EVER SEEN A CORNALOPE ?

Speak Up

BLINDERS —"For years we couldn't see the forest for the trees, driving to other states, but NEBRASKAland has proved to us that Nebraska has wonderful scenery, good roads, hunting and fishing of the best, and the weather is a lot better the year-round." —Emery Woodworth, Lincoln.

CON ARTIST-"The reading of Speak Up is a must in my way of thinking. In it there is a letter from an out-of-stater just about every time praising our land-owners for being friendly and congenial during the hunting seasons. I am a Nebraskan and I, too, believe this, but there is also at least one con man among them.

"We found him the third morning of deer season this year. Jack Walls of Lincoln and myself had an early breakfast and then went north out of Chadron to some alfalfa meadows along the White River. We spent a good three hours hunting here, but were only able to kick out some does. While we were hunting, Jack told me of a place where he had hunted the year before, but he could not remember the man's name nor the exact location, but he knew that we could stop at one of the local barbershops and get the needed information. So back to town we went and to the barbershop.

"While we were sitting in the shop getting the information and telling of our morning hunt, an elderly gentleman came in and sat down beside Jack. After listening to our conversation for a short while he asked Jack if we were the hunters that had called out to his place the previous day for permission to hunt. Jack told him that we weren't the ones. He then told Jack that they had had good luck on his land. You don't pass up an opportunity like that so Jack asked him his name. He gave his name and the location of his place. The name was familiar to me, but I couldn't put it in the right place. Jack then asked for permission to hunt on his land. Permission was granted and he would even show us where it was.

"The three of us went out and he got right into the pickup with us and gave instructions on which way. His land was

on Big Bordeaux Creek right in the Pine Ridge. He told us of his coming out here in the late 1800's, and a few other things about himself, so we knew he was well up in his years and had lived here for quite some time. As we went along the Big Bordeaux Road he showed us the land that we could hunt on and pointed out where he lived. When I saw his home the name then rang a bell, he was the granddad of a good friend of mine. We drove into the yard and stopped, our guide went into the house.

The grandson, who also lives on the place, came out of the house and thanked me for bringing the old gent home. It was explained to me that they had been to town the day before and when it came time to go home that he could not find the old gent and when he did he had himself a hotel room, so he just left him there for the night and was just going in to get him.

"At this time the light did shine. The old gent had looked into the barbershop window, saw that we were deer hunters by our dress, came in, listened to our conversation, and found that we had not yet got our deer. He then made his casual remarks, watched us jump at the chance for a new spot to hunt, and then walked to the pickup with us, smiling to himself. He had found two fellows that were more than happy to take him home. But it wasn't until after the old gent was home that the two great hunters realized that they had just been conned into a ride home.

"We were permitted to hunt the land and told to return whenever we liked. It would have been nice to have gotten a deer here, but we didn't, but we did get something to tell the others about and to laugh at each other for being so easily conned." —R. G. Sanstrom, Chadron.

COUSINS —"Since reading the letter in Speak-Up entitled 'More about Middleton' in the November issue, I wish to clarify and add a fact or two, or may I be so bold to correct an item or two, mentioned by Keith E. Vamler of Ponca?

"The grandma mentioned was also my grandma, who was Mrs. Thomas James Peacock, wife of the first Mariaville postmaster. The original post office was located in my grandparents' home, a log house built by them in 1879. This place is about 10 miles northwest, not northeast, of Newport.

"I have, in my possession, two original land grants, both issued to my grandfather; the first was by President Chester A. Arthur June 1, 1882, the second by President Benjamin Harrison on November 28, 1890.

"I am also the proud possesser of my grandfather's Postmaster Certificate of Appointment, issued by Postmaster General Timothy O. Howe on June 26, 1882.

"The post office was later moved to a site 1V4 miles north of our old place, and years later, my father, the late Rev. Thomas J. Peacock, was postmaster at Mariaville, and if I may inject a note of heritage, I too, have 28V2 years of post office duty to my credit. That, of course, has been here at Bassett, Nebraska.

"Harriet Marie Peacock, mentioned in Mr. Vamler's article, was the first white girl born west of the Missouri River.

"Incidently, I did not know I had a cousin by the name of Keith E. Vamler. I would like to get acquainted." —Oscar R. Peacock, Bassett.

ENJOYABLE —"I am much interested in Horror in the Night in the August NEBRASKAland. I have heard my folks talk of this flood. John Osmera was my uncle, he married my mother's sister, Mary Liska of Brainard.

"I have a picture of my aunt and uncle beside the monument. It was taken years ago. I also enjoyed reading about the Blizzard of '88 in last February's issue. My husband's mother, Alletta Brokaw, was in that school at the time. She used to tell the story just as it appeared in the magazine." —Mrs. William Robbins, Highland, California.

DESIGNER-"Some concrete structures illustrated in Sand Hills Stonehenge were designed by me almost 50 years ago when I was employed as a young chemical engineer at Hoffland, a few miles west of Antioch. At present there is nothing left of Hoffland except these concrete 'monuments' and they do lend an air of mystery to the countryside, as your article so well describes. Pictures and historical data concerning the Nebraska potash industry of those days are preserved in the files of the Pioneer Museum, Alliance."-Karl Dern, Burlingame, California.

WHAT TO DO

FEBRUARY Roundup

LEAP YEAR'S extra day adds just that many more activities to February's already bulging schedule which runs the NEBRASKAland gamut from cupid to concerts to courts — basketball courts.

In Leap Year tradition, the girls won't forget that every fourth year is open season on men. And cupid's own city won't forget, either. Always concerned where matters of the heart are involved, Valentine, Nebraska will honor a full court of royalty at the St. Valentine's Day Coronation and Ball sponsored by the high school band parents. Two seniors will be crowned king and queen to reign over their extensive court of attendants and the public attending the festivities.

Basketball is sovereign on the February sport scene as college and high school cagers keep their fans in a dither. Exciting as those contests will be, they'll find it hard to match the hilarious Harlem Globe Trotters. These agile, world-famous masters of the court will bounce their comedy around Omaha's Civic Auditorium on February 20.

In Lincoln, University of Nebraska cagers will meet four Big Eight Conference teams during the month — Colorado, Kansas State, Oklahoma State, and Kansas. Other NEBRASKAland colleges will follow itineraries brimful of court contests.

Class A and B high school teams will compete in their respective districts February 26 through March 2 for the honor of going to the state tournaments. Class C and D teams will play preliminary district tournament games February 19 through 24, and the winners will compete in the district play-offs February 26 through March 2.

For those who prefer the relaxing harmony of music to the exciting roar of cheering fans, Omaha Symphony Orchestra strings will be vibrating during this Valentine month. Joslyn Art Museum will be the stage for two concerts on consecutive nights, February 5 and 6, and the orchestra's woodwind quintet will play at the College of Saint Mary on George Washington's birthday. The group's chamber musicians will perform February 26 at Omaha Playhouse.

Joslyn will cater to chamber music lovers at 4 p.m. on February 18. Five instrumentalists, who have composed the nucleus ensemble of the Joslyn Series since 1947, will present their second concert of this 20th anniversary season.

A day earlier on February 17 in Lincoln, guitarist William Clauson will perform at Union College. A "person-to-persons" troubadour, he is a gifted artist who maintains a rare magnetic rapport with his audience. This minstrel has a huge repertoire of folk songs and ballads in a dozen languages.

Farther north, in Fremont, Midland College will keep campus and community on the go during February. Although Nebraskans are miles away from oceans, they will have the opportunity to hear an outstanding authority on oceanology. Dr. John J. A. McLaughlin, chairman of the department of biological sciences at Fordham University, will speak on "Life in the Ocean" at 7 p.m. on February 5. The Danford lecturer, a member of numerous (Continued on page 12)

SCRATCH ONE HUNTER

MY HEAD AND shoulders had just cleared the floor of the tree blind when everything dissolved in a fury of tawny fur, slashing claws, and ivory fangs. I barely had time to throw my left arm over my eyes as the big bobcat slashed at me with his front feet and sank his teeth into my shoulder. The impact jarred me away from the tree and we both crashed to the ground.

Branches and brush tore the bow from my hand and I couldn't reach my knife in its sheath beneath my heavy coat. All I could do was try to break the cat's hold on my shoulder. My frantic punches merely grazed the cat as we rolled over and over in a threshing mass.

It all began on September 24,1967, when I was bow hunting for deer. For several years I had archered for small game, but last fall I traded in my light gear for a 50-pound bow for the serious business of deer hunting. I was just 16 at the time, and was hunting along the Platte River, southeast of Lexington, Nebraska, where I attend high school. Earlier, I had scouted the area for a likely spot to set up a deer stand, and had found the enticing platform which was some 15 feet off the ground. I had quietly climbed the crude slats nailed to the side of the tree and was just about to pull myself over the edge when the bobcat hit.

Even as the insane animal scratched and chewed, I thought to myself. "What a weird thing to be happening-no one will ever believe this."

I just wanted to get away, to kick that cat in the head or the ribs, or any place else that would dislodge him and free me from those ripping claws and rapier-sharp teeth. I knew if I could get to my feet I would have the upper hand, but that was easier thought than done. Finally, I managed to get in a good solid punch to 10 NEBRASKAland the ribs. The cat grunted a little and broke off. I scrambled around, looking for my bow, but it was too late. The cat was gone.

