EVER SEEN A CORNALOPE?

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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.

FOND MEMORIES-"I found the October magazine particularly interesting, especially Life With a Frontier Soldier and Discovering Nebraska's Rivers. The color work illustrating the river articles was exceptionally fine and as a salesman of printing and advertising specialities I can appreciate this. Mention of the Platte River brought back fond memories of National Guard encampments at Ashland many, many years ago, and swimming the river's swift current just back of the rifle range." —Julius Festner, Phoenix, Ariz.

RIVALS — "There was once a time when I only had to deal with my wife for possession of NEBRASKAland. However, since my brother's assignment over here, I now have to contend with him. I wish I had sent in his subscription three months ago, because I would have already read my September copy which I have been looking forward to, since I found out it would be the special hunting issue. When I returned from a trip, he had already removed it from the premises.

"We are both looking forward to being back in Nebraska for the pheasant season. I think the later opening of the season is a great break for the hunters and I look forward to getting my share." -CMSgt Joe Carrig, Hickam AFB, Hawaii.

IMAGINATION - "I thought I was looking at Mount Rushmore when I spied the old trapper giving orders, but it was on the Niobrara River."-William E. Smith, Lincoln

Mr. Smith is referring to the rock formation picture on page 24 of the October NEBRASKAland. It does resemble a human figure. — Editor

CONVERT —"I am from New Jersey and I must say I have never seen such a fine magazine with such interesting articles and exquisite pictures.

"It has always been my intention to move to Nebraska and live there. Your magazine had really given me a true picture of Nebraska and now I am more sincere than ever before about living there. NEBRASKAland has really brought about my interest in the state and I feel it will continue to do so. "Thank you for your fine work." — James R. Basile, Collegeville, Ind.

OLD CEMETERY -"I was born at Waco, Nebraska in 1904 and lived in the state many years. When I was boy, we lived on a ranch in the very northwest corner of Phelps County. This ranch was known as the Plum Creek Fort and there had been a fort on it.

"The woman who had homesteaded it told us that the ruts in front of the house were the ruts of the Oregon Trail. On the southeast corner of the ranch there was an unmarked cemetery. Seven cavalrymen and one woman were buried there. There was a small marker for her made of either sandstone or limestone with a short verse on the top of it and the words, 'Bertha Fly, wife of William Fly, died April —186_'. The stone was broken across the dates. Badgers and skunks had dug into the graves. We never farmed this small plot of ground and often wished it could be marked. "After this fight, the Indians ran the cavalrymen up the river about 10 miles to near the top of the hills and killed 13 more of the men. Mr. Bill Robb had this site well marked.

"I well remember many three-day blizzards and the loss of life and livestock. My wife was born and raised in a sod house and I once lived in a baled-hay house." —Thomas L. Bradley, Livingston, Montana

LEGEND — "I enclose a beautiful card with a legend which should go over big in your wonderful hunting country." — George F. Ruppert, Dumont, N.J.

before you fire. . . first inquire

Before you begin to hunt, remember that Nebraska State Law requires that you have the land-owner's permission to hunt on his property. It's a common courtesy. He'll feel better, knowing who his guests are. You will, too, knowing that you're a welcome visitor.

POCKETKNIFE PLEASURE

AN EGRET, head erect and sharp eyes surveying the scene about him, stands majestically on one foot, the other drawn up under his bony structure. He is not, however, standing in a placid pool of water, or even on the smooth mud-flats of his own weed-bordered home. His domain is the mantle in my living room.

My egret's sleek, streamlined body is hewn from pieces of driftwood scavenged during a 30-minute plod along a Nebraska river bottom. Often, as I search valleys and bottoms for the morel mushroom in early spring, or gather reeds and willows for a duck blind in the fall, I stumble upon caches of driftwood. Small bits along the borders of pot holes wait to be picked up. Recently I examined these finds and under their weathered surfaces found color patterns of brilliant reds and browns.

I took some home and let my imagination and a sharp pocketknife go to work. Soon the graceful figure of an egret was taking shape. Using a sketch of the bird from a discarded wildlife magazine, it was easy to simulate the big, lazy fellow. Nature had left behind a jig-saw puzzle and I had only to find the right pieces. After assembly and polishing, my sticks became an egret.

Enthused by my first effort I went back to the river to poke among bushes and trees for floaters to last me through the cold months. These sessions at the workbench during the winter produced a small deer and a pert roadrunner.

Making the figures is easy, but there are certain basic rules to follow. Here are some tips. Find a suitable location to hunt for the wood. Stick to the areas where water is most likely to be found, as the constant dampening and drying of the wood give it the necessary characteristics for carving and fitting.

Take home about four times what you think you need. Your language can become unprintable if you discover you've ruined the only piece that's suitable for a left foot.

Look at the rough wood and try to form some idea of what you're going to make. Place several pieces temporarily together to suggest a pattern. The most important thing is to get started. Patterns may change a dozen times before you hit on a figure that sparks your imagination.

Begin carving the pieces for the body and legs of the creature, stopping frequently to check measurements of the legs and head. Sand each part as it is completed.

Fasten the legs to the trunk, either by cutting a niche or attaching them. Use clear-drying glue to permit the grain to show through. Sand the entire creation after the glue has hardened and insert lead metal weights in the legs, head, or trunk to balance the figure and make it stand upright.

Varnish your animal or bird with at least three coats of clear sealer. Normally, the wood is dry enough to completely absorb the first application. Let the wood soak up as much as possible, then let it dry for a day before applying the second coat. When you've daubed on the second coat, stand your work of art aside to dry for another 24 hours.

After the third and final coat is dry, stand the figures in a corner, on a desk, or even on the mantle. Each can be proud additions to any household and are fine conversation pieces. They can give you many hours of pleasure in the process.

HANGING FISH

REMEMBER THAT lunker bass you caught in the summer of '62? It was the bragging-size one you wanted mounted for a wall plaque, but the little woman stomped the idea into the floor when she decreed that you had to dust the thing, along with the deer head over the mantle and the flying pheasant in your den.

However, your friends won't believe a snapshot, cameras can be made to lie, you know, and your memory pictures are questioned because they become bigger and more vivid every time you tell them. Outside of making the fish's impression in concrete, like the footprint of a movie star at Hollywood's famed Chinese Theater, you appear to have little chance of preserving an accurate record of its size.

Take heart. Things aren't that bad. For less than the cost of a pack of cigarettes you can have a life-size picture of your prize that is so unique your guests will remark how clever it is, and your wife will be proud to let you hang it on the wall.

You'll need a sheet of Japanese Rice Paper from a good art-supply store, and a tablespoonful of black printer's ink, mimeograph ink, or artist's oil color for the actual print. Collect a shallow cardboard box a little longer than the fish, a couple of quarts of fine sand, a small brush to apply the ink, some common pins, a roll of paper towels, a couple of feet of plastic food wrap, and a wet bath towel. Have a can of cigarette-lighter fluid handy in case you goof.

The fish must not have been cleaned, by the way, and we assume you had presence of mind enough to either keep it on ice or frozen, if some time should elapse before you can work with it.

Fill the box with the sand and lay the plastic wrap over it. Place the fish on top of that. Shake the box gently to partially anchor the fish in the sand. The whole function of the sand box is to hold the fish stationary while you record him.

With paper toweling, scrub all the surface slime off your model and spread his fins and tail as you want them to appear. Use pins thrust through the fins and into the sand to keep these members properly spread. Push some additional sand under them for firm support.

Roll up the sheet of rice paper in the damp bath towel. You can dispense with this step, but dampening the paper slightly makes it more flexible for easier molding.

Now coat the entire exposed surface of your catch with the ink, spreading it evenly and thinly with the brush. Working from the head toward the tail, rather than inking back and forth, seems to give the best impression.

Spread a paper towel over the fish, and quickly mold it down with your hands. This absorbs the excess ink. When you peel the towel away, you'll have a rough preview of how the final print will appear.

Now take the sheet of dampened rice paper and with the napped side of the sheet down, hold it over the fish, center it carefully, then lower the paper into contact. Once contact is made, the paper cannot be repositioned or the print will be blurred. Mold the paper quickly and carefully to all contours so the ink transfers to the paper. Be especially careful to get good contact on the fins, tail, and around the jaws. Then, gently lift the paper off.

If you have done a good job, a fairly perfect reproduction of your prize, scales and all, will be on the paper. If it is less than satisfactory, moisten a paper towel with a little lighter fluid, scrub the model, then re-ink and try again.

Hang the rice paper up to dry. If you need to touch up the image a bit, use a toothpick dipped in the ink and fill in any fin-spines that didn't transfer properly or to round out a scale. Go mighty easy on this touch-up, though. Much of the charm of these prints lie in their ragged and indistinct edges.

After the ink dries, you can iron out the wrinkles, or leave them in the paper if you like their artistic effect. Write in the date and the place where the fish was caught, its weight, and measurements, then enclose your masterpiece in narrow, black picture molding and hang it on the wall.

There is only one catch. If your wife is really mean, she'll make you dust the frame.

When you talk Nebraska, partner, talk with authority... As a Deputy NEBRASKAlander

JANUARY Roundup

HAVING PAID TRIBUTE to an exciting and adventurous 100 years of statehood, frost-laden January ushers in the start of a promising second hundred years as it makes its wintry debut in NEBRASKAland. Low temperatures and unsullied snow team up for a 31-day siege, but the elements fail to hinder the pace in this "where the West begins" state.

From a laughter-filled circus of basketball starring the Harlem Globetrotters to hard-water fishermen and icy-nosed hunters, the New Year's bells ring in a jam-packed month of sports, cultural, and educational activities for all Nebraskans.

Hunters, willing to forfeit the comfort of their living rooms, can don their hunting attire and draw aim on hen pheasants in designated areas from January 1 until the close of the ringneck season on January 21. These special hen areas include the northeastern and western regions of the state. The daily bag limit remains at four birds, only one of which may be a hen. Possession limit is 16, in which not more than 4 may be hens.

