Overland Trail. As I stood atop the hill, resting against a marker that proclaims its past and unusual name, it was easy to recreate the crossing that made this slope so famous in Nebraska history.

The squeal of tortured wood and metal echoed through the otherwise peaceful valley as sweating men fought to keep a wagon upright on its course down the hill. Straining ropes threatened to snap at any second as the wagon bumped from one furrow to another. Inch by inch, the hulk edged down the incline. Suddenly, a crack echoed across the land like a rifle shot. The rope (Continued on page 58)

56 NEBRASKAland

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

Classified Ads: 15 cents a word, minimum order $3.00. March, 1968 closing date, January 1. 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 AKC Black Labradors: Outstanding pedigrees furnished. Pups, dogs, stud service, $65 up. Kewanee Retrievers, Everett Bristol, Phone 376-2539, Valentine, Nebraska 69201. 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. FOR SALE. Vizsla, AKC registered, born April 7, 1965. Hunted some last fall. Archie Silvrants, Box 165, Grant, Nebraska 69140. Phone 352-4918. BRITTANIES—pups, started dogs from excellent gun-dog stock. Also boarding and training. GoBritt Kennels, Route 1, Loma, Colorado 81524. A.K.C. Brittany puppies, white and orange. Champion bloodlines. $25 each. Norman Haldiman, iy2-miles north of Dawson, Nebraska 68337. 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. 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. TREASURE HUNTERSI Prospectors! Relco's new instruments detect buried gold, 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. FOR RENT during pheasant, deer season, full lower floor will accommodate 6-8 people with fireplace. Make reservations early. Lila Goos, Taylor, Nebraska 68879. LEATHER CRAFT. Learn how this high craftsmanship is given modern style and meaning in hats, leis, earrings, pins, etc. Daniel's Feathered Trophies, 2245 Market Street, San Francisco, California 94114. BEAUTIFUL pheasant-feather pins $1, plus 5t postage stamp. George L. Hohnstein, 137 East 4th Street, Hastings, Nebraska 68901. 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 CUSTOM TAXIDERMY. Trophies mounted true to nature. Reasonable prices. John Reigert, Jr., 865 South 39th Street, Lincoln, Nebraska. Telephone 489-3042. 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. CREATIVE TAXIDERMY. A complete service since 1935. Also, tanning and custom deerskin products. Joe Voges, Naturecrafts, 925 Fourth Corso, Nebraska City, Nebraska. Phone 873-5491. TAXIDERMY WORK. All new, modern shop. Floyd Houser, Sutherland, Nebraska 69165. Phone 386-4780. TRAPS COLLAPSIBLE Farm-Pond Fish Traps; Animal Traps, postpaid. Free information, pictures, Shawnee, 3934-AX Buena Vista, Dallas 4, Texas. FISH TRAPS, collapsible. Pond-lake types. Animal, bird traps. Free catalog and trapping secrets. Sensitronix, 2225-F63 Lou Ellen, Houston, Texas 77018. Your Products PULL Through NEBRASKAland Classifieds NEBRASKAland goes into more than 60,000 homes and business offices each month. Families and individuals reached are an active buying market for all types of products. Check the diversity of advertising in the classified section of this issue. You'll see your product belongs. (You might see something you need or want, too.) NEBRASKAland grows constantly, reaching more people each month; more people to see your message. Yet, classified rates are still low: Only 15 cents per word, with a $3 minimum. • NEBRASKAland classifieds are never "lost" or "buried". All classified advertising is prominently displayed, conveniently arranged for the greatest readability. • NEBRASKAland Classifieds sell the merchandise! This is most important of all. Whatever you have to buy or sell, list it in NEBRASKAland classified advertising. You'll get results. NEBRASKAland classifieds sell! 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, Coxad (1580 kc) 9:45 a.m. KMA, Shenandoah, la. (960 kc) 10:00 a.m. KODY, North Platte (1240 kc) 10:45 a.m. KLMS, Lincoln (1480 kc) 11:00 a.m. KIMB, Kimball (1260 kc) 11:15 a.m. KVSH, Valentine (940 kc) 12: Noon KOGA, Ogallala (930 kc) 12:30 p.m. KICX. McCook (1000 kc) 12:40 p.m. KFOR, Lincoln (1240 kc) 12:45 p.m. KCNI, Broken Bow (1280 kc) 1:15 p.m. KUVR, Holdrege (1380 kc) 2:45 p.m. KNCY, Nebraska City (1600 kc) 5:00 p.m. KRVN, Lexington (1010 kc) 5:40 p.m. KTNC, Falls City (1230 kc) 5:45 p.m. KCOW, Alliance (1400 kc) 7:00 p.m. KFAB, (Mon.-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, Car! E. Gettmann, Lincoln Ainsworth—Max Showalter, 387-1960 Albion—Gary L. Baltz, 395-2516 Alliance—Marvin Bussinger, 762-5517 Alliance—Richard Furley, 762-2024 Alma—William F. Bonsall, 928-2313 Arapahoe—Don Schaepler, 962-7818 Bassett—Leonard Spoering 684-3645 Benkelman— H. Lee Bowers, 423-2893 Bridgeport—Joe Ulrich, 100 Broken Bow—Gene Jeffries, 872-5953 Columbus—Lyman Wilkinson, 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 Long Pine—William O. Anderson, 273-4406 Milford—Dale Bruha, 761-4531 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, 254-4438 Syracuse—Mick Gray, 269-3143 Tekamah—Richard Elston, 374-1698 Thedford—John Henderson, 645-5351 Valentine—Elvin Zimmerman, 376-3674 Valley—Bill Earnest, 359-2332 Wayne—Marion Schafer, 286-4290 Winside—Marion Shafer, 286-4290 York—Gail Woodside, 362-4120 DECEMBER, 1967 57