Shaking, I sat down against the tree and tried to calm down. It was several minutes before I felt better, but even then I didn't want to move. Carefully I examined the many gashes the cat had left on me. Only a little blood was seeping from the raking wounds on my face and lower legs, but they burned like fire. My clothes looked even worse than I did, and they weren't going to heal. My heavy coat, an old sheepskin job, had kept those fangs from sinking all the way into my shoulder, and the collar, turned up against the cold, had protected my throat. For that I was thankful. My whole outfit looked like it had been run through a hay chopper.

Some 30 or 40 minutes later, I thought about going home, but it was still early and my day would be wasted. While deciding what to do, I recovered my bow and reviewed the crazy events of the morning's hunt. I had left the car about 5:30 a.m. and headed toward the blind. Quietly, I had "injuned" through the woods, and just as quietly had climbed into the tree and surprised the cat. Maybe fright had triggered the vicious attack, but fright or not, the cat had come to fight.

It hurt nearly as much to sit as to walk, so I decided to go on hunting. My archery equipment was O.K. and I could still draw an arrow, so there wasn't any real reason why I should quit hunting. The warming sun eased the pain and before long I felt good.

It must have been about 1:30 p.m. when I spotted a nice buck, and worked into a better position for a shot. The big whitetail stopped and looked around, and I fired. He jumped as my arrow nicked him in the leg. More out of hope than anything else I followed, looking for him at each turn in the trail, yet knowing he wouldn't be there. After half an hour, I gave it up and headed home and to another fright.

My parents insisted that I go to a doctor. Their main concern over the injuries was whether or not the cat was rabid. This had not entered my mind, but the prospect of those shots in the stomach was not too pleasant. Three doctors discussed my case and after listening to my description of the cat's behavior were still uncertain as to whether I needed the shots or not. While the doctors were thinking things over, some of my friends staked out chickens for cat bait. Twice they lured the big bob into the area, but they were unable to get a crack at him.

As the bobcat appeared to behave normally, the rabies shots were deemed unnecessary, but my story isn't ended. I spend a lot of spare time searching for that cat, and I hope he doesn't die of old age before I get a chance at him. The next time we meet, I'm going to get in a few gouges of my own.

ROUNDUP

expeditions, is the author of some 42 publications in marine phytoplanktology, and has been guest professor at four foreign universities.

Those who missed the late January performances of "Wait Until Dark" at the Omaha Playhouse will have the first four days of February to see it. Community Theater performers at Hastings will put on "Absence of a Cello" February 2 and 3, and Broadway's "Lion in Winter" will come to Omaha's Civic Auditorium on February 27. The Foreign Film Society at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln will present "To Die in Madrid" on February 14 and "Shakespeare Wallah" on February .28.

Vance Packard, one of the more audible social critics of our time, will speak in the Union Ballroom at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln at 3:30 p.m. on February 8. The newspaperman's works include The Waste Makers", "The Status Seekers", and "The Naked Society". In 1957, his "The Hidden Persuaders" climbed to the No. 1 spot on the best-seller lists.

For a unique and happy-making experience, adults and children alike will want to treat themselves to Llord's International Puppet and Marionette Concert-Theater on February 18 at Concordia College in Seward.

"Head for the Hills" will delight anyone whose spine tingles at the thought of skimming down a snowy slope. This color documentary on skiing will be shown at Union College in Lincoln on February 3.

Among the many films scheduled throughout the state during the month, perhaps one of the most enlightening will be shown at 7:30 p.m. on February 8 in Joslyn's concert hall in Omaha. "David and Lisa" takes viewers into the world of an emotionally disturbed adolescent boy who meets a 15-year-old schizophrenic girl in a mental home. Through the help of a doctor, the two begin to understand each other and the world about them.

Leonard Pennario performs February 29 at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln to top off the myriad goings-on. A classical pianist, he is on his 20th transcontinental tour. Pennario has appeared with every major orchestra in the United States and with nearly every major one in Europe. The London Times has called him an "extraordinarily refined artist with fingers as agile and a mind as subtle as those of the very greatest pianists that memory can recall."

Whether Mr. Groundhog sees his shadow on the second day of the month or not, winter won't put a damper on the many activities planned for February | in NEBRASKAland.

Man in a Hurry

TENSION MOUNTS as a dozen helmeted men in their super autos circle the track, waiting for the starting signal. Finally the flagman gives the go-ahead, and engines roar and oversize tires spew dirt as top speedsters barrel forward. Round and round the oval they go in studied bids to pass and block. Inside and outside, high and low, the supermodifieds twist and turn. Screaming fans gasp as daring drivers jockey for position, each trying to outthink and outdrive the other.

No, it's not the Indianapolis 500, but for one of the young racers, someday soon it may be. His name is Joe Saldana —Little Joe —and he has a dream. He wants to drive in the 500. And, that dream drives him as he drives his No. 65. Every race he enters and every track he races on bring him another lap closer to Indy.

But, right now, he's not thinking about "The Speedway" or fame in the 500. Little Joe is occupied with the here and the now. At the moment, he has a race to win and a tough competitor by the name of Lloyd Beckman to beat. As the finish line nears, he's totally absorbed with one idea —"How to get by the guy in front!"

His mind is filled with one overriding thought, "Set him up for the pass...keep working him...maybe he'll goof."

Finally, Little Joe moves into the lead and just as quickly his thoughts change. He's in the other guy's shoes now, and "Somebody back there is trying to get by me... got to block... keep the lead." And, try as he will to shut them out, nagging worries occasionally cross his mind... "Will the car hold out... will I blow a tire..."

Too soon for the fans, and perhaps not soon enough for Little Joe, the race is over. He has won another main event at Midwest Speedways in Lincoln. While he's a top contender at Midwest, his home track, Little Joe finished fifth in the standings there in 1967, only because he didn't race as often at Midwest as most of the other drivers. Although he raced there as often as he could, Joe spent much of the season in other parts of the country to gain needed experience at other tracks and against different drivers. And, that's his motto for success. "Get the experience! It's vital to know your car and know how to adjust it and yourself to different tracks and races."

Still a youngster in his early 20's, Joe admits he still has a lot to learn. But, learn he will, and if all goes well, Joe Saldana of Lincoln, Nebraska, will drive in the Indianapolis 500 in four or five years. When you see the determination in his eyes and the square set of his jaw, you know he will.

Joe already holds the world record for a semi-banked, half-mile dirt track, set at Knoxville, Iowa, home of the national supermodified title race. He broke the record first with a time of 21.55 seconds and then shaved that to 21.45 seconds.

An apprentice bricklayer by trade, Joe spends nearly every spare minute working on his $10,000 car which is powered by a Chevy motor. A far cry from his first machine, which cost about $500, Joe claims, "It's worse than a baby. You have to watch it all the time, wash it, check everything from fuel injection to tires, find any problems and fix them, and completely change the suspension, weight, and tires depending on the type of race."

Bricklaying by day and driving or carsitting by night, Joe keeps plenty busy during racing season. Last year he won 14 main events, while racing 3 nights a week and 4 or 5 nights over holidays. So far, his sport 15   has taken him to tracks in Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, North Dakota, South Dakota, Missouri, Iowa, and Nebraska. Next season, he hopes to add Fort Wayne, Indiana, to his regular circuit.

Interested in cars since his early teens when he worked in his uncle's service station, Little Joe started racing when he was 16. Of course, he had to get his parents' consent, since he was under age. Joe won one race that year and chalked up his first big win in a main event about four years ago.

Both Joe and his car have changed a lot in the intervening years. For one thing, he got married and is the proud father of a six-month-old daughter.

Joe didn't care much for high school and even thought seriously about quitting, but the other drivers wouldn't let him. Today, he is grateful he finished, and he urges any young, would-be racers not only to complete school but to take as much math as possible.

"To be good, you must be a mechanic and builder as well as a driver. You have to learn everything about an automobile and what makes it run. It takes a lot of math to figure out such things as points of stress on a frame. You just don't take a bunch of parts and start putting a racer together, at least not if you want a good car. To build a first-class racer, you should work it all out on paper first."

That is just exactly how Joe's car was built. First it was completely planned and designed on paper. Then, a wood mock-up was built. Only after that detailed preparation did the actual car begin to take shape.

Just as he keeps his car in tiptop shape, Joe also believes in keeping himself in trim. While standing only 5 feet, 5 inches tall, he is muscular and doesn't drink or smoke. For some time, he worked out on a steering wheel attached to a shock absorber to build up the muscles in his arms.

"Size doesn't matter much when you get behind the wheel," he points out. "It's skill that counts."

While there are occasional spin outs when a tire blows or a driver makes an error in judgment or some other thing goes wrong with the car, generally the "bloodthirsty" race-goer will be disappointed.

"It's safer than driving on the highway or in five o'clock traffic in a big city," Joe maintains. "A race car can't hurt you. They're equipped with roll bars, seat belts, shoulder harnesses, and other safety features.

"Nobody out there is trying to wreck you. Everyone is trying to drive the best race he knows how. These cars cost a lot of money, and supermodified racing is becoming a big sport that pays good money to win. Some of the spectators are a little bloodthirsty, but the real, race-wise fans go out to see the race! Consequently, not only is the quality of racing improving, so is the caliber of the fans."

