March 1968 50 cents

In Color... POST TIME IN NEBRASKAland ADVENTUROUS TRACK WALK A LOST WEEKEND ARISING WINTER GREEN FREIGHTERS-THE WHEELS OF DESTINY AN UPSET IN THE PHEASANT BOWE

Speak Up

A CONCLUSION-"After reading 'Raw Deal' by James G. Pafford in Speak Up and meditating upon our past experience, I have concluded that if the Game Commission wishes to continue selling permits to out-of-state hunters, they should be in close co-operation with the NEBRASKAland Ranch and Farm Vacations Inc.

"This is an organization for helping host families, hunters, and vacationers, to help hunters with their problems such as Mr. Pafford experienced, and to give them a good place to hunt. Here the hunter is received by his host, who usually acts as a guide.

"To insure the hunter of a good place to hunt, he should contact his host in advance.

"I surely hope that the Game Commission will co-operate in promoting the propagation of our pheasant population through improved agricultural practices." — Philip R. Dowse, Comstock.

THAT AWFUL NIGHT-"We read your story, Horror In The Night, in the August NEBRASKAland. Our Grandmother, Mrs. Mattie Burton from Barley, told us the same story many times. She was a girl of about 13 at the time and the people came to her father's house the night of the flood.

"Her step-mother had passed away and she and a step-sister, the same age, did the cooking and caring for the children while the fathers made arrangements and got ready for the trip on. Such a time it must have been because she tells that the people spoke a different language and they couldn't understand each other. She said many travelers would stop by their place to buy eggs and milk on their way.

"Grandma just celebrated her 95th birthday August 30th, and she is such a happy person. She still lives alone and maintains her own home. Her six children are all living and she has many grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and four great-great-grandchildren. She still pieces quilts and is quite active.

"Just wanted to let you know we all enjoyed the story and thought you may like to know that some one else still remembers that awful night." —Letha Perks, Stockville

WHAT TO DO

MARCH Roundup

MARCH MAY ROAR into Nebraska like a lion or gambol in like a lamb. Either way, this first month of spring promises a windfall of activities ranging from state basketball tournaments to the "wearing of the green". Saint Patrick will certainly be on hand, in spirit at least, in O'Neill on March 17. The leprechauns are planning a rip-roaring shamrock celebration worthy of the most Irish town in NEBRASKAland.

Even Saint Patrick, however, cannot evoke the excitement and frenzy that marks the state high school basketball tournaments. Thirty-two teams, that's 160 players, will start the court competition on March 7. Class A schools will vie in Omaha's Civic Auditorium while Class B, C, and D schools will meet in Lincoln at Pershing Municipal Auditorium and at the University of Nebraska Coliseum. It takes a hardy fan to last through the delirious furor that won't abate until four teams claim championships. Another rival in the excitement sweepstakes of this month are the horse races at Fonner Park in Grand Island. The bangtails run from March 22 through May 1.

Outdoor sports fans and those with a bit of the vagabond in their blood will find the Sports, Vacation and Travel Show at Civic Auditorium in Omaha, February 27 through March 3, just the ticket for a bad case of winter doldrums. Showgoers with questions on hunting, fishing, sports equipment, or tourist spots will find exhibitors eager to give them correct information on the why, when, how, and where of the outdoor world and its many attractions. Farther west and south, in Red Cloud, gun and coin collectors will want to take in the Lions Club Gun and Coin Show at Veterans Memorial Hall, March 16 and 17.

Spectator sports scheduled during the month include professional wrestling at Pershing Auditorium in Lincoln on March 5 and 20, basketball at the University of Nebraska home court against Iowa State on Nebraska's 101st birthday, March 1, and basketball and wrestling contests at Hiram Scott College in Scottsbluff against the University of Wyoming on March 2. For a taste of poetic movement, there are the Aquaquette Water Ballet performances at the University of Nebraska, March 21 and 22. Agile students will compete at the state gymnastics meet at Lincoln High School in Lincoln on March 1 and 2, while high school girls will hold their volleyball tournament in Hastings, March 11 through 14.

Combos will draw hip teen-agers to "Emphasis '68 Youth Festival" at Pershing Auditorium in Lincoln, March 15 through 17. Merchants are gearing this trade fair to adolescents. That same weekend, Gothenburg businessmen will sponsor their fourth annual home show with the theme, "Horizon's Unlimited". March 7 through 10, Grand Island will hold its Third City Home and Recreation Show at Fonner Park. Omaha's home show is March 26 through 31.

Stuart's American Legion will sponsor a musical show March 10. Directed by Jan Brayton, the show's 40-member cast will follow the theme, "Freedom is Not Free", in presenting patriotic and humorous songs and skits. Kosmet Klub at the University of Nebraska will present "Westside Story" at Pershing Auditorium in Lincoln, March 29 and 30. Children are in for a treat when Concordia College's Curtain Club at Seward will produce "Androcles and the Lion", March 7 through 9. The College of Saint Mary in Omaha will entertain youngsters with (Continued on page 8)

WHAT TO DO

MARCH ROUNDUP

"Greensleeves Magic" on March 16, 17, 23, and 24. Repertory productions at the University of Nebraska's Howell Theater in Lincoln include "King Lear" on March 1, 2, 22, and 23, and "Marate-Sade", March 15 through 17. Nebraska Wesleyan University in Lincoln will present the opera, "Fledermaus", March 14 through 17, and Duchesne College in Omaha will present "The Satin Slipper", March 14 through 16. Miss Connie Matthews, concert vocalist and instructor at Wayne State College, will sing at Midland College on March 11.

Omaha's Symphony Orchestra will cater to young people two nights, March 14 and 28, with Youth Concerts at Music Hall in Omaha. Regular concerts will be played at Music Hall, March 18 and 19. Hastings Symphony Orchestra's spring concert is March 21.

Community concerts will dot the state with New York Pro Musica at City Auditorium in Hastings on March 19, and at Scottsbluff on March 22. Metropolitan Opera soprano, (Continued on page 49)

TIN CAN ALLEY

THE MOST MELANCHOLY of camping sounds is the clanking of an empty can joining the growing pile of discarded tinware in the garbage bin. It is a sad sound because once the can sheds its original contents, its usefulness is not necessarily ended.

Your camp kit should already include a pair of leather gloves and pliers. Certainly it has a can opener that removes the end of the can without leaving ragged edges. Add a small tin snip, and you have all the tools you need to convert those empties into camp gadgets that help make outdoor living a bit more convenient.

When you set up your camp table, place its legs in empty cans, then pour a little water in each. These form effective barriers to ants and other crawling insects that may want to share your meal.

Cut both ends from a can and tack the tube to a tree at about waist height. Set your fishing pole in the holder, and it won't be toppling to the ground again. Adjust the height of this can somewhat, and nail a larger, slightly flattened can near the base of the tree. This "whatsit" is a nifty holder for rifle or shotgun. Leave the upper can loose. Swing it slightly aside to insert the gun barrel from underneath, then rotate perpendicularly again to allow the gunstock to set in the lower can. Be sure and remove these temporary gadgets when you break camp.

Punch a few holes in the bottom of a sardine can and fasten it to a tree or post next to the washbasin. Your hand soap won't be skidding off the table and into the sand nearly as frequently as before. Put a dent or two into the edge of another sardine tin for an ash tray. Every camper who smokes should use one.

With a nail, punch sieve-like holes in a medium-size can, attach a long wire bail, and you can sterilize your silverware in boiling water. Hang the tools up to drain and dry, and then transfer them to a smaller can for storage in the center of the camp table.

Dip the edge of a small can in flour, and you have an A No. 1 biscuit stamper.

If you have ever tried baking potatoes in a camp fire, you have certainly charred or burned them at least half the time. A foolproof baker for a hot fire is to use a can somewhat larger than the potato. Pour a half inch of dry sand in the bottom, put in the potato so it does not touch the sides of the container, cover the potato with more dry sand, and bury the whole thing in the coals.

It won't put the Bell System out of business, but the kids will get a 10 NEBRASKAland kick talking between tents over a tin can and string telephone. Punch a small hole in the bottom centers of two large juice cans. A strong cord —seine twine is best— long enough to stretch from one station to the other, is the telephone line. Pass one end of the cord through the bottom of a can, and secure it on the inside by tying on a button or a very short twig. Attach the second can to the opposite end in the same way. Pull the cord tight so it touches nothing between stations. Speak into one can, and the person at the other end will hear the message quite clearly. The success of this gadget lies in a tightly stretched cord, since it transmits the vibrations mechanically from one telephone to the other. If the cord touches anything en route or slack develops, the vibrations are killed.

Bend a handle from coat hanger wire, as shown in the illustration. Snap it on to a proper-size can for a drinking cup. Store the handle inside the cup for packing. Some campers with excellent outfits have become so attached to one of these that they prefer it to a more sophisticated store-bought.

A three-pound coffee can or another of similar size, and a few pieces of clothes' hanger wire, convert to a small charcoal stove in a few minutes. Punch 16 evenly spaced holes around the circumference of the can MARCH, 1968 about IV2 inches above the bottom. Pass coat hanger wire crisscross fashion through these holes to form a grate. Bend the ends of the wire down outside the stove so they will not fall out. Use a beverage-can punch and make several air vents below the grate and a few more around the top. Dump charcoal onto the grate and light up. Food in a small cooking vessel will boil up in a hurry on this stove and it will keep a big kettle hot with no trouble. A battery of three is adequate to prepare a sumptuous meal. To broil, place a piece of wire screening over the top. Cover the top completely with a piece of metal, and you can heat a duck blind or a small tent during cold weather. When you use it for these purposes, be sure there is sufficient ventilation and keep inflammable material from touching the stove.

A second type of cooking stove, using twigs for fuel, utilizes a similar or larger can. Remove part of the side of the container for a stokehole. Punch ventilation holes the same as for the charcoal burner. The closed end of the can is the top of your kitchen range. Eggs, bacon, hamburgers, or similar foods may be cooked directly on it.

Select a juice can with a shiny interior and make two cuts in the form of a cross in its bottom. Push the prongs thus formed toward the inside. Remove one side of the can, and thrust a candle up through the crosscut retainer. The lantern saves flashlight batteries when only a small amount of continuous light is needed.

Remove a side and the bottom from a square container used for pressurized stove fuel. Turn over the cut edges to strengthen the scoop. Use it to bail out the boat, remove ashes from the camp grate, or take it to the beach to build sand castles.

Puncture a plastic-topped, half-pound coffee tin with nail holes, fill it with damp moss, and keep your fish worms lively for several days. Leave the moss dry for crickets or other live-insect baits.

A seamless, aluminum beverage can, tacked to a stick and taped to a bow, may be used as an emergency spinning reel while archery fishing. Conventional cans may be used successfully, but the bottom ridge may create enough drag on the uncoiling line to affect your aim.

These are but a few of the gadgets the outdoorsman can construct from an empty food tin, before he smashes it flat and drops it in the nearest garbage pit. Slip your mental gears a bit and add some new ideas. There is literally no end to tin can gadgetry.

WALKING A LOST WEEKEND

ALTHOUGH IT appeared that way, we weren't prisoners or hostages being held at gunpoint. As three self-named "hiking experts", we had wholeheartedly agreed to the terms of the mid-November weekend excursion, blindfolds and all Now we were being put to the test. The whole thing started in October 1967, when Dick Schaffer, editor of NEBRASKAland Magazine, walked through the office saying something about a compass, map, desert island, and shanks' mare. Quicker than you could whistle 'Dixie', he had me roped into a "lost weekend" adventure.

The trip sounded pretty neat at first. I am a student at the University of Nebraska majoring in journalism and work part time for the Nebraska Uame and Parks Commission in the Information and lourism Division. However, I gave the lost weekend idea more thought and became rather leery ^specially since it was agreed that we would be blindfolded and dropped in the Sand Hills to work our way out.

After being assigned the story, I put in a call to my buddy, Rick Davenport, also a student at the MARCH, 1968 13   University, majoring in zoology. I briefed him on the details and he started to hem and haw and suggested we would talk about it later, perhaps much later, like never. Definite plans called for our plight to take place on November 17,18, and 19. Game Commission photographer Richard Voges later signed on to round out our group.