Petite bobwhites become protected gamesters on the 21st, while bushy-tailed squirrels remain under fire throughout the month. With rabbits aplenty, cottontails are legal targets the year-round with daily bag limit of 10 and possession limit of 30.

NEBRASKAland's hook-and-line sport fishing season is open year-round throughout the state, except in a few areas. Hard-water fishermen can slip into their "long Johns", and string envious-size catches of bluegill, walleye, trout, perch, northern pike, and crappie.

Nebraska's spectator sports fans have a month full of basketball and hockey. The Harlem Globetrotters travel to Nebraska January 3, and play second fiddle to none when it comes to side-busting basketball comedy. The University of Nebraska roundballers match skills with two Big Eight opponents on their home court, clashing with the University of Missouri on January 13 and the University of Oklahoma two weeks later. Creighton University meets Notre Dame's cagers on the 8th, and LaSalle University on the 30th in Omaha. Small colleges across the state will be placing their records on the line while high school cagers put the final polish on their teamwork before entering district contests that start in February, or compete in the Ak-Sar-Ben High School Basketball Tournament January 9 through 12.

On the ice scene, whether it's skating in the comfortable rink at Pershing, or on a glass-smooth country pond, or cheering on the Omaha Knights, there is plenty to do in NEBRASKAland. The Omaha Knights match semi-professional hockey skills and tactics with 13 other opponents during January. Seven of the slippery matches are on the Knights' home ice.

Indianapolis racing fans and plain automobile lovers alike can exercise their fancy to the hilt at the custom Auto Show in Lincoln on the 19th and 20th. Winter travelers can double up as music maestros and fairgoers in Omaha, as the All-City High School Music Festival strikes up a melodious note the 20th, and the Midwest Gift Fair adds zest to wintry life from January 20 through 23.

Cultural activities draw bundled-up travelers to areas across the width and breadth of the state. The Kiwanis Travelogue in Hastings will present "Hong Kong", on the 3rd, and "Ireland, The Emerald Isle" on the 31st. The University of Nebraska stages its Senior Recital on January 3 in Lincoln while the Omaha Symphony Orchestra produces several concerts during the month. The orchestra presents a Family Concert at Boys Town on the 4th, and concerts at Joslyn Art Museum on the 8th and 9th. Other concerts at the Music Hall in Omaha will be held on the 26, 27, and 29th.

Movie goers are not forgotten either. Joslyn Art Museum presents the Annapurna Film, "Florentine Architecture of the Renaissance" on the 14th, and the University of Nebraska's Foreign Film Society presents "Shameless Old Lady" on the 10th. In the playhouse world, the University of Nebraska presents the opera, "Albert Herring", at Howell Theater from the 31st to February 3, while the Omaha Playhouse comes alive on the 19th with it's presentation of "Wait Until Dark".

For athletic-geared Nebraskans, Lincoln is the place as the Governor's Conference on Fitness will be staged from January 2 through 4. Also along the outdoorsy line is the State 4-H Leaders Conference in Lincoln January 24 through 26.

With never a dull moment, the New Year's first month has something for every Nebraskan, be they educational, cultural, or sporting minded.

WHAT TO DO

A Ride on the Wild Side

THE SHAGGY BUFFALO stopped ih front of the gate, dipped his powerful head, hooked a horn over HOKL words about me bull's ancestry, and called for help as he picked up the splintered, gate. To Forrest, who has wrangled buffalo at the Fort Niobrara Wildlife Refuge near Valentine since T95§, the incident was Just another exarnplebf h rilecfLrpbuffalo getting his own way. I was impressed by the brute power of the animal, but before the 1967 fall buffalo roundup ended, I was going to see plenty of similar performances.

A cold, misty rain was shroudfng the prairie when ' -st met Forrest. The stocky biologic^ technician for the refuge was rounding up longhorns, and as the cattle sauntered over a rise, it was like viewing a spectacle of a hundred years ago when these regal beasts were moved up the Texas Trail to Nebraska by the thousands.

A longhorn roundup is hard work, but it is tame compared to a buffalo drive. Longhorns at least tolerate humans, although they don't accept them. Buffalo won't do either. Forrest and I visited for a little while and he told me that the longhorn roundup was just a "dry run" for the buffalo drive to come.

Each fall, refuge personnel move the buffalo into corrals near the headquarters to sort the keepers from the sellers, and to brand the calves. Some animals are butchered while others are sold on the hoof in a public auction. The Fort Niobrara Refuge uses this system to keep its herd compatible with the available range. In the summer, the herd averages around 330, counting calves, but only 280 are wintered. Eventually, the herd will be increased to 300 animals.

Any Sand Hills roundup is an open-range rodeo, but add ton-size buffalo and it becomes a prairie free-for-all with the cowboys on the short end. Anything can and does happen during a buffalo drive. The job is dangerous, but to buffalo-wise cowboys the usual injuries are only a sliver or two as they clamber around the rustic corral. In fact, Forrest has helped with roundups for nearly 10 years and his only hurts have been a few cuts and bruises. Despite this nearly accident-free record, Forrest has a lot of respect for these burly beasts.

Buffalo are unpredictable and driving 330 of them from the summer pasture in the fall for sorting, branding, and inoculating can take anywhere from an hour to two days, depending on their mood. For the most part, these modern wranglers depend on pickups and jeeps during a roundup, but when they need more maneuverability, they use horses. However, even the well-trained steeds of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service are not always a match for a shifty, fast-moving buffalo.

Although a horse can outrun the heavy critters, buffalo can switch directions on a dime to give a cowboy fits. A horseman can't bully a buffalo, and if he tries, the irritated beast may attempt to mince meat both horse and rider. Buffalo have minds of their own, and if they want to stray from the herd, there isn't too much a cowpoke can do about it. However, strategy and a little buffalo psychology often turn a stray.

Running a horse full tilt, chasing buffalo, has its drawbacks, too. Grass-covered holes can trip a horse, and when a thundering herd is within spitting distance, this is one trick that even a Hollywood stunt man would pass up. Forrest had a squeaker once when his mount went to his knees. This near accident shook the cowpoke, but he got out of it without a scratch.

Mild weather must have mellowed the usually spooky buffalo during this drive. At first the herd was satisfied with an easy lope that soon became an effortless run. As they headed down a fenceline, I glanced at the speedometer of our following pickup, it was nearing the 12-mile-an-hour mark. Their muffled hooves sounded like a hundred muted kettle drums and a storm-like dust cloud added spine-tingling drama to the rapid, but peaceful drive. The usually stubborn critters didn't even take time to square off with a pickup or two. In past drives, more than one driver has had to fend off buffalo that wanted to be riders instead of hoofers.

As the last of the herd passed through the gate, a blind yearling broke away and (Continued on page 50)

Blackrobe's Travel

THE MASSIVE stern-wheeler rocked nervously on the Missouri River surge, then bent into the current and pulled away from the Saint Louis docks. As the craft headed beyond the last edges of civilization toward the frontier, buckskin-clad men and calico-draped women made their way along the passages to their cabins, but one form lingered beside the bow rail, pondering the unknown that lay ahead. Father Pierre Jean De Smet was embarking on a new experience. The year was 1838 and the next 35 years would carve his name into the annals of Western history as a pathfinder in black linen.

As a young man, the wilds of mid-America were probably farthest from De Smet's mind. Born in The untamed lands beyond the Missouri were harsh, but they met their match in a quiet Jesuit priest named De Smet Termonde, Belgium on January 30, 1801, there was nothing in his early life to indicate that he would ever visit the new world. Yet an alert mind and an undying inquisitiveness made all things possible for this man. So, with a distinguished scholastic record behind him in Belgium, the priest-to-be set first foot on American soil in July 1821. Ahead lay entry into the novitiate of the Jesuit order at Whitemarsh, Maryland. This schooling in his new home was suited to him and in 1827 he was ordained, ranking near the top of his class. Oddly enough, the religious career that followed was often overshadowed by a second calling that began during the river voyage in 1838 — exploration.

The land De Smet found on the Missouri was a hard one. But it met its match in the good priest. He was five-feet-six and strong as a bull. Though he had a weight problem —he weighed 210 pounds —he was all muscle. He was a man of fantastic discipline, at one time fasting for 30 days to lose 35 pounds before one of his expeditions. Most of his treks were made on foot or astride a horse, transport considered undignified by many of his contemporaries in the East.

Possibly because of his size and strength, De Smet was noted for his mild manner. One account notes:

"In practical matters, he was efficient and businesslike; in social intercourse, cheerful, of charming address, fond of genial conversation, and full of a simple, delightful humor. His kindly tolerances extended to all except religionists of non-Catholic persuasion."

With enough weight, both physical and spiritual, to back him up, there were few who took issue with him.

His first challenge was the establishment of a mission among the Potawatomi. He called it Saint Joseph, but the name was changed when the present city of Council Bluffs, Iowa began to take shape. Here, among a peaceful-unless-drunk citizenry, The Jesuit gained the name "Blackrobe", a title that was to follow him throughout his career among the Indians.

Though his prime mission in the new land was to spread the teachings of God among the unwashed masses, he soon found a second calling on the plains -exploration. De Smet spent only a small part of his active life in what is now Nebraska, but in the 10 years he was here, he charted the wilderness as no other man before him. Blackrobe made four trips across Nebraska on the Oregon Trail and skirted its eastern boundary 17 times on the Missouri River.

Often, as Indian uprisings swept across the Plains, Father De Smet was the only white man safe on Nebraska sod. And where he went, he brought back word of the marvels of the new land. Through his journals, which he kept religiously, men who would never see the West found its wonders at their fingertips. Yet, there were times when his reports were far from glowing. He called things as he saw them.

