SPEAK UP

WANTS LETTERS - "I am from New Jersey and I am very much interested in Nebraska and its people. I would like to find someone in Nebraska who would like to write and compare hunting and fishing in the two states.

"I am 18 years old and it does not matter what age the other person is who might write me. My home address is: 222 South Washington Avenue, Moorestown, New Jersey 08057." —James R. Basile, Collegeville, Indiana.

OFFERS SHIRT-"Having been born in Nebraska and lived there for more than 50 years I love reading NEBRASKAland. My father homesteaded one mile west of Strang in 1872 and I was born in a sod house in 1885 the youngest of 10 children and the only one still living.

"My parents sold the old homestead in 1903 and bought a ranch on the beautiful Cedar River in Greeley County. I herded cattle on government land until the Kinkaid Act where a man could homestead 640 acres.

"In 1915, my parents could not run the ranch, so I took it over until 1928 when I sold out and moved to the Sand Hills, north of Ogallala.

"I built my last sod house in 1931, my wife died in February 1936, and I moved in the fall to Napa, California.

"I married again in 1944 and 10 years later retired. We drive up to northern California to visit the family each spring and fall, but love south California for winters.

"I would give my best shirt for a drink of Nebraska's clear cold water." —Fred E. Sweet, Ojai, California.

DOG STORIES —"Have enjoyed your articles on dogs and I hope you will continue them. I would like to see some articles on how to train and keep a dog sharp through the summer.

"I would also like to see some articles on the different training methods used by both professionals and amateur trainers." —LeRoy G. Thomas, Kearney.

NO CREDIT —"You do not give credit to Park Superintendent Ted Stutheit, for hand-painting the insignia on the board inside the stockade nor do you mention that he was the one who came up with correct formula for the 'bricks' that built the blacksmith shop. I couldn't find any reference to the hours of research Mr. Stutheit put in, personally, in the National Archives in Washington D.C., in order to do the wonderful job he did on these insignias, nor do you mention that he painted the signs that point the visitors to the fort. You also fail to mention that he took most of the slides that will be used in presenting the story of this historical place, besides being sure that the narration that goes with the slides is absolutely authentic." —Mrs. Joe B. Cookus, Port Orchard, Washington.

Mr. Stutheifs work at Fort Kearny is recognized and appreciated, but this was an article on the history and present status of the fort. — Editor

REWARDING CATCH-"Thanks to Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, we have some wonderful outdoor recreation in our state. I have lived in western Nebraska for the bigger part of my life and have enjoyed some very rewarding fishing experiences. The state has done a top-notch job in the stocking of game fish and made it possible for many fishermen to come home with a rewarding catch.

"I have concentrated my main interests on the trout and bass fishing in this area and on several occasions I have returned with fish in the three-to-five-pound class. Dawes and Sioux counties are splattered with stock ponds and fresh-water streams with good fishing in nearly every spot I have tried. Most all of these waters can be fished by asking permission from the landowners. If all fishermen would take the same courtesy and at the same time remember to close gates and not leave trash scattered about, our relationships would be greatly improved. "This past fall I returned to this area to fish several times and had good luck on all occasions. I lived in Crawford and I plan to continue returning to this area as long as I'm able to flip a spinner." — Jerry Tallmon, Kimball.

I WAS IMPALED ON A STUMP

NEBRASKA'S INDIAN summer was burnishing the November morning as I walked toward the Loup River. The 1965 rifle deer season opened the next day, and I was scouting for deer signs in the area between Monroe and Columbus. I had my shotgun and my dog along, figuring on getting up a rooster pheasant or a covey of bobwhites. I walked along, watching for deer signs with one eye and keeping the other on the dog. Beaver were working the area, but I paid little attention to their cuttings.

We followed the river for about 30 minutes before my dog sprinted to the left. I whirled, expecting to see a bird, but lost my footing and went head over heels. My gun went flying and I hit the ground, trying to break the fall with my arms. My chest and neck felt as if someone had hit them with a sledge hammer. A wave of pain engulfed me, as blood started gushing from my neck. I tried to get up, but couldn't. I was impaled on a beaver-gnawed stump which had penetrated deeply into my throat.

Shock and pain had me nearly helpless, but I managed to compose myself enough for an escape attempt. Calling on every ounce of my strength, I grasped the stump at its base, gritted hard, and pushed up. It hurt and hurt bad. I was ready to surrender, but I pulled free of that stake. Spitting blood and coughing hard, I put one hand on my torn throat, picked up my gun, and stumbled aimlessly through the woods.

I knew that with the profuse bleeding I couldn't last more than a couple of minutes. Already my entire front was soaked with blood. I thought perhaps if I laid down I could prolong my death, so I left the bank and waded about 35 yards of river channel to an island. I stuck my gun in the sand, hung my jacket on its butt, and crumbled to the ground. My dog stood whimpering beside me.

My whole body was numb now, but the bleeding was still a steady flow. I thought for certain my jugular vein had been punctured and that my chances of survival were nil. I lay on the cold sand for 10 or 15 minutes when suddenly a strange feeling came. I can't exactly explain it, but whether it was fear or whatever, it was an incentive. Even if there wasn't a chance, I had to try.

Clutching my throat, I struggled to my feet and started off. Wading back across the river, I drifted helplessly with the thigh-deep current. It took me a long time to reach shore 6 NEBRASKAland since my sense of direction was vague. I knew there was a farmhouse about a mile northeast of me, and my only hope was to reach it. I tripped and stumbled constantly, but by luck stayed on my feet. My hip waders made walking difficult, but I couldn't stop to remove them for fear I might never get started again.

I don't know how long I wandered about before reaching the farmhouse, but the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital with my neck bandaged, and my body throbbing with pain.

My injury turned out miraculously. The tree stump had entered my neck directly below the voice box. Its sharp point barely missed my jugular vein, but severed a less important vein next to it. A small nerve of my esophagus tube was also severed, and the spike had so nearly gone through my neck that it bulged the skin below my left ear. Outside of an unbelievable loss of blood, I suffered no major injury or permanent damage from the accident.

I spent two days in the hospital. Then while convalescing at home, I wondered if the experience would keep me from the outdoors in the future. There was only one way to find out. A few days later, I went back to the river and found the place where I had come so close to death. Blood stains were a "dead" giveaway to the stump that had nearly finished me. I had fallen with my arms extended, but the red-stained stump was some 10 inches longer than my arms which allowed for the impaling.

After facing the stake, I knew the answer to my question, but I couldn't help feeling that the experience had made me a better woodsman. One thing for sure, it helped me develop a keener awareness of the many dangers in the field that sportsmen normally fail to notice.

NEBRASKAland HOSTESS OF THE MONTH

Mr. Easter Bunny should be grinning from ear to ear with a pretty helper like our April Hostess, Miss Jane Briggeman, to help him distribute gaily colored Easter eggs to all good children. This blue-eyed brownette is a sophomore at Concordia Teachers College, Seward.

Jane was first runner-up in the 1967 Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant, and Concordia men elected her their Snow Queen last year. She likes all sports and enjoys the outdoors. A music major, Jane is a member of Concordia Singers and is the Student Senate's public relations chairman. She was a member of the Women's Council last year. Her parents are Mr. and Mrs. Carl Briggeman of Iuka, Kansas.

APRIL Roundup

Mat meets, rip-roaring rodeo, precise footwork, and flashing silks set pace for springtime

APRIL MAKES a debut with showers of big activities in Nebraska and proudly heralds the return of outdoor fun and frolic in the Old West tradition.

As the last of the winter snows seep away into the prairie sod, every corner of the state blooms with excitement and diversion for the spring-fever traveler. Sporting activities bustle throughout the year in Nebraska, and April is no exception.