As we sat in darkness, we could feel the jeep rolling smoothly and then apparently leaving the beaten trail. Our driver chuckled obnoxiously, which didn't improve our sense of security. Suddenly, we came to a lurching stop, and our dutiful driver commented that this was the "end of the trail."

Gene Hornbeck, editorial consultant for NEBRASKAland Magazine, was ramrodding our ride into the wilderness. He cheerfully popped out, saying, "Easy now, boys, I need a few snapshots." The immediate temperature change from that rickety, but warm jeep, to the chill of late evening was an indication that this adventure might not be as much of a lark as it seemed back in my comfortable office at Lincoln.

After a series of photos, we were allowed to remove our blinders, and found ourselves in one heck of a predicament. The moon was full, but all we could see was a lot of nothing. Rolling Sand Hills told us something of our whereabouts, but not much, because Nebraska's Sand Hills cover thousands of square miles. Remote, barren, lonely, these are mild descriptions, compared to what myself, Rick, and Richard called those hills before we were finished.

As we unloaded our gear, shivering like a fire-eater drinking ice water, our jeeping trailblazer flipped us a bag of chocolate candy and wished us luck before he headed back. Naturally, being tough outdoor "rough-necks" we didn't need any luck.

Shivering, we spotted a few haystacks in the distance and decided to bed down for the night near them, 14 NEBRASKAland or in them. Even with our teeth making like castanets, we were still able to laugh and joke. Weeks before the adventure, I was saying how easy it would be and that no country was too rough for my hardy crew. I was wearing my "Big Red" cowboy hat and telling everyone what a breeze the whole trip would be. I really laid it on, but that was long before I knew what I know now.

The temperature dropped faster and faster as we punched and clawed the hay to make what Rick termed a "nest". It wasn't long before everyone was as comfortable as conditions would allow. About 10 p.m. we dozed off. Before sleep caught up I laid there, wondering if the expedition was going to be tough, and how long it would last. I had tried to second-guess our mystery area, and thought we were probably somewhere in the southern regions of the Sand Hills and would have about 10 to 15 miles to hike on each of the two days.

We were told beforehand that we could take any equipment that we felt necessary. Of course we had to carry it on our backs, so it behooved us to keep the packs light. We had sleeping bags, canteens, limited food, flashlights, and some camping gear.

In order to find our way back to civilization, we were given a compass and a topographical map. But all the names and landmarks were crossed off with a heavy marker, so the map didn't help us in knowing where we were. We had left Lincoln in the Game Commission's plane about 3:30 that afternoon, and after reaching Grand Island, we were blindfolded and never got another peek at the outside world until we reached the release area.

Rick and Richard were snoring away, so I quit thinking and tried sleeping. The next thing I remember is waking up, shaking like a dog-caught rabbit. I yelled at Rick, told him I was freezing, and asked what time it was. He frostily reported that it was midnight. I had slept for less than two hours and that was all the sleep I was going to get until late Sunday. Rick chattered an affirmative when I asked him if he was cold. Richard was sleeping soundly and later said that he never got cold.

That cold is something I will never forget. It was a creeping enemy that was trying to kill me by slow torture. I was fully clothed and had a pair of "long Johns" in the knapsack to fall back on. Grabbing them up, I fell back on them, but they didn't help. A spare blanket under my sleeping bag was a last resort. Pulling the blanket, straw, stickers, and all into the sleeping bag with me, didn't help, either. The cold seemed to laugh at my feeble attempts to ward it off. How Rick and Richard managed to endure the cold with so few complaints I will never know. I will always hate that wretched, penetrating cold, and I'll face a thousand other perils before enduring another night like that. Without a doubt, the cold was the most difficult challenge of the entire journey for Rick and me, but Richard gave way to the elements in a different fashion.

I shivered and shook and kept Rick awake telling him how terribly cold I was and hoping he was cold, too. If I couldn't sleep, I couldn't see Rick sleeping, either, and besides, talking gave me a little extra courage. Dying a slow death, I wondered what in the world the three of us were doing and never did come up with a suitable answer.

It began to get light about 7:15 a.m. Jumping out of my icy bed, I ran to a hill where we had seen some wood the night before. It took me 2 minutes flat to have a crackling fire going and another 30 minutes to thaw out. Then it happened. With the journey not even started, I bent over and ripped (Continued on page 54)

WHEELS OF DESTINY

COMMUNICATION WAS slow in the mid-1800's. But when gold was discovered in the Rocky Mountains, every settler and prospector from the Continental Divide to the Missouri River knew of the strike in a matter of days. Thousands pulled up stakes and headed for the diggings. But others who were immune to the gold fever reaped a greater profit. They were the freighters who supplied the gold camps.

As the hordes of gold seekers thundered off toward the mountains, all that they had was what they could carry. For many, it was too little to sustain them for the trip west, let alone maintain them in base camps. Soon, the mountains were loud with cries for supplies, and fortunes were waiting for those who pushed supply trains westward.

At first, any wagon that could carry a load was used. Farmers borrowed money for supplies, loaded them into the family wagons, and set across the Plains. But the Platte River Valley that became a superhighway of the mid-l800's soon proved too much for most of these amateurs.

It didn't take long to wash them out. The trek across Nebraska was a rugged one. Even in good weather, it took better than a month to make the trek from the Missouri River wharves at Nebraska City to Denver. The Platte Valley that Indians named the "Great Medicine Road" proved bad medicine for many. In summer, there were rains that lifted the river out of its banks and spilled it across the trail. Rutted paths became seas of mud, making progress a nightmare. William Dunn, a teamster with a Nebraska City firm, wrote in his diary that on one 1865 trip his train moved only 200 yards in one day. In winter, the wagons froze to the Nebraska prairie and had to be chopped free. Blizzards and drifts were always obstacles, but somehow the freighters managed to make the long trip. It is little wonder that freighting soon fell to the professionals with no room for ill-equipped free-lancers.

Special wagons were imported for the long trek across the Plains. Murphy and Espenshied rigs from Saint Louis, Missouri, and Studebakers from South Bend, Indiana, formed the backbone of the industry. For their day, each was a masterpiece of design. Built to handle three to four tons of freight, the wagons were cumbersome at best. But their rugged construction was their saving grace. Each weighed at least 1,500 pounds. Their axles were wooden, but iron thimbles on the ends held them in the matching iron thimbles on the wheel hubs. Wheels were held in place by big linchpins fastened to the ends of the axles. These huge rigs often carried as much as 10,000 pounds apiece and were drawn by several span of oxen or draft horses.

Most of the wagons were covered by heavy canvas or tent ducking suspended by bows over the bed. Others protected their loads by simply lashing the covering material to the tops of the sideboards over the cargoes.

Trains on the trail averaged about 26 wagons. Twenty-five of them were used for freight while one was the mess wagon. At times, one or two wagons would have provisions, an office, or a workshop. The latter was almost indispensable for the long trip. It carried coils of rope, extra tires, jacks, pulleys, wheels, spokes, iron bars, and often a small forge. This shop was capable of pulling a rig out of almost any situation, repairing it, and getting it rolling again. Despite the amenities a train might carry, the haul was rough on the men, so freighting sired a rare breed.

Most teamsters had a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush, could down more whisky in an hour than most other men could (Continued on page 49)

SUNDOWN SAUGER

THE SAUGER MOUTHED the bait, backed up, and then deciding the minnow was for real, made another grab at it. This time I was ready and jerked back hard, hooking the fish in the upper lip. The surprised sauger didn't put up much of a fight at first, but once he recovered from the initial shock, he tried to use the river's current to his advantage in a hook-shaking attempt. Working him slowly and deliberately, I coaxed him toward the boat and into a waiting net.

His fight wasn't spectacular, and Ed Brandl and I thought we knew why. We were fishing in December, and it was logical to assume that this sauger had probably dodged a bevy of baited offerings, through spring, summer, and fall. Now when fishing pressure was nil, one die-hard fisherman had soured his perfect escape record. The shock of finding an angler out on a cold day like this must have taken the fight out of him. Actually, the sauger wasn't big enough to be troublesome.

But I am a rare breed of outdoorsman who would rather fish than eat, and I really don't give a hang about the weather just as long as it is safe to go out in a boat. Ed farms near Creighton and I farm near Verdigre. Our busy season was over, so we had a few hours of leisure. When I suggested fishing, Ed thought I was kidding, but he agreed to come along.

Fishing doldrums had set in. Near-freezing temperatures meant uncomfortable boat fishing on the river while the lakes and ponds weren't frozen solid enough for ice fishing. I didn't expect to catch lunkers or even fill my daily limit of 16 sauger on this trip, but from past forays I knew that we would hook some cold-water biters. Besides, the river and I are old companions and I wanted to bid it a 1967 farewell before it became ice-choked.

The Missouri River was feeling the bite of winter when we slipped my boat into the river at the ferry landing east of Niobrara. Slush ice from the Niobrara River floated lazily on the water as we headed up river toward my favorite hole, carved by the Niobrara River where it slashed into the Missouri. A light fog shrouded the age-old hills as we pulled upriver. Three startled fish ducks eased into the air as the sound of the MARCH, 1968 19   motor knifed through the freezing quiet. I used a 16-foot fiberglass boat equipped with a 25-horse outboard. My outfit is a good one, but I don't take any chances with it. The Missouri River is treacherous and although I'm not afraid of it, I respect it.

I fore and aft anchored the coat just west of the confluence of the two rivers. Ed had never fished with me, but as I watched him rig his rods, I knew he had plenty of sauger savvy.We were using crappie rigs with a two-ounce back sinkers to hold the minnows down. Winter-feeding sauger stay near the bottom, so it was imperative that our lines hold in the river's current. This was patient fishing. We made our casts, flet for the bottom, and then waited for the sauger to come nosning around our minnows. Sauger, always a bit sluggish, are even more so when it's cold, so cold-water trying becomes a sit-and-hope situation. Ed experimented a bit with bait presentation while I stuck with the old hook-through-the-eyes routine. Ed impaled his bait-fish through the trails and other through the backs on No.4 snelled hooks.

By early afternoon, with only one half-hearted fighter on the stringer, I began to wonder if the sauger had lost their taste for minnows. In my estimation our hole is the best sauger hangout in Nebraska and the record books back up my claim. The state international-record sauger, an 8-pound, 5-ouncer, was taken here in 1961. I knew there were fish in the 20-foot hole, but they weren't eager.

Nebraska stream-fishing regulations allow 15 hooks with no more than 5 hooks on one line. I was using six rods with two hooks on each line in an effort to locate schooling sauger, while Ed was working two rods. Our gear was about equally divided between bait-casting and spin-casting rigs. Lines were heavy. Usually when you catch one fish, the second one is not far off. My boat is equipped with rod holders and with the rods in an upright position it is easy to detect the slightest nibble. This is important because sauger are sluggish biters. A jerk too soon will spook the fish, and a try too late missies him.

I tried shifting into various positions to keep warm, but when that failed i poured a coup of hot coffee. I had barely corked my thermos when Ed shouted that I had a bite. Picking up the rod, I reeled in a foot of line, then waited for the rod tip to bounce again. When it did, I hooked the fish and stared the retrieve. This sauger had more pep, but the stiff rod held the one-pound fish in check until I could net him.

"Everytime I get set or pour a coup of coffee a fish bites," I chuckled gulping down the now luke-warm coffee.

"If that's the case, I'll bring a gallon jug next time," Ed countered, casting to a new spot.

By mid-afternoon I had hooked two more sauger, but Ed was Ashless. Sauger feed most of the time and I was convinced that we could boat several more before we headed home, but I doubted if Ed shared my optimism. Sauger follow periods of greater and lesser activity, depending on water temperature, depth, and other habitat factors. I keep track of fish behavior on various trips by writing the date, water temperature, and number of fish caught on the hull. On this trip the water was a cool 37°, and past experience had proven that sauger were slow biters then. My boat chart indicates that I catch lunkers and limits when water temperatures are 45 to 50°.

Saner men would have given up fishing after an hour on that frigid water, but Ed and I don't measure a successful day by the number of fish caught. We were the only boat on the river, and the challenge of catching fish was almost secondary to the prospect of spending a peaceful unhurried day On the Missouri In the past, fishing had always picked up near sundown, so we were decided to stick it out.