In his journal of an 1840 trip across the state, he recorded his encounter with the Platte River.

"The Platte is the chief tributary of the Missouri, and may be considered the most wonderful and most useless of the rivers of North America; for it is 2,000 yards in width from one bank to the other and its depth is seldom more than two to six feet; the bottom is quicksand. The mouth of the river is 800 miles from Saint Louis by water and is the dividing point of the upper and lower Missouri River."

A later entry corrected the distance from Saint Louis to 650 miles, leaving the Father's depth perception somewhat in doubt.

De Smet's journals also show that while he was in an area almost entirely devoid of learning, he kept searching into the oddities he found in his travels. A Pawnee burial ground caught his eye in one trip. Later, he wrote that the body was put in a cabin-like enclosure of reeds and tree branches in a seated position. The face was daubed with vermillion, a bright red pigment, and the body was covered with the owner's finest war ornaments. Provisions of dried meat, tobacco, powder, gun, bow, and arrows were laid around it for the trip to the next life.

Perhaps the best known of his descriptions is of Chimney Rock on the Oregon Trail. Though the landmark had been around for eons, few seemed to think it worthy of comment until Father De Smet incorporated it into his diary. His account is often quoted:

"On the 31st of May (1840), we camped two miles and a half from one of the most remarkable curiosities of this savage region. It is a cone-shaped eminence of not far from a league in circumference, gashed by small ravines, and standing upon a smooth plain. From the summit of this hill rises a square shaft, 30 to 40 feet through by 150 feet in height; the form of this column has given it the name of the Chimney."

While the priest was jaunting around the country, jotting down such interesting facts as Chimney Rock, he also kept at the (Continued on page 58)

Hunting the First Snow

THE BURNISHED brilliance of the snow reflected the coppery light of the rising sun. Overnight, a new world had come to life. The sky backgrounded the nude harshness of the trees, their trunks etched darkly against the blanket of white.

Man as the hunter finds the newly fallen snow an exhilarating challenge. A brace of pointers bound from their car kennel with a new-found eagerness, dashing across the unbroken snow like playful pups. The men grin at the antics of the pointers and talk of the bob-white quail, the snow, and the guns.

Their hike across the virgin landscape reveals that the wildlife community, too, faced a completely new environment. The creatures of the night had had little time to forage after the storm, but a stippling of tracks JANUARY, 1968 19   indicates that some of the outdoor residents have been abroad. A snowy field holds evidence of a wandering pair of white-tailed deer. A cottontail had made a short excursion from his sanctuary of the creek bottom, only to be discouraged by a hunting coyote; his tracks tell the story of escape.

The dogs settle down to follow their inborn instincts and are soon working the brushy coverts. Heavily laden limbs unburden a snowy shower on the pointers as they follow the air currents into the haunts of the bob white.

A shadowy form takes flight from the limbs of a huge elm as a great-horned owl leaves his roost ahead of the hunters. A fox squirrel chatters wrathfully at the dogs as they pass beneath his place in the warming sun. The quail leave their covey circle and wander into the sparkling whiteness of the day.

The pointers, working into the slight breeze, cross a thread of scent and are led by their noses to the covey. The birds retreat into the heavy cover of a weed patch, but this does not erase their trail. The dogs follow them in.

"Point," comes a call from one of the hunters as both dogs stand frozen in the snowy silence. Heads held high, their noses point the way to the hiding covey.

"Whoa now," comes the command as the men walk in for the flush. The dogs obey, standing transfixed, until the hunters send a dozen quail flashing into the winter air.

Snow slides from a nearby limb as a shot reverberates through the silence of the woods. A quail falls as if swatted by an invisible hand. Five more shots ring out as the covey darts through the trees. A "fetch" brings the dogs from their classic stances, bounding in for the retrieves.

Moments later, the hunters are offering each other congratulations and condolences at the same time, as three birds are bagged from the first covey.

The dogs swing out ahead, trying to locate the singles in the snowy landscape. Soon, they are pointing along the edge of a fencerow. A lone quail flushes from the opposite side and wings away unscathed toward a distant band of cover.

Once again the dogs will cast into new areas that hold promise of a covey. The challenge of hitting a fleet-winged "Bob" will present itself many times before the hunters fill their limits. Near day's end, the curtain will fall on the scene as men and dogs, pleasantly tired, wend their way to the waiting car and the mellowness of the fireside. Tomorrow is another day afield, but it won't be quite as enjoyable, for first snowfall is special, with special memories.

COLD-WATER CARPING

CARP WILL BITE in cold water and Herman Miller and Max Kirber, both of Norfolk, were proving it. The two were on a late-October fishing spree on Shell Creek, north and west of Columbus, and the carp were co-operating. Herman and Max are retired. Herman was a long-time dairyman while Max was a railroader. Both men are ardent carpers and were proving in a practical fishing test what I, as a project leader in the Fisheries Division of the Nebraska Game Commission, had suspected. Despite a popular belief, carp will bite when water temperatures are low. I went along with the pair as an observer.

The creek was cold and running clear that October day and the carp were stacked up like cordwood in the deep holes, probably seeking protection from the lucidity of the water. A carp may not be the smartest fish that swims, but he knows that depth is a good shield when the natural camouflage of turbid water is not available. Carp may root around the shallows in the summer when runoff and soil tillage keep the stream murky, but come late fall and clear water and the carp head for deeper, safer haunts.

My observations indicated that carp would bite in water from 50 to 32°. In fact, I am reasonably sure Fall carping can outdo summer fishing. Max has fish to prove Corn is top carp taker. Doughballs will get marble hard in cold water it that carp fishing in streams is often better in middle and late fall than during the summer. Now, Max and Herman were putting my theories to the acid test. The two were using techniques that varied somewhat from the cast-and-hope, any-bait methods of summer angling. They were using canned, whole-kernel corn for bait, a material that had been found in carp stomachs after "baiting" a hole in a cold stream during an experiment. Since the carp liked it, it was a logical assumption that corn would make a good hook-and-line offering.

Unlike summer anglers, the fishermen were paying close attention to the stream, looking for the deeper holes and spurning the spots of medium depth, for the latter are not productive late in the fall. Deep waters below dams are usually good carp producers until the water temperatures fall to about 40°, then they tail off and are seldom worth the effort. However, on 24 NEBRASKAland natural streams where deep holes are often small and infrequent, the carping stays good as long as there is no ice cover.

During my experiments with "cold" carp, a group of experienced carpers fished one hole, about half the size of an average kitchen, and came up with 800 pounds of carp with a catch rate of 5 fish per hour. All of these fish were in excellent condition and were fine eating. Water temperatures varied from near 32 to 39°. Max and Herman didn't do as well on Shell Creek, but they did come up with five fine fish in good time. They used short-shank No. 8 hooks with just enough weight to keep the corn on the bottom. Their single hooks were tied below the sinkers.

After Max had lost a couple of baits to the sneaky fish, he came up with a pretty sage observation.

These carp are like a woman with her heart set on a mink coat. You just don't feel the bite until it's too late and then its much, much too late. But I am going to get on to this no-bite fishing, yet."

Later, he got on to it. The slightest line movement to the side or downstream usually signaled a bite and when it came, he set the hook.

Although the two retirees were using spin-cast outfits, both agreed that ordinary cane poles equipped with guides and cheap line-storage reels would be better for the straight-down presentations that are often needed to fish the snaggy holes. The boys soon learned that if carp are present in any numbers and are going to bite, they are going to bite. They fished a hole for 5 or 10 minutes and if it was "dry" they moved on to another.

After the stream try, Herman and Max moved to the dam on the North Fork River, north of Norfolk, and although time was against them, they took seven carp. Their fishing gave me (Continued on page 56)

REVEILLE AT FORT KEARNY

SAY THE WORDS, Fort Kearny, aloud, and there's a romance to the sound. This unusual combination of hard consonants and vowels awakens an audible echo of rattling sabers, creaking Conestogas, and the measured cadence of marching feet. For 23 years, from 1848 to 1871, Fort Kearny guarded the Oregon Trail, protecting those who had set their eyes and hearts on the sunset lands of America.

Built and garrisoned during a raw and bloody period of mid-continent history, Fort Kearny never knew the heated fury of conflict, yet it was by all odds, the most important military post in the old West. Today, through the magic of restoration, visitors can see the old fort much as it looked in its heyday.

Officially designated a State Historical Park, the facility is under the jurisdiction of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. It is located on Nebraska Highway 10, about six miles southwest of the city of Kearney. Signs on Interstate 80 direct travelers to its location on the south side of the Platte River. Although restoration won't be completed until early this summer, the fort is already a major tourist attraction. The Kearney Recreation Area with its camping, swimming, and fishing facilities is just east of the 40-acre complex.

A stockade, a restored blacksmith and wheelwright shop, and an interpretative center are already established. A powder magazine, a guardhouse, and markers designating the locations of the officers' quarters and the C.O.'s residence will be erected. The interpretation center, complete with parking lot and rest room facilities, features audio-visual aids to tell the story of the fort in sound and picture. Display cases exhibit artifacts and implements found and used in the fort. One of the most interesting displays is a collection of the various cartridges and projectiles tested at the post. For a time, Fort Kearny doubled as a proving ground for various weapons considered by the army.

Outside of the sunken rifle pits and a grove of 100-year-old cottonwoods, little remains of the original fort. When the army abandoned it in 1871, the buildings were dismantled, supplies were shipped out, and the fort proper along with its 10-square-mile military reservation declared open to homesteading. Restoration of the buildings and their locations are historically accurate, since the restorers followed the War Department's original plans and blueprints. A bulletin board in JANUARY, 1968 27   the center of the stockade holds full-color replicas of the regimental crests of the units that were garrisoned at Fort Kearny. Veterans of later campaigns will recognize some of the designs as ancestors of their own divisional insigne. Through the years, garrison strength at Fort Kearny fluctuated from a low of 14 to a high of 1,400 men.