The Capital City will throb when over 400 wrestlers converge on the University of Nebraska Coliseum April 11 to 16 for the city's third consecutive hosting of the National AAU Wrestling Championships. Entrants will hail from across the U.S. and Japan. The end of a long trail of local and district wins for each grappler, spectators can be assured of a better than usual meet. This being an Olympic year, the matmen will not only be striving to come out victorious in the national competition, but are also mustering up additional strength and skill that could pave their way to the U.S.A. Olympic wrestling camp.

Lincoln's role as a sports spectacular city is far from completed when the last AAU man is pinned. With only a few days to cool down, April 26 marks the opening of the season of all seasons in NEBRASKAland-the rip-roaring rodeo. What Buffalo Bill Cody started in this "where the West begins" state in 1882 is continued every year throughout the land in the proud yesteryear tradition. Cowpokes and cowgirls meet rangy critters head on April 26 and 27, as they vie for top honors in the University of Nebraska's Intercollegiate Rodeo. An annual event, the thrill-jammed rodeo is held at the State Fairgrounds. Contestants from Big Eight Conference schools put forth their best riding foot in an attempt to capture a school win.

NEBRASKAland's racing season is in its first full month, with action at Fonner Park in Grand Island. The thoroughbreds jolted from the starting gate in a flurry of flashing silks and flying hooves on March 22 and will keep fans on the edge of their seats until May 1, when the horses move on to Omaha.

There's never a lull in activity. Since the evenings are still cool, spectators can combine an indoor sport and first-class entertainment, when skaters stage extravagant productions at the 1968 Ak-Sar-Ben Ice Follies in Omaha April 2 to 7. At the same time the Ice Capades will draw viewers to Lincoln ice at Pershing Auditorium.

A precious day in Nebraska heritage, an Arbor Day ceremony is set for April 21 at Nebraska City. Festivities will center around Arbor Lodge, the home of J. Sterling Morton, founder of the esteemed holiday. Arbor Day, dedicated to the planting of fruit, forest, or ornamental trees for the beautification of the land, was proclaimed as a state holiday in 1885.

Those Nebraskans and their visitors interested in mythology, tides, and commonly misunderstood concepts of the moon will have a gold mine all to themselves with the April 1 beginning of the new sky show at Ralph Mueller Planetarium in Lincoln. The new show, entitled "Tides and Tales", is a prelude to a future show concerning space travel and the moon. The House of Yesterday in Hastings will continue its March sky show, "The Universe in Motion", through the month of April.

April showers can only bring more beauty to NEBRASKAland's intriguing tapestry, and soft, refreshing spring breezes hint at a full summer of fun just ahead.

WHAT TO DO

TIME TO SHAPE UP

A FEW YEARS ago at Lake McConaughy a 33-year-old fisherman was fighting a large northern pike while braving rough, waist-deep water. Suddenly, he fell face first into the surf. He had died of a heart attack. Three days before, the salesman had told a friend that he was in good physical shape but needed to exercise more.

Numerous similar occurrences take place across the nation each year, according to Dr. Kenneth D. Rose, Nebraska physician and a member of the American Medical Association Committee on Exercise and Physical Fitness. Also chief of medical research at the University of Nebraska Health Service, Dr. Rose emphasized that persons in poor physical condition die of overexertion even in the slightest forms as a result of irregular, unrhythmic beating of the heart. The heart actually stops beating functionally and goes into a tangent of sporadic spasms that do not pump blood.

Dr. Rose has actively carried on cardiovascular research at the University of Nebraska for the past seven years. A firm believer in physical fitness, Dr. Rose states that every study he has conducted demonstrates the conditioned body to be superior to the unconditioned one. In his studies, Dr. Rose uses track-and-field athletes in comparison with average males, as he feels these athletes are the best conditioned in the world. Over the years he has worked with some very talented and highly-trained athletes. One of these has been called the fastest human alive, Charlie Green, who is co-owner of the world records for the 60 and 100-yard dashes.

Every year millions of Americans take to the wide-open spaces in pursuit of their favorite recreation. They come in all shapes and sizes and pursue virtually every aspect of outdoor recreation, which range through fishing, camping, rock hunting, picnicking, hiking—the whole works. A large percentage of these people are deskbound or kitchen-corralled for five days a week, then without any preparation, they head for the field on weekends. They huff and puff through waist-deep slough grass and up and down hills while many have trouble on plain level ground. Their faces get red and covered with sweat, but it's all worth it —all the shortness of breath, tired legs, and aching muscles. If they're lucky, those will be the only ill effects they'll suffer for attempting something they weren't ready for because of their "soft" physical condition.

These weekend athletes may literally be risking their lives when they go afield, according to Dr. Rose. Yet, 10 NEBRASKAland even occasional exercise is better than none at all, when a person's health is not in a critical stage.

Speaking as a member of the A.M.A. Committee on Exercise and Physical Fitness, Dr. Rose noted that the basic interests of the committee are threefold: the "why" of physical fitness, the "how" of physical fitness, and most importantly, "how" to promote fitness. The why to shape up is easy to answer. Man can live longer an enjoy it more when he is in top condition, and it is proven beyond a shadow of doubt that there is a relationship between exercise and efficiency of the heartbeat. Say, for instance, a 40-year-old sedentary worker has a resting pulse of 85 beats per minute. If this person were to begin a graduated exercise program, specialists say that in 12 weeks the individual's resting heartbeat will lower to approximately 55 per minute. This is a difference of 30 beats per minute, 1,800 per hour, 43,200 per day, and over 15 million per year. This strengthened heart will undoubtedly tick longer than the overloaded pumper. Dr. Rose cited an incident of a 91-year-old man who had had virtually no physical activity in 20 years. The man was put on a graduated exercise program, and after two years he was able to run a six-minute mile. Age is no barrier.

Scientists have gathered an abundance of evidence from around the world that points toward the need for physical exercise. They have written hundreds of volumes on keeping fit. This then easily provides the "how" of how to stay fit. Yet even though hundreds of scientists are constantly carrying on research, knowledge is gained in vain unless utilized.

Finally, then, comes the most important and difficult problem-how to promote physical fitness in the individual. Most people will slam their fist down on their desks and claim they are going to get in shape and that's that. Usually the individual will work at his promise for a. couple of weeks, then decide it isn't worth it. But, it is. Physical fitness is a lifetime proposition, and the lifetime length depends upon it to a large extent. Even after a person becomes well conditioned, he must maintain the program, for "deconditioning" begins in three days after dropping the routine.

What needs to be generated, Rose stated, is a basic realization of the need for physical fitness and to turn fitness into status. A person should take as much pride in his healthy, conditioned body as he would a brand new car.

In many cases the art of getting into shape is simply a change in one's manner of living. It does not necessarily mean abandoning the "easy" life but only taking a few spare minutes to improve physical condition. This might only mean taking the stairs instead of the elevator, parking a few extra blocks from work, or exercising 10 minutes per day. So simple, but so vitally important.

For those inspired to do something about their conditions there are several sources of guidance. Local libraries should have a choice of volumes on physical training; the Y.M.C.A. can provide both a schedule of workouts and the facilities; and the family physician can offer a program designed for each individual.

Wishing that you could buckle down and spend a little time on physical fitness is a good thing-but not quite good enough. It's the followthrough that counts.

Return to the BAT CAVE

On second visit to mine in five years, mysterious change in spooky mammals stumps even an expert, Dudley Osborn

THE HIBERNATING bat was playing a high and mighty, and Larry Reed knew there was only one way to reach him. Hampered by bulky chest waders, he managed to climb onto Dudley Osborn's huge shoulders, and with Kent Estes acting as a steady for the acrobatic duo, the three moved into position. Taking a 15-foot bamboo pole, Larry stretched upward from his precarious perch and dislodged the sleeping mammal. Dudley lowered Larry, and quickly retrieved the hissing ball of fur.