As the winter sun turned the brown hills to gold, and high-flying ducks headed for nighttime feeding grounds, one of my bait-casters twitched slightly. Trying to decide if debris had brushed against the line, or if it was a bite, I picked up the rod and waited for another tap. A few seconds later a leery fish pecked at the minnow again, and this time I set the hook. This sauger wanted to stay on the bottom, but I horsed him up. As I rebaited, Ed pointed to the top of a high bluff. There, silhouetted against the golden sun, stood a buck and two doe deer. Then sensing the area was safe, the three faded into the dark shadows as they wandered down the hill to browse and water along the Missouri channel.

Seeing deer was almost like nature's way of telling us that her riverside community was just waking up after a long afternoon nap. First one rod and then another bowed to the whims of a hungry sauger, and in less than an hour I had hooked four more.

Ed finally hooked a sauger, and this contender for the middle-weight crown put on a good show, but Ed took up the slack line and coaxed the fish off the bottom. When the sauger was boated it was evident that NEBRASKAland Ed's one lone fish was by far the biggest of the day. None of our sauger were really big. I ended up with 10 fish that ran a pound or under, while Ed's fish ran over one pound and a half. But we had proven that sauger can be caught until it is too dangerous to boat the Missouri. But aside from the catching of the sauger, we had learned anew an old truth. The successful fishermen sticks with the game.

Darkness was closing in when we finally stowed our gear. I have an auto headlight mounted on the bow, and we needed it before we reached the dock.

A clear sky with a thousand stars brightened the winter blackness as we headed down river. I was both glad and sad. My river fishing was done until spring and that was a long time off, but I was also glad that my 1967 farewell to the Missouri had been a good one. We didn't catch any boasting-size sauger or even come close to limits, but there were other rewards. For the better part of a day we had the river to ourselves and that was worth something.

We had met the challenge of the cold, conquered the ever-present menace of the river, and had out-witted and enticed some not-too-eager sauger. Ed and I had a sense of fulfillment, a feeling of accomplishment as we docked. To sum it all up, we felt mighty good.

PHEASANT BOWL

NEBRASKA DIDN'T make it to a football bowl last year, but the Cornhusker State was represented in the Pheasant Bowl. The whole thing started when H. L. "Dutch" Wullbrandt of Titusville, Florida, issued a challenge. His letter to the Information and Tourist Division of the Nebraska Game Commission said in essence:

"I challenge any Nebraska shooter to a pheasant hunt. Name your champion and your place."

You can't let a challenge like that go, so I flashed back, "You are on."

I scrambled around and lined up Bill Gemmer of North Platte as the Nebraska competition. Rules were simple. The hunter with the most birds per shells fired would be the winner. Ray Watson, manager of the North Platte Chamber of Commerce, and I would referee. Ray could spare but a day, so Sam Grasmick, law enforcement supervisor for District IV at North Platte, agreed to be a second-day judge.

Dutch works for Trans World Airlines at Cape Kennedy. A former Nebraskan, he used to hunt pheasants around York before moving to the Sunshine State. Bill works for a telephone company and spends about every weekend during the season hunting ringnecks with his springer spaniel, Sam. I'm an associate editor on the staff of NEBRASKAland, the Nebraska Game Commission's magazine.

Our hunting area would be the cornfields and soil-bank lands around North Platte. Both contestants would use 12-gauge auto-loaders. Bill had the advantage of knowing the country, but Dutch had sharpened up with a case of blue rocks and could call on his past experiences with Nebraska's most popular game bird. The Floridian brought his son, Larry, of Denver, Colorado, along for the mid-November hunt, but he wasn't a competitor.

Saturday, first day of the two-day hunt, was warm and windless. We selected a soilbank of native grasses for the morning try. Bill recommended it as excellent cover for the big gaudy birds and explained that a draw about one-third deep in the field was a real hot spot.

Dutch was a little nervous at first. A hen spooked and he swung on the bird, but he identified the draby in time. A few minutes later, a rooster flew up from under my feet, and the visitor sent two hurried shots after the fleeing bird.

"Shot way too quick," he sighed, stuffing new shells into his smoking gun.

I made a note of the misses on my score pad, and we continued toward the draw. We topped a small knoll, and a rooster rocketed up out of range. Bill, sensing that more pheasants were ahead, picked up the pace. Suddenly, the cover exploded. There were pheasants everywhere, going in all directions except toward us. Bill broke into a run and got close enough to drop a late-riser with one round to take the lead.

"There must have been 125 pheasants and at least half of them were roosters," Dutch commented, ambling toward his successful opponent.

"Guess we won't have any trouble finding a place to hunt until lunch," the North Platter replied. "The birds are in this half-section, but we'll have to walk them up."

Some of the birds had settled in another small ravine, so we headed that way, zigzagging to stir up any sit-tighters. Bill was trying to work Dutch into position even though he was a rival. Pheasants could hear us coming, and they didn't wait around. Most of them flushed wild, but one was a little tardy.

The two shots sounded as one, and a practically defeathered rooster cartwheeled. It would have taken a stop-action camera to establish who hit when, so Ray credited each hunter with one half bird and one shot apiece. We gave the field and the ravines a good combing, but most of the birds were mighty wild and flushed out of range.

One rooster held, then tried a sneak out behind Ray. He spun around and blasted twice, but the bird kept right on going.

"Sure glad I'm not in this contest," Ray grunted. "Let's go in for lunch."

Birds were still flushing as we angled back, but one rooster was a little too confident. He took off, well out, but Dutch was ready. It took two shots, but the springer had a mouthful of pheasant when he came back. The two men were tied in birds, but Bill had the edge since he had fired fewer times.

After lunch we went back to the soil bank, figuring that the roosters might have calmed a bit. A wind came up that made an upwind approach easier, and the springer, Sam, was all business as he worked out the crisscrossing scents. A rooster cut back and Bill, expecting the bird, spun him down with one shot.

Sam was hotfooting through some cover when a rooster cackled up in front of Dutch. His two shots appeared to be misses, but 75 yards out, the bird locked his wings and plummeted in. We hunted for him for several minutes, but it was the springer who finally found the bird.

"I must have walked over that bird a dozen times," the hunter mused, stuffing the (Continued on page 55)

WINTER GREENS

AS I SLID over the rim, the brilliant green blanket that covered the canyon floor came as a surprise. Snow lay on the ridges and the temperature crouched well below zero, so I wasn't expecting the miracle of growing greenery in the dead of a Nebraska winter-particularly a plant with leaves as tender and fragile as those of watercress.

My mind shot back to a report I had heard long ago of a certain valley buried somewhere in the frozen wastes of Canada that was lush with sub-tropic vegetation. Whether the existence of that valley was ever validated I never learned, but here, in a tiny canyon on Rim Rock Recreation Ranch in the heart of Nebraska's Pine Ridge, I found cause to wonder.

Naturally, the western yellow pine, common to the Ridge, is well known to Nebraskans, and if you were to ask the average citizen what plants in the state MARCH, 1968 25   stay green in winter, chances are the pine will be the one he will name. When he says pines, he automatically lumps in the eastern red cedar, a conifer far more widespread than the yellow pine, and, properly speaking, not a pine at all.

The pine does, however, lend a touch of color to the bleak winter landscape, although its glossy summer green is dulled to almost muted black against the pristine white of the snow. The cedar spreads its branches just as wide to winter as it does to summer, although its foliage fades to a blackish rust, which in some cases, is so severe the green is completely lost.

This was true of the trees that rimmed the little canyon, but there was nothing dull in the gem-like color of the watercress. I munched away on some of the spicy-tasting plant, after rinsing it in the same water in which it grew. It was a spring area, and the water seeping up through the earth was several degrees above freezing. In this warmer water, the plant thrives, its crown above the surface, the winter through. Cress cannot survive in subfreezing conditions and any that is trapped in encroaching ice decays with the first thaw. Where the water remains fluid, the green tendrils wave throughout the severest weather, to push toward the surface when the ice goes out. Almost any spring area in Nebraska supports its share of watercress, and it makes an excellent addition to any table salad if you brave the elements to search it out.

Wherever you find cress, you are apt to find duckweed. Unlike cress, duckweed is not rooted. It floats entirely on the surface, a tiny plant smaller than a pinhead. Millions of the plants crowd so closely together they look like a layer of textured green plant. In summer, the wind drifts this plant back and forth across the ponds, sometimes covering them from shore to shore. Swish your hand through it and your hand comes away green. Duckweed will float as long as the pools stay open. With a solid freeze, it sinks to the bottom and clings to the black mud. It's green glow can be seen dimly through the ice on a brilliant winter day.

There was no duckweed in the canyon, but I remembered seeing it in the toedrains of Kingsley Dam and in a feeder creek of the Platte River where it runs under Interstate 26 NEBRASKAland 80, a few miles east of North Platte. Its sharp color was striking contrast to the dull browns of the dormant vegetation to either side.

Below the pool of watercress, the canyon stream was covered with ice. I climbed upward into a thick stand of pines clinging to the hill. Here I noticed a low-growing mat, much greener than the trees around. At first glance, one might disregard the creeping juniper. Little more than 12 to 18 inches high, it looks like cedar branches lying on the ground. Whether its ground-hugging tendency has anything to do with its ability to retain its color, I have not determined, but cheerful and jaunty, the creeping juniper thrusts up through the snow, telling the world the winter has not forced it into servile sleep. It grows among tall conifers, naked cottonwoods, or on open ground.

As I stepped into the edge of the heavy carpet, a rabbit dashed out and popped into a hole under an old stump. Small animals, birds, and quail find the cover of creeping juniper an excellent haven. Few predators care to fight its dense and stickery strength.

I rested for a few moments on a decaying log. Above, the sky had gone from blue to threatening gray. A few snowflakes, driven by freshening breeze, were tumbling into the canyon.

There are few things more beautiful than snowflakes sifting against the green of a coniferous forest, and my eye locked on one particular flake that settled a few feet away. For a second, I failed to realize it had not landed on brown duff, nor on the patches of old snow that were already there. Instead, the flake had come to rest on a glossy, green leaf, one of hundreds spreading for many yards around. A day or two before, Ross Raum, owner of Rim Rock, had told me I would find Oregon Grape in the canyon. A very un-Nebraskan name for a native evergreen, Oregon Grape appears amazingly like those of the universally recognized holly. A ground hugger and not overly dominant, Oregon Grape goes unnoticed by all but the most observant in spite of its rich green. Like holly, the leaf points may wear sharp barbs that can draw blood from those who pick it.

The stab of one of these barbs reminded me there are other winter evergreens whose spines are worse. The tiny ball cactus which flaunts a MARCH, 1968 27   flamboyant blossom in the warming days of June, draws a spiny cloak so closely about itself it appears brown and lifeless against the winter earth. But close examination shows a lively green underlying the thorns. Slice away the top and the true-life color is strong and vibrant. Its larger cousins, the common prickly pears, also survive the winter without dying, though the thick pads shrink and wrinkle with freeze and thaw until they resemble chunks of spike-studded russet-color leather.

One spear-like evergreen, found statewide, doesn't bow to man, beast, or the most rigorous of winters. The cold seems only to strengthen and sharpen the needle-tipped swords of the soapweed until .they hold even the frigid winds at bay.

Nebraska has its halfway evergreens, too. The flowering saltbush along the hiking trail at Scottsbluff National Monument is an example. Most of the bush loses its foliage in late fall, but some stubborn branches hold a reduced number of gray-green leather-like leaves until spring brings fresh growth. Its leaves appear dead to a casual glance, but they don't fool the mule deer who find them welcome browse when snow covers other foods.

The silver sagebrush and the sand sagebrush are two other semi-evergreens native to the Plains. A heavy mat of grass around their bases is all the encouragement they need to produce the fragrant foliage for which they are noted. They keep their green crowns low against the earth until the elements relent.

Other winter greens, once native to Nebraska, have long since shrunk with modern agricultural methods. Green Pyrola, kinnikinnik, Nuttall atriplex, scouring rush, and several ferns, including the purple cliffbreak and the shield fern are found only in the most isolated places. It is no wonder Mr. Average Citizen sees no winter greens at all except the pines.