Although the fort was never under direct attack, its troopers did ride out to do battle in other parts of the state, when they had to. During the Indian storm of August 1864, when the Sioux and the Pawnee rode rampant through the Platte Valley, the fort was the rallying point for the terrified settlers. They streamed in, seeking protection from the marauders.

Indians often entered the fort for parlay or to beg supplies, but they never jumped the troopers. Historians surmise that the fort was located on taboo ground and that the Indians were forbidden by their deities to spill blood on it. Raiding parties often tried to entice the soldiers out from the protection of the post, but prudent commanders knew better than to match their infantrymen against the best light cavalry in the world.

Still, the fort had its tense moments. One day, a wooding party, working on one of the islands in the Platte, was surprised by a group of Brule Sioux. The Indians were eyeing the white scalps, but a member of the work detail happened to recognize one of the braves and since he knew the dialect, he talked the warriors out of their bloody aspirations.

Another time, the garrison girded for trouble when a war lance, the Indians' traditional declaration of war, was found stuck in the parade ground. The anticipated attack never materialized. Another incident shook up the troopers when a sentry was fired upon as he manned his post. Nothing ever came of the threat and it is doubtful if it was an Indian who fired. Dobytown, one of the toughest sin spots on the trail, was close by and perhaps the solider had irritated one of its hard cases.

Indians were always a potential threat, but there were plenty of other annoyances that kept the garrison on edge. A quartermaster sergeant, charged with burying the dead, complained that coffins had to be weighted or they would float around in the graves because of the area's close-to-the-surface water table.

Scurvy was a common ailment in the winter and officers did everything they could to prevent its spread among their commands. Knowing that lack of vegetables in the diets was one of the causes, the mess officers often bought potatoes to supplement the salt-meat chow of the soldiers. The CO. was authorized to pay $2 a bushel for spuds delivered to the south bank of the Platte, but only $1 for potatoes on the north side. The thrifty Germans in Grand Island decided that the extra dollar was worth wet, cold feet, so they hiked up their lederhosen and toted the potatoes across the icy river. Some commanders permitted the establishment of a farmer's market on the edge of the post.

A watchdog of the Oregon Trail, Fort Kearny was both boon and barrier to eager immigrants. It was an excellent refitting spot for the long trek west and its soldiers furnished reliable escort service. Besides, it boasted a post office and a hospital which served travelers as well as the military, but the commanding officer had the right to stop a train if he thought it was ill-fitted for the rigors of the trail ahead. Supplies were sold at cost to the travelers and if they lacked the money, they were often given the needed materials, for the U.S. government was anxious to settle the Oregon Territory. Members of the delayed trains were usually given jobs on the post and were able to pick up a little stake.

A lieutenant of engineers, Daniel P. Woodbury, selected the site of Fort Kearny after it became evident that the original Fort Kearny at Nebraska City was off the beaten path and could not furnish adequate protection to travelers coming in through the southern feeder routes to the main trail. The officer and 70 men rode out in the fall of 1847 to find a suitable spot. After several days, they found what they were looking for and in his official report, Woodbury wrote:

"I have located the post opposite a group of wooded islands in the Platte (Continued on page 55)

THE JIG WAS DOWN

THE WEATHER LOOKED anything but promising for fishing as Jim Backencamp and I left our homes in the small southern Nebraska village of Orleans for the Republican River, a short distance south of town. A steady drizzle had been falling all night. Heavy, rain-laden clouds scudded in from the west and the temperature had skidded into the 40's.

'Downright invigorating for the middle of May," Jim said, as we turned east off Nebraska Highway 89 on the south side of the river.

Our finny targets for the day were the white bass that had been running the river from Harlan County Reservoir since the first week in April. We knew the spawning run was about over, but we had hopes that we could get in a few more good licks at the whites before they dropped back down into the reservoir for the summer.

The river was running low and clear, not altogether normal for the Republican at this time of year, but we hadn't had any heavy spring rains and the weather had been far cooler than usual.

"White jigs your choice today?" Jim asked as we rigged our outfits.

"Should be as good as any," I answered, "but put a couple of yellow ones in your pocket, too, just in case."

Jim and I are teachers in the Orleans High School. He is 27 and a commercial instructor, while I teach science.

My choice of jigs was backed by four years of fishing successes on the river. The white one-fourth-ounce deer-hair or nylon jigs are easy to fish, for they get down to the bottom in some of the faster runs that the white bass seem to prefer.

My young companion slipped on a water-repellent windbreaker while I donned my (Continued on page 51)

TREES OF RETREAT

WINTER GRIPS Nebraska in a frigid embrace. Ice throttles the rivers and streams. Bare skeletons of trees probe the skies, mocking the splendor that was theirs such a short time ago. ^During these months of short days and long nights, it is pleasant to daydream in our favorite easy chair and ponder the glory of yesterday - for it was but yesterday that all NEBRASKAland was bejeweled in the emeralds of summer and awaiting the blazing finery of the coming autumn.

Amid all the beauty that is NEBRASKAland, there is one little corner that is unique, an area vastly different from any other in this "where the WEST

begins" state. And, when decked in all its leafy array, it will rival any similar spot on the globe. That corner is extreme southeastern Nebraska, a retreat from the ordinary and a holdout of nature.

Forming a rough triangle bounded by the Missouri River on the east, U.S. Highway 75 on the west, and the Nebraska-Kansas border on the south, this tip of Nebraska is a botanist's delight, a hiker's dream, and an eden for all who yearn for the solitude and peace of the primitive.

Against the backdrop of the Missouri River, steep bluffs and wooded hills dominate this many-faceted region. Productive farms intermingle with rough, untillable terrain, and

prosperous communities give no hint of the uninhabited, barely-accessible areas but a few miles away. Rugged back reaches recall days now gone, for "roads" are but rutted, seldom-used trails. Nestled in the heart of its most rugged acres is the area that will become Indian Cave State Park.

While the geography of the locale is fascinating, the real allure lies in the highly uncommon vegetation. Although oak trees predominate, the area is actually typical of northwestern Tennessee rather than Nebraska, and 476 different species and subspecies of trees, shrubs, vines, grasses, ferns, mosses, and liverworts have been identified. Included are such rare species as dwarf willow, rice cutgrass, wild carrots, and ginseng.

The land itself is the reason these plants are found here and nowhere else in the state. In terrain that is too rough for

either farming or heavy pasturing, the flora not only survives but continues to propagate.

With its unique combination of geography, geology, flora, and fauna, the southeastern tip of Nebraska holds a special enchantment. It will intrigue anyone with a love of nature, a penchant for striking scenery, and a bent for adventure. Here, the beauty of the countryside intertwines with a history that predates the White Man's first foothold in the territory.

To enjoy it at its best, shun the well-traveled thoroughfare. Strike out along the back roads, for only then will you have an opportunity to really see this unusual region. And, for those willing to expand the effort, a hike through the timbered hills will bring nature into sharp focus. Whatever the mode of

travel: car, plane, boat, horse, or shank's mare —this is an area well worth the trip, be it winter, spring, summer, or fall. Of course, the landscape is at its colorful best when summer's greenery blends into the vibrant hues of fall, for then nature dons her most attractive attire. The blood red of the woodbine merges with the deep maroon of the sumac, and the bronze of the linden joins the pale yellow of the maple. All 476 varieties of flora blend in a bright montage that will rival an artist's finest effort.

So, as you while away the long winter nights, plan your own excursion to that unique little corner. See for yourself the tip of beauty willed to NEBRASKAland by a gracious and generous nature. You'll be glad you did.

The Courtship of Enne

THIS STORY took place many years after A. Johnson was president and the antelope and buffalo were roaming the plains a thurston for some of that good Platte water. It was after the time when the Pawnee, Sioux, and Dakota Indians were here hunting cherry and cedar wood to build a li'l-gan.

Keith Sherman and Douglas Colfax were both having a chase for the same girl, Chey Enne. No one could tell who Chey little Enne wanted to hook 'er.

One day Enne sat under the Red Willow tree and watched her little niece, Nance(y) Garfield, playing 42 NEBRASKAland with Mr. Daw son in the garden. Suddenly, she clenched her nuckolls as Mr. Adams, the messenger, came around the side of the outdoor furnas.

Thayer is a note for you Miss Enne/' he said.

"Well, that knox the props right out from under a person," said Enne.

"Dawes it bring bad news?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Adams I grant you everything is fine and dundy:

As he saunders away she reads it again:

"Cuming back again. Meet me under the big brown rock, better known as Box Butte, and we'll go saline in Sarpy Lake."

Keith

Chey Enne met him as promised. Pastor Seward hears marriage vows as Douglas wins Chey Enne

"Should we go have lunch at the Lancaster first, Enne?"

She agreed, so they stepped into the fancy hall.

They were just eating their custer(d) pie and coffee when Keith noticed that Douglas, his rival, was the new manager of the place.

"Eat quick Enne, so we can dodge out of here."

Just then Douglas saw them and it pierce(d) his heart to see his Chey little Enne with such a soundrel as Keith.

"I'll show him," thought Douglas. And right then he decided, "I'll have to knock Keith for a loup to get Enne back."

"I'll buy her fancy gifts. I'll, —I know what I'll do! He shall have to fight a deuel with me!"

The next evening, it was raining (Continued on page 56)

CALLING ALL CROWS

CAW! CAW! The screaming riotous mass swarmed in above us, scolding our great-horned owl with raucous squalls.

"Ready when you are," I whispered to my older brother.

Earl nodded, "O.K., let's take them."

I leveled my 12-gauge on a half-hidden target almost straight above me. If the quarrelsome crow would only drop down through one of the Cottonwood's few openings, I would get a shot.

Baroom! Baroom!