Four of us were probing the subterranean world of an old abandoned limestone mine for bats. Sibilant hisses from the inky blackness told us that we were in the right place. Dudley, boating supervisor for the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, is a giant of a man with an almost over-powering interest in bats. About five years ago, he had led a similar expedition to the eastern Nebraska mine and found five separate species of bats. (See Batty For Bats in the May 1963 Outdoor Nebraska). Since that trip, there had been changes in the mine, and Dudley wanted to see if they had had any influence on the bat populations.

Accompanying Dudley were Larry Reed and Kent Estes. They are students at Nebraska Wesleyan University, and each has a layman's curiosity about America's only flying mammal. Sensing a story, I went along to hold flashlights, spot bats, and be generally useful.

On that earlier expedition, two of Dudley's companions had taken a ducking in the icy water that covered the mine floor, so he warned us to be careful, since the early-January temperature was hanging at a chilly 24°. On that first trip, the bat seekers had to worm through a narrow opening to reach the maze of tunnels and caverns that made up the mine proper. Last summer, a cement company, owner of the site, had unplugged one of the shafts and had bulldozed out an entrance that was some 27 feet high. The company had also drained much of the interior, but there was considerable water in some of the caverns. The mine is private property and permission is required. Amateur exploration is discouraged.

Although the mine is not as hairy as it once was, it is still dangerous. Rocks, from pebble to automobile size, occasionally fall from the ceilings of the caverns. We were wearing hard hats and using caution, but every time a small rock fell, we spooked. Some of the caverns were definitely treacherous, so we gave them a wide berth. Most of the "rooms" are 15 to 27 feet high and about 20 yards long. Narrow, they seldom exceed 15 yards in width.

Now deep within the mine, and seemingly miles from daylight, we were fascinated with this strange sport of spelunking and bat-snatching. In our imaginations we had stepped into Jules Verne's realm of fantasy found in his classic, Journey to the Center of the Earth.

Like Verne's main character, Professor Von Hardwigg, we pushed further into the cave as each darkened passage opened new vistas to be explored. Our lights scanned the sheer rock walls, and from time to time focused on small brown objects that blended into the surroundings. Dudley would study these carefully and if one looked like a new species, he would nudge it gently with the pole until the creature lost his hold and plunged to the ground.

So far, our finds had been limited to the Myotis lucifugus, the little brown bat. This tiny mammal has an average wing span of IV* inches and is identified by his black forearms and ears. His wings are elongated fingers, with a membrane in between, similar to the web of a duck's foot. As a duck uses his webbed feet to push aside water when swimming, a bat uses his webbed fingers to push aside air when flying.

The temperature varied between 30 and 40°. Nearly 260 yards back and to the right of the entrance, it was almost shirt-sleeve warm. Dudley swept his flashlight across a wall and then beamed in on a single mammal.

"Looks like another species," Dudley indicated, pointing his light.

Picking up the bamboo pole he nudged the bat. Not eager to give up his upside-down position, and angry at being disturbed, the bat hissed a warning. Dudley poked the creature again and he plummeted from his perch to be lost in the darkness below. We didn't have to look hard to find him. The bat had attached himself to Dudley's cuff with all 38 of his sharp teeth.

"Guess I would be angry, too, if somebody got me out of bed like that," Larry mumbled, as his companion pried the bat loose.

The amateur mammalogist explained that this tough little bat was known as Myotis keeni, and although similar to the little brown bat, he can be identified by his much longer ears. A bat's life averages 12 to 15 years, and as grouchy as this one was, we figured he was the great-grandpa of the clan.

Until now we had been working as a team with Dudley handling the bats, Larry the collection bag, and Kent and I using the lights. However, Dudley insisted that we learn to handle these delicately balanced flying machines. The best way to handle a live bat is to grab him by the back of the neck and hold him quietly. If you become excited, the bat becomes excited, and he may try to free himself with a well-placed bite.

We had collected only two species of bats, so Dudley suggested we try another part of the cave. With the huge man leading the way, we journeyed through our world within a world until suddenly, Dudley broke through a crust of thin ice. We had felt the increasing coolness as we worked along, but the ice still came as a surprise. Ahead was knee to thigh-deep water and none of us relished the prospect of wading through it, but the quiet, sullen darkness lured us on.

At first the ice was thin, but as we waded into the watery interior, it progressively thickened. Kent found a piece of discarded mining machinery and used it as a spud. Jagged ice could cut our heavy waders, and a boot full of icy water would be mighty unpleasant, so we took our time and picked our steps. I could feel the cold through my waders as the water pressed tighter against my legs. As we inched along, I remembered Dudley's account of the earlier dunkings. Finding bats became secondary to keeping my balance on the slippery bottom. Our progress was slow, but each crunch of the make-shift spud brought us closer to dry land.

A short distance ahead, the watery floor inclined upward to higher ground, while a glint of light to the left indicated that we didn't have much farther to go. But even that short distance seemed to take hours as the spud hit the ice in an untiring rhythm. Once high and dry, we looked back and for the first time realized that the ice was crystal clear.

We had made it through the network of watery tunnels without incident, but the bat cave wasn't through with us. As I ambled toward the main shaft, I rolled with a loose rock and lost my footing. My hard hat flew one way, my glasses another, as I sprawled on the cavern floor. More shook than hurt, I muttered a few unkind words and then said a thank-you prayer that the incident had happened here rather than in the water. The three of us were ready to call it quits, but Dudley had one more place he wanted to go. On an earlier trip, Dudley had found a raccoon there and had taken him for a pet. Now, he wanted to show us that exact spot. Tripping along like a delighted child, he led us back into the darkness until he came to a 20-foot mound of dirt. At its top there was a narrow opening and beyond that another cavern. We picked our way up the slope and stood in the archway to survey a gigantic room.

Dudley slid down the rocky slope and beckoned us to follow. He pointed to some rocks and dirt and indicated that this was where the raccoon had set up winter quarters. At that time deep water covered the room, so Dudley hadn't waded to the back half of the cavern! Now he wanted to see it. I suggested we turn back, but Dudley pushed on into the eerie darkness.

"Here's where they plugged one of the entrances to the mine," Dudley said, flashing his light on a huge pile of rubble. "The cave had four entrances, but they were plugged when the mine was closed."

To the left was another tunnel, and Dudley admitted that he had never explored that section of the cave. It was easy to see why. The shaft was littered 14 NEBRASKAland with car-size rocks and saner men would have stayed away. Even the not-too-picky bats refused to inhabit the place. My stomach did flip-flops as I surveyed the passage. Common sense told me to leave the avenue unexplored, but my spelunking instinct urged me on.

As I carefully picked my way through the rocks, I realized just how stupid I was. A sudden cave-in could pin me in the passage for good. The ugly thought quickened my pace, but the rocky, uneven tunnel finally gave way to a smooth, uncluttered floor of another passage that in turn led to another large room. As my light scanned the darkness, it fell on icy stalagmites. A gleam to the distant left told me there was a way out.

Excited, I shouted for the others and was a little startled when my voice bounced back and forth from the cavern walls with (Continued on page 56)

A FUR PIECE

THEY WERE SOLITARY explorers, probing the western wilderness for riches. They carved a fur empire out of a wild no-man's land, only to see it crumble as the tide of civilization pushed the frontier toward the Rocky Mountains and beyond. History has called them fur traders, trappers, beaver hunters, and mountain men, but whatever the name, they left an indelible mark on Nebraska and the nation.