Just a few short years ago, when Joe started racing, a driver didn't need much money to get started, 16 NEBRASKAland maybe $300 or $400. Today, anyone who wants to break into the sport needs either plenty of money or a good backer, since $3,000 to $4,000 is about the least amount you can get by on in supermodified and have a good car.

While Little Joe has $10,000 invested in his car, he has paid for it with his winnings. However, he has quite a way to go to raise the $120,000 to $160,000 needed to put a car in the Indianapolis 500. That's another reason he keeps expanding his racing circuit. The more people who see him race and the more races he can win on a variety of different tracks will give him that much more chance to get a sponsor. Besides, Joe rather likes traveling.

"You have to travel if you plan on going somewhere, and it's really interesting. I've gotten to know a lot of people, but I think it's that way in about any sport. The most important thing about it, though, is still the driving experience I'm getting."

Every track is different in size, shape, dirt compound, and dozens of other ways, and there's a world of difference between day and night racing.

"The first time out on a mile track scares you to death. It's so much bigger, and the speed is so much greater than on a half mile. The turns seem to come on you more unexpectedly, and with the longer straightaways, you have a lot more time to think. It's just scary."

Scary or not, starting in mid-April on through October, Little Joe will enter plenty of races, and he will win his share. From May through September, his "busy season", he will be out three nights a week "gaining experience".

It may be a few years before NEBRASKAland's Joe Saldana attains the stature and fame of his favorite driver, Mario Andretti, but one thing is certain, Joe will do all in his power to front the pack.

Safari for Buffalo

TO ANGLERS who fish the Fremont State Lakes, Duke Mich is the Bob Gibson of spin-casting. Most fishermen are satisfied with a lifetime average of 1 or 2 fish over 15 pounds, but so far Duke has caught more than 275 fish over that mark, and more than 400 between 10 to 15 pounds. Even more impressive he has hook and lined over five tons of fresh-water fish in his career.

For 40 years the tall, husky Omahan has been an active fisherman, and he thinks he is just now reaching his prime. Duke angles for one of the toughest fish to catch in Nebraska, the buffalo. And as a sidelight, most of his lunkers are caught within 30 miles of Omaha.

The buffalo, a pushy member of the sucker family, is a real challenge to any fisherman, for it takes a special knack to hook him. A sensitive-mouthed fish, just a prick from a sharp barb sends him scurrying. In his buffalo exploits, the Omaha angler has also hooked several big carp and catfish. Most fishermen consider buffalo and carp hardly worth their time, but the IBM maintenance engineer disagrees. When Duke first started fishing he decided that he wanted to catch the biggest fish in Nebraska waters. Carp and buffalo are the heavyweights in most impoundments, so he has made a lifetime study of them.

Duke likes to shift the odds in favor of the lunkers on his outdoor forays, so his two rods are rigged with six-pound-test monofilament lines. When an 18-pounder is struggling at the end of his line, Duke knows that he can't horse the big fellow in. He has to play him until he tires, and to the veteran angler that is the real thrill of fishing.

However, sometimes this sporting instinct backfires. One hot summer day, a monster buffalo latched on to Duke's bait and rolled to the surface. One look at the fish, and the angler knew he had a possible state-record buffalo, one that would exceed the old mark of 33 pounds, 8 ounces. Carefully he worked the fish, feeding him line when he wanted it, and taking it in when the buffalo paused (Continued on page 55)

GOLDENS AERIE

THE TWO HUGE birds climbed until they were almost lost in the vastness of the early sky. Below them, the buttes and pinnacles of Nebraska's Wildcat Hills showed little of spring, but in the mewling notes of the golden eagles' love song the furor of the season was evident.

Folding its huge wings, the lead bird hung suspended for a moment and then plunged earthward like a meteor. Its mate followed, power-diving in close pursuit. Only when the birds were within scant feet of the buttes did they stretch their wings and swoop upward to repeat their death-defying dives again and again. These courtship flights of the goldens are typical of this King of Birds, for he rules the sky and very few challenge his supremacy.

The eagle has played a role in man's life for centuries. He was worshiped as a god by pagans in the past. His image has been sculptured, cast, drawn, and otherwise reproduced through recorded time as the symbol of regality. The Plains Indians esteemed the golden and believed his feathers gave them strength, courage, and wisdom in battle.

As a wildlife photographer, I was fascinated by these huge birds, and was determined FEBRUARY, 1968 21   to photograph their nesting and rearing of the young. After looking over some half dozen aeries in the buttes around Bridgeport, I found one that offered a site for a camera blind. The nest was near the top of a sheer rock wall, 100 feet above the valley floor. From atop the bluff, I could photograph the birds' activity.

After some 40-day's vigil by Mike Linch, a Bridgeport rancher, I got the news, during the last week in April, that two eggs had hatched. I started filming the youngsters on their fourth day, at least one bird was that old, the other, slightly larger, could have been two or three days older.

Female goldens lay their eggs, which can number up to four, at the rate of one every one to three days, but unlike gamebirds and waterfowl they incubate as soon as the first egg is laid, so the young vary in size and growth.

Working the blind each weekend for more than two months, I began to understand something about the golden's life. The female did the actual feeding while the male supplied much of the food.

The newly-hatched young were tiny white fluffs. Almost helpless in their first week, they barely had strength to raise their heads for feeding. By the second week, one youngster showed definite signs of dominating the nest. On my third visit I found only one eaglet. The other had evidently starved.

By my fourth visit, a marked change had taken place. The young eagle sported black fringes on wing and tail and was growing rapidly. Food was always in the nest and although the youngster began picking at it as early as the first week, he was unable to glean much until he was nearly a month old. While the eagle will prey on almost any creature he can kill, mine dined almost exclusively on rabbits while I was there.

From the third to the sixth week a gradual plumage change saw the white down replaced by black feathers. By the sixth week, the young eagle was nearly

A male eagle has the fascinating trait of flying over the nest and dropping twigs, branches, and leaves. I witnessed this act only once. The male made four flights over the nest, dropping leafy branches, then landed with a stick in his beak which he passed to the female who immediately pushed it into the nest. Nest building and repair evidently continue until the family leaves the aerie.

At two months the fledgling appeared completely feathered, and was spending more time standing on the nest, grasping it with his talons and trying his wings. During the third month I noticed that the eaglet was showing other instincts. He often stared transfixed at a piece of rabbit in the nest, then moving slightly, he would lean forward as if to take flight before jumping his prey. Grasping it, he would tear at it and then perform a somewhat ritualistic dance, hopping around the perimeter of the nest.

This dance is believed to be a diversion employed on prey that the eagle has cornered after failing to catch it on his initial strike. The bird spreads its wings, hops and dances around its intended victim, and then pounces when an opening comes.

The young golden displayed another trait, that of mantling his prey by spreading his wings as if to hide it. Many observers feel this begins when the fledgling competes with other nestlings for food.

I knew the day was coming when the young eagle would take wing, but I wasn't there when he took his place as a prince in the kingdom of birds. His future throne atop the pinnacles of western America was waiting, but the success of his reign would be dictated by man and nature.

BOONE and CROCKETT for Two

THE LONGER I studied the five-point white-tailed buck that I had just taken, the more I was struck by the similarities of the two hunts that had given me two trophies in one year. I already had a Boone-and-Crockett antelope and now, my whitetail looked like he would make it, too. Both animals had been killed with the same rifle, a .220 Swift, both had come on "second" attempts, both had been relatively difficult chances, and both had come after another member of my hunting party had scored.

I live in Elwood, Nebraska, and am semi-retired, so I get a lot of time to hunt. Prior to the big-game seasons, I do a lot of shooting with the Swift, a rifle that is a bit on the light side for big game, but I try for neck or spine shots and it's adequate if I place the bullet right. Practice helps in correct bullet placement. My rifle wears two scopes, a 10X for antelope and an 8X for deer. Fields of view are limited, but the high magnification improves accuracy.

On the day of my big whitetail, six of us were hunting near Holbrook in the Republican Valley. It was the opener of the 1966 rifle deer season and the weather was cool and dry, making still-hunting difficult. At first, we took up stands in the complex of elm, ash, and Cottonwood along the north bank of the Republican River after agreeing to rendezvous around 9 a.m. and compare experiences. As I waited, I had the strongest feeling that this was going to be a memorable hunt, NEBRASKAland but nothing came along while I was on stand. When we regrouped, one of my companions had a nice whitetail that he had first spotted in an alfalfa field. The buck moved back into the timber and my companion followed. He surprised the buck and nailed him with one shot. Although I didn't realize it then, the first link in the chain of similarities between my pronghorn and deer hunts was forged. A companion had killed a nice antelope before I got mine.

Two of our party didn't have permits, so they and the successful hunter agreed to drive while the rest of us took up stands along a clearing at the edge of the timber. After we got positioned, the drivers started, hollering at the top of their lungs. Three does came out, followed by two singles, and their reactions were quite revealing. A fence ran along the woods and when the does jumped it, they found themselves in the clearing. It was evident from their surprise that they didn't realize that it was there before they jumped.

Again the similarity was there. Before I got my trophy antelope, I saw several does and lesser bucks, but nothing really tempting.

Suddenly, I saw the big whitetail. The magnificant buck jumped the fence and immediately, he saw that he had made a fatal mistake. One of my companions was closer to the buck and I knew he would shoot.