Our auto-loaders echoed together in the raw February air. Two bandits folded, plummeting to the ground A third struggled to stay air-borne, managed 50 yards, and then somersaulted earthward

"Not bad," Earl said, watching the black cloud retreat. 'Not bad at all. They didn't know what hit them.

"And we were going to leave," I chuckled. "Now I know we were right. We're smack-dab between their feeding grounds and roosting area. We'll get some action now.

And we did. Before we had to head home, we accumulated over 20 bandits, not a big haul, but enough to keep our pet owl content for quite some time. Usually we do much better. However, it was early for hunting 44 NEBRASKAland crows. The prime time in NEBRASKAland is late March or the first part of April when the north-bound birds darken the skies by the millions. Earl and I had been craving some shotgun action ever since the pheasant season closed three weeks before. Unlike many hunters, we never hang our guns up until next year, so crow shooting gives us the chance to keep our scatterguns uncased almost the year around. We had put our sights on wintering birds and guessed there were between 3,000 and 4,000 of them around.

Both Earl and I farm. My place is just south of Republican City and Earl's home is south of Alma, right on the Kansas line. Although he's actually a Kansan, his heart is in Nebraska where he was born and lived until the Corps of Engineers bought his land for the Harlan County Reservoir. He has hunted Nebraska for many many years and he cheerfully shells out for a nonresident license —just so he and I can hunt crows together.

In seven years of pursuing the pesky crows, Earl and I have learned a great deal about their habits. Personally, I think crows top pheasant, quail, and about any other bird for fast action and challenging wing shooting. On top of that, they are smart and you have to use your wits to outdo them.

My brother and I agree that good concealment is the most important part of an effective crow hunt. This can be accomplished without building time-consuming blinds or decking out with special camouflage gear. Only when we are hunting in open fields do we rig what you would call a blind, but for most of the year we simplify the problem of concealment by utilizing the natural cover of the area —tree belts and weed patches.

Because we use a live-owl decoy, we prefer the former, especially in the late winter and early spring. Crows follow the tree belts for protection from the wind and find our great-horned friend looking like he's right at home. This combination plus an amplified battery-operated record player is without a doubt, the best magic we have found for drawing the tricky targets in range. Ignoring all else, the usually safety-conscious crows will swarm in to chase away our owl, the most dreaded of their predators.

The portable record player is important. It was given to us a few years ago and it has really been put through the mill. We think of it as a necessity, especially for gunning the feed-to-roost routes. Its amplifier belts out a crow song that charms them in from miles around. Personally, I think flyway shooting tops all other methods of hunting the black marauders.

Of course, different hunters use different methods, and some, on locating a roost tree, shoot it up. We never do this. For one thing, it's too easy. Not that you could ever over harvest the crow, for his reproduction rate is so high that hunters hardly dent the surplus, but in my mind it's just not sporting. Hunters who shoot up the roosts are missing half the fun —calling the birds in.

Secondly, roost shooting ruins hunting later on. Crows are creatures of habit and as long as their tree is not disturbed they will continue to use it. Shoot too close just once, though, and they will move on. Keep them roosting in the same area and you'll keep getting gunning at its best.

We had two strikes against us by the time Earl and I got underway on our mid-February excursion. Since this was our first outing of the year, we hadn't been able to scout the area. That was strike one. Strike two was a late start. It was after three when we JANUARY, 1968 45   turned east off U.S. Highway 183 onto a gravel road south of the Platte River. For more than two hours we combed the countryside before we found a smattering of crows in a fallow cornfield, seven miles southeast of Elm Creek. Nearby cottonwoods promised the necessary concealment. The spot looked good.

But were the crows feeding or on the move? That was the important question. We knew we would have to have "new" birds continually coming in. The crows already there would provide us with one or two quick rounds, but after that we would have to rely on inexperienced newcomers. Although there were no tell-tale birds dropping in, a few left the flock and headed southwest. That might be a clue. If they were moving to roost, we should be in an excellent position. We knew there were birds northwest of us and if there was a roost to the southeast, the cottonwoods would be in the flyway.

We made our decision and drove to the farmhouse to get permission. The landowner obliged us, wished us luck, and we were on our way.

"I'll get the owl out of the crate," I told Earl, as we parked near a fence. "You latch onto the caller and coffee."

We had a good little walk ahead of us and I was glad we didn't have to lug decoys or cumbersome blind materials. With our light gear we went just about wherever we wanted to go. Owl, electronic caller, guns, and shells were all we needed to get into business.

"Kind of chilly," Earl chattered, shouldering his 12-gauge. "What's the weather report?"

"I don't think it's supposed to get any warmer. I heard on the radio that the high was 17° and I think that doggone north wind is picking up. Kind of miserable, eh?"

"Guess it could be worse," Earl answered, plowing through waist-deep weeds. "Let's hope that sun stays out."

We cut over the hill and saw that the cottonwood stand lined a frozen creek. We paused, debating whether to put the owl on the creek's near side and shoot from the weeds or to place him on the opposite side. The latter meant we would have to shoot from the ice on the tree-hidden creek. However, we stood a much better chance of not being seen there and we would be in a better position to lure back the bandits we had scared off on our way in.

Stretching out the cord that kept our wide-eyed decoy from running off, we went to work. I positioned the broken-winged owl where he could cause the most commotion while Earl shinnied up a tree to place the loud speaker. He angled it, so that the racket would seem more natural as I connected the speaker wire, made a last-minute adjustment, and put the bestselling disc from the crow hit parade on the turntable.

"Ready anytime you are," I called.

"Let her rip."

The response was almost instantaneous. My hand hadn't left the volume knob before the bandits were tearing in to answer the help call. I jammed three No. 7Vfe low-base trap loads into the auto-loader and crouched, trying to hide my face.

I knew Earl had seen the oncoming black horde, but I called our familiar warning anyway: "Bandits at three o'clock. Be ready." I decreased the volume as they came closer.

In less than a wink, two dozen delirious birds were over our owl, spieling out their noisy threats. I pulled on a diving bandit, but he made one twist too many and my shot went wide. Crow fever had Earl too. He tried twice on one and didn't ruffle a feather. Finally, I found a hole to shoot through and dead-eyed one of the less cautious birds. He fell like a rock. That broke the ice, but the rest high-tailed it to regroup and plan strategy.

I turned to Earl. "We're going to have to do better than that, or we'll have to eat all the crows we don't shoot."

He chuckled and reloaded.

A couple of minutes later we turned up the volume f#aLn* time the crows hesitated, but not for long. Withm a minute the eerie squalls came bouncing back and we dug in for another round.

The same bunch came to our electronic caller three times. On the second go we took two, and on the third, three. I was hoping they would come back for a fourth encore, but they had had enough.

"Hey Earl. Pretty good, huh? Getting those devils to come back three times. Must be something about our owl they don't like."

"I'm sure of it. But you know, we couldn't have brought them back without the caller."

We took time out to warm up with a cup of coffee as we scanned the empty sky. We still hadn't seen any new birds and I was beginning to wonder if we were in the right spot. Minutes passed like hours without action. After an hour, I was too cold to stand it any longer, so we decided to give up for the day. We were packed and leaving when Earl hollered.

"They're coming in behind us."

Crows were practically in the trees before we made it back to the creek. I threw our dead birds out as decoys and joined Earl in a crow duet on our mouth calls.

Following the opening salvo on the new birds, Earl and I again set up, gathered up the dead and crippled crows and placed them in the trees and around our owl. I raced to the top of the hill and saw that more birds were on the northwest horizon. Hustling back to the creek bed, I turned up the volume and set the needle back to the record's beginning.

Looking toward the hill, I saw the black dots winging in, so I motioned to Earl to prepare for another round. We knew now we had found the action we were seeking. I was warmer already.

Winter Baits

THE WINTER'S first snow covered the ground like a satin sheet and I knew I'd better start shoveling the drive, so I hurriedly got dressed and started outside. Across the street, Jack Brownlee was already hard at work clearing his walks. When we finished, I asked him over for coffee, and after the second cup, he mentioned getting some fish bait.

Bait at this time of the year? I knew Jack was an ardent sportsman and was out in the field whenever his school-teaching duties permitted, but I thought this was carrying it a little too far. He explained that he was getting ready to go ice fishing and needed some bait. This surprised me, so I asked if I could tag along. He said he would welcome any extra hands and soon, we were out looking for some cold-weather fish takers.

The day proved to be both profitable and informative. Jack got an abundant supply of bait and I learned something about the where and how of finding it. A minnow is one of the ice-fisherman's favorites and can usually be found in sheltered backwaters of flowing streams. A small mesh net or seine is just the ticket for collecting these little fellows. My companion mentioned that it is a good idea to check the latest state fishing guide since some seines or baits are unlawful. Jack holds his minnows in a styrofoam bucket to keep them from freezing. From time to time, he adds commercial oxygen tablets, available at most sporting-goods stores, to keep them active.

Grubs, larvae, and nymphs of various insects rank next to the minnow in popularity with this ice-fishing buff. Mousee grubs can be obtained from almost any bait shop, and although a bit soft and mushy, they make excellent bait for panfish. June-beetle grubs, which resemble a small, white worm, can be found in sawdust piles and in decayed wood. Jack assured me these grubs are packaged dynamite when fishing for perch and bluegill. Two other grubs, the goldenrod grub and the cornborer, are excellent winter fish takers.

When looking for .the grub, keep your eyes peeled for either a round balloon-shape or tubular-shape swelling on the goldenrod stems, for these grubs seem to prefer different abodes. After locating an infested stand, just clip the stem above and below the gall, and you're in business. Don't open the galls until you are ready to bait up. Discard those that have a small hole on the top or bottom because the grubs have long since vacated.

The cornborer makes a dandy winter bait, but finding an infested field might take some doing. All you need is a good pocketknife to split the cornstalk lengthwise. Stalks that are tunnelled are tip offs to the presence of borers. Jack passed on a few hints for finding these frigid filets. He said you can usually tell if you are in a bonanza right off the bat, so if you don't find any grubs after splitting several stalks, move to another field. Some fields will produce a bumper crop while others will yield nothing. These grubs are small, so gather a good supply. Fished right, they will produce a fine stringer.