For all intents, active fur trading in the west started with the Lewis and Clark expedition in 1804 and ended nearly 45 years later when the soft gold nuggets of forest and stream were far and few between. Nebraska's role in charting the fur frontier was that of a highway to the rich beaver grounds beyond, with the Platte and Missouri rivers serving as the main thoroughfares. However, when the western fur trade was in its infancy, the Nebraska Indians were a source of profitable business. One of the first to exploit the Nebraska riches was Juan Munier, who in 1789 obtained exclusive trading privileges with the Ponca Indians living near the mouth of the Niobrara.

But even Munier was not the first to discover the riches that lay along the Missouri River. Not long after Father Jacques Marquette and Louis Joliet discovered the mouth of the Missouri in 1673, French fur traders began to push canoes up the muddy waters in search of pelts. By the end of French occupancy in 1763, these traders had reached the mouth of the Platte River and possibly as far as the Niobrara.

To the arm-chair historian, the fur trader lived a romantic, yet simple life. He traveled over prairies unmarked with telephone poles and highways, traversed uncluttered mountains, and plied the turbid and unchannelized Missouri River. The beaver man was the advance force of civilization and to relate his effect on settling Nebraska is basically a three-part story. It is a tale of the men, the rivers, and the companies who financed wilderness expeditions.

The fur trader was a peculiar product of the American frontier. He walked where the more cautious pioneers stopped; he thrived on unknown dangers; and, he wandered through the west as free as the lonely wind. The feet of the nation walked on his moccasin trails, and towns sprang up where he built posts and winter cabins. His skin was dark from constant sun exposure, and his features were rough and often scarred. His long hair hung below his shoulders, and he wore a lowcrowned hat that (Continued on page 54)

HELLO of SPRING

SPRINGTIME, MOVING softly across the hills, fills every crest and hollow with a magic as old as time. It filters deep into the lungs of manr and winter-tired cells pulse with new life, reminiscent of a boyhood too long gone.

The Red Gods' call is strongest then, and a vagrant whiff of woodsmoke is the trigger to a restless yearning, an irresistible magnetic pull toward a favored campspot and a trout stream chuckling along at some private joke of its own. These are the days of fishing widows, and of fatherless boys, stewing in the overboil of the same restlessness, condemned to stare vacantly at meaningless texts.

If you are one of the favored, like Ron Chittim, Jerry Tallmon, and a canine named Megere,you have a legitimate excuse to bury yourself in an isolated pocket in the Pine Ridge, reveling in the new life that rides a singing breeze. A blue pond glitters in a warming sun. The new lures you field test for a leading manufacturer of fishing gear dart temptingly before the hungry eyes of the rainbows, browns, and brookies finning in the depths. The canyon's yellow walls toss shouted echoes forth and back, echoes that diminish to silence like the rings of a rising rainbow widening and smoothing into infinity.

Beyond the immediate rim, Hat and Squaw and Sowbelly creeks, as alike in looks as if spawned by a common spring, run their separate channels near as many roads. The browns hold King's Court in the crystal pools beneath the grasping roots of ash and cottonwood; sanctuary when foreign movement on the bank signals time to run.

The season's youth is felt in the warming strength of the sunny glades, but remnants of the one just past lingers in the chill of the shadow places, a chill that steps out boldly with the evening dark.

The campfire sends a blue-gray antenna into contact with the outer world, and the griddle on the red coals sags with the sizzling weight of the day's catch, while the bubbling coffee-pot adds its aroma to the melange of odors hanging in the air. Fresh wood on the fire starts red sparks dancing up to blend with blue-white stars in the arching heavens.

An early mosquito hums to a landing near a shirt collar and meets instant oblivion from an open-handed blow.

A return to the primitive, an oasis of escape. The camp quiets in the early spring night.

With the coming sunrise, the creek will lave the boots of the fisherman as he stalks his prey. Later, he will say farewell to this first hello of spring, and fortified in spirit return to work until the Red Gods call again.

Shootdown at GREENWOOD CREEK

Success takes its sweet time coming. Toms ignore our calls, so scoring is "something else"

A BRIGHT-EYED WOODLAND mouse rustled across a leaf, scurried up the side of a hollow log and surveyed the toe of my hunting boot. A shadow flitted across my hiding place, and the mouse darted for safety as a flock of pinion jays dropped into a nearby cedar to glean its berries.

The spring sun was trying to break through the afternoon haze as "Tom" Thomas, young Whiteclay rancher, along with veteran Texas outdoor writer, Byron Dalrymple, and myself sat shivering in the blind. We were trying to outfox a gobbler on the Greenwood Ranch southeast of Whiteclay, Nebraska, in northern Sheridan County. Tom's wife, Lorraine, was hunting with us, but domestic duties prevented her joining us that afternoon. Our trio had decided to wait along Greenwood Creek in hopes of intercepting the gobblers if they came to water.

Two big cottonwood logs formed our blind, 20 yards from the creek. It looked into the mouth of a canyon, which cut sharply into the ponderosas of the Pine Ridge. Turkey tracks indicated birds had been watering here.

"Listen!" Tom whispered, "Did you hear a gobbler?"

"Sure did." Byron answered. "He's way up in the ridge. Let's see if he'll answer a lonely hen."

The writer picked up his turkey call and sent yelps echoing into the canyon. The gobbler answered.

"We'll rest him a few minutes and see if he comes any closer," Byron decided, laying the call aside.

"Try again," I urged, fidgeting through a five-minute wait.

The call brought an immediate but distant answer. "No luck on him," Byron offered, "he's farther away now than he was."

An hour of silence passed. Tom nudged me in the ribs. Turning, I looked up the creek and saw a big hen. She had ghosted in from the canyon, staying concealed in the washout.

Standing motionless, she checked the creek for danger, eyed our blind, then looked back up the canyon and uttered a faint "pert, pert".

Byron, first gun in our trio, moved his hand toward the trigger as he eased his little 20-gauge slide-action into position. Seconds ticked off* as the hen, confident that all was clear, bent for a drink. Byron tensed as the hen looked up the washout again. A hundred heartbeats later, we saw a movement clear the edge of the washout, and a smaller hen joined the first.

The pair drank as we watched, hoping for a gobbler to show. The hens finished, pecked a few green tidbits of watercress, then vanished into the wash.

"That's not good for a middle-age heart," Byron said, breaking the tense silence.

"Dang toms are acting just like they did this morning," I complained. "They answer the call but won't come in. This cold weather must have slowed down their amorous inclinations."

Our hunt had started one-half hour before sunrise on the opening day of Nebraska's spring turkey season. Three gobblers had answered our call about sunrise. But, the birds were more (Continued on page 51)

MUSKIE DAY AT MERRITT

Fish dared me to make error, but I didn't. I needed him for proof

ONE OF MY rods was "set" with a worm on the end of the line, while I used my other one to cast artificials. It was 7 p.m. of June 15, 1967, and I was fishing for rainbow trout in Merritt Reservoir, an irrigation impoundment located some 20 miles south of Valentine. Suddenly, my bank rod arced as though a big rock had hit the bait. I dropped my casting rod and rushed over to the other, thinking, "That must be one fine fish."

Doubts crept in, though, when my catch just laid there. No self-respecting trout should act like that. He was like a log, a heavy weight to be reeled in. My six-pound-test line stretched and strained, as I reefed in the hulk. I had him nearly to shore before he broke the surface. When that "thing" poked his ugly snout out of the water, I stumbled back, partly out of disbelief and partly out of fright. He looked like a northern, but yet he didn't. One thing for sure, he wasn't the graceful trout I had anticipated.

Another trout fisherman, seeing all the excitement, came over to watch the struggle. My fish, meantime, apparently as startled as I was, dashed off for the middle of the lake.