I wasn't hoping he would miss, but I wasn't hoping he would score either. My first look had told me this buck was a good one, worthy of a state citation at least. The third link in the chain of similarities had been forged. My first look at my antelope had told me that he was a trophy, too.

My companion's miss sent the buck flying. He was edging along the timber toward me and when he was about 200 yards away, I stood up, clicked off the safety, dropped the crosshairs on his shoulder, and squeezed off round one. At the shot, I expected to see something, but the buck never faltered. This wasn't going according to the script. My antelope had collapsed at the shot, even though it was a tough 427-yarder and was taken from an "offhand" prone with the rifle balanced on the tips of my fingers and my head and neck stretched at awkward angle.

I bolted another round into the chamber and shot again.

Nothing!

There was something wrong, but I couldn't figure it out. By this time, the buck was mighty close to the timber and safety. I nearly flustered on the third shot, but I got it away just in time. Similarity was back on the track. That last chance at the buck was a tough one and so had been my shot at the Banner Unit pronghorn, a few weeks earlier.

The deer didn't show a sign of a hit, but as he reached the timber, he stumbled. There was a slug in him, but where? He was (Continued on page 56)

SAINT DEROIN the Town that Was

THE DISARRAY of a red-brick schoolhouse is all that is left of Saint Deroin, Nebraska's first venture into commercial America. It remains to remind a hurrying world of a time when the future of a state rested on a little community, located 3 miles north and IV2 miles east of Barada, in southeastern Nebraska.

Despite its early importance, little is known of Saint Deroin. The mists of time, a fire in the Falls City courthouse in 1920 that destroyed records, and the complete desertion of the townsite, have dimmed most of the details about the town and its founder, Joe Deroin. Few books mention Saint Deroin, leaving former residents, local legends, and hearsay as the only reminders of life in the town. Yet, there are some facts among the loose ends. Saint Deroin's story began long before the banks of the Missouri River made room for its buildings.

With the opening of the American West, thousands of trappers and traders, many of French descent, made their way up the Missouri River to reap the riches of a virgin land. For them, the country held riches beyond compare, yet there was a danger to parallel every sou that was to be made. The original residents, mostly Otoe Indians in the future Saint Deroin area, didn't want these newcomers wandering through their lands and before the issue was settled many a scalp hung from the coup sticks. But the immigrants were determined and soon found a way to remain unharmed. The solution was simple —marry an Indian squaw. This afforded the protection of Indian camps and made life less hazardous. Yet in the solution, a more serious problem arose —the half-breed.

The product of white fathers and Indian mothers, the half-breed was the untouchable of Western society. Whites wanted nothing (Continued on page 54)

Come Cranes, Come Spring

LONG BEFORE they are visible, their wild clarion swells from every quadrant of the sky, Ventriloquial, it comes from here, there, everywhere, and nowhere. It's all sounds to all ears —the wailing of bagpipes over the moors, a rusty gate protesting the wind, the chant of long-forgotten tribes, the belling of distant hounds. But no matter how the sound is compared, no one can hear the coming of the sandhill cranes without a lift of the heart and a surge of the spirit, for when these majestic migrants descend on Nebraska, spring is close behind.

The Platte Valley in central Nebraska is a centuries-old way-stop for the northbound cranes. They come by the thousands, some in disciplined V's, others in disorganized flocks, to feed and rest between Grand Island and Lexington in the big bend of the Platte River. Smaller concentrations pitch in between North Platte and Sutherland, but stragglers have been spotted all along the North Platte River to the Wyoming border. At peak concentrations there are an estimated 150,000 cranes in the state. They cover the unplowed fields and the pastures like undulating carpets of gray. First arrivals reach the valley about the first of March and peak out around the 20th to become one of the state's great natural attractions. Thousands of people visit the concentration areas to watch these stately birds in pre-mating dances as ritualistic as a well-rehearsed ballet.

Serious watchers should use binoculars or else observe from well-concealed blinds, since sandhill cranes, like most migratory birds, are suspicious of humans. A car makes a good vantage for casual observations and county roads in the areas permit reasonably close approaches to feeding and loafing grounds. Camera fans will get better and more detailed photographs with telescopic lens. Travelers along Interstate 80 have ringside seats for the show.

These stilt-legged birds, standing 3V2-feet tall and boasting wingspreads of 6 to 7 feet, are somewhat ungainly on the ground, but once in the air, they are poetry in motion. Their distinctive wingbeat, slow on the downthrust and fast on the lift, is a good identifier. Strong flyers, their impressive swirling, spiral-like climbs to preferred flying altitudes reflect the impressive muscle power of their great pinions. Predictable in habits, migrant cranes in Nebraska lift from their sandbar roosting areas at first light, fly to surrounding fields to glean their breakfasts, and, when appetites are satisfied, select a loafing area with an eye to security. Late in the afternoon, cranes feed again and return to the sandbars just before black dark.

The courting dances are spontaneous. A few birds begin sparring and jumping or rising in short flights that are more wing-assisted side hops than honest takeoffs. This ripple of activity becomes a contagion and soon hundreds of birds are involved. Their movements resemble the billow and ebb of combers in an ocean of gray, still these displays seem to be more expressions of good spirits than pronounced attempts to impress potential mates. Like people, some cranes prefer to be spectators rather than participants. They watch while others perform. There seems to be a rather well-established pattern to the dancing. A group will swirl and gyrate for a time and then settle down while others pick up the tempo.

Although these pre-mating rituals are impressive, the coordinated lift-offs and landings of thousands of cranes are more spectacular. It is a thrilling sight when masses of cranes rise in unisoned accord and spiral skyward before leveling off in straightaway flight.

Cranes, during their spring stopover in Nebraska, are seemingly unconcerned about moving on. They loiter, feeding, resting, and dancing, for days on end as though enjoying the companionship of their fellows. Then one day, some imperative urge sends the majority of them whirling and wheeling upward for the last time. With clamorous leave-taking, they climb and climb, sort themselves into formations and head for the vast uninhabited wastelands of northern Canada and the serious business of nesting, hatching, and rearing. Like many other migrants, sandhill cranes have definite home territories and will return to the same locality season after season. It is believed that cranes mate for life. A comparatively few stragglers remain behind in Nebraska as though reluctant to leave the state, but in time, they, too, head for the north.

Come fall and once again the sandhill cranes come streaming across Nebraska, heading for the warmer climes of western Texas and eastern New Mexico. Their autumn stay in Nebraska is short with more overflights than stops.

No one knows why the sandhillers select Nebraska for the halfway house on their spring jaunt, but they they have been doing it for uncounted springs and all who thrill to the sights and sounds of the wild are the richer for their choice.

NEBRASKA'S ROVING AMBASSADORS

THE TEXAN WAS having the time of his life at the Dallas Sports, Boat, and Travel Show. Friendly as a puppy, he was chatting with all the exhibitors as he made his way toward the NEBRASKAland booth. A puzzled look came over his face as he saw the seven mounted birds and animals whirling above a huge fiber-glass figure that represented a happy man dreaming of the hunting in Nebraska.

Fixing his eyes on a spinning fox squirrel, the visitor studied the animal at length. Finally he edged closer to the red-coated representative of the Game Commission and said, sotto voce:

"I didn't know you had tree rats in Nebraska?"

"Tree rats?"

"Yes, tree rats."

"We haven't got any tree rats; I don't think there's such an animal."

"There's one right there."

The Game Commission man spun around, convinced this was a gag, but the Texan seemed dead serious and there was always the possibility that 40 NEBRASKAland another exhibitor had rigged up an "addition" to the display, since there is a lot of practical joking during a show.

"Where?"

"Right there," pointing to the squirrel.

"That's a fox squirrel. We've got lots of them in eastern Nebraska."

"Is that what those things are. I've seen them, but I always thought they were tree rats."

The commission representative, realizing that his visitor was sincere in his misconception, gave him a three-minute rundown on squirrels.

This little exchange is typical of the thousands of queries Game Commission personnel hear when they are on the winter sports-show circuit. Each year, more than a million people in 13 states have the opportunity to learn something about Nebraska from the men and women who man the booths.

Attractive booths featuring brightly lighted, animated displays, complete with sound effects, are staffed by conservation officers and members of the Nebraska Game Commission's Information and Tourism Division. This year, the NEBRASKAland story will be told Nebraska isn't upstaged at travel show. People want to hear about "where West begins" state at 16 shows, ranging from New York City to Los Angeles.

NEBRASKAland promotion is keyed to two major themes —the state's fine hunting and fishing opportunities, and its family-oriented tourist and vacation attractions. Displays, designed to catch the eye and inclination of show goers, are supplemented by colorful and informative brochures, pamphlets, road maps, camping guides, and other printed material. At some of the bigger shows, Nebraska sponsors two booths, one promoting hunting and fishing, the other, tourism. Displays are rotated and no show gets the same display two years in succession. The men and women who represent the state are proud of the show goers' accolade: "Nebraska is always coming up with something new."

Questions come thick and fast at the shows and run the gamut from serious and penetrating queries on the how, when, and where of pheasant hunting to, "Can the kids see a real live Indian in Nebraska?"

Each question gets a courteous and correct answer and the visitor is given a pamphlet or brochure that answers his questions (Continued on page 51)

WINTER SONG

THUN-N-NK! The ice dome trembles on the lake as, split-second swift, the pressure crack springs from near to farther shore. Striding purposefully across the ice, chewing shreds of amethyst from the blue-polished surface, the steel-fanged feet of the fisherman are startled from their rhythm.