The wind of the building storm was driving the chill through my heavy clothing, so I hiked to the friendly shelter of my car as the snow slapped against the rough bark of the pines. Soon, the creeping juniper and the Oregon Grape would be buried. Already the pool of watercress was a shadow through the pall. I thought again of that Canadian valley. If it exists, it doesn't have so much more than NEBRASKAland. The snows of winter may bury our brave little plants, but it cannot dull their leaves of green. They are there, ready to be seen and enjoyed by anyone who cares to seek them out.

GRANDPA WAS A REBEL

BRASS POLISHED and trousers neatly pressed, my grandfather, William Buster of Elmwood, Nebraska, gave his Jeff Davis beard a final tug and donned his coat of Confederate gray. It was still early for the Memorial Day parade, so he waited until his friends came marching down the street.

As he waited, William admired again the tree-lined streets of the town. His thoughts went back to that May day in 1866 when he rode, a recently discharged Johnny Reb, into the community. He remembered how he had knotted the reins and rested in the shade, sizing up the place. That pause extended to almost a lifetime.

William's life in Nebraska was a full one. At first, he worked on the Missouri Pacific Railroad as a grading boss, and then in the 1870's, filed on a homestead two miles north and two west of Elmwood. He received the title to his homestead, signed by President Rutherford B. Hayes, on May 15, 1880.

Some years before this, on October 30, 1867, he had married Elizabeth Eastlack at Rock Bluff, Nebraska. The couple had three sons, Edward, Albert, and James, and three daughters, Hattie, Viola, and Bessie. James died in infancy and was buried in an unplotted cemetery 1 1/2 miles north of Alvo. Shortly afterward a prairie fire swept the area, destroying all the markers. Albert was my father.

The old soldier brushed away a tear as he thought of all the relatives and friends who were gone, but his mood changed as the small troop in Union blue started down the street. Snapping to attention, William Buster walked erectly down the steps to join his one-time foes.

Even though he wore the Confederate gray proudly, he never let it divide him from the northerner. He had become a Confederate, not out of any great sympathy for the South, but to avenge the cruelty of northern raiders. After the war, he explained his reasons in a letter to a Missouri newspaper:

"I never would have gone to war had it not been for the fact that the part of Missouri, from which I went to war, was at that time overrun by as damnable a set of robbers as ever ran loose."

The murder of two relatives was the outrage that triggered his decision. William's Aunt Polly Henderson had tacked down a new rag rug which she had woven. When the northern raiders came, searching for a hidden trapdoor which might conceal guns or valuables, they started to tear up the rug. Polly begged for time to pull the tacks, but the leader of the raiders hit her over the head with a gun butt and killed her.

Her nephew, herding cattle nearby, was also killed. Rocks were tied around his neck, and he was thrown in a pond to drown while the cattle were stolen. Hatred over this outrage flamed in William and his friends, so they rode south to join the Confederacy, seeking revenge against the renegades rather than patriotic glory.

On Christmas Day, December 25, 1861, Private Buster joined Captain John Thraikill's Volunteer Cavalry at Springfield, Missouri, and was enrolled in Company F., First Regiment, First Missouri Cavalry, CSA.

As the meager parade reached his house, Grandpa Buster saluted and fell into step. He could still march, and he enjoyed stepping along to the drum. It took him back to the early years of the Civil War when he had his own mount, and the South was apparently on its way to victory. That was before his regiment had engaged in any heavy battles.

"Oh, we had had skirmishes with the boys in blue. Captain Thraikill had an army pistol shot from his hand and was disabled for a few days, but I never learned how many were killed, if any, when we first exchanged fire with the Yankees in the spring of 1862," he would reminisce.

"After several minor battles and retreats, we rode into Desark, Arkansas, and lost our mounts. Our horses were paid for and sent to Texas. From that time on we were foot soldiers and things got rougher. Put on a boat on the White River, we wound up in Memphis, Tennessee. There loaded on freight cars, we arrived at Corinth, Mississippi."

"A few months later out of Corinth, we had a brief taste of victory when we captured Fort Robinette and took all its cannon. Then the division on the right failed to come up, and we had to fall back, losing the fort."

Grandpa Buster came out of the past as the procession neared the G.A.R. Hall. He had to lead the drill and command the firing squad since his old friend, Captain Logan Inyart of Nebraska City, had died the past winter. The old soldier missed his wartime buddy and his visits with Jesse and Frank James when they came to the Captain's. Grandpa claimed that raiders and carpetbaggers drove the James brothers to lawlessness. Sometimes when he visited with them in Nebraska City, a report would come that they had that same day robbed a bank in some far away place. He laughed over some of the notorious stories about them, saying, "They sure must have had powerful horses, to cover the ground so fast."

The drill went quickly, followed by present arms. Rifle salutes cracked across the parade ground and during the silence that (Continued on page 56)

A FISHERMAN moves quietly to a stream and flips a gaudy fly onto the surface. Several seconds pass before a lurking trout decides it is for real and makes his play. Then, wham! A sharp jerk, and the fish explodes with the imitation imbedded firmly in his jaw.

As the battle progresses, it matters not that the trout spent his early life in captivity under the care of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. That fish is as much a fighter as any wild trout and maybe even more so because he has received better care and is probably huskier.

These tugs of war occur each year between anglers and trout that spent their early days in the Grove Lake Rearing Station near Royal, Nebraska. The station operates year-round to provide fishermen with full creels and pleasant memories.

Grove Lake centers its operations along Verdigre Creek just north of U.S. Highway 20 in Antelope County. Although the station is not very old, it has already accomplished a monumental task and will soon be enlarged to do even more. An average of 65,000 trout a year are handled there, and this total will be about doubled after expansion is completed sometime in the next two years.

Establishment of the rearing station was due to several factors. Back in 1950, the Game Commission built Grove Lake (Continued on page 47)

Post Time in Nebraskaland

THE HORSES ARE in the starting gate. The bell sounds, and they're off in a flurry of flashing silks and flying hooves. It's the age-old "Sport of Kings", and for some 160 days each year this drama unfolds at tracks across NEBRASKAland. And, no matter whether veteran fan or casual race-goer, all are caught up in the excitement of well-trained, high-strung thoroughbreds vying for the honored spot in the winner's circle.

Since the first tracks were licensed here in 1935, horse racing has grown in popularity until now nearly one million people jam the turnstiles to watch nearly 1,400 races each season. But, much takes place before those few minutes when screaming fans urge their favorites on to victory. Careful training prepares the spirited mounts for their moments of glory under the skilled hands of expert jockeys.

At Nebraska's six tracks, winning horses will earn over $2V? million, and prize money will range from $500 to the top purse of $50,000 in Ak-Sar-Ben's Cornhusker Handicap.

Racing kicks off at Grand Island's Fonner Park on March 22 and runs through May 1. From there, the thoroughbreds move to Ak-Sar-Ben at Omaha for 46 days, May 3 through July 6. The circuit continues at the State Fairgrounds in Lincoln from July 10 through August 10, at Columbus from August 13 through September 7, at Madison Downs in Madison from September 10 through 28, and winds up at South , Sioux City from October 2 through November 2. There is no racing on Sundays or Mondays, except for Monday holidays. About 20 per cent of Ak-Sar-Ben's racing fans are out-of-staters.

Perhaps the most popular horse ever to compete in Nebraska was Butch K, owned by Guy and Walter Shultz of Marland, Oklahoma. Retired several years ago, some folks say that if Butch K had raced against such greats as Man o' War or Citation in Nebraska, his loyal followers would have backed Butch K.

While Butch K may have been NEBRASKAland's pet, certainly M. H. Van Berg of Columbus has to be Nebraska's "Mr. Racing". In 1966, Van Berg was the nation's winningest owner, for his horses won more races and more money than any other stable in the United States. And, Van Berg horses are consistently among the favorites with Nebraska race-goers.

One of the most popular races is the three-quarter mile, and a Van Berg entry, Ramblin Road, set a new track record at Ak-Sar-Ben last year for the six-furlong with a fast 1 minute, 9 3/5 seconds.

Nebraska's system of controlling track operators is unique in the nation, since the law provides that racing be run only by nonprofit organizations. Money earned can only be used to improve their own grounds or facilities or as contributions to certain organizations.

But, Nebraska's influence on the Sport of Kings is not confined to her own borders. Racing Steward Irving Anderson of Hoskins was one of the top 10 jockeys in the nation and rode for Calumet Farms, one of the country's outstanding stables. Steve Brooks, formerly from McCook, who now rides in New York and Florida, has been the No. 1 jockey in the United States. And, of course, honors as Nebraska's most famous horse must go to Kentucky Derby winner Kaui King, formerly owned by Mike Ford of Omaha.

Few things can equal the drama of the royal sport of racing, and few spectators can resist the urge to cheer their favorites home.

THE "CLOSED" MILE

ROD VANVELSON'S hands might be frozen beyond feeling, but he dipped them into western Nebraska's cold, clear Nine Mile Creek just the same. Finishing up the work, the trout biologist hesitated, dreading the next moment, when in the one-above-zero air, his hands would become even colder. But to handle trout, he had little choice. Nine Mile Creek is located almost due north of Minatare and northwest of Bayard. It is one of the state's outstanding "big" trout streams.

"How many more?" Rod questioned Bill Schoenecker, at that time the fishery supervisor of the Game Commission's District One.

Bill looked down at the trout in the holding cage, T think we've tagged all the big ones. Why don't you check when I lift them?"

Finding tags on all the trapped spawners, the biologists hurriedly wrapped up the loose ends of the project. They recorded the necessary data on stream conditions and checked the smaller fish for fin clips. Fin clipping is used to identify trout not large enough for jaw tags. Rod and Bill then waited while the nine huge anesthetized rainbows regained their senses, and released the rainbows back to the deep hole. I was quickly learning that what I had previously thought was fun and games was hard work.

The wind-chill index had read minus 30° when the three of us left our headquarters in Alliance on an early March morning. I'm a regional specialist for the Nebraska's Game Commission's Information and Tourism Division, but I had been invited to join the two fishery boys to find out why they planned to close three more of the most productive miles of Nine Mile Creek to fall fishing. It would also give me a chance to see some of the biologists' fact-finding techniques and learn what is involved in the management of Nebraska's big trout. I knew that the fish we were concerned with were far from the ordinary run-of-the-mill trout. Their IV2 to 10-pound weights and their 14 to Because the shock wanes quickly, each trout must be anesthetized 25-inch size, along with the numbers, make them a trouter's dream. Their routine of leaving Lake McConaughy each fall and swimming up the North Platte River to spawn in the Platte Valley tributaries makes them of special interest to fishermen. Indeed, Rod claims that this annual run offers Nebraskans some of the finest stream trout fishing to be found anywhere in the Midwest.

In 1964, the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission began a study, and Rod inherited the assignment in 1966. Only a few anglers are aware of this watchful management of the small Panhandle streams. Even five years back, very little was known about the migration of the monster rainbows into streams in the North Platte drainage. Now, however, the program is full speed ahead.

Among the North Platte tributaries, Nine Mile Creek receives, by far, the majority of Nebraska's big trout run, but Red Willow is also well used. Winter Creek, Tub Springs, Stucken Hole and Spottedtail creeks attract small runs while at least five other streams receive limited movement. Combined, the drainage boasts some 70 miles of trout water. Stream flow, the availability of gravel for spawning, stream barriers, water quality, and other factors all enter into the degree of stream utilization. But because Nine Mile receives the largest run, it was chosen over the other streams for an experimental fishing restriction. Dealing with the larger population sample has and will continue to increase the accuracy of the biologists' findings, and the effects of a closed section can be more easily measured. Initially, only one mile of stream was closed to fishing and until recently biologists had to rely almost entirely on data collected from this mile section. However, based on Rod and Bill's recommendations, the Commission closed until further notice three additional miles of Nine Mile, north of Highway 26, from October 1 to January 1, the peak spawning period. While this additional closure was quite a blow to anglers, the reasons justified the action. Still, trouters were divided on the closure. Many voiced favorable opinions while others screamed to the high heavens that they were being deprived of the only good fishing.

Before the expanded closure, most of the information gained in the trout study had been accumulated from electro-fishing and observation along the first closed mile and other stream check stations, from angler tag returns and surveys, and from aging trout by their scales. It was learned early in the study that the spawner population fluctuates widely in a three-year cycle. By closing the spawning grounds, it is hoped the population in would-be low-run years will increase. Other data has revealed that the mile of stream which in the past received the heaviest pressure had far fewer spawning nests compared to an equal section of stream in the closed area even though both had equal habitat.