I enjoy wetting a line every chance I get, and Merritt is one of my favorite spots. Just about every time I get up in the Valentine area on business, my fishing 26 NEBRASKAland gear goes along. I live in North Platte, and my job as claims manager for an insurance company keeps me on the road quite a bit. Nothing could suit me better, for my ofF hours are easily whiled away over any body of water that is handy.

After that first confrontation, the fish put 20 or 30 yards between us, and I was glad to be separated from him. Resignedly, I waited for him to get to the end of the line and snap it off, but he didn't. Instead, he stopped, and I started reeling in again, mostly through habit. Probably I would have hauled him right in, but my companion cautioned me to play him rather than lose him by horsing. So, the contest began anew.

Now he was scrapping hard. He dashed around, broke water several times, and as soon as I reeled in a few feet of line he would take it right back out. Again he broke water, shaking his head viciously. Luckily, my nearly-new rod and reel were good ones and equal to the workout.

My trout fisherman friend offered moral support and advice as the battle progressed. He told me he thought it was a tiger muskie, since he had fished for them in Minnesota and was sure he recognized the fish when it jumped. This confused me more, since a muskie had even less business being in Merritt than a northern. Still it was (Continued on page 54)

THIS IS TRAIL COUNTRY

UNTOLD THOUSANDS of words have been spun about the Old West. Some are just legend, some are hearsay, some are just plain fabrication, and some are facts, accurately recorded in the blood, sweat, and tears of pioneers.

In any case, whether it be fact or fable, there is a romance connected with the western frontier and that short span of years between the first call of "Westward Ho" and the expansion that brought civilization. It is reflected in myriad popular novels, innumerable movies, and the fantastic success of television westerns.

Nebraska played a leading role in the drama that was the taming of the West. Today, she can and is capitalizing on this fact, and this more than any other single factor will lead more and more tourists to her door. But, to take maximum advantage of the glamour and appeal of the Old West is a giant task.

For this reason, five great western states — Nebraska, North Dakota, South Dakota, Wyoming, and Montana—banded together to form the Old West Trail Foundation. All five are represented on the board of directors, as are private, tourist-related industries and attractions. Thus, through the foundation, Nebraska and the other four states can pool their limited finances and undertake ventures that none could tackle alone.

But, the Trail is more than a method for promotion. It is a self-guided tour through which each traveler can scout out the sights and events that most appeal to him. Wagon roads of yesterday have been replaced by modern highways, and each vacationer can drive in a few hours to spots that took pioneers weeks to reach.

The Trail spans the state encompassing everything from nationally-known sites like Boys Town to the history-rich and scenic Pine Ridge. Beginning in Omaha, Trail "riders" can detour along the Gateway City Trail to take in such sights as the Henry Doorly Zoo, Boys Town —Father Flanagan's famed City of Little Men, the Union Pacific Museum with its extensive collection of Lincoln artifacts, the renowned Joslyn Art Museum which has housed such acclaimed displays as the Dead Sea Scrolls, Ak-Sar-Ben with its action-packed horse racing, Bellevue —the state's oldest town, and the Mormon Cemetery, a tribute to the "Saints" who perished during the long overland trek in search of their "Promised Land". While there, visitors can sample some excellent Nebraska beef at Omaha's numerous clubs and steakhouses.

Leaving the Gateway City, the Trail winds northward to Winnebago and Macy to take in the age-old pageantry of the Omaha and Winnebago Indians. Each summer, the two tribes recall their past glories in powwows where even palefaces are welcome.

Still heading north, there's a perfect spot to circle the wagons at picturesque Ponca State Park, which nestles among the bluffs of the mighty Missouri River, itself a link in the westward expansion. Angling along Nebraska's northeastern border from Ponca, travelers soon arrive at another fun-in-the-sun spot, Lewis and Clark Lake. Near the spot where the giant power-producer Gavins Point Dam now stands, the famed explorers met in "Grand Council" with the Sioux.

From the lake, the Trail branches, striking north into South Dakota or westward to the NEBRASKAland version of a South Seas island, otherwise known as Niobrara State Park. The scenic park provides ample facilities for basking in the sun and communing with nature. Among other attractions are a swimming pool and a golf course.

Moving on to Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge near Valentine, visitors can get close-up views of longhorns that were the backbone of the early beef empires, herds of mammoth buffalo, elk, deer, and other wildlife. Also nearby is the Nenzel Division of the Nebraska National Forest, the nation's largest man-planted timber. To the south is the Valentine National Wildlife Refuge, a haven for waterfowl and a prime spot for bass and northern pike fishing. Dropping even farther south, the Trail leads to the Bessey Division of the Nebraska National Forest, the main area which includes a self-guided tour, excellent camping, and a swimming pool.

From the forest, the Trail again heads west through some of nature's most unique scenery, the mid-grass prairie known as Nebraska's Sand Hills. From Thedford to Alliance, sightseers are treated to some of the most intriguing areas the "hills" have to offer.

Then, as the Trail angles northwest, it moves into perhaps the most historic and scenic area in NEBRASKAland-the fabled Pine Ridge. The route encompasses the heart of this ponderosa-studded region, including entrancing Chadron State Park, the Museum of the Fur Trade, and history-rich Fort Robinson. Here were fought some of the fiercest battles of the Indian Wars, and here the famed Sioux war chief Crazy Horse met his death on a soldier's bayonet. Here, too, time seems to stand still in the rugged, almost impenetrable region of the Badlands and Toadstool Park. Much of this eerie, windswept area is approachable only on foot or by horseback.

Leaving this land where the Old West is still very much a part of today, the Trail crosses into Wyoming, or travelers can swing south to another Nebraska beauty spot, the Wildcat Hills. This area, too, is steeped in history, and legends linger over the landscape, for here the Trail joins the Platte River Valley —the route of the pioneers who sought a new life at the end of the Oregon Trail.

Backtracking along the ruts of their wagons, the Trail passes by Scotts Bluff and Chimney Rock, both

Go Adventuring on the OLD WEST TRAIL

important milestones in the westward trek and both now national shrines. And, at Scotts Bluff National Monument, a museum recounts the trials and tribulations suffered by those who paved the way West. From here, Trail riders can either head west to Wyoming or east to historic Ash Hollow, near Lewellen, where ruts of the heavily-laden prairie schooners are still visible.

Moving eastward now, the traveler can return to the pleasures of the 20th Century at giant Lake McConaughy, near Ogallala. NEBRASKAland's largest reservoir^ with over 35,000 surface acres, Big Mac offers anyone any water-related activity he could wish. While there, visitors can relive the rip-roaring day of the "end of the trail" at Nebraska's Cowboy Capital, Ogallala. High-stepping dance hall girls add to the flavor of the real West recaptured at Front Street, Boot Hill, and the cowboy museum which gives visitors an insight into Nebraska's wild past.

Then, it's onward again to North Platte, home of Buffalo Bill Cody and the birthplace of rodeo. Here, too, the West that was lives on. Bill's ranch has been restored as a state historical park, and in June, Wild West enthusiasts can enjoy all the pageantry and woolly action of the Old West during NEBRASKAland DAYS.

Down the road a short piece, brave bluecoats of frontier days rest alongside heroes of other wars at Fort McPherson National Cemetery, and at McCook visitors can retrace the life of one of Nebraska's favorite sons, Senator George W. Norris, father of TVA, rural electrification, and the state's unique Unicameral.

The pounding hooves of the stout-hearted steeds that carried the gallant riders of the lightning mail 30 NEBRASKAland still seem to echo through the timber of the original Pony Express station at Gothenburg, while at Lexington another of Nebraska's many lakes, Johnson, provides cooling respite from the day's drive. From there, it is but a short jaunt to another link in the string of posts that helped win the West. Fort Kearny, near Kearney, with its stockade and other reconstructed buildings, was an important outpost along the Overland Trail.