The bundled angler attacks the ice with spud and auger. Dark liquid spurts and then subsides into the crystal pocket. His hand adjusts the pop-up and the snelled barb settles in the pulsing water. In hunchbacked expectancy, the dark form squats, mittened hand poised, arm tensed to snatch whatever finnied FEBRUARY, 1968 43  

Thunk-n-nk runs the pressure crack. Skim ice splinters. The water heaves above the shell, sucks down into the shadowed depths. With it comes a twitch upon the line. The pop-up leaps, its flag red against the lowering sun. With deliberate haste the line comes reeling in, freezing to the spool on which it winds. A dark and flailing form resists exposure to the winter light. It tugs and twists against relentless pressure, tears free, and bores into the friendly gloom below. Chagrined, the fisherman cuts yet another access, and crouches vulturelike, short jig in hand. The twitching arm alone gives life to a silvery teardrop in the depths. Rheumy eyes dart forth and back from pop-up, then to jig, as he pours a steaming drink to immobolize his other hand.

The jig tugs back against his wrists. The cup clatters free, brown liquid eating acid streaks into the white. Recklessly, he heaves against the line. A threshing thing slides upward into alien air, pounds angrily against the barrier to its retreat. Beetlelike, a rushing shape shuttles on the glassy dome. Unhinged from barbed hooks, the object of his activity flash freezes into immobility.

Cold drugged, the form returns to vigil. The sun drifts behind a masking hill. Fiery ice burns out to ash of steely gray. Settling dark spreads anglers toward more friendly shores. Swiftly, then, the ice dome heals its throbbing wounds, endures the thun-n-nk of yet another pressure crack, and drifts to lonely sleep.

COOL IDEAS FOR COOL ANGLERS

NOT LONG ago, I heard a fellow say that any nut who catches fish through the ice has frostbite of the head. But believing the old adage, "Don't knock it until you've tried it", I decided to look into this angling that attracts only the most ardent fishermen. I found out that although they may be ardent, they are often foolhardy, too. I don't know about the honest-to-long-john anglers, but I know I had that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when one of them drove his car onto a patch of thin ice. Watching him was bad enough, but it was nothing compared to watching a pilot land his craft on ice that looked mighty, mighty unsubstantial. Still, the real ice fisherman takes such zany doings in stride. But when it comes to equipment for the actual fishing, the cold-fingered clan can be as fussy as a maiden aunt. Like all sportsmen, ice anglers are suckers for equipment, and they never have enough even though basic gear is all they really need. If you are aiming to join the fraternity, here's what you need.

There are several means of drilling a hole through the ice. First, an ice chisel, or spud, can be used. This is a steel chisel, with a lVfe-inch blade and a 5-foot extension to the handle. Next is the ice auger, of which several different types are available. The two main differences being that one resembles, and works on the same principle as an auger bit, while the other has a shovel-like sharpened blade. Another type removes a solid round core of ice. These pieces of equipment are hand operated, but for the "holeier"-than-thou angler, a power driven unit, similar to a chain saw, is available. An ax is not recommended, as it often makes a mess of things including legs.

In general, ice-fishing gear is not expensive. The rods, or jigging sticks, are short, 2 to 2Yfa feet, and don't need a reel. These small jigs have a tip guide and some sort of metal line holder at the base. When fishing for the big ones, a reel can be attached to some models, and although standard fishing poles may be used, they are a bit awkward, because of their length, when compared to these little "hookers". Some bright fellow came up with an ingenious device for automatically signaling a strike, and this device is known as a tip-up. When a fish strikes, a little flag or arm pops up.

Tip-ups are not always the best for panfish since many of them prefer moving bait. Clear 6-to-8-pound-test monofilament for small fish and 24-pound-test for larger ones are recommended for ice fishing. Small sensitive bobbers should be used, so the slightest nibble will cause the bobber to "bob". Many ice fishermen use an ice skimmer to remove fresh ice from the holes. As for a minnow bucket, the general favorite is the styrofoam container, instead of the metal type, and everyone seems to use a minnow scoop. Something about not wanting to get hands wet in cold weather. Other live bait is often kept in pocket containers, and I've heard of some fellows who put bait in their mouths to keep it warm. It's probably (Continued on page 54)

Join the DOGGY SET

IF YOU ARE one of the thousands of dogless Nebraska game bird hunters who have spent fruitless days afield or griped and grumbled about the loss of a wounded pheasant or a downed duck, you are about ready to take the cure. All you need is a dog. Sound simple? It is, but selecting the right dog calls for some decision making and entails some expense. However, the added enjoyment in the field is worth these minor drawbacks.

Of all the friendships which have existed down through the centuries, few can equal the close bonds between hunter and dog. There is a unique relationship between the two which is appreciated by all, even though it is not fully understood by nonsportsmen. A hunter will have poor days even with a dog, but they are in the minority compared to the bad hunts of a dogless nimrod.

Deciding on the breed is often a puzzler, but the prospective owner can narrow his choice by figuring out exactly what he wants. Hunting preference, "keeping" characteristics, type of terrain, shooting skill, and geography are important factors to consider. A specialist in one species of game isn't faced with quite so much of a multiple-choice decision.

The duck hunter will want a big retriever, the best he can afford. A quail hunter will vote for a pointer or a setter. "Setters" are really pointers, too, but once upon a time they were just what their name implies. They roamed the covers and after locating game, they sat on their rumps until the gentleman gunner rode or strolled into range. The dedicated cottontail chaser will settle for a beagle or a Basset and that's that.

It's the general hunter, the fellow of all seasons, who quests for ring-necks, quail, waterfowl, grouse, rabbits, and even squirrel, who faces a dilemma in choosing an equally all-around dog. One of the retrievers probably comes closest to filling the bill. Certainly, retrievers are the most popular in Nebraska with its wealth of mixed-bag hunting. Popular choice runs to the black or yellow Labrador, although other species have their devotees. A Lab is strong enough to go in thick cover, rugged enough to take icy water in stride, and covers a lot of ground. He may not be stylish, but he's efficient. The hard-nose pheasant hunter will put his chips on the Lab.

Another popular canine is the Chesapeake, the only native American sporting breed. These dogs are dark rust in color and their fans claim they are the strongest and most willing (Continued on page 55)

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Magic Gimmick. Backpackers say that the less you carry in your head, the more you must carry on your back. In hunting too, sportsmen who know the least may own the most in outdoor gadgets. Joy of consumer goods is a substitute for basic outdoor skills. They may never learn to use iron sights or how to row a boat, use snowshoes, cook on an open fire, or swing an axe. What is more, they couldn't care less. Daniel Boone with our gadgets, might have felt the same way.— Florida Wildlife

Flying Tu-Tu. Tu-tu is Eskimo name for caribou, a distinctive member of the deer family. During the early 1900's, the caribou vanished from the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska. So employees of the Alaska Department of Fish and Game captured 44 caribou in 1964 and 1965 from the Nelchina herd on the frozen Copper River near Christochina. Transporting them by helicopter, truck, and airplane, they restocked the Kenai Peninsula.— Our Public Lands

Air Bath. Herbert Hoover in his book, Fishing for Fun and to Wash Your Soul, says, "Fishing is a chance to wash one's soul with pure air, with the rush of the brook, or with the shimmer of sun on the blue water. It brings meekness and inspiration from the scenery of nature, charity toward tackle makers, patience toward fish, a mockery of profits and egos, a quieting of hate, and a rejoicing that you do not have to decide a darned thing until next week. And it is discipline in the equality of man — for all men are equal before fish." — Virginia Wildlife

Strung-Up Hunter. A hunter killed an eight-point buck and as he was hanging him up, he lost his footing. Down came the deer and up went the hunter. He had the rope wrapped around himself and the weight of the deer hung him from a pole. — Penny slvania

Unexpected Passenger. Two hunters were driving along Route 34 near Hunter's Run in Pennsylvania when a deer jumped off a roadside bank and through their car's windshield. The deer landed in their laps. Then the animal crawled into the back seat and broke out the left rear window. Unhurt, the hunters reported seeing the deer making a hasty exit down a nearby road. —Pennsylvania

Never Again. One day a truck driver was driving away when a gray squirrel ran across the road and under his truck. He didn't hear any bump or see the squirrel come out. He drove for three miles, but at a red light, got out to see what had happened to the squirrel and found him wedged between the dual wheels, dizzy and disheveled. After a little wiggling and prying the little animal was freed. He shook himself and staggered into the tall timber, no doubt resolving never to do that again.— Pennsylvania

What Next? A movie theater with complimentary admission for waiting passengers will soon open in the Atlanta airport. Films will feature recreation, sports, travel, and other short subjects. — Travel Weekly

Sweet Roll. An Iowa fisherman stood around the kitchen drooling while his wife prepared 12 crappie he had caught. When he sat down to the feast, however, the fish had such a peculiar taste that he finally gave them to the dog. He didn't solve the mystery until he discovered that his wife had rolled the fish in powdered sugar instead of flour. It might have been a sweet mistake, but the fisherman was bitter, nevertheless.

Forecaster. A country store sign said, "Closed August 23 because of the weather." Since it was then only August 15, a curious customer wondered how the storekeeper could know the weather so far in advance.