"Angling pressure on Nine Mile," Rod informed me, "has increased considerably over recent years and this closure is necessary to insure against a severe reduction of an entire year-class. The heaviest use comes during the peak of spawning and no doubt much disturbance takes place. It's very likely that spawning success would be higher if the fish were not bothered."

That made sense, but more recently, since the news of the additional closure had been made public, other questions had been raised. "Why not stock?" was one of the more familiar ones. I knew that stocking wasn't always the easy answer some people believe it to be, but I wanted to" (Continued on page 50)

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Baa, Baa. One of nature's oddities turned up at the Ray Ainsworth place at Big Trails, Wyoming, last summer. It appears a deer raised two lambs belonging to Mr. and Mrs. J. H. Atkinson. Many residents of the community reported seeing the deer and lambs together during the season.- Wyoming Wildlife

Still To Come. Some of the waterfowl which have never appeared on duck stamps since they first appeared in 1934 are cinnamon teal, red-breasted and hooded mergansers, emperor, cackling and Ross' geese. The 1968-69 print will be the 35th in the series of duck stamps. —Ducks Unlimited

Bottle Baby. While some people are just naturally lucky, others are not. Once in a while, however, misfortune is richly deserved. Take, for example, a litterbug in Pennsylvania. It was still dark on the first day of the trout season when this messy fellow got out of his car. Removing a sack of broken beer bottles from his trunk, he gave them a mighty toss into the brush. Much to his surprise and expense, he was quickly rewarded for his efforts. The bottles landed on a car parked in the brush, and in that car were two irate Pennsylvania game wardens. —Pennsylvania

A Real Loser. Each year the Coweta, Oklahoma, bow hunters sponsor a live- rabbit hunt. Conrad Jones had bagged just one bunny and was checking in at the official's desk when he thought he would take one last look in some old oil pipe nearby to see if a cottontail was holed up there. Sure enough, Jones spotted movement in the pipe, but couldn't get the animal to flush. Using a fishing arrow with a line attached, he shot into the pipe. Hauling out his trophy, he found it had a white stripe down its back. — Oklahoma

Americans Depart. Travel agents and tour operators forecast that 1966 will be another year of pace-setting traffic to Europe. There will possibly be as many as 1.7 million Americans cross the Atlantic during 1966. — Travel Weekly

No-stealum Car. Hunter Ed Gilroy killed a deer near Idaho Falls, Idaho, and returned to his car for a rope. Thieves had broken into his car, and had taken away a two-way radio, car jack, lunch box, vacuum jug, blankets, and camera. Gilroy left his rifle in the car and went back after the deer. It had been stolen. He then returned in disgust to his automobile and found his rifle gone, too.— National Wildlife

Geiger-Coutiter Dog. Finding precious metals has long been a dream of man, and prospectors have gradually invented machines which work pretty well. But a new development in Finland may be worth trying. A German shepherd dog has been trained to smell out ore deposits. In a contest between the dog and a human prospector, the dog found almost five times as many valuable rocks. The Finnish government rewarded the dog with $2,240 worth of sausages.

Tall Story. A Texas game warden does not wish to talk about the big dent in his patrol car. When pressed by co-workers, he finally admitted that a giraffe had kicked it. As they laughed uproariously, his chief allowed that he believed the story. "I would even believe him if he told me that African lions had chewed off his hub caps," he said. The officer went on to explain that a big rancher in the district was experimenting with exotic species of game imported from Africa, and the beasts had nearly taken over that part of Texas. — Texas

Looking For Trouble. Some folks cannot resist bringing home stray animals, whether wild or domestic, but an Idaho family was finally broken of this habit. They adopted a baby elk and tried to make a pet of it. After the elk gained some size, he chased the woman and her two small children neck-deep into a cold river and killed the family dog before finally being tranquilized. The elk was butchered and donated to a local charity. —Idaho

Hook, Line, Sinker, And Rod. It seems a fisherman in Maine laid down his rod to help a companion with his line, and something dragged the rod right out of the boat. Nine months later, a commercial boat dragged in a 57-pound halibut. The big fish was still firmly attached to the fishing rig, although the halibut had traveled more than 160 miles during those 9 months. — Maine

Toughening Tests. Trout have gained a widespread reputation as game-fighting fish, but even this natural ability may be enhanced in the future. A revolutionary physical training program is presently being undertaken in Canada and Idaho to make trout even stronger and more vigorous. Trout are subjected to increased water velocity in a chute for 15 minutes, 5 days in a row. After the forced-swim lessons their swimming ability improved six-fold — Canada

Where, Oh, Where? It was the custom to drive a couple of one- to- two-foot gold spikes into the keel of a Spanish sailing ship at the launching or dedication ceremony. Such spikes would be worth about $2,000 as an average. But, although the practice of driving dedication spikes was universal, nobody has ever reported recovering one of these fine trophies from a sunken vessel. — Skin and Scuba Diver

Free Ride. A Bedford, Pennsylvania angler hooked onto a 16y2-pound muskie that towed the fisherman's boat some 2,700 yards. The 90-minute battle ended with the angler landing his fish. Since the angler was using only a six-pound-test spinning line, it was touch and go. —Pennsylvania

Sharp Shooters. Two city hunters approached a farmer and asked permission to hunt. The farmer gave his consent and left for town. On his return he found a note pinned to the door saying, "We had good luck and bagged so many pheasants we left some for you." The farmer looked down and found five of his best Guinea hens, all neat and lined up in a row.— Oklahoma

TO GROW A TROUT

on property purchased with the first federal matching funds used by the state under the Dingell-Johnson program. A reservoir was built on Verdigre Creek that offered some top-fishing opportunities.

Years later, a trout lake was developed at the Two Rivers State Recreation Area near Venice. As this is a put-and- take trout fishing operation, frequent stocking is necessary. The Rock Creek Hatchery near Benkelman in the far southwest corner of the state was the major source of trout, so considerable transportation was involved with each stocking of the trout lake. Trout are still hatched at Rock Creek, but some are obtained from the federal hatchery at Crawford through trade agreements. They are shipped to Grove Lake for rearing and subsequent stocking. Since they are fingerlings and relatively easy to handle, transporting of the little trout is not as difficult as handling "stockies". Because of the distance between the source of fish and the recreation area, it was decided to set up a station in the east.

As the Game Commission already owned the land around Grove Lake, this was considered the ideal spot. Only a small investment was necessary to convert the area to a rearing station, since it would merely be a fish bowl of gigantic capacities with no hatching facilities needed.

Initially, small dams were built across two small canyons. Natural springs then filled the canyons, and these shallow lakes became the homes of young trout trucked in from Rock Creek. Construction began in 1960, and the business of "growing" fish at the new site was started in 1961. Eight more ponds were added in 1964. This was done by taking over part of Verdigre Creek just east of the two lakes. The creek was straightened, and the new ponds were formed along its old, winding channel. Simple dams and screens were put in to form the ponds.

Water from Verdigre Creek continues to flow through the pond system by use of a diversion structure where the old and new channels of the creek met. Only a controlled amount of water is run through the ponds, however, so there is no fear of flood waters washing, out the small chain of lakes. A special outlet pipe allows water to run out of the ponds and keeps water from coming in if heavy rains raise the creek level.

Bluffs above the rearing station protect the area from the worst of the elements, while also adding to the scenery. Trees have been planted to furnish summer shade for the fish. Actually, the ponds remain fairly cool because of the flowing water, but shade helps. The clear, shallow water permits visitors to see the thousands of trout frisking about.

Watching the trout though, is just one of the attractions. The beauty of the place is enough to captivate visitors. Considerable work had been done to turn the station into a veritable garden spot, and it has gained a reputation as a showplace. One project which does not really show, but which took extensive work, was the facing of the creek banks and ponds. Slabs of rock were worked into handy size with a sledge, then laid along the banks of the creek. Grass was then seeded between the rocks, and now nearly conceals the stones. What appears to be nature's work is fully capable of withstanding heavy floods and, in fact, did before other control measures were put in. Picnic facilities are available at Grove Lake near the trout station.

Landscape is secondary to the basic purpose of the station. Its purpose is to grow fish and provide anglers with sport. The more fish that can be produced, the better, so an expansion program is planned for this spring.

Capacity of the station will be about doubled with the addition of concrete

raceways. Each will be 180 feet long, 12 feet wide, and 3 feet deep. They will be divided lengthwise, then partitioned into three 60-foot sections making 6 compartments in all. At least 18 of these compartments, and possibly 24, will be added. They will be built inside the large "U" formed between the old creek bed and the straightened channel for protection against flooding.

While these new ponds will not have the "natural" character of the other ponds, they will be more convenient to work. Each will have its own water inlet and outlet, so they can be isolated from the others in the event of disease or other problems. With the addition of the new raceways, the rearing station will be able to keep pace with the increasing demand for trout while not appreciably increasing the work load.

In the past, all fish reared at the station have been the regular rainbow trout. Now, a fast-growing strain of rainbow trout known as the kamloop is being tried. Kamloops are a variety of rainbow, but with a remarkable difference. They put on the same pounds and inches in just half the time. They also require twice as much food, but still there is a considerable saving because the facilities are tied up only half as long with each lot of fish. Manpower required is also reduced. These considerations, coupled with the fact that kamloops are better fighters, indicate a promising future for the new breed. The kamloop is more costly to obtain because of extensive controls necessary to maintain their desired qualities. This may deter his adoption as the sole inhabitant of the ponds, but good strains of kamloops may become less expensive in the future.

Regardless of the type of trout reared, work at the station follows much the same routine. The fish are fed and examined daily and sorted according to size every six months. Larger specimens are moved to the lower ponds where they can be more conveniently loaded for shipment. Room must also be made for new arrivals from the hatchery, which are normally fingerlings.

The just-arrived youngsters are fed three times a day until they gain in size. Feedings are then reduced to twice a day, until the fish are nearly mature, then cut to once a day. Size sorting keeps the fish equally able to get food and permits an accurate tally of the total fish.

Rainbows are kept at the station from 18 months to 2 years. Most of these are shipped out to the trout lake at the Two Rivers, but about 500 a month are released into Verdigre Creek. This creek begins as several springs and flows into Grove Lake about 1 1/2 miles below the rearing station, then continues north to the Niobrara River.

Grove Lake is now the home of a good number of trout, at least during much of the year. One problem with these trout is their tendancy to swim upstream and congregate below the spillway at the rearing station. This "homing" is normal, as trout tend to move upstream to colder water. The trout have been the objects of some good-humored kidding, as they appear to slip into closed waters.

Periodically trout are removed by shocking and taken back to the lake 48 NEBRASKAland where it is hoped they will be caught before they can make their way upstream again. To further alleviate the problem, the Game Commission*has opened up another segment of the creek to anglers to minimize the congregations below the spillway.

There has been no natural reproduction of trout stocked in Verdigre Creek, but this is blamed on silt covering the eggs. The silting is gradually being controlled, and gravel beds are being created in the stream to provide suitable spawning areas. It is hoped that hatching will occur within the next year or two. Trout remain in Grove Lake in all but the hottest months. However, the creek is perfectly suitable throughout the year.

Personnel at the station, including the area superintendent, Elvin Bray, treat all trout like pets. This seems to be a natural reaction to trout, as they require constant care, whereas warm-water species fend for themselves by living off the food in the ponds.

Still, they are durable, vicious fighters, putting up a more colorful and impressive battle than most fish. Even when the angler wins the contest, the enjoyment does not end there, for trout are just as choice on the table as they are on the end of a line.

Thanks to the dedicated work at the Grove Lake Rearing Station, trout fishing in Nebraska is destined to become better and better.

ROUNDUP

Giauna d'Angelo, will sing at Pershing Auditorium in Lincoln on March 11. Two nights later, Johnny Cash will sing there while the Westminster Choir performs at Nebraska Theater in Lincoln. Audiences on four continents have applauded this choir, and critics call it one of the finest musical ensembles of its kind in the world. Those who prefer opera in English will enjoy "The Barber of Seville" when the Turnau Opera Players come to Nebraska Theater on March 21. The Metropolitan Opera Studio Ensemble will present "Shakespeare in Opera and Song" at the College of Saint Mary in Omaha on March 28.