OVERLAND TRAIL

(Continued from page 56)

whipped back, knocking two men flat as the wagon shot 20 feet down the hill, struck a rock, and exploded into a shower of wood and canvas. Wreckage was strewn along the hill and across the valley floor as though a tornado had whipped through a campground. Another dream shattered on Windlass Hill.

Others made the descent safely. Camping in the valley for a couple of days, they made arrangements for the unfortunate occupants of the wrecked wagon to travel with other members. Then they were on the trail again, headed for the unknown beyond.

But what lay beyond was almost nothing. Grass was scarce and firewood was almost non-existent. Before the long trek ended, those in the graves at Ash Hollow next to Windlass Hill were considered the lucky ones. But Chimney Rock in the distance heightened spirits and the pioneers pushed on into the "high rock" country of Nebraska's west.

They call it Scotts Bluff National Monument, now. And within its confines lies some of the state's most imposing history. Here is history that few know exists. And much of it will never be mined, for only the bluffs know the true story and they aren't talking. Yet to the pioneers who followed the Overland Trail, Robidoux Pass was an oasis in the middle of hardship. Located south and west of the present city of Gering, the pass offered the best forage for livestock and the best firewood between Ash Hollow and Fort Laramie.

I visited the spot one wintry day and let my imagination see it as the pioneer saw it. Wagons slid and slipped into gorges that tore hubs and splintered wheels. Oxen stumbled and fell in knee-deep snow. And stragglers perished in the bitter cold that pierced the buffalo robes like a driven nail. Yet, the pioneer will to survive was strong and survive they did.

A column of huddled blue forms streamed over the distant ridge and headed toward the wagons. At first, they seemed a mirage on the blanket of white snow. And then, as they drew closer, the troopers were hailed as friends. They were a scouting patrol from Fort Mitchell, a protective installation located near what is now the city of Scottsbluff. Members of the 11th Ohio, these were the men who fought so bitterly in the battle of Mud Springs in February 1865 and the battle of Horse Creek in June of the same year. These were the policemen of the frontier, and as they passed only a few yards from the wagons' the travelers breathed a sigh of relief that they were there. Then they turned their attention to the trail ahead and eventual settlement in a new home.