"Well," said the proprietor, "if it rains light, I'm going fishing. If it rains heavy, I'm going to stay home and work on my tackle. If it doesn't rain at all, I'll go fishing or work on my tackle. All depends on the weather."—Anon

Bigger Shot Better. Research conducted on merits of different size shot for duck hunting showed that at 35 yards there was no obvious difference between No. 4 and No. 6 shot, but as range increased, the No. 4 shot became more effective. Body penetration by No. 4 shot was better at longer range.— Idaho Wildlife Review

Feminine Foray. When the game warden met Harold Nast of Ottsville, Pennsylvania, the temperature stood at 12°, but Nast and his party were enjoying the hunt. What surprised the warden, however, was that the Nast party consisted of Mr. Nast and his 6 daughters, ranging from 12 to 16, including a set of twins. —Pennsylvania

Battling Bear. Harold Van Fossen in Elk County, Pennsylvania, emptied his gun at a bear, crippling the animal. Not thinking to reload his rifle, he pursued the bear, stabbing him with his knife. The bear swatted back and got loose with the knife in him. The hunter chased him again, retrieved his knife, and stabbed a second time. Again the bear knocked him off and got away. Finally remembering his gun, the hunter reloaded and claimed his trophy. -Pennsylvania

ROVING AMBASSADORS

in greater depth. Tons of material are distributed each year.

NEBRASKAland's roving ambassadors are no longer surprised when show goers tell them that they had no idea Nebraska has so much to offer the recreation-seeking public. For too many years, the state hid its candle under a bushel, but this is being corrected and Nebraska is now reaching for its share of the highly competitive outdoor-recreation business. This is the purpose of the shows —to acquaint others with Nebraska's many-faceted recreational offerings and to entice them to the state.

Is participation in the shows accomplishing its purpose? The answer is a resounding yes. In 1967, outdoor recreation poured a thumping $120 million into the state's economy, much of it coming from out-of-state pockets. Everyone benefits from this "fresh" money, for our economy is so complex and so interdependent that a dollar spent in a filling station or a cafe sooner or later finds its way to an increased pay check. This $120 million total represents a sizeable spurt in Nebraska's tourist business of 10 years ago.

The tourist business is highly profitable compared to more conventional industries. A manufacturing, retail, or agricultural development with a $120 million influence on Nebraska's economy would normally require sizeable investments in land and related facilities like utilities, housing, and a hundred other needs, but a generous land has already provided many of the key tourist attractions in Nebraska. Certain expenses to maintain parks, wayside areas, lakes, and other public attractions are required, but the profit margin is good per dollar invested. In many instances, recreation is a spin off of such things as flood control or irrigation dams, established community events, and surplus reproduction of fish and game.

"Home" folks are not forgotten in the Nebraska promotion. The Omaha and Sioux City shows give the Game Commission the opportunities to laud the state's attractions to its own people. Some years ago, national television screened a program about national monuments in the West. Included were pictures of Chimney Rock and the Homestead National Monument. The Sioux City show was on at the time and by coincidence, the Game Commission display featured an illuminated picture of Chimney Rock. Hundreds of Nebraskans at the show told the booth staffers that they had no idea Nebraska had such an important site and that they were going to visit it. If nobody else gained from their intentions, the service stations did, since cars take gasoline.

A spot survey conducted in 1964, revealed that nonresident hunters spent a whopping $2,192,456 in the state. Boiled down to the individual, this meant that each out-of-state hunter spent $25.71 per day and all that he demanded in return were reasonably comfortable FEBRUARY, 1968 lodgings, food, and the chance to snap a few caps at the wary ringnecks.

Of course, sport shows are not responsible for all the "tourist" trade in Nebraska, but they do play an important role in the overall promotion that is geared toward family-participation recreation as well as sight-seeing, hunting, and other more individualistic activities.

Sport shows mean hard work for the people involved, but the effort is worth it, not only in the dollars and cents aspect, but in the personal satisfaction staffers feel when a family comes up to the booth and says, "We visited your state and had a great time."

WHAT TO DO

BUSHY-TAILED WOOD RAT

THE PRESENCE of a conical pile of twigs and brush, looking like a small beaver lodge on dry land, indicates the presence of Neotoma cinerea. This interesting rodent, known to scientists as the bushy-tailed wood rat, is known to most people as the pack rat or trade rat.

The bushy-tailed wood rat is native to only a small portion of the panhandle of Nebraska. He is found in the western end of the Pine Ridge, parts of the Wildcat Hills, and in some of the rough breaks and rocky areas along the North Platte River as far east as Garden County.

A medium-size rodent, the bushy-tailed wood rat has prominent short-haired ears, large black eyes, long conspicuous whiskers, and as his name implies, a bushy tail. He is light tan to bufFy colored on the back with whitish underparts and tail. Adults are nocturnal and rarely come out in daylight. However, the young are bolder and sometimes come out during the day. Wood rats do not hibernate, but during periods of cold, wet, windy weather they may stay in their houses.

In addition to the lodge-type house, wood rats may build their nests in rock crevices, caves, under fallen trees, and occasionally in the branches of a tree.

Houses, built in the open, are usually Wi to 4 feet in diameter and 3 or more feet high. They are constructed of twigs, sticks, and assorted bones, cow chips, stones, or nearly anything else the rat can carry. Nearly all of the houses are placed so they are shaded part or all day during the summer. This nest is added to as long as the rat occupies the house, and since wood rats have been known to live for three years, some of their houses become quite large.

Nest cavities are built in separate galleries in the house and are cup-shaped depressions, five to eight inches in diameter. They are lined with finely shredded bark, leaves, or grass. Each house usually contains two or more nest cavities plus various galleries where food is stored. In the wild, a male and female do not live in the same house, although they may readily do % so in captivity.

The male takes the lead in courtship and begins*! his romantic forays as early as January. He continues ' his nocturnal pursuits until a female is located. His lady-fair often turns out to be a fighter rather than a lover. After a stormy courtship, the male may be allowed to take up temporary quarters with the female, but even then there may be considerable sparring and fighting.

After mating has occurred, the male may be allowed to remain for two or three weeks and hostilities are temporarily eased, but the female soon becomes her old disagreeable self and the male moves on.

Young are born blind and deaf. The litter size will vary from one to six. One Nebraska record shows a female nursing four young in early July. The youngsters develop quickly and begin eating solid food about the time their eyes open within 15 to 21 days. By the time they are two months old the mother kicks them out and they are on their own.

Wood rats are almost entirely vegetarians. They eat all types of buds, leaves, seeds, stems, shoots, bark, herbs, grass, and nuts. An occasional snail, dead bird, small mammal, or insect round out the diet. Most food is eaten where it is found although some is transported to the nest for storage. Wood rats are not large eaters, consuming only about five per cent of their body weight in food each day.

Wood rats have the peculiar habit o| collecting shiny objects such as nails, tin cans, bottle caps, or cartridges. Other glittering objects are picked up and carried to the nest or its general vicinity. If a rat comes across a more appealing object he will drop what he is carrying and pick up the new object. Because of this habit campers may find a bottle cap in placeaf a spoon or knife.

The bushy-tailed wood rat is part of the upland biotic community. His house often shelters Other animals and his flesh is food for the carnivorous Species. Droppings which are concentrated in specific areas act as natural fertilizers for plant growth and thus provide food for vegetarians of the wild.

COOL IDEAS

O.K., but what happens when he sneezes? Still, I've never heard of anyone getting indigestion from a mouthful of wax worms or a snack of mousee grubs. In my ice-fishing apprenticeship another thing surprised me. How can an otherwise gentle, kind-hearted individual who suffers pangs of conscience when he swats a fly, so calmly impale a minnow on a hook?

In the matter of equipment, a portable canvas shelter can be erected in a matter of minutes to prevent that case of cranial frostbite. Some of these shelters will accommodate heating units and can be fixed up with all the conveniences of home. Nothing is sacred when it comes to scrounging up gear for ice angling, and a kid's sled isn't safe when a fellow goes ice-fishing, for there isn't anything better to haul gear. Another fellow uses a bicycle wheel on a contraption that permits fishing in very deep water. Last but not least, take a camp stool or box to sit on, since ice-fishing trips are at least hours-long if not all day.

SAINT DEROIN

to do with him and Indians, even of the mother's tribe often disowned him. So, the half-breed became the nomad of the prairies, roaming from place to place unable to provide even a modest living for his family.

While the first problem was mainly a local one, the second soon took on nationwide proportions. In 1830, at the treaty of Prairie du Chien, the Otoes and their neighbors petitioned the government to set aside a half-breed reservation in Nebraska. The plan seemed a solution to the problem and official boundaries were set along the centerland of the Little Nemaha and the Big Nemaha rivers, running from upper Otoe County through portions of Johnson, Nemaha, Pawnee, and Richardson counties to the Missouri River. In this area, each half-breed was entitled to one 160-acre parcel of land obtained by patent. Thus the unwanted of the Plains found a home.

It was in this Half-Breed Tract that Joe Deroin, presumably the offspring of French and Indian parentage was to make his mark. Deroin was a 'breed, but unlike most he was also a chief in the Otoe nation, This automatically put him a cut above the others sharing the land, but the fact that he managed to garner two tracts instead of one, made him an Indian J. P. Morgan on the Tract. He often lent money or stock and soon controlled most of the financial dealings in his area. But Joe wasn't satisfied with his monetary status. He wanted something more from life. He wanted to be remembered by posterity. And he found his chance in establishing Saint Deroin.