Nearby, Minden's Pioneer Village with its fantastic collection of Americana has been voted one of the Top 20 tourist attractions in the nation. Tracing man's progress for the past century and a half, Pioneer Village boasts all manner of exhibits from button collections to antique fire engines and from an old country school to grandma's butter churn. From Minden, a short detour south takes in Harlan County Reservoir, another of Nebraska's water sports meccas.

For those with a yen to examine the relics of the past, the House of Yesterday at Hastings provides still another opportunity. And, just a few miles north, at Grand Island, an intriguing new complex is taking shape at the Stuhr Museum of the Prairie Pioneer. This unusual development, which opened just last year, will eventually include such replicas as a wagon train encampment, an Indian village, and a trapper's cabin.

In the Capital City of Lincoln, the Trail takes in the world-famed State Capitol, the extraordinary Children's Zoo, the State Historical Society Museum, and the University of Nebraska's "Elephant Hall", with its exhibits of eons-old beasts. To the south, at Beatrice, visitors can explore the (Continued on page 50)

WHEELS OF WIND

HERE ARE 450,000 words in our lexicon, many of them synonyms, different words for the same thing, but there is only one word for windmill......that is windmill. This is surprising, for windmills have been whirring away some 800 years, and surely the wordsmiths have had time to coin a more picturesque term for these faithful servants.

But an elaborate name is probably not appropriate, for a windmill is a simple, uncomplicated device that needs only wind and water to fulfill its destiny. Since windmills are so undemanding, they are taken for granted. Yet, windmills have done more to ease man's lot than many other inventions that have enjoyed better public relations.

Serious historians say that windmills are largely responsible for development and settlement of one quarter of America. Without the mill it is doubtful if man could have tamed the Great Plains, for without water he is ineffectual and well nigh helpless. The windmill gave the settler the water lie twedcd to make the fertile but often too dry midsection of this country the greatest granary in the world.

Nebraska and windmills have been partners for at least three generations. In pioneer days, the windmill brought water to the homesteader's soddy, quenched his thirst, watered his stock, irrigated his garden, and bathed his sweaty body. In later years, the windmill supplied the water tfiat filled the thirsty boilers of steam locomotives, and changed cattle ranching from a nomadic industry to a relatively stable one with range ownership and well-defined property lines. Windmills are one of the few mechanical devices that can transform a great natural force into a benefit with a minimum of human effort and expense, for the restless wind demands no wage.

Engineers claim windmills are inefficient, using only 15 per cent of their total energy source. But a windmill doesn't know this, and keeps right on pumping water and spewing it out for all to use. A husky youngster, electricity, is pushing the windmill out of eastern Nebraska, but he is often tempermental and demanding. Besides he is a worker of the crowded places, the cities, and the towns. The lonely West, domain of the windmill, is not for him.

Windmills began to dot NEBRASKAland around 1880, and for 50 years they were as much a part of the state as blocky Herefords and tall corn. One of Nebraska's oldest continuing industries, Dempster Industries Inc., of Beatrice, began as a mill maker in 1885. This company still makes mills, mostly for export to the underdeveloped nations, as the American demand is thin. Only two other American companies continue to make them.

The adjective, lonely, is often applied to windmills, and to the casual eye, they are lonely structures, gaunt and isolated against the Sand Hills sky. But a windmill is really a community center of the outdoor world. It is a social hub where cattle drink and rest while lesser animals such as deer, kangaroo rats, coyotes, and prairie grouse forget their natural enmities for the mill's life-giving water. And certainly, no human, blistered by the relentless sun and footsore from the rolling choppies, can ignore the cooling promise that waits beneath a mill.

Perhaps a windmill's greatest attribute is its imperturbability. Summer heat, winter cold, spring rain, or autumn gale, the windmill faces them all with equanimity. A simple device, the windmill is basically a circle or fan of metal blades, a gear-box, a system of connecting rods, and an on-and-off brake, all connected to a pump. A tower lifts the head or wheel high, and a tail fin or vane acts as a rudder to keep the head in the wind.

If the Great American West has a symbol of its philosophy, that symbol is the windmill, for it, like the Westerner, is at home in the open, a neighbor of nature, a hard worker, and above all, a non-complainer.

THE FLINTLOCKS ARE COMING

BILL IHM had a lock on the unsuspecting jackrabbit — a flintlock. Slowly, Bill eased into position, leveled the long Kentucky, and touched the front trigger. There was a shower of sparks, a sharp crack, a belch of smoke, and the rabbit lay kicking on the hillside, a Minie ball through his neck.

"I am getting better all the time," Bill said to himself, patting the carved stock of his flintlock.

Bill wasn't congratulating his marksmanship, he was thinking of his skill in making flintlock rifles, a skill that is almost an art and one that is becoming more popular every day.

A chemist with the Fisheries Division of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, Bill makes his rifles in a little 2x4 annex attached to his trailer home in Davey, Nebraska. His current creation, a 45-caliber beauty of curly maple, elaborate raised relief carving, browned steel, and decorative brass is his favorite. Not so many weeks before, his graceful Kentucky was only a collection of hardware, lumber, and an idea. His carving designs follow geometric patterns and come from 42 NEBRASKAland almost anywhere. A pattern on his wife's jewelry box inspired the carving on his latest rifle.

It took Bill six weeks of pretty steady spare-time work to build his rifle. Most of the time was spent in shaping the full stock from a blank. Channeling for the 44-inch octagon barrel was a tedious job, but it was child's play compared to the painstaking work of carving the stock and inletting it for the brass decorations. One slip of the chisel and all the carefully executed carving can go blah with not much chance of salvage. Inletting and carving is mallet and chisel work coupled with plenty of patience. Rough shaping goes fast, but final fitting is agonizingly slow. Once the stock is shaped, there's sanding, smoothing, staining, and polishing to bring out the natural beauty of the wood. A perfect "tiger-tail", accented dark stripes on a taffycolor background, is the dream of every stock maker.

The stock of a Kentucky is an eye-catcher, but it is only a small part of the total effort that goes into the making of a flintlock. Barrel and breech plug have to be assembled, lock and trigger mechanisms have to be meshed and adjusted, sights have to be installed, and hours and hours of careful cutting and fitting are required to accommodate the metal decorations or trappings that add so much to the gun's appearance.

No other firearm in history has ever been emblazoned with so much decoration as the Kentucky long rifle. For more than 200 years, the flintlock dominated individual weaponry. It began as a plain Jane and grew to a frilly Betsy over its long span, but plain or fancy, it did the job it was designed to do — shoot and shoot well. Today's versions of the old flintlocks obey the tradition. Bill has made seven rifles in the last three years, and every one of them shoots straight and true.

Ihm, a transplanted Nebraskan, has a life-long affection for old guns. As a boy in Iowa, he admired a collection of Civil War muskets in his grandfather's store. They were percussion muzzle-loaders and crude by any standards, but to the youngster they were romantic weapons and he ached to handle them. Later, his interest shifted to the flintlocks, but finding an authentic Kentucky is difficult. Collectors have bought up most of them, and Bill knew it might be years before he got a lead on a genuine flintlock.

So he decided to make one. It was slow, hard, and frustrating work since he had to develop his skill as he went along.

"That first rifle was pretty doggy compared to the ones I make now, but at the time I thought it was the greatest modern-day flintlock in the world," Bill recalls.

"I tried to make everything but the barrel and breech plug. I designed and shaped the trigger guard, designed and made my own trappings and even attempted a lock. I made most of the parts, but they were a long ways from perfect."