For me every trip through Nebraska is a rendezvous with history with new adventures waiting on each journey. And my encounters are by no means patented. They are open to anyone with enough imagination and enough ambition to explore the hidden past of NEBRASKAland.

THE END

WHERE-TO-GO

GUNNERS CHASING TURKEY or deer can do so in many parts of Nebraska, but the sportsman who has a yen to go to the ends of the earth to find action should try hunting in NEBRASKAland's "Rim of the World". This spectacular view of neighboring counties and states from atop the ridge is known as the Rim of the World and it is an extra-memorable experience. This startling panorama is an attribute of the tree-covered, rugged expanse known as the Ponderosa State Special-Use Area.

This high, rugged butte country in northwest Nebraska is a veritable paradise for both man and animal. Few places in the world offer hunting in such picturesque surroundings as this area near Crawford.

Public hunting is the solid activity on the Ponderosa, and it is attracting more and more sportsmen every season. Established in November 1965, the Ponderosa is basically the home of wild turkeys, white-tailed, and mule deer. During the fall of 1966, shooters took 40 turkeys and 35 deer from the 3,600-acre tract. There is some upland game.

Three creeks add character to the majestic canyons, tree-dotted slopes, and lush grassy clearings. Squaw Creek wends its way across the area for two miles, while the lesser Wold Creek edges in for about one-fourth mile. Meade Creek on the north slope slices through the heart of the wilderness section.

Wild turkeys have become so numerous that some of them may be transplanted to other regions. Some of the former cropland from ranch days has been converted to special food plots to nourish transient and resident wildlife.

Just 2V2 miles south and 4 miles east of Crawford, the Ponderosa public hunting lands are remote yet convenient. Improved roads make access reasonably easy from any direction. Stands of conifers mingle with extensive groves of ash.

The Ponderosa area is a big and important unit in the public-hunting opportunities offered in the Fort Robinson complex, but three other state specialuse areas in the region also provide considerable hunting activity. The Metcalf Area, about 14 miles north of Hay Springs, has 1,320 acres, while the Gilbert-Baker Area with 2,600 acres is 9 miles west of Crawford. All have similar terrain and are only slightly less scenic than the Ponderosa. All provide fine turkey and deer hunting. Most of the deer are mule deer.

Directions and hunting information for these areas can be obtained at the headquarters building on the Ponderosa tract. The superintendent will have up-to-the-minute details on hunting conditions and prospects.

Ponderosa's acreage is adjacent to the expansive Nebraska National Forest lands, which stretch from Chadron to southwest of Crawford. All of this land is available for public use, and its hunting potential will become increasingly important as the shooting population increases and available land dwindles.

For those who hunt for beauty, instead of game, the quest is brief. Providing beauty is the business of Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha. Since this fabulous structure was completed in 1931, millions of people have visited the pink marble museum located at 23rd and Dodge streets. Built as a memorial to her husband by Mrs. Sarah H. Joslyn, the museum houses its own permanent art treasures plus many traveling exhibits and shows. The priceless Maximilian-Bodmer Collection, on loan to Joslyn, is just a sample. It is made up of 427 original works of Karl Bodmer, a Swiss artist who accompanied Prince Maximilian on an expedition to the upper Missouri River in 1833 and 1834.

Many major displays, such as the Dead Sea Scrolls, are made available to Joslyn visitors each year. Concerts and other cultural activities also highlight the calendar. Art classes, sponsored as part of the museum's education program, attract more than 1,300 persons annually. These budding artists range from pre-schoolers to adults.

Beauty indoors or beauty outdoors, NEBRASKAland offers both in large measure.

THE END 58 NEBRASKaland