Fifteen Munich Chamber Orchestra string players will play at Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha on Saint Patrick's Day, March 17. Directed by Hans Stadlmair, the group is an ensemble with the highest of international reputations. It plays a full season in its home city and frequently tours Europe and Africa. Joslyn also is sponsoring a competitive exhibition for professional painters, sculptors, and graphic artists now working in 10 midwestern states. Selections will go on exhibit in Joslyn's North Galleries, March 10 through April 14.

Tucson, Arizona, Boys Chorus will combine trick roping and campfire songs at Union College in Lincoln on March 30. Their performances are spiked with comedy and punctuated with calf bawls and coyote calls. These "Ambassadors in Levis" will perform choral music from Josef Haydon to Richard Rodgers.

In the pre-cowboy era, Meriwether Lewis and William Clark couldn't have dreamed that a mere 160 years after they trudged through Nebraska, someone would film their expedition route. But photographer Thayer Soule did. He will lecture at Union College on March 16 and show his film, "Trailing Lewis and Clark to Oregon."

Spring's first month in NEBRASKAland brings activities galore to keep both natives and guests in the spirit of the buoyant new season.

WHEELS OF DESTINY

in a week, and had a voice that could be heard for a mile —downwind. Their last night in town was dedicated to raising hell. The men would spend a month on the trail and they weren't about to pass up any of the comforts that towns like Nebraska City offered. Since there was a train leaving for somewhere every day, river dives ran around the clock. Yet, there were those who didn't hold with the teamsters' raucous ways.

John Bratt, the son of a Methodist minister, was dead set against picking up the teamsters' wanton ways when he signed for his first trip. He took an oath that he wouldn't swear, something a bit drastic when handling oxen. That was all that the rest of the bullwhackers needed. They informed Bratt that if he wouldn't swear he could forget any help from them. On the fourth day out of Nebraska City, a two-ton ox mashed John's foot during yoking up. "Damn you," the youth screamed. From then on John was one of the boys.

In fact, teamsters' reputations became a sore point with many of the townsfolk. One outfit went so far as to issue a pocket Bible and hymnal to every man signing on. The idea was to provide "protection against moral contamination" among the men. No one seems to know if it improved the freighters' images or not.

Miners on the other end of the run didn't care about the bullwhackers' morals, however. All they wanted were supplies, and considering all of the things against them, freighters like Russell, Majors, and Waddell provided them with amazing regularity. The wages were high for men who could get the job done. Drivers' pay ranged from $35 to $60 per month with wagon masters pulling down as much as $175. Supplies ranged from flour and whisky to mining equipment. There was little that the camps needed that they didn't get.

Rats and other rodents were always a problem in the crowded, jerry-built camps and cats were worth their weight in gold, so one enterprising freighter, learning of a cat shortage in Denver, decided to do something about it. Loading his wagon with mousers in Mills County, Iowa, he headed across the Plains. According to reports the venture was a success, and the freighter made enough to retire.

Another unnamed freighter figured turkeys were a good bet in the mining camps. So, he headed up a flock of 500 MARCH, 1968 49   and a wagon full of corn and headed up the Platte Valley. As long as the wind blew from the east to herd them along, things went well. But when the wind swung into the west, progress slowed to almost a standstill. Still the idea paid off, for miners would buy anything.

Anyone with a hankering to send something to Colorado had to be pretty well off, however. Russell, Majors, and Waddell charged $12 for snipping a barrel of flour from Leavenworth to Salt Lake City. From Nebraska's Missouri River ports, fees ranged from four to seven cents a pound for material freighted to Denver. Ox trains averaged 12 to 15 miles a day. Horses or mules could make about 20. Quick freight, using horses or mules instead of oxen, cost 8 to 15 cents a pound. One of the reasons for such high rates was the danger along the trail.

Indians were always a threat. During the Indian threats of 1864 no train under 60 wagons was allowed past Fort Kearny. Smaller outfits laid over at the fort to hook up with others before pushing on. During that period, the double line became the best way to travel. There were two reasons for traveling two abreast. First, lagging wagons couldn't be cut off and ambushed and second, the train was a rolling fort. If attacked, the train stopped and the drivers holed up between the rows to fight off the attack.

This danger established many of the big names in freighting. Russell, Majors, and Waddell, a Kansas outfit based at Nebraska City, was one of the few firms that could muster 60 wagons for one train. So, they naturally took over the bulk of the business during this troubled period. But there were also individuals who gained fame. One of them was a 15-year-old boy who rode messenger between trains. His name was W. F. Cody, and his riding fame soon spread through the industry. Working for the Kansas outfit, Cody made a lasting impression on Alexander Majors. Majors later wrote:

"His acquiring the art of penmanship got him into heaps of trouble, as 'Will Cody,' 'Little Billy', 'Billy the Boy Messenger', and 'William Frederic Cody' were written with the burnt end of a stick upon tents, wagon covers, and all tempting places, while he carved upon wagon body, ox yoke, and where he could find suitable wood for his penknife to cut into, the name he would one day make famous."

But while the freighting trains were snaking their way westward from the Missouri River ports, their doom was working from both coasts. By the late 1860's, the iron horse was matching brawn and speed with the plodding oxen. The oxen lost and slipped into obscurity as the belching locomotives and their strings of cars replaced the white-topped wagons. Yet the ruts of freighting wagons remain in Nebraska to this day, indelibly etched in western lore and state pride.

THE "CLOSED" MILE

hear what the biologist had to say about it. Rod told me that this was indeed the case on Nine Mile.

"Stocking efforts of all sizes have not added significantly to the run," he assured me. "We verified this long ago through electro-sampling. The stocked trout may leave the stream but they almost never return."

It seems, then, that the only way to build up a low-run year is to improve spawning success. Rod maintains that, ideally, the trout should be allowed to spawn without being disturbed and then become available for angler harvest. By closing the stream only from October 1 to January 1, biologists hope to achieve this result. Periodically, counts of nests will be made in all spawning areas on Nine Mile and if there is no significant increase in the number of adult trout in the "closed" area it will be recommended that the stretch be reopened.

Another method of evaluating the success of the program will be gained at the Lewellen Electrical Fish Trap. This unique electrical barrier, funded and designed for the commercial harvest of rough fish and the betterment of game fishing in Lake McConaughy, will also provide Rod with a tremendous amout of knowledge on the number of rainbows making the run, verification of their life cycle, growth, sex, and age data, time of movements, and the number of runs experienced by a single trout. The unharmed trout will then be tagged and released above the trap to continue upstream.

As we headed toward the stream I had squeezed in some more questions about these unusual trout.

"What's the history of the run?" I asked.

Rod hesitated, then took up the ball. "Well, it's rather obscure, but good movements were taking place as far back as 14 years ago. Some oldtimers around here believe that runs were going on in the early 1940's, but I think it's doubtful that the spawners were then present in large numbers. It's only been in the last 11 years that most anglers have become aware of the big trout."

"Where did they come from originally? They aren't natives?"

Rod shook his head, "I was just getting to that. There is evidence that the primary source was the annual stocking carried out years ago in these North Platte tributaries. Apparently the trout represent a unique strain which adapted to the valley streams. Now, the run continues because of natural reproduction. We base this primarily on the fact that scale samples taken during one of our largest runs, (1961-1962) revealed that the bulk of the fish fell in the 1958 year- class. Since no rainbow stocking has taken place in Lake McConaughy or its two lateral tributaries since 1957, we believe the Panhandle streams are the only possible source of the run. Perhaps we can even guess that the source was Nine Mile since it receives the majority of the fish."

I went on, "You know, I think it would help me understand if you would go over the trout life cycle."

Bill volunteered, "IT1 give it to you in a nutshell. In a typical year the majority of these trout spawn in December and early January, but there is also some limited activity in November, February, March, and early April, especially if a large run exists. Assume the eggs are deposited in their nests in mid-January. About a month and a half later, depending on the water temperature, the eggs will hatch and, following a period of two to four weeks, the young begin to emerge. By April or May the small ones have reached one to two inches. Still, most will remain in the stream until April or May of the following year. By then they'll have grown to between 6 and 10 inches."

He paused and then went on, "We know through fin clips of recaptured trout that the number of these half-footers in the stream begins to drop off considerably soon after that, indicating a large movement to Lake McConaughy where they spend the summer growing rapidly. The following fall the trout, now approaching two years old, may return to Nine Mile to spawn, although most will wait until they are three or four years old. Whenever they make the run, though, they'll begin this movement about the first of October, but a few pioneer the westward rush. By November, nearly all that will make the journey have begun their way upstream and with the actual building of nests during the next two months, the cycle is complete."

I managed to let all this information soak in before we came to a stream crossing. Nine Mile's water didn't resemble the mental picture I had had of how such a tremendous trout fishery should look. The water was shallow, the channel straight, and there were no pools or stream cover. Its banks were grazed bare and erosion was evident.

"It's a shame," Rod told me, "but there's little the Commission can do as far as stream improvement work. In Nebraska, the land along the stream, even that under the stream belongs to the landowner and his co-operation is a must, even for such a necessary thing as stream fencing. This type of work is not always economically feasible. The monies that are available must be utilized in the best possible way and that seldom includes stream improvement work. Besides, you must understand that public fishing rights have to be assured before the Commission is willing to consider any improvements, otherwise they couldn't be justified at all. The best thing we can hope for is help from the land-owner, and usually we get it."

We turned north along the stream to a sampling station in the "closed" area. Here the stream took on a different appearance. It had been fenced off and the ungrazed, uneroded banks stood out in strong contrast to the earlier sections. The trout specialist backed the gearladen pickup as close as he could get to the water's edge.

"Let's go to work," he said.

Among the tools of the two management biologists was a heavy 110-volt gasoline-powered generator to supply the alternating current which a regulator converted to direct current. I was told the latter worked better on fish because it draws them to one electrode. Five hundred feet of cord was then stretched out and attached to a pair of copper electrodes mounted on five-foot-long wooden handles. These were called the "shockers". Rod manned them while Bill started the generator and set the voltage output.

Walking abreast in the stream, Rod worked the awkward electrodes, spreading them as far apart as he could, while Bill manned a long-handle dip net. Every hole produced fish. The catch was sporadically dumped into a nylon-mesh holding pen until the entire stretch was covered. Before long, the pen held nine large rainbows and several small ones, the majority taken from one deep pool. With "fishing" over, the colder, more tedious work lay ahead.

Bill anesthetized the trout with a harmless solution applied to their gills, took scale samples for aging, and recorded data while Rod dipped the trout from the pen, clamped on a round numbered jaw tag, weighed, measured, and checked for fin clips. Finally, a paper punch was used to mark each fish so that the tag loss could be evaluated. Smaller trout were fin-clipped for possible future identification.

Watching the biologists work, I was further convinced that our trout resources were in most'capable hands. The pair quickly finished up and we took a short walk around the Dank to look for the nests called redds. Even though it was past the height of the spawning period, evidence of use was still there. I'd been skeptical of the "close" at first, but the tour convinced me, for the conditions were obviously better than the heavily fished open area.

As we headed back that evening, my curiosity about the "closed" mile was satisfied, but I knew, too, it was only one phase of the overall trout management program. However, it was also easy to see that this was probably the most vital, most necessary phase of the whole program. Good trout fishing in Lake McConaughy and in the Panhandle streams is dependent on a good spawning area. Come next year's fall run, I will make it to the lower end of Nine Mile and get in on some of the still fine fishing that is available in this most unlikely trout stream.

SPINY SOFT-SHELLED TURTLE

ALTHOUGH RARELY seen, spiny soft-shelled turtles are common to Nebraska waters. Members of the reptile class in the family Trionychidae, they are known scientifically as Amyda ferox (Schneider)

This soft-shelled turtle is found in Nebraska and most of the eastern half of the United States. He is easily identified by his soft leathery shell, without plates, although bone is "visible" centrally. Tubercles or spines are present along the front margin of the upper part of the shell or carapace. These spines are very small in the young, but are several millimeters long in adults. They aid in identifying the spiny soft-shelled turtle from the smooth soft-shelled turtle which also occupies the same range in Nebraska.

Adults are uniformly light or dark brown above. The lower surfaces are creamy white. Size is moderately large with the carapace sometimes measuring as much as 14 inches in length. The head is dark above and light below.