Today, Bill buys most of the component parts, finishes them to his desires, and fits them to his rifles.

"You might say I'm more of an assembler than an actual gunsmith, but I do all of my own woodwork and design and make my own trappings. Don't let anyone tell you that components are ready to slap on a rifle as they come from the manufacturers. They need an awful lot of work," he claims.

Like the rifle makers of old, Bill is developing his own characteristic style. The "roman nose", a slight swell or thickening of the comb just ahead of the small or wrist of the stock, identifies an Ihm-made flintlock.

One of the simple-looking but tough jobs on a Kentucky is recessing the stock for the patch box, a cavity in the butt that holds a supply of patches that are used to separate the powder from the ball in the muzzle gulpers.

The patch box is tough to fit. Its cover has to be tight enough to stay closed under normal handling and still be loose enough to be flipped open with a fingernail. Getting thejust-right bearing surfaces between box and lid and adjusting the spring tension on the cover hinge are tedious propositions. Shaping and fitting the metal butt plate is another time-consumer.

Bill buys rifled barrel blanks with a 1 in 66 twist, believing the long twist improves accuracy. Instead of blueing the metalware, the Davey gunmaker browns it, to give his rifles their chestnut patinas.

In buying and assembling the components, Bill is following the lead of the old-time Pennsylvania gunmakers. Contrary to (Continued on page 49)

Meet Me In GRAND ISLAND

COME JUNE, Nebraska's population will take a sudden spurt when about 9,000 people and their 3,000 "dwellings" descend on Grand Island's Fonner Park. Like the Arctic lemmings streaming toward the sea, these trailerites will roll in from every corner of the compass, bound for Wally Byam Caravan Club's 11th International Rally. This rally, the first ever to be held in Nebraska, will begin June 27 and continue through July 4. Trailerites from Canada, Mexico, and all 50 states will make the pilgrimage. The early summer stay is expected to be memorable and enjoyable for both Nebraskans and their guests.

Limited to Airstream Travel Trailer owners, the club was founded by the late Wally Byam who built the first Airstream more than 30 years ago. A sketch of Wally superimposed over a world in profile is the official emblem of the organization. Individuals wear blue berets to signify their membership. Many of the rally-goers will come early, and live in Nebraska for a few weeks before the rally starts.

They will wander around the state, footloose and fancy-free, and pick up and go to see what they want to see," said Joe McCrory, executive director of the club.

Trips to Fort Robinson, Buffalo Bill's Ranch in North Platte, Grand Island's Stuhr Museum, Pioneer Village in Minden, House of Yesterday in Hastings, industrial sites, and farms will keep the trailerites on the go before, during, and after the rally. Fishermen in these vacation homes will keep their gear on standby for frequent trips to Nebraska lakes and rivers. Many of the rally-goers are square-dance enthusiasts and plan to take in the 17th annual square-dancing convention in Omaha, June 20 through 22.

"Ak-Sar-Ben in Omaha will draw many of them, too. These people think nothing of driving 100 miles in one day to see something," claims Regional President G. Clare Buskirk of Lincoln.

Chairmen of key committees will roll into Grand Island about June 1. These men and assisting club members will make final preparations for opening the rally grounds on June 20. They will stake out 3,682 plots, though the final tally may show anywhere from 1,500 to 4,000 trailers and up to 11,000 people registered.

The vastness of this 1968 International Roundup almost defies imagination. Logistics involved in accommodating 9,000 people at one time is staggering. Thanks to planning by rally officials, in co-operation with the Grand Island Chamber of Commerce and Fonner Park officials, most of the problems will be ironed out before the first trailerites arrive.

Rally officials won't be able to keep Grand Island business men posted on how many people are expected at Fonner Park each (Continued on page 48)

CRAZY ABOUT SKUNKS

A SKUNK doesn't try to make friends, but he can influence people. Ernie Hansen and I bumped into a skunk a good many years ago, and before the affair was over, both of us wished we had spent the morning digging gophers. That particular meadowland pussycat was a rough specimen.

When I found Ernie, he was down on his knees peering into a siphon. Mike, a rangy sheep dog, was at his side.

T just saw him run in," he said, glancing up. "It n't a civet cat either. It was a skunk."

I dropped down and looked into the tile. It was too dark to spot any activity, so I straightened up, but Ernie continued to gaze into the interior of the gloomy siphon.

"We can't smoke him out. The pipe is too big," he mumbled. "Anyway, I doubt if the smoke would go down that sharp bend".

"Just leave him alone," I suggested.

Ernie quickly dismissed the idea and turned to Mike. On Ernie's command, the dog sniffed at the siphon's entrance, followed the scent into the tile, and after a perfunctory appraisal of the situation, backed out and sat down.

"Go ahead, Mike," Ernie urged. "Bring him out."

Mike didn't move. He was all too familiar with the defensive apparatus of a skunk and had no intentions of going into that tile.

"I am ashamed of you, Mike," Ernie declared. "I don't know whether you're afraid of the hole or the skunk. If it wasn't so wet in there, I would go after him myself. I may, anyway."

"If you do, you don't have as much sense as the dog," I jeered.

Ernie pretended not to hear and crossed a double set of railroad tracks to examine the other end of the tile. Returning, he crawled into the tile to the drop, struck a match, and peered into the darkness.

"I am going to the shop after a pole and a lantern," he announced. "The tile is big enough to crawl through and I will chase the skunk in front of me. You hunt up a good stick and hit him when he comes out."

"Do you think I'm crazy?" I shouted. "I'm not going to hit a skunk with a stick, not even a long stick. That's almost as crazy as crawling in a tile after him."

"Just as he comes out," Ernie called back as he jogged away.

Hitting a skunk at close range with a stick put me in the same intellectual category as a player of Russian roulette, except my odds were less. I was going to ask Ernie to bring a rifle, but I figured the odds of a good stiff spray were about the same. On his return Ernie had a short fishing rod, some empty sacks, wire, a lantern, and some other odds and ends.

"Hold the rod while I wire the sacks to its end," he directed. "I will push that toward the skunk as I crawl along. I have a stick to rattle against the side of the tile. Can you think of anything else?"

I could. Someone had forgotten to pass out the brains. While I was busy trying to convey that thought to Ernie, he disappeared into the tile. Seconds later, I heard him sliding down to the lower part of the siphon. I sat down on an abutment and listened. Judging from the sounds, the skunk was giving ground sullenly and defiantly. Along with the rattling stick, Ernie kept up a steady flow of talk and shouts, so he wouldn't take the skunk by surprise. As my partner and the skunk neared the opening, the noise reached a grand crescendo. I found a large stick, and got ready to do my job.

"Here he comes; watch him!" Ernie shouted.

Just then the skunk, looking somewhat bewildered, unwillingly trotted out into the open. I gritted my teeth, took careful aim, and swung the stick mightily. The crushing blow should have rendered the skunk senseless, but my eye-closing shot must have missed. I caught a glimpse of the striped cat as he scurried back into the tile. Trouble was not far ahead and I swallowed nervously waiting for it to arrive. A furious uproar and an unmistakable odor rose from the bowels of the tile.

"Did I get him?" I called, peering into the tile. "Is he dead?"

I knew the answer, but at the same time it didn't seem possible that anything could smell that bad and still be alive. Up through the earth came the sound of Ernie in full retreat and with it my answer.

"No, you didn't get him and he isn't dead."

"Well, come on out of there," I shouted into the entrance.

When I didn't get a reply, I crawled into the siphon to where it began its descent and repeated the advice. Faint light from the lantern reflected off the wet sides of the tile and grew brighter as Ernie backed closer. With him came the stench and I scrambled for open air. When Ernie didn't appear after several minutes, I called into the entrance again.