Joe offered to donate the land for a town on the Missouri River if founding fathers would name it for him. Such a price didn't seem too high for the benefits, so the bargain was sealed and in 1854 the town was laid out. Shortly afterward, Robert Hawke got things rolling with a general store. With its single store, the town-to-be took the name of Saint Deroin. No one knows why the first name was added, certainly it wasn't because of Joe's behavior, since he had as many as four wives at one time and wasn't exactly the saintly type in other dealings. But Saint Deroin it was.

The Otoe chief saw little of what was to become of his town. Even with his widespread financial dealings in a raw era, he didn't last long. One story goes that Deroin was out to collect a bill when a reluctant debtor named Beddow decided to take issue with the collector. Brandishing a gun, Beddow told Deroin if he took one more step he was a dead man. Joe did and he was. Another tale goes that some of Beddow's hogs slipped through a hold in a fence and began a feast on some of Deroin's corn. The chief objected and told Beddow to get his hogs off Deroin land and mend the fence. Beddow told him to fix his own fence and the row was off and running. Beddow settled the issue with his pistol. Either story may be true or false. All that is sure is that the year was 1858 and that Beddow was tried and acquitted.

Saint Deroin was resurveyed later that same year and a Judge Ritter set up another store. On paper, at least, the 54 NEBRASKAland town was quite a venture. It's main drag was named Nebraska Street and was laid out to be 100 feet wide. Other streets, running north and south, took state names while those running east and west were numbered. In all, the paper town looked as though it would accommodate a population in the thousands. But its dreams of a metropolis never came true.

However, in 1861, Saint Deroin became a real town with a post office. Again Judge Ritter got into the act as postmaster. By 1868, a school was in full swing. And for the times, this brick structure was a showplace. Two blacksmith shops, a hotel, and a flour mill rounded out the public buildings. The river lent a helping hand, too.

Saint Deroin was one of the earliest ports of call above St. Louis. And while the town's records no longer exist, Brownville recorded as many as 100 riverboats a month in season, so Saint Deroin probably hosted an equal number. In fact, one story goes that the school bell was from an old riverboat. The town also had one of the few river ferries. It was as tough as any river town with all the rawness and turmoil of its era.

For a few years, Saint Deroin was a child of the river. Steamers brought their commerce on one hand and the fertile bottomland provided crops on the other. But the prosperity was too good to last. Railroads snaked their way across the continent far north of the river town. And as they did, river traffic began to die. Deprived of the Missouri's economy, residents began to drift away.

In the late 1890's and early 1900's the river that had built the town began to destroy it bit by bit, as the Missouri rambled back and forth, cutting down all that lay in its path. Saint Deroin tried to fight the marauding waters by moving farther and farther back as the years went by. The brick school was completely dismantled and moved a quarter mile where it was rebuilt brick by brick. A former Saint Deroin resident Joseph Ramer, remembers that the building was rebuilt on its present site for $75. But efforts to save the town failed when people found no reason to stay. By 1904, only three stores remained and the river continued its havoc.

A former resident wrote that she remembers lying awake listening to the river do its terrible work. She said that townspeople could hear huge chunks of land slide into the river, each wondering if his or her home would be next. Finally, the strain of the unknown and the lack of business sent the remaining residents to more prosperous surroundings. It was about 1917 when the last inhabitant called it quits.

Today only the wreckage of the school and a graveyard about a mile and a half from the old site remind visitors of the town that was. Both lie in the soon-to-be Indian Cave State Park and state agencies have cleaned and reconstructed much of the graveyard. Someday the school may be restored and perhaps in time the true story of Saint Deroin will be known. But for now, only the rolling waters of the Missouri River know it and they aren't talking.

THE END

DOGGY SET

of all retrievers, since they apparently love to retrieve in cold water.

Golden retrievers are named for the color of their coats. They are dependable hunters, usually of good dispositions and do creditable jobs on both field game and waterfowl. Their appealing looks and stylish body conformations add to their popularity. A golden is sometimes called the jack-of-all-trades but that doesn't detract from his abilities. Mixed-bag hunters will find goldens pleasant companions in the field or in the blind.

Springer spaniels are another likely candidate, as they have a hard core of supporters who vouch for their ability.

The popular pointing breeds include the English and Irish setters, the English pointer, the German Shorthair, the Britanny spaniel, the Vizsla, and the Weimaraner. These dogs will retrieve well, but finding and pointing game are their main reasons for existing. Ardent quail hunters prefer the pointing breeds while the pheasant gunner may be a bit lukewarm toward them. Nebraska's running-mad ringnecks can give a keen-nose pointer fits.

Brittanies are strange little hunters. Unlike other spaniels, they point game and will do a creditable job of retrieving. Their size may be a handicap in the heavy going and they lack the day-after-day stamina of their bigger cohorts, but for the weekend hunter they will fill the bill. Like the golden they have appealing looks and are enthusiastic companions. The Vizsla, an import from central Europe, is growing in popularity in Nebraska and other Plains states. There doesn't seem to be any middle ground for the Vizsla. Their fans are ready to fight if they hear anything derogatory about their favorites, while others can't stand the critters. They are handsome dogs and while not "tough", they are persistent. The Weimaraners enjoy about the same degree of popularity.

In comparing pointers and retrievers in other than hunting abilities, most dog fanciers say that retrievers are friendlier and better adjusted to people. On the other hand, pointers are not considered "play" dogs. They are usually high strung and their hunting capabilities may be impaired by coddling.

Retriever fans claim their breeds are easier to train. It is said that almost anyone with patience and more sense than the dog can, with consistency and a good dog-training text, turn out creditable, if not polished, performers. Many pointers require professional training or painstaking and detailed work on the part of a very knowledgeable owner.

Assuming that you have selected your breed, how do you go about selecting a pup? Take plenty of time to look over the litter and give every prospect a chance to strut his stuff. Look for alertness, curiosity, and ambition. Don't overlook a pup that is snoozing, as he may have worn himself out in an earlier frolic.

Advice and background information from the dogs' owner are always in order. Almost all breeders are honest and their experiences with the dam and sire, other litters, and general observations will give the prospective purchaser fairly good guidelines. A good pup won't be cheap, but his initial cost is less than that of a trained adult. A pup with field-trial winners or established hunters in his ancestry will cost more.

Before making a final decision, go over your requirements again. Consider your hunting habits, the type of game you prefer, the amount of available kennel space, your own attitude toward a dog, and the reactions of the neighbors. No one enjoys a howling, barking dog across the back fence. Sex of the dog is strictly a matter of choice. Females are usually more obedient and quicker to learn, but males are bolder and more rugged.

To say that one breed is superior to another is like saying that blondes make better wives than redheads. All of them have good and bad traits, all of them have definite personalities. Some mixed breeds may also be considered, although it is usually safer to stick with those which have been tried and found dependable. If cost, at least initially, is not overly important, it might be cheaper in the long run to buy a trained adult. This is especially true of the pointers, which generally need the hand of the professional.

Regardless of your ultimate choice, watch the dog's diet, take pains with his training, and remember most dogs are eager to please. Capitalize on this trait and work it to your advantage. A wise choice will make the good days afield better and the poor days less bleak. Even if your dog doesn't make the grade as a top-notch hunter, he'll probably make a good companion for the kids or a watchdog for the wife.

BUFFALO SAFARI

for a breather. Rivulets of sweat slipped off the angler's forehead and ran down his neck, and Duke knew it was going to be a toss-up on who would tire first, the fish or him. Finally, the Omahan turned the buffalo and coaxed him toward shore but the victory didn't last long. With a sudden burst of energy, the buffalo made a break for the center of the lake. That did it. The angler's smile turned to a frown of disappointment as the snapped monofilament came flying back in his face.

Duke has lost many fish while using light-test lines, and losing a possible record breaker would make most men switch to heavier monofilament. But he claims that he fishes for sport and in his philosophy dragging in a 20-pound fish on 30-pound-test line is like dragging out a log.

In his many years of fishing, Duke has gathered some wild believe-it-or-not tales. One 14-pounder gave him a real fight until the reel went haywire. The lunker seized the opportunity and Duke's six-pound-test line parted like thread. As he was fixing his reel, he noticed his other rod was (Continued on page 56)

BUFFALO SAFARI

acting up. Starting to reel in, Duke knew he had another battle on his hands. When he beached the buffalo, he was more than surprised to find that he had caught the same fish that had broken his first line. The severed monofilament had become tangled in the line of his second rod and this time the fish didn't have a chance to escape.

Each trip for buffalo is a new challenge for Duke, because this elusive fish taxes every bit of knowledge the fisherman has garnered through the years. Few anglers catch buffalo, and when they do it is usually by accident. A buffalo is usually more than leery of bait, and will seldom make an I've-got-you-now stab at an offering. A buffalo won't jiggle a rod as he mouths the bait and often an angler is not aware that a fish is playing around. Duke describes a buffalo's bite as a "slow-motion pull". The fish will quietly pull the line off the reel and if there is the slightest resistance, he is apt to spook before the angler can set the hook.