For unusual bait, don't overlook larvae from the nests of wasp and hornets. A large nest will have plenty of larvae and can keep you in bait for some time. Open the nest outdoors and make sure it's cold enough to dull the inhabitants. Taking a nest inside and letting it warm up can cause retaliatory action on the part of the winged warriors.

If you prefer worms, you can always try digging your own, but this can be a problem when the ground is frozen. If you want to give it a try, start by digging around buildings or piles of leaves. The decomposition of organic matter produces some heat, and such sources may prove to be a winter haven for the wigglers. If you can't find worms on your own, the local bait shop is your best bet. Here, you should be able to get night crawlers and possibly wax worms. The wax worm is the larva of the bee moth. Mealworms are very good winter baits and can be found wherever grain is discarded. Look around grain elevators for these small segmented worms. Usually you can come up with quite a few.

If you decide to use grubs or larvae, you should keep them in a cold environment so they won't mature. An excellent place is the vegetable drawer of the refrigator. Speaking from experience, Jack says this might take some doing because of the little lady of the house, but perhaps you can win her tolerance if not her acceptance. Remember grubs and larvae are susceptible to cold temperatures, so keep them from freezing while you're fishing. A flat tobacco tin makes a good container and fits nicely in a shirt pocket.

A running stream furnishes aquatic insects larvae. Harvesting these is usually a three-man project. Get a long minnow seine, and have two fellows hold it across the flow of the stream. Then stir up the rocks and twigs on the bottom, upstream from the netting. The disturbed larvae will then float down and be caught in the seine. Some anglers use cockroaches, but finding them can be a problem, since everyone considers them pests and exterminate them at first sight. They can be found in old buildings and in some basements. Don't let them escape from your bait box or the distaff side of the house will go into orbit.

Jack proved to me there are a lot of natural baits available for winter fishing, but as he said, you have to look for them. But, the opportunity for year-round angling is enough incentive to go probing for these proven fish takers.

What to do

WILD SIDE

headed down a county road. Bob Fields, refuge manager, gunned his truck and churned down the road to quell the buffalo's bid for freedom. As Bob neared the confused buffalo, the animal charged an eight-foot wire fence and then turned away. Bob blocked his getaway and managed to keep him in check for a few seconds, but the maddened bull took another crack at the fence and the tough wire nearly gave way. As the 900-pound maverick whirled to head up the road again, Bob threw the truck in reverse, and nearly pinned the frustrated animal against the fence. Squirming like a greased pig, the bull shook loose and scampered away.

Forrest, seeing that the truck could not turn the buffalo, galloped toward the obstinate critter. The buffalo took on a fence and the sound of splintering 50 NEBRASKAland wood split the air. Finding the posts a little hard, the bull turned on the rider. Forrest spurred his mount and the buffalo cut in behind the horse. Forcing the animal into the fence, the wrangler turned the buffalo in the right direction. Then with a couple of warwhoops, and some fancy maneuvering, he edged the bison through the gate and into the pasture. After the dust cleared, four fence posts were on the ground, several more were splintered, and the wire was sagging.

'That buffalo is blind," Forrest grinned, as he reined up. "He's cost us more money than he is worth."

Buffalo are extremely nervous when confined in a corral, so the cowboys work only 30 head at a time. But even this adds up to 30,000 pounds of wild animals that can make splinters out of the pens.

Forrest has a special feeling for his four-legged charges, but the friendship is not mutual. When working buffalo, the only safe places are the catwalks that stand eight feet above ground level and run alongside the maze of chutes and pens in the corral complex. But when it's necessary, the cowpokes get in the pens with the grouchy beasts.

Usually there is one stubborn bull that needs a little coaxing and the 1967 fall roundup was no different. As a 2,250-pound buffalo eyed his competitors, he gave a few warning snorts. For two years running, Bob and his crew have tried to weigh this bull, and for two years he has refused to co-operate. The long-maned bull stood in the middle of the corral, and even an 18-foot prod pole couldn't move him. Someone had to get into the pen, so Forrest and two others took the job. Opening the door of the hub, Forrest eased into the corral and waved a jacket to catch the bull's attention while another man jabbed with the prod. Lowering his head, the old bull pawed dirt, indicating that he was playing for keeps. Then with a snort, he made three stiff-legged hops toward Forrest. The technician didn't wait around, he ducked behind the safety of a gate. After 15 minutes of prodding and teasing, the bull headed for the open chute leading to the scale pen. Building up speed, he hardly changed stride as he burst through the locked gate at the opposite end of the scale.

"If we don't head him off, he'll crash through the gate at the top of the hill like he did last year," Fields yelled, as he and Forrest scrambled off the cat-walks and headed for a station wagon.

The men nearly made it up the hill in time, but the buffalo wasn't going to be bluffed by humans. He flipped the gate over his head and ambled up the hill to join the others that were waiting for their trip to the corral. His return visit to the chutes came when the last of the herd was driven down from the holding pasture, but this trip was his last. Bob turned old "Bad Temper" into the corral that held animals destined for the butcher's block. His costly and dangerous show of strength was admirable, but refuge personnel knew that he might eventually injure someone if he wasn't stopped.

Wise old bulls aren't the only ones that cause trouble in the corral. A hammer, extra planks, and plenty of nails are musts when the hard-headed and sharp-horned bison rattle through the pens. Sprung gates and splintered planks are common occurrences. Every animal eventually finds his way to the hub, the nerve center of every corral system. In the six-gated pen, the animals are sorted into various pens for selling and butchering, or are sent down a long chute leading to the pasture and another year of freedom. Maverick buffalo in the cramped quarters of the hub have a habit of trying to jump over the top and in their efforts loosen and even splinter boards on the catwalk. A daydreaming cowboy can have a lapful of buffalo if he isn't careful.

Fort Niobrara's wild buffalo pull some dangerous stunts when they are forced through the narrow chute to a squeeze chute which holds them while they are inoculated and blood tested. On our drive, one bull decided to climb over the top of the narrow 41/2-foot chute. With two legs over the side, he made the cowboys scramble. Several men helped him back into the chute, a tugging job that compares with lifting an elephant off your toe. Still, the chute is the easiest and safest way to handle the critters.

After tackling 900 to 2,200-pound buffalo, branding the calves sounds easy. But even these 300-to-400-pound babies can splinter planks. Lusty from summer romps in the field, the calves have the habit of kicking up their back heels. One swift kick from a calf can break a man's leg.

Buffalo are dangerous. But according to Forrest if you play it safe, you will be safe. The cowboys joke about their job, but when the buffalo are in the corral they are dead serious. They have to be. One wrong move can mean an injury. Fort Niobrara's buffalo are wild and they take pride in proving it.

Visitors are always welcome at the refuge, but are discouraged from taking part in the roundup. There aren't any grandstand seats for this modern wild-west spectacular, and the dates of the roundups fluctuate with the weather and grass conditions. But if you are at the refuge and you hear a soft rumble that turns into a roar you will know you are just in time to watch one of the best ad-lib rodeos in Nebraska.

JIG IS DOWN

hunting coat. Both of us wore hip boots, so we could wade to the better spots if we had to. Jim's second cast arched out across a flat stretch of water and landed along the edge of a run. The jig swept downstream about 10 feet before he began the retrieve.

"Strike," he muttered, rearing back on the rod. "Got him, too."

The bass zigged across the shallows and streaked for the deeper water of the run. His first show of strength was all he had and a minute or so later Jim had our first fish of the day, a nice one-pound male.

"Bet we don't get many of the larger females today," the young teacher said, stringing the fish.

"I'll have to agree," I answered. "The run is about over and if it's anything like other years, the females have spawned out and dropped back to the lake."

During the peak of the run it's not unusual to take a couple of dozen fish in a morning's fishing, many of them females of 1 to lV2-pounds. The males will average % to 1 pound.

"If your catch is any indication of the fishing to come, we should have a full stringer in short order," I offered, as we waded into the river.

We didn't know it then, but the next fish would be a lot tougher to come by. The Republican (Continued on page 54)

CENTRAL PLAINS SPADEFOOT TOAD

BUILT-IN "SPADES" on his hind legs give the Central Plains Spade-footed Toad, Scaphiopus bobifrons, his name. These appendages are not just for show, they are reliable digging tools that can put the little amphibian underground in a hurry, A shy and elusive member of the amphibians, the spade-foot is seldom seen, except when he's courting, still, he's quite common in NEBRASKAland.

Unlike frogs, toads are not dependent on water except for egg laying and a 40-day metamorphosis period from egg to adult. The breeding seasons vary from June to August, depending upon available water. Egg masses are usually attached to various objects in temporary rain pools. These hatch in about 48 hours into tadpoles about V^-inch long. These grow rapidly and reach full size in about 25 days. Hind legs appear about 10 days after hatching and front legs show up about 20 davs later.

Courting males are noisy creatures. They congregate in temporary pools and float in it with their legs extended and their vocal sacs extended. Their calls have been described as harsh, loud, weird, and similar to the cry of an animal in pain. Apparently, it sounds romantic to lady spadefoots, for there isn't any scarcity of toads. Fortunately for human ears, these serenades only last for 24 to 48 hours. When a batch of spadefoots are tuning up they can be heard for two miles.

The spadefoot spends his days underground in a shallow burrow that he digs with the spades on his hind legs. He comes forth at night to feed on various insects and other small nocturnal invertebrates. As a growing tadpole, this toad feeds on grasshoppers and other small tadpoles. His mouth is specially adapted for carnivorous feeding.