This turtle is found in rivers and streams that have soft bottoms. Well-drained lakes and ponds may be inhabited also, but temporary waters are shunned. Their food consists mostly of crayfish, but snails, insects, worms, frogs, tadpoles, clams, and small fish help round out the diet. In seeking food, the turtle crawls or swims along the bottom, thrusting his snout under stones and into masses of vegetation, occasionally snapping up crayfish or larva that are dislodged.

In June, 12 to 25 eggs of usually spherical shape, approximately 26mm in diameter, are laid. These hatch in the fall. The female follows the same procedure as other turtles in constructing the nest, but usually makes it within 25 feet of the water's edge. She is extremely wary during the entire process. The nest is fan-shape, ranging in depth from 4 to 10 inches. It has a narrow neck around 1 1/2 inches in diameter, and the greatest diameter of the nest is from 3 to 5 inches. Females reach sexual maturity when about 9 1/2 inches long-a length attained at 6 to 7 years of age.

Hibernation begins in late October and continues until April or May. These turtles hibernate under a few inches of mud or sand covered by water.

In summer they sun themselves on open beaches, but always remain close to the water, and highly alert to any danger. Spiny soft shells float on the surface for hours, and also like to lie in shallow water. They help camouflage themselves in the shallows by flipping mud on to their backs with their hind feet, or by sideling into the sand. Often these turtles may be found on sandy beaches in the hottest part of summer days by probing into depressions they have dug near water. They can live under water for hours by aquatic respiration which is accomplished by the highly vascularized interior of the throat and esophagus. The adaptive value of the soft-margined flat shell seemingly is not as much a provision for speed in swimming as it is a means of easy concealment.

These turtles are notoriously fierce. They snap and strike long distances with great speed and precision. The safest way to handle one is by the tail. Strangely, their eyes are kept uppermost when striking at objects behind them. For some time after capture, they retain their sour dispositions, but eventually submit to captivity and have survived for more than 10 years under artificial conditions.

The flesh of the spiny soft-shelled is the most delicious of any Nebraska turtle. However, they have never been of commercial importance because of rarity of capture. One of the simplest and most delicious ways of preparing this turtle is to clean and skin the flesh without removing the meat from the bone. The meat may be frozen or cooked immediately. One of the simplest ways to cook this turtle is to pressure cook until the meat is readily removed from the bone. Boiling will accomplish the same end, but it takes considerably longer. After the meat is cooked, the flesh should be removed from the bone and allowed to cool. The meat may be made either into soups, stews, or deep fried.

Effects of this turtle on fish culture and management has not been determined, but his reputation as an enemy of valuable fishes is greater than his performance. He is possibly more competitor of game fish than enemy, since the preponderance of crayfish in his diet implies a dependence on a partly similar food supply.

Although this reptile is rarely seen and even more rarely caught or eatelk he remains one of Nebraska's oddest inhabitants.

WALK A LOST WEEKEND

the seat of my pants. Rick soon trotted up the hill to report that our third member was starting to rustle around. By coincidence he had torn his pants on the fence as he came up to the fire. His tear was only coincidence, but it consoled me.

By the time Richard joined us at the fire, the sun was filling the valley with its golden light. We could see the surrounding countryside clearly now, and it was much rougher and more desolate than we had thought. When the sun was hitting our ex-nests, we went back to the haystacks for pictures. This took only a couple of minutes. After breakfast, which consisted of a bite of light cheese and a two-ounce can of Sand Hills-chilled tomato juice, we moved out toward the first hill, only to be confronted by another, and another, and another.

We hiked all morning and managed to find all the landmarks our mystery- route planners had circled on our map. To say that everything was going smoothly would be the understatement of the decade. We toiled over hill after hill until we came to a meadow that allowed semi-level walking. Feeling we were pretty much on schedule, we stopped for lunch near a windmill, filled our canteens, and gobbled some food.

Crouching there in the grass and nibbling on some cheese, we three felt like ants on a giant washboard. Rolling hills towered around us making us feel small and meaningless. Probably like an ant feels when he is out of his everyday environment. Yet, ants can carry more than 10 times their weight over their hills while our packs weighed only 30 to 40 pounds. We were still ready to die from carrying the beastly burdens.

After lunch it was back to the trail and a new problem. While we were eating, a sizable herd of cattle had gathered around the windmill and were gawking at us. Among them was a mighty big bull, who was standing about 50 yards off, facing us dead on.

We wondered if the bull was dangerous, but decided we weren't going to let a dumb animal halt or detour our journey. Being just a little suspicious of my red hat, I wisely hung it on the back of Rick's pack. However, as we approached, the other cattle fled, but not the bull. He stood staunch and ready. Richard dropped out of the bluffing contest real soon and then Rick discovered he was carrying the red hat. He flipped it wildly into the air and decided to detour.

I asked myself, "Am I going to give in to this bulky bull or lose face by detouring?" Determined it could never happen, I moved forward. A quick paw of the turf, a jerk forward, and I promptly detoured with the group.

Some time later, we reached a fairly large creek. As we followed its bend we tossed around ideas of how to cross and finally stumbled onto a limb that stretched from bank to bank. There was much ado and free advice about the crossing, but we all made it to the opposite bank. Twenty minutes from the creek, we moved into some really rough Sand Hills and it was here Richard found troubles. The torturous walking had aggravated an old leg injury that began to pain and hamper his walking. Rick and I were unsympathetic and figured anyone who slept through the cold had something coming to him.

As we struggled, it seemed we had walked 50 miles instead of the 5,000 yards or so that we did travel. Staying together in the rough hills was nearly impossible, since each individual's strength and stamina varied from hour to hour. Rick was in the lead when he climbed a large bluff and began to yell as though he had just discovered the Pacific Ocean. Actually, it was better than that. He had seen the river where we would spend the night.

Rick plopped down for a well-deserved breather, and a few minutes later I crumpled beside him. Overjoyed with the sight of the river, (later, we learned it was the Snake), we cursed the rough hills and waited for Richard. Ten or fifteen minutes went by, so we thought we had better take a look. Just then he came limping over the horizon. He explained that the troubled leg had "played out" on him.

We started for the river which was a good mile from us. Then out of nowhere, a little blue airplane flew overhead and 54 NEBRASKAland made several passes. We wondered if it was someone who thought we were lost or if it was our "friend", Gene Hornbeck.

Rick and I slipped and slid through the and found a little path that twisted along it. But Richard had fallen behind with his sore leg. We followed the path to a clearing and waited for our companion. We were commenting on how unfortunate it was for Richard to have his leg give him trouble, and wondered if he could make the rest of the journey tomorrow. I made a move to sit and fell flat, putting a slight twist on my ankle.

The speedy little plane zipped over again, dipping low on its second pass. I could see Hornbeck, peering out the window with a can't-eat-one-potato-chip grin.

The plane dipped out of sight as Richard trudged out of the wilderness. He was a miserable sight, but we couldn't hold back the laughter since he was a total mess. He stumbled into the clearing, aided by a crude mammoth crutch. He was only making about six inches with each step, and pain was curling his lips. To top it off, the lame shutterbug was out of breath. All that came out in answer to my question about seeing Hornbeck was a big "ughhhh."

After multitudinous griping we found a place for camp. When I say camp I am throwing the word around loosely. Because of the weight factor, we had so little equipment it was pathetic. Making camp meant throwing off our packs, clearing a place for a fire, gouging out a fire hole with our knives, building a fire, gathering a dab of wood, and chewing on the remainder of our cheese. That done, we unrolled our sleeping bags and prepared for the night. We had brought few camping supplies and were poorly equipped, but each of us lugged a sidearm and plenty of ammunition. Of course, guns were extra weight and completely unnecessary, but as outdoor roughnecks they were essential to our status.

It was only 6 p.m., and we wondered what to do until our normal bedtimes. We were nearly exhausted, but our chances of sleeping in the refrigerated weather weren't fat. For the next hour, we listened to the yipping coyotes, traded gripes, and finally huddled in our bed-rolls to try and sleep. Rick checked the pedometer on his belt and announced we had walked some 21 miles.

The fire had diminished to a declining glow of white coals when I sat up with a jerk. There was nothing but gloom, faint coyote barks, and freezing cold all around me. I yelled at Rick, asking the time and if he was cold. His answers were 1:30 and yes. To Rick's constant disapproval and dislike I talked for awhile, then woke up Richard. Our photographer had decided that he couldn't continue because of the leg, so Rick and I debated on what to do and came up with what seemed like a good idea. We would take the map and compass and with the aid of the full moon and flashlights, finish out the journey during the night. Figuring the distance at 20 to 25 miles, we should fetch the finish point around 8 or 9 in the morning. Then we would call Hornbeck, drive back, pick up Richard, and then take pictures on the way back After telling Richard about the plan we fought off our stiffness and started out at 2:30.

We climbed into the dark-laden hills, then discovered we couldn't see well enough to find our course. Our flash-lights were futile in the Sand Hills darkness. Puttering around, shivering and mumbling, we came onto an old path that was mistakenly called a road. According to the map, this would lead to our destination on a round-about route. We decided to follow it.

After shuffling along for several miles in the depressing gloom, we started talking about the fate of our excursion and decided that leaving Richard was not the thing to do. The Commission was keeping us under careful watch, but what if we three would have been really lost in the wilderness with no one around to help? We started as a trio and figured that was the way to keep it, no matter what the consequences. I knew what the consequences would be when the office group heard about our fiasco. We wheeled and began the long trek back to Richard and the cold camp. As we trudged along, nursing our injured ankles, tired legs, and devastated backs, the sun began to lighten up and revive us. We hit camp about 8:30 and found Richard sleeping soundly.

Gasping with relief, we fell into our sleeping bags and we began hashing over the night's events with the recently awakened Richard. Rick mentioned that if something did go wrong and St. Peter turned him away from the gate, the new environment would be so much like his present predicament that he wouldn't even notice it.

Tossing around ideas on how to escape from our situation, we heard an airplane. It was the little blue plane of the day before, with Conservation Officer Leonard Spoering of Basset at the controls. He spotted our distress signals and set down on a nearby hill. We hobbled over and poured out our tear-jerking story. He chuckled and told us to hang tough while he went back to town. Then he and our official hike-watching technician would come and rescue us.

Now began one of the toughest parts of the journey; the consequences of not completing the test and facing Gene Hornbeck. As much as we hated to admit it, this prospect was a near toss-up with trying to complete the journey. We laid around and argued for awhile, but finally ambled up the path to await the hour of reckoning. It wasn't long before a white station wagon approached. We just gritted our teeth. Spoering and Hornbeck looked at us and began the ribbing.

We arrived in Valentine, our mystery city, had a quick lunch, and flew back to Lincoln. Our "lost weekend" was over, never to be found again. I hope.

It was a full week before our entire crew recuperated. Naturally, we'll never admit that we actually failed the test, but the trip served the purpose of a giant "smart" pill for three young buckaroos who weren't quite as salty as they figured.

You can bet your boots on one thing, though, and that is if we ever tackle the job again, we will know the rights from the wrongs. We will be plenty more prepared in the area of physical fitness and know how to read a compass and map well enough to follow a direct route. Also, we will know how to pace ourselves and not walk in sporadic spurts of stops and goes. And finally, we will know what equipment to take and what to leave home.

The experience is behind us and we learned one thing for certain. "Talking" a lost weekend and "walking" one are two different things.

THE PHEASANT BOWL

gaudy cock into his game pocket before stooping to pat the spaniel.

Bill suggested a go at some Crop Adjustment Program (CAP) land that had held birds in the past. It was mostly tall weeds with strips of soybeans for food. We were just nicely started when a rooster tried a getaway. Bill gave him a 2-shot salute at 35 yards, but the bird sailed on, unimpressed. The day was sliding on and both hunters had 2 Vfe birds, but Bill was ahead in overall average. We hit one more field and the Nebraskan cinched the lead for good. Two roosters flailed out and Bill nailed one right away.

At the day's end, we totaled up. Bill had scored a fine 59 per cent while his opponent was sporting 35 per cent. Dutch wasn't upset. He was already looking forward to Sunday and a quick catch-up.

Sam Grasmick joined us the next morning, but he was bit off his feed, and said he preferred to watch rather than hunt. Bill's son-in-law, Jim Herrod, was along to give us five gunners in all. We decided on a soil bank squeeze play with Larry and I coming in from the west and the others from the east.