"What's the matter down there?"

"I can't back up the slope of the siphon," he panted. "It's covered with mud and I keep slipping back down."

"Well, quit trying to back up," I answered. "Turn around and come out frontwards."

"Yeah!" Ernie's voice showed some anger. "Did you ever try to turn around in a 30-inch tile?"

I sat down on the ditch beside Mike and pondered this new problem. Mike cocked an eye at the diminishing sounds of the struggle and then laid down.

"You got into a mess," I called out after deliberating for a few minutes.

There was a violent eruption in the tile.

"I got myself into a mess?" Ernie exploded. "Not me. I was getting along just fine until you and the skunk got so buddy-buddy. Run over to the shop and get me some rope, so I can pull myself out."

There wasn't a coil of rope at the shop, or in the barn, or on the porch. I trotted back to the siphon and related the bad news to Ernie. When I told him there was another eruption deep within the earth.

"Well, crawl in here and see if you can reach my feet," my buddy grumbled. "If you can, maybe I can pull my self up."

I could barely stand the smell as I crawled into the siphon and stopped at the dip. There, six feet below me, Ernie's outstreched form was dimly outlined by the lantern. Between us were several feet of slanting muddy tile. His fishing rod was beside him and it gave me an idea.

"Work your pole back past you and I will grab the end. You hang onto the other end and I will try to pull you out. Don't pull me down there with you," I suggested.

Bracing against the sides of the tile, I grasped the end of the pole, and (Continued on page 51)

MEET ME IN GRAND ISLAND

day. However, grocery stores, department stores, service stations, restaurants, and other retailers will be wise to stock dumfounding quantities of extra supplies. Three years ago in Wyoming, quite a few Laramie merchants ran out of supplies and had to send out an SOS, according to Frank Norris, director of tourism for the state of Wyoming.

Many of the club members are senior citizens who live in their trailers the year-round. Wherever they go, they patronize shoe-repair shops, bookstores, launderettes, movies, and car dealers as if they are in their home towns.

"When he's here, he's home," McCrory described the typical trailerite. "If he sees something he wants, he buys it if he can afford it. He doesn't come to town with his refrigerator loaded; he buys at the local stores. Motorcycle dealers in Cadillac, Michigan, sold all 42 motor bikes in town during the rally there two years ago.

"These people know what something should cost, too," he added. "If a store boosts prices while they are here, a note is posted on the bulletin board and that store is boycotted for the duration of the rally.

"By the same token, they don't want discounts. If any member asks for a discount because the Wally Byam Caravan Club is in town, merchants are asked to take his name and report it to rally officials. Pressure put on that person will be so great he will never do it again."

McCrory estimates the rally will bring $2.5 million in new money to Grand Island alone —money that wouldn't be in Nebraska otherwise. Every type of business in town will benefit from the rally. Last year in California, at the Santa Rosa rally, the 2,159 travel-trailer families imported at least $1.6 million.

The glass-enclosed grandstand and the concourse sold Wally Byam officials on Fonner Park. At most rallies, expensive and cumbersome elephant tents must be erected to accommodate everyone for the activities and shows.

"People don't like tents. Acoustics in tents are terrible, and older persons have a certain amount of fear concerning tents and ropes," said McCrory. "Fonner Park's unique grandstand eliminates these problems."

Fonner Park facilities will save rally officials the trouble of setting up their own. Restrooms, bulletin-board space, and rooms for services like first aid already exist. Also, Grand Island is almost at the geographical center of the threenation continent where the trailer travelers will come from.

Rally officials have contracted for 2 1/2 million gallons of water. If it's dry and dusty, they will use a million more to sprinkle the roads between the rows of trailers. A little less than four miles of two-inch steel pipes will be delivered to Fonner Park. Advance committees will hire a trench digger and then pitch in to lay that lengthy 19,450 feet of pipes in a crisscross maze. To get tap water, each trailer will hook its hose to a pipe somewhere in the maze.

Contracts have also been signed for about 150,000 pounds of propane for refrigerators, hot-water heaters, and stoves. Electrical hookups are out. The trailers will use battery power at Fonner Park, since it would require as much wiring for the week-long rally as it takes to provide electricity for a city twice the size of Wayne the year-round.

Committees are established for everything that needs to be done. There's 102 of them, including a water committee, an entertainment committee, a parking committee, and even a gopher-hole committee.

Gophers really don't make the holes. After each trailer parks, a locally-hired, machine-powered, post-hole digger will make a sewer pit 4 feet deep and 12 inches across. Trailerites masquerade their gopher-hole covers with flowers, signs, or any decorations they think might win the gopher-hole contest which is one of the club's fun events.

Keeping 9,000 people garbage-free is a monumental task, but a young army of 600 trash cans will solve that problem. A Grand Island garbage-hauling service has been hired to dispose of the refuse.

Locating friends will be a snap. Every street will be marked and two mammoth bulletin boards at grandstand headquarters will list all the rally-goers. As each trailer pulls into Fonner Park, the registration committee will list its location on the plot plan board and' list alphabetically the owner's name on the rally-ground directory.

Motorcycle escorts will help newcomers find their assigned spots. People who cannot walk easily or who use wheelchairs will be parked in choice slots near the grandstand.

No town is a town without its own post office. Fonner Park will have one at rally time, and a retired postmaster from Ohio will handle nearly 6,000 pieces of incoming mail each day. Members with police experience will provide daytime protection for this nearly self-contained city. At night the rally-goers will hire Grand Island policemen to ride herd and give their own men a rest. Firemen, however, won't be on duty. All the trailers are metal, and a coiled water hose will lie next to each trailer. Club doctors and nurses will keep the ill and the accident-prone healthy.

At international rallies like Grand Island's, Wally Byam people prefer parking their trailers in wagon-wheel formation with the tent at the hub. But the half-mile-wide, half-mile-deep, wellsodded level field at Fonner Park dictates a semi-wagon wheel, with the grandstand at the hub.

With Governor Norbert Tiemann and other state dignitaries watching, flags from all three North American nations will be raised at the rally's opening ceremonies, for the Wally Byam Caravan Club is international in scope.

Part of the Wally Byam Creed reads: "To play some part in promoting international good will and understanding among the peoples of the world through person-to-person contact". That person-to-person contact will be the rally-goers' ticket to understanding how people live and work in this "where the West begins" state.

During rally week, everything from chess, horseshoe, and golf tournaments to crafts, skits, talent and hobby shows, hoedowns, and a Pioneer Night will keep the trailer families bouncing. A Teen Queen Contest will be held for teen-age daughters and granddaughters of members. Club members 30 years old or over will be eligible for the first-time-this-year King and Queen crowns. Professional entertainers, usually named just before the rally, will put on a one-night performance. Some 4,000 to 6,000 people will shake hands with the club's new president at his reception, and about 2,000 will dance to a professional orchestra on the concourse at the inaugural ball.

Roman Catholics at the rally can go to mass at Fonner Park on June 23 and 30. Retired ministers in the club will conduct interdenominational services each Sunday for Protestants, too. Guest ministers from Grand Island will deliver the sermons. Collections taken will go to one of three charities recommended by the Grand Island Ministerial Association.

Since Wally Byam Caravan Club International is a non-profit organization, members cannot sell anything at the rally. So GIP, the Grand Island Promotion committee of the Chamber of Commerce, will run the ice cream parlor with its old-fashioned soda-shop stools to meet sweet-tooth desires. About 36,000 ice cream cones went over the parlor's counter at Santa Rosa's rally last year.

From Ak-Sar-Ben in the east to Fort Robinson in the west, NEBRASKAland will welcome this invasion of a city one-third the size of Grand Island. When the rally ends, no bumper-to-