A spadefoot, digging in, does a backward shuffle with his hind legs and their horny spades. He can burrow into the soil quite rapidly. His spades are his distinguishing characteristic. They are sharp, round, and black, and are located just behind the toe. Another trademark is a raised area or "boss" between the eyes.

A rather inconspicious fellow, the spadefoot has a smooth skin with greenish or grayish upperparts. marked with indistinct black spots. His belly is whitish without markings. Adult toads, measured from the tip of the nose to the end of the backbone, average about two inches long. A spadefoot's eyes are like a cat's, they narrow to vertical slits when exposed to bright light.

This hopper has a lot o( kinfolks. There are about 2,000 species of frogs and toads, comprising 11 families, in the world. Seventy species are found in North America. Nine of these, including four species of toads, live m Nebraska, The spadefoots companions in this state are the American, the (treat Plains, and the Rockv Mountain toads.

Spadefoots are Loners except during the breeding season. At all other tunes, they are widely scattered

Ill-equipped to defend himself against predators, the spadefoot depends an burrowing to keep out of trouble. He is an example of the adage, "out of sight, out of mind, and out of trouble".

JIG IS DOWN

is typical of Nebraska's larger rivers. From Harlan County Reservoir upstream to Oxford, the bottom is mostly sand. There are a number of log jams and brush piles in the stream and some occasional deep holes. The better whitebass fishing is in the holes and the deep runs of the main channel.

Jim worked across the stream to fish the channel that ran along the north shore. I edged upstream into a run that boiled off the south bank and cut a 50-yard diagonal across the river to where the commercial teacher was fishing. I had taken a lot of fish out of the run on other days and if the fish were still in the river I could take them there.

A slight riffle on the run showed me my crossing spot, a gravel ledge that wasn't too deep for my hip boots. Once on the north side, I worked upstream to the head end of the deep channel and began casting the jig in a down-and-across pattern.

I was using a six-foot medium-action rod, and a level-wind reel loaded with five-pound-test braided line. I was born of the old level-wind school and have given in only to the extent that the extra-light lines enable me to cast the lighter lures normally used by the spin fisherman. Jim's outfit was a conventional spin-cast outfit on a six-foot rod with the reel loaded with six-pound-test monofilament.

When fishing the deep runs I have found it best to get in as close to the edge of a drop-off as possible.

After 20 to 30 minutes of fishing, I had worked halfway down the run without a touch. Jim joined me and reported identical luck.

"Maybe we caught the last one in the river," he remarked.

"Looks that way," I agreed, "at least, it doesn't seem like they want this white lead-headed fake. Let's switch to yellow and see if it changes our luck."

A half hundred casts later we still hadn't connected. Convinced that it wasn't color I changed back to the white jig, waded back up to the head of the run, and began working the lure back with a little different retrieve. Normally, a medium-fast return works well when I jig the lure about every five feet. Since the normal system didn't work, I felt that our only chance was to try the slow deep drift and the very slow, steady retrieve.

"Maybe they're holed up in the brush piles," Jim called. "They sure don't seem to be out here in the channel."

Acting on his assumption, I waded in above a tangle of brush that jutted out from the south bank and worked the jig deeper and deeper into the tangle. I felt a slight bump and set the hook in what was a log. After stirring up the hole trying to free the jig, I dropped a few yards downstream to a spot where a big log extended about 10 feet into the river.

I don't like to lose lures, so my first cast was down channel to the outside end of the log. The increased speed of the current diverted the lure around the end of 54 NEBRASKAland the log, so I slacked off, dropping the lure back some five or six feet and retrieved to the log, then I repeated the process. The second time through there was a solid strike and a whip of the rod tip set the hook into my first fish.

White bass are often sold short on fighting abilities, but on a light or medium-action rod, river fish provide as much fishing excitement as some of the more heralded finny scrappers.

My bass, helped by the fast current, held his own for a couple of minutes before I began to gain line. A minute or two later, he gave up and came sliding into my waiting hand.

"Finally caught one," I called. "You were right about the fish lying near some cover."

"Not so sure I am right," he answered. "I've had a couple hits out here in the channel, but I can't hook them."

"Try fishing the jig slower and deeper and dropping it back every once in awhile," I suggested.

It was 10 minutes before I hooked another fish, this time along the edge of a brush pile. I was fishing the jig deep and slow and the bass hit it along the edge of the tangle.

Jim's luck hadn't changed, but he had had another strike and had seen a bass swirl at the jig just as he was bringing the lure out of the water.

The main channel of the river cut away from the brush pile that I was working and headed toward the north shore into the run where my companion was fishing. Since he had been getting some hits, I decided to try my luck with him after the brush failed to produce any more strikes.

Jim was 30 yards downstream from me, so I cast across the run and worked the jig deep and slow. Some 30 to 40 casts later, I was rewarded with a slight bump followed by a couple of sharp raps on the jig. A quick jerk on the rod set the hook in another bass.

"I must be using a jinxed lure," Jim complained, as I held up my third fish. "Either that or I'm not working it just right."

"Slow and deep," I said, repeating my earlier findings. "This one bumped it a time or two before he got hooked."

An hour later I had almost a dozen bass, all taken from the run, and Jim was almost sold on the fact that I had a magic formula for catching white bass.

"Take heart," I grinned, "and keep casting; sooner or later, you'll have to score."

My partner was having one of those days that most anglers experience. A day when the other guy is catching all the fish. There is probably an explanation for it, but I've never been able to figure it out. Jim was using the same lure and line and fishing with the same technique, but his success was nil.

It was near noon before he finally connected on his second fish, then he took two in a row within a half dozen casts. While he was taking his three I picked up six more. By this time the rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast and the wind stayed cold.

"Let's give it another hour," my companion suggested. "I think my luck is changed enough, so I can catch a mess for supper."

"Fine," I replied. "With the river so close to home, I don't want more than my family and my neighbor will eat up in the next day or so, so I can have an excuse to go fishing again."

Jim chuckled. "Good thinking, the real scientific approach, Mr. Gray. Meanwhile, I think I'll get back to researching these bass."

His research turned out to be pretty productive, for he took a half dozen fish in the next hour. I came close to matching him fish for fish before we called it a day.

Climbing the river bank, we noticed a light mist was falling as ominous clouds swirled in across the treetops and shrouded the river in mystic silence.

"Looks like the closing scene from a mystery film, doesn't it?" I said, pausing for a last look.

"Sure does," Jim replied, "and I'm not so sure I solved the mystery." THE END

REVEILLE AT KEARNY

River... three hundred seventeen miles from Independence, Missouri, one hundred ninety-seven miles from Fort Kearny on the Missouri, and three miles from the head of a group of islands called Grand Island."

Woodbury named the new post, Fort Childs, after his father-in-law, Brigadier General Childs, but the War Department frowned on such nepotism and in official orders designated it Fort Kearny in honor of Colonel Stephen Watts Kearny, a tough little Irish soldier, who did a lot of campaigning and exploring in the early West. In fact, Kearny had recommended the site for a fort in one of his early reports. After selection of the site, more men and material were dispatched to the post and construction was started early in 1848. From then until the fort was dismantled in 1871, building never really stopped. At its peak in 1864, Fort Kearny boasted a total of 31 buildings, most of them inside the present 40-acre complex.

During the waning days of the Civil War, the fort was garrisoned to some extent by "Galvanized Yankees", Confederates who had deserted and come over to the North or had been taken prisoner. They agreed to serve the Union provided they didn't have to fight against their kinfolk in the South. Despite General U. S. Grant's misgivings about the plan, the Johnny Rebs served well.

Most of the buildings at Fort Kearny were made from the tough "New Brasky" sod, a building material that gave the restorers fits when the Nebraska Game Commission began development. Because of cultivation, original prairie sod is just about non-existent in that part of Nebraska, so the restorers had to come up with a suitable substitute.

Research revealed that the Rockefeller Institute had financed the development of a machine that could make building material out of anything from cow dung to cement. Designed to provide low-cost buildings in under-developed nations, the device is not licensed for sale or use in the United States. Park personnel finally located one in Bolivia and after much cutting of red tape, mountains of correspondence, and a few frenzied phone calls, they obtained it and started turning out sod blocks for the buildings.

Visitors to the State Historical Park are intrigued by the stockade with its four bastions and supporting rifle pits. For years, the fort did not boast a stockade, but when the Indians went on the JANUARY, 1968 55   rampage in 1864, one was hurriedly erected. Fortunately, it was never needed.

The coming of the railroad and the gradual lessening of the Indian risk eliminated the need for Fort Kearny, so in 1871, the military withdrew the garrison and abandoned the site. Later, it was turned over to the Department of the Interior and declared homestead land. Sporadic attempts were made to develop it as a historic park or monument by local interests, but these attempts never gained enough momentum to make dreams realities. Later, it was turned over to the state and incorporated into the state-park system. It wasn't until 1959, that restoration of Fort Kearny became anything but a hope. That year, the Nebraska legislature provided funds for its development and charged the Game Commission and the Nebraska State Historical Society to get the job done.

Historical and archeological research began in 1960 and was followed by construction. Complete restoration is not contemplated, but enough is done and will be done to give both the casual tourist and the history buff an accurate picture of how the old fort looked and how its people lived.

Once again, this famous post is the pride of Nebraska.

COLD-WATER CARPING

a chance to discuss lake-fishing methods with them and to point out some of the differences between stream and lake carping. We found that, generally, more weight was required to get the bait down where we wanted it. Two hooks, tied below the sinker, seemed more effective than a singleton. Slip or "eggs" sinkers seemed to work best and that after the bait hit bottom, it had to be "straightened" out. This was accomplished by dragging it for several feet. After the bait was right, it was necessary to strip out six or eight feet of line and leave it slack on the water. When the slack straightens out, indicating that a carp is moving with the bait, it is time to set the hook. Small treble hooks, sizes 12 to 14, seemed to have an advantage over single hooks, although they snagged more readily.

Corn is a more consistent carp taker in cold water than most homemade doughballs. Many doughballs pose problems since a variance of a few degrees affects their consistencies. For example, a soft pliable doughball in 60° water becomes marble hard in water of 42°. Carp will take hardened doughballs without undue hesitation, but setting the hook is difficult and fish are often lost.

Although the fishing went well and supported my suspicions, both of my fishermen realized that on any given day, the best of cold-water techniques may fail, but the prospect of blank days wasn't going to stop them from trying. Their success had proved that carpfishing fun could be extended well into fall and even into the winter, as long as the streams remained ice free.

At the end of the session, Herman summed up their attitudes. "I'm sure that carp are as easy or easier to take in cold weather as they are in summer, provided you do it right, but you have to find the carp first."

"That shouldn't be too tough," Max replied. "We'll check the streams for the deepest holes and fish them. If we can't find carp in the streams, we can always fish the lakes until freeze over. With a bet like that, we can't lose."

COURTSHIP OF ENNE

in the valley, so that Douglas could not take Enne to the picnic he had planned, so he called the Morrill glass company where she worked. When she wasn't there he called the Howard Greeley place, Chey Enne's home. There he found her.

"Since we can't have the picnic, I will drive over in my otoe and we can play my new game, key a paha," Douglas told her.

As the sun was beginning to wayne, he drove up where he saw Keith stanfon on the porch with his hand a holt of the door knob.

Douglas reached the porch just as Perkins, the butler, opened the door.

"What are you doing here?" asked Keith. "I ought to polk you in the nose."

"Are you that mad i son?" responded Douglas. "Then I would like to (en)gage you in a deuel out on the frontier near Scotts Bluff."

The butler reported to Enne, then went to spread the news among the other servants.

Cass(ie), the cook said, "Oh, isn't this exciting, Burt? That Keith boy d better be careful.

Burt, the chauffeur, who was not married, thought it foolish to fight over a woman.

Meanwhile, Keith, who had feet of clay, begged frank li(n) to be released, and drove hurriedly on his way to McPherson in his Lincoln.

Then Douglas thought, "This is a great boone to me."

By this time Enne was at the door.

"Since we couldn't have the picnic, I thought we could have the lunch here with the family first. O.K.?" asked Enne.

"Sure."

"By the way, this is my brother Harlan from York and my uncle Merrick Richardson from Phelps."

He was welcomed aSone of the family.

After lunch they spent a pleasant evening playing games as well as singing Dixie and many other songs. In one game everyone had to look up words in the Webster's dictionary.

Enne stepped out on the porch with Douglas as he left and he got her answer that she would marry him. They planned to meet the next afternoon to make plans.

When the happy day arrived, Pastor Seward was the officiating minister. The best man was (Continued on page 58)

OUTDOOR elsewhere

White for Freedom. On his farm near Tonkawa, Oklahoma, Vernon Mast recently captured a white possum. The animal was all white but did not have the pinkish eyes of the albino. Mast caught it stealing feed from his barn. Because of his rare white pelt, the possum was later turned loose. — Oklahoma

Hit Hard. A game officer caught a hunter shooting a hen pheasant. The gunner was asked if he had any defense to offer for the violation. His reply was, "That was a cock when I shot, but I hit him so hard that I knocked all the color right out of him."—Pennsylvania

Neophyte Sportsman? "Identification" by wing markings posed no problem for one 14-year-old boy during the teal season. He told a law enforcement officer that "All I did was wait until they landed on the water where I could see them real close, then I shot them." — Wyoming

Czech Credit. Diners' Club and American Express Company has introduced its credit system into Czechoslovakia. Members can charge all tourist services, food and accommodations at selected Cedok Interhotels, as well as for the purchasing of souvenirs and gifts.- Ontario

Long Time Coming. Third place winner in the first annual Pennsylvania Big Game Trophy contest turned out to be an evenly-matched, 12-point set of antlers from a buck shot 135 years ago. The rack was harvested with an old flintlock rifle purchased with money received from the sale of otter, mink, and bear furs. The antlers, rifle, and powder horn have been family heirlooms ever since. - Washington, D. C.

Triple Play. A hunter shot a mourning dove and then stuffed him in his game pocket. The bird suddenly wriggled free and shot out of the pouch. The hunter fired again and missed. His hunting companions had better luck, however. Their shots brought the dove down for keeps. — Maryland

Hideout. A rabbit hunter was baffled when his dogs followed a scent to a gas line meter box and lost it. Finally piling his dogs in his car, he left in disgust. An onlooker strode over to the meter box and lifted the lid. Sure enough, a rabbit had draped himself over the meter — safe to run another day. — Vermont

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

COURTSHIP OF ENNE

Thomas Gosper. Arthur Hitchock and Sheridan Hamilton were ushers.

The ceremony was impressive and the reception well attended. The waitresses had to fill more punch glasses.

When the bride heard one of their friends, Blaine Hayes, say that they ought to wheeVer down Kimball Street in a wheelbarrow, she decided they had better sneak away.

They drove away with banner(s) flying. On their way to Washington, they talked about old homesteads near Fort Kearney and in Nemaha County.

In Washington they saw a statue of Jefferson and many other interesting sights. We hope they lived happily ever after.

BLACKROBE'S TRAVELS

job he was on the prairie to do. During these travels, he spent days and even weeks in Indian encampments teaching the "savages" the white man's ways. Things occasionally got a bit sticky in the conversion business, however. With Blackrobe's personality a bit on the dark side for anyone who didn't buy his commodity, a hard-bitten medicine man could set off a good donnybrook just by shaking a horn rattle at a prayer meeting. Such things never make the history books, however, and for all intents and purposes, De Smet did a whale of a job wherever he went, despite the dissenters who believed that if their homespun religion was good enough for their forefathers, it was good enough for them.

It seems to be a big thing with society that if a man is doing a good job he should be kicked upstairs. For this Jesuit it meant being sent farther west. After his heyday of the '40's in Nebraska, he received orders to move on to the California-Oregon region to establish a series of missions. Yet, his services in Nebraska were not over.

In 1851, the missionary made it back to Nebraska for a stab at one of the largest conclaves of Indians ever to grace the North American continent. Labeled as both the Fort Laramie Treaty and the Horse Creek Treaty, the meeting was designed to knock down the barriers between white and red men. It also gave De Smet free reign on a captive audience. The Indians loved it and Blackrobe pushed his luck to the limit. All in all, he converted 1,586. No one knows how long the conversion lasted, but it is a safe bet that for some the word of God never made it past the next raiding party.

Father Pierre Jean De Smet died in Saint Louis on May 23, 1873. For all of his years of work to civilize the great American West, he didn't live to see his dream become a complete reality. But his name will be remembered as long as men recall the opening and winning of the West. And that is something Blackrobe did not envision that day on the deck of the Missouri River steamer, or did he?

Melia Hill Rest Area Rock Creek Hatchery

WHERE-TO-GO

TRAVEL TO and through Nebraska increases each year and with this mounting traffic comes more demands for tourist information about the state and its attractions. Set to answer these questions is the new tourist station at the Melia Hill Rest Area, just west of the Gretna Interchange on Interstate Highway 80. Located 15 miles west of Omaha, Melia Hill tourist station is one of three operated the year-round by the Information and Tourism Division of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. The others are at the Crossroads Shopping Center in Omaha and in the State Capitol in Lincoln.

During the peak summer-travel months, two more offices are open. One, on U.S. Highway 30, is on the southwest edge of downtown Blair, and the other is in Kimball, also on U.S. Highway 30. Blair serves west-bound travelers while the Kimball station accommodates the east-bound. Hostesses at these stations answer questions about highways, restaurants, hotels, and motels, and promote NEBRASKAland's scenic, historical, and cultural attractions.

The Melia Hill station is the most elaborate of the five. It is glass enclosed and has lounge chairs where tourists can rest and obtain information in comfort. Brochures, maps, hunting and fishing regulations, and other printed materials are displayed and distributed. By design this station affords a fine view of the rolling hills to the north, west, and south, for when the rest area was built the tourist office was part of the plans. The rest area itself provides modern rest rooms, parking areas, and picnic facilities. As the interstate progresses similar offices are planned. The State Department of Roads now has 13 rest stops established between Omaha and Cozad and more are under construction. When the Westroads Shopping Center is completed in Omaha, the tourist office at Crossroads will be moved to there.

Tourist information hostesses provide the latest dope on Nebraska's hunting and fishing in addition to explaining and describing the state's tourist magnets. Interested anglers can be directed to a well-established state area in the far southwestern corner of Nebraska, the Rock Creek Fish Hatchery. Here, seven miles north of Parks on U.S. Highway 34, visitors can watch trout swimming in the facility's 20 ponds, or visit the hatching house and watch the hatching of thousands of trout fry.

In 1966, nearly 150,000 trout were hatched and reared at Rock Creek. Besides trout, about 68,000 warm-water species were handled at a satellite complex located just east of Benkelman on Nebraska Highway 61 and U.S. Highway 34. These include bluegill, black, and rock bass.

Trout leave Rock Creek at various ages, depending upon their destinations. Many are retained until they are 9 to 12 inches long and are then released in the put-and-take trout lake in the Two Rivers Recreation Area in eastern Nebraska.

Besides the 20 ponds, which average just over 1 acre each, there are concrete raceways scattered around the hatchery for sorting and loading its products. Natural springs run directly into the trout tanks and then into Rock Creek which flows through the area. The hatchery operations are interesting to everyone and visitors are welcome throughout the year.

From tourist stations to fish hatcheries to historical sites, NEBRASKAland has much to offer to those who follow the lure of the open road. Like the guides and scouts of pioneer days, the comely lasses at the tourist stations know the highways and byways of the state like the palms of their hands. Besides, they are much prettier than the old-timers.

THE MORMON TRAIL

The Beauty of NEBRASKAland FULL-COLOR PRINTS