When the three hunters appeared over the hill, we started our advance. Nervous pheasants rose out off the grass when we were still 75 yards out, so we picked up the pace. Suddenly, there was a mass of birds in the air, but Bill and I were the only gunners in position. I missed my bird, but my companion brought down a rooster on his first shot.

Most of the birds had flown in the same direction, so we decided to follow them. Singles, most of them hens, were rising early, but one rooster made a wrong move and Jim nailed him. Two others spooked out of range and headed for a weedy road ditch, then another rooster and a hen took to the air. Dutch pulled down, fired twice, and Bill followed up with two more rounds at the cock.

"Dropped a leg on him," Dutch shouted. "Watch where he downs."

Three uneasy roosters had landed in a waist-deep weed patch, so we swung around for an assault. Two of the fidgety roosters didn't wait for us to catch up and flew across the road. The third waited until we were 50 yards beyond and then made his break. He got away with it, too.

"Let's go back to the car for coffee and a breather, then try to find that legless bird," Dutch suggested.

The bird had flapped down in a small valley and with the spaniel's aid, Bill MARCH, 1968 55   thought we could find him. As we headed through the grass, a rooster popped out of nowhere. Surprised, both Jim and Dutch fired two shots wide of the mark. Sam was pushing a scent and suddenly, the "legless" bird and a companion flushed low and straight away. Both Bill and Dutch touched off shots, but they might as well have been blanks.

"That bird wasn't hurt after all," the Nebraskan muttered. "At that rate he will be around for another season."

Dutch was getting rooster anxious after his string of misses and when another bird got up he tried to redeem himself. Taking his time, he squeezed off. The bird rocked sideways and then came down for good as the Southerner fired a stopper. Thirty paces later, another rooster caught the gunners by surprise, but two shots within a split second of each other downed him.

"A half each," I announced. "Both looked like hits. Any doubts?"

The two men shook their heads. Things simmered down, with only a hen or two to keep nerves on edge, as we walked out of the field. Reaching the far mile road, we faced about and started back. A lone rooster caught us off guard, but Bill recovered and brought him down. However, he had to pay for his fast shooting. Another rooster deceived him and he fired twice without cutting a feather.

Back at the car Bill gutted the birds, then stuffed them with grass. Disappointed with his own shooting, he began to talk about Nebraska's deceptive pheasants. Dutch backed him up with the comment that he thought birds were smarter now than they were 30 years ago when he first started hunting them. Both men had had chances to limit out by noon, while Larry, Jim, and I had had more than our share of misses, but I really didn't care. I wasn't a competitor.

The afternoon was slow on the warm windless day, and although we got some action, most of the birds were lying low. Dutch got four shots and one bird, but Bill went without a shot. Both men had 2% birds, but Dutch had shot 5 more times. An hour before sundown, we decided to head toward town and hit a patch of CAP land on the way. A tree and a narrow strip of weeds, flanked by medium-high grass, looked like a dandy loafing area. Pulling off the road, Bill spotted about 20 pheasants scurrying into the high weeds. Attempting to close the gap before they flushed, Bill moved into position just as a rooster tried to use a back exit. The Nebraskan turfed him with a load of No. 6's.

By the time we reached the car, the Nebraska-vs-Florida hunt was over. Bill had kept his previous day's lead by hitting 3V2 birds with 9 shots, while Dutch downed 2 1/2 pheasants with 13 shots. In the two-day match, Bill had hit 46 per cent of his shots and his rival 25 per cent.

Bill had met the Florida challenge and came out a winner, but Dutch had done well on his first hunt of the season, too. The North Platte hunter had treated his rival to a fine hunt, so the first annual Pheasant Bowl was a success and Nebraska's reputation as a state of good wing shooters and great hospitality was intact.

GRANDPA WAS A REBEL

followed, William saw what was his most impressive sight of the Civil War.

"When General Price had led us away from Ord and the Federal troops, we rounded up in Jackson, Mississippi. From there, we often went to Vicksburg, and looking across the river, we could see the whole of Grant's army where it lay bivouacked in Milliken's Bend. It stretched for miles, a veritable city of tents, men, and guns. Grant even tried to change the course of the river in the spring of 1863. Our orders were to stop him from crossing at Bruinsburg, but we failed.

"After a sharp engagement at Port Gibson, Grant with plenty of men was able to outflank us all the way to Vicksburg. We met again at Baker's Creek, or Champion Hill, as some called it, where we fought all day. We fell back to the west side of the Black River. In the morning, we were ordered over to the east side, but within a few days, Grant had captured everything on the east side of the river near Vicksburg. This was May 17, 1863.

"Union forces went right on and encircled Vicksburg; their lines extending from the river above to the river below the city. Two or three times Grant tried to take the city by storm, but every charge was repulsed with heavy losses. Finally, they decided to starve us out and we knew intense hunger before July 4, when Lieutenant General John C. Pemberton surrendered Vicksburg. We were taken as prisoners to where Grant had had his winter quarters."

Back in Elmwood, a youth with a rich, resonant voice began a stirring recital of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. Grandpa Buster listened with only one ear because he was remembering the aftermath of the Vicksburg defeat.

"We were shunted on freight cars through a half-dozen states and finally sent to Fort Delaware below Philadelphia, where we lived on starvation rations for six months. Our next prison camp was at Point Lookout, Maryland. It was a nice place and the food ration was better. From there we went to Elmyra, New York, and after eight weary months, an exchange of prisoners was arranged, but it was not carried out until February, 1865. Shipped to Richmond, Virginia, we went on to Mobile, Alabama, where our command was located.

"A few days after we were exchanged, we were thrown into the battle of Mobile Bay, a lively little fight, in which, it is said, the last cannon of the Civil War was fired. Recaptured after a few days, we were marched back over own battlefield and held in a hollow-square formation all night. I thought I was just free to walk away, but a sharp-eyed Yank persuaded me differently with his musket.

"We were shipped as prisoners to Ship Island in the Gulf of Mexico and kept there for several weeks. A Mississippi steamer then landed us at New Orleans, and here we jumped ship in the middle of the night and tried to escape. Heavy swamps forced us to follow the river and this led to our recapture within six miles."

Grandpa Buster believed in honoring the dead and in celebrating the glories of freedom, but as a loser, he had bitter memories of how the war ended.

"News of the surrender of General Johnson came as we were taken back to the Black River and given our parole. We were turned loose, within a half mile of where we had been captured two years earlier, and left without food, money, or extra clothing. On hearing that if we would take an oath we could get transportation home, I went to the office of the provost marshal.

"Will you take the oath that you are a deserter from the Confederate Army?"

"No! I have no reason to deny I was a rebel. My cause was moral, my conscience clear, and I performed honorable service."

Grandpa Buster never had any regrets about his years in the Confederate Army. He had gone into the war for righteous reasons, and (Continued on page 58 )

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

GRANDPA WAS A REBEL

he felt he was serving his family, state, and nation.

However, he did regret one episode of his life. Some years after he came to Elmwood, several valuable horses were stolen in the neighborhood. Grandpa and his friends formed a posse and set out after the thieves. They caught them and hung them to a huge tree located between Elmwood and Murdock.

He could not forget that among the thieves there had been a boy about 13 or 14 years-old. The posse deliberated for some time, but in the end they hanged the boy. Grandpa always regretted that he did not fight to save the boy's life.

His coming to Nebraska after the Civil War was not entirely happenstance. His parents, Archibald and Elizabeth Buster, tiring of the turmoil in Missouri during the war years, sold their farm and moved to Nebraska City in 1864. In March 1865, Elizabeth died and was buried at Nebraska City. Archibald stayed on and taught a subscription school. His wages, for the most part, were paid in corn, meat, potatoes, or whatever people could spare. School was held only in the winter.

The elder Buster also made ox-yokes and saddle trees and sold them to freighters. At that time, freighting was a thriving business between Nebraska City and Denver. A son-in-law of Archibald, Thomas J. Hamilton, was a freighter. He had five rigs pulled by oxen and each rig could haul five tons. He made a number of freighting trips to Denver and in 1865 after his war service, William went along with his brother-in- law. Years later, he often pointed out places along the Oregon Trail that he had crossed.

He liked to tell about the time they came upon a burned-out wagon train, with everyone dead it seemed. They started to dig graves for the victims when they heard a cry from a nearby brush, and found a man who had been scalped, but still alive. They aided him as they could and took him on to the next settlement. Later, they learned the man survived.

By the spring of 1866, William was 28 and anxious to settle down. So he came to Elmwood and stayed there the rest of his life, except for a short time in 1900 when he moved to Sterling. He went back to Elmwood and bought a house, but after his wife died in 1910, he spent much of his time visiting his children. From 1921 to his death in 1923, he lived part time with his son Albert. His last year was spent with his daughter, Viola, in Ashland.

A heel injury infected, and the old soldier had to have a leg amputated in 1921, but he could still get around by wheelchair. He was a lively talker and such a good story teller that he always had a group of friends or a ring of children about him. He loved youngsters and like to tell them of his years in the Confederate Army. His grandchildren remember him as a Grand Old Rebel, a great storyteller, and a very special grandfather.

Broken Wheel Museum, Robber's Cave

WHERE-TO-GO

A GROWING AWARENESS of our rich heritage is reflected in the many museums sprinkled through this "where the West begins" state. Nebraskans and visitors traveling through can find plenty of interesting museums catering to general interests, but for those who are particularly interested in Indian artifacts and pioneer relics, the Broken Wheel Museum in Sutherland is the place to go.

Located on U.S. Highway 30, 21 miles west of North Platte, the Broken Wheel Museum has only one summer of operation behind it, but it is already establishing a reputation. Since the museum is a seasonal operation it is presently closed, but an early opening is planned for 1968. Tentative opening date is either April or June, depending upon the weather. The Broken Wheel Museum is operated and promoted by the Lincoln County Historical Museum Society.

This new addition to the state's museum array features one of the world's largest collections of Indian artifacts. The collection, owned by Adam Christ of North Platte, consists of more than 14,000 pieces renowned for their completeness and workmanship. Arrowheads, multi-colored beads, spearpoints, and more than 70 individual crude tools and implements that the red men used are only a tiny portion of the thousands of artifacts on display.

Mr. Christ, now in his 70's, started collecting Indian arrowheads and other artifacts as a boy and he hasn't stopped yet. As a youth, he tramped the South Platte River and the Sand Hills looking for these relics of a vanished culture. Later, he bought other collections to flesh out his own. His present collection features items from 40 states and several foreign countries.

But, the collection is not the only attraction of the Broken Wheel Museum. It also boasts a collection of several hundred pioneer Nebraska relics and antiques. Because of space limitations only a portion of the old-time show pieces can be placed on display, so the proprietors are presently seeking a larger building where more of the collections can be put on display.

Among the various pioneer relics are antique guns that helped win the West, documents and papers, tools, items of everyday use in pioneer homes, clothing, and countless other articles that represent NEBRASKAland's exciting heritage.

Heritage of another kind is represented across the state in Lincoln. It is Robber's Cave, located at 3243 South 10th Street.

Robber's Cave is open on a year-round basis. During the summer months, tourists may explore the deep tunnels from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., but winter visiting hours are 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. Admission is 25 cents up to age 14 and 50 cents for those 14 and over.

According to Mary Yeany, manager of Robber's Cave, legends claim that the cave was first discovered and used by the early settlers about 1857. Before that, the Indians adopted the huge cave for themselves. It became known as the Pawnee Council Cave because of the many councils held in the largest of its seven tunnels.

But it wasn't long before the cave changed hands again, and the white man once again claimed and used it. Legends say that Jesse James gave the cave its present name. After pulling a holdup, James reportedly used the cave as a hideout. However, Jesse James wasn't the last outlaw to use it. Other occupants included horse thieves, general highwaymen, and cattle thieves. One legend claims that horse thieves used the cave as headquarters for stealing horses from the government and then selling the animals back to the government. More than a year was required before officials discovered the cave and caught the culprits.

Located some 87 feet below the surface of the earth, temperatures inside the cave vary some 20° from the outside world, being cooler in the summer, and warmer in the winter. Although the exact size of the cave is not available, it consists of seven tunnels and can easily hold in excess of 300 persons.