When the line is slipping off the reel, the angler faces the critical decision of when to set the hook. Usually a neophyte angler will classify the slow-motion pull as a nibble and wait for the fish to swallow the bait and practically jerk the rod. When fishing for buffalo, the inexperienced will have a long wait, for these fish seldom gulp down baits. Duke lets the fish take a foot of line before he smacks the buffalo with a bone-crunching jerk. More often than not, the fish is hooked right on the edge of his lip.

Ilich's first real experience with the buffalo came at Carter Lake in Omaha. Picking on some of the better fishermen, Duke used to carry on bankside chats with them, gathering in tidbits of information and remembering them for future use. He soon found that his catch rate seemed to climb in proportion to his knowledge about the fish.

The engineer also noticed that baits around the lake varied and that each fisherman had his own time-tested techniques. One successful oldtimer claimed that buffalo and carp have "sweet teeth," and to satisfy their wants he mushed up sweet roll in water and placed it on a hook. Another angler strictly used doughballs, and once he knew Duke was serious about the fine art of buffalo fishing he gave him this simple formula: One-half cup of flour, and one cup of cornmeal and mix them together dry. Take the same amount of water and add a tablespoon of sugar and a teaspoon of salt to it. Heat and as soon as the water comes to a boil, turn down the heat and mix the ingredients. After they are thoroughly mixed, turn off the burner and let the mixture cool. Then pour it into a container.

Duke forms the concoction into bait-size balls when he's at the water. This recipe caught its share of fish, but to the always-thinking fisherman there seemed to be something lacking. Then he remembered the oldtimer's theory that buffalo and carp have sweet teeth, so he started experimenting with the various flavors of doughballs. He added a bit of honey to the basic formula and found out that a buffalo's taste was similar to a bear's when it came to this touch of sweetness. After years of testing, his list of fish-catching flavors now include cinnamon, molasses, sorghum, vanilla, and of course honey doughballs. He keeps the bait right on the bottom.

His experimenting doesn't stop with baits, however. After long bankside hours, he has developed fishing gear and techniques especially for the buffalo. Duke uses a 41-inch rod with a closed-faced spinning reel. He has found that the short rod enables him to set the hook with more authority. He is also particular when it comes to terminal gear. Using No. 8 treble hooks, he places one 10 inches below the other, with their leaders fastened to a three-way swivel. Duke doesn't use a weight, but depends on the pear-shaped doubhballs about as big around as a 50-cent-piece for casting weight. Most of his casts are 30-foot easy-follow-through tosses, because the soft bait is easy to snap off.

Many experienced anglers might disagree with Duke when it comes to putting on a large glob of doughball, but the angler is convinced that to catch lunker fish, you need a lunker-size bait. He catches small fish too, and his mixture has claimed bluegill, drum, bullhead, and once a friend of his caught a four-pound, six-ounce largemouth on the doughy bait. Rich believes the bass probably struck at the angler's gold hook, rather than the bait.

The Omahan's success is due to specialization. He has experimented with various techniques, until he found the winning combination and he works it for all it's worth. Like every angler, he has his favorite tales about some of his most important catches. When he talks about them he relives each experience as if it was just yesterday.

One of his favorite stories concerns a day on Fremont lakes. Duke claims you don't have to get up at sunrise to catch lunkers, so it was just before 8 a.m. when he pulled up at the lake. He had barely propped up his rod when it started to nod. Duke quickly set the hook, but after trying to reel in a few feet of the six-pound-test line he knew that this was no ordinary fish. Carefully pumping the rod to gain a few feet, he worked the fish slowly, letting it tire itself out. After a 20-minute battle, he beached a 22lU-pound, master-angler channel catfish. For the excited fisherman the trip was over. He isn't one to push success.

The Fremont State lakes have been Duke's home waters for the last 12 years, and the biggest lunker of his career came from there. The angler had to work for every ounce of this 24-pound carp in a grueling 25-minute fight. The lunker, with his brute strength, seemed to be trying to trick the experienced angler into a costly error, but the Omahan had hauled too many big fish to let this one get away.

Surprisingly enough, Duke's biggest buffalo didn't come at Fremont, although he has taken several lunkers there. The buffalo, a 22-pounder, came out of Linoma Beach Lake after a long tough 15 minutes. In the fight, the big buffalo broke water once, not an uncommon practice, and then zigzagged to the left and right with all the fury and strength of his four-legged namesake.

When Duke fishes for lunkers, he sets his drag light, so that the fish can take all the line he needs. As the battle progresses, he tightens the drag according to the size and strength of the fish. In the Linoma battle, the buffalo stripped the reel to the arbor before the angler could turn him and start gaining. Once the buffalo came in, he was laying on his side.

Duke has had many 100-pound days, meaning he brings home over 100 pounds of fish in one outing. After scoring the fish, he freezes them, and later on, Mrs. Ilich either bakes or deep-fat fries them. Even though the engineer consistently catches big fish, he still has an ultimate goal. He daydreams about catching a state-record buffalo and a carp. The buffalo record was within his grasp once, and he figures he will have another chance.

Duke isn't egotistical, he is just telling the truth. You can't catch over 600 lunkers and not come home with a record. Odds don't run that way.

BOONE and CROCKETT

in the timber now, so I jumped the fence and ran after him. A hundred yards in, I found him stone dead.

After hog-dressing the five-pointer, I took him into Arapahoe where he weighed in at 240 pounds. Later, when he was officially measured by a Game Commission representative, he qualified for a Nebraska big-game citation, but I was surprised when he made the listing in the Records of North American Big Game, the record book of The Boone and Crockett Club. He scored 165% points and would have gone higher except for two unusual brow tines which lowered his typical whitetail total. Again the similarity. I didn't know my antelope would make the big book until I had the head mounted at Mitchell. His 80 0/8 points was just enough to qualify. Minimum standards are 80 points for pronghorn and 160 for typical whitetail.

Of course, there were differences in the hunts. The deer was running, the pronghorn was standing. I was hunting with a party when I got the deer, but I was alone when I got the antelope, although others had been with me earlier. The pronghorn was a long, long, shot, the whitetail was reasonably close. I had to stalk my antelope and the deer had practically come to me.

But the similarities were very strong. I was using the same rifle and both animates were dropped after another hunter had scored. I wasn't aware at first that both would qualify for Boone and Crockett, although I knew immediately, that both would make state-citation standards. Two fine trophies, only weeks apart, are enough to keep me happy for a long time, but I've got one more goal in mind. I want to get a Boone-and-Crockett mule deer. Someday I will.

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

Icy Walls of the Niobrara, Fort Robinson Historical Museum

WHERE-TO-GO

A CHILD'S DREAM of the largest icicle in the world would be close to a reality if he could see the Icy Walls of the Niobrara. These sparkling sheets of frozen water make every viewer pause for a long second and even a third look. Located on the Niobrara River where it bulls its way through the Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge, five miles east of Valentine, the icy walls are a unique and fascinating wintry creation in NEBRASKAland.

Sheer walls rising from the river's canyon floor are the beginning of the icy spectacle. The walls are extremely porous, allowing the seepage of spring water from the towering bluffs. As winter encroaches upon the rugged land and the mercury drops to the bottom of the bulb, the seeping water is transformed into breath-taking sculptures of ice. Soon, colossal walls of ice are built up to stand as sentinels over the raging Niobrara. Like miniature glaciers, these walls of ice seem to come to life as they grow in strength and might, crushing lesser forms that rest in their path.

In order for the seeping water to begin its gigantic building process, nature must cooperate with very cold temperatures for two or three weeks. Unless the temperature remains low for this length of time, the seepage will freeze one day and then melt the next. However, in the Sand Hills of north-central NEBRASKAland, nature normally keeps the temperature under the freezing mark for weeks at a time. This allows the trickling waters to build up an impressive display of frigid splendor.

As the Niobrara pushes its way through the wildlife refuge, the onlooker is provided with one ice wall after another to delight his fancy. The ever-changing, ever-growing suspended ice glitters brightly with the reflections of the sun. Some of the icy faces stretch for 400 yards. A paradise for conservationists and shutterbugs alike, the glassy walls serve not only as a beauty mark in the rugged region, but as a weather information center. Several feet of ice indicate a long cold spell while a little buildup, or no ice at all, indicates the temperatures have been mild.

Unless the traveler dons his winter garb and sees the icy wall for himself, his imagination can't picture the giant, towering masses of ice as they really are.

As nature's wintry clutch begins to release NEBRASKAland and the icy walls crumble to their end, spring ushers in the opening of Fort Robinson Historical Museum. Located four miles west of Crawford on U.S. Highway 20, the museum, which opens on April 1, is jam-packed with historical displays of the wild and woolly West.

Named for an Army officer killed by the Indians, Fort Robinson was established in 1874. The fort played a key role in the early Indian wars and served as a plains post for many years. At the termination of World War II the fort was turned over to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, and in 1956 the Nebraska State Historical Society opened the museum.

Nestled in the scenic Pine Ridge country, the museum is a magnificent sightseeing experience. Once inside, visitors can relive the eventful past of the historic outpost. Colorful displays interpret the story of man's occupation of the western prairies and include such items of interest as Indian relics, clothing, weapons, and other artifacts. Mannequins and furniture in some of the rooms depict life from the fort's early history. Admission is free.

A seasonal attraction, the museum is open to the public from April 1 through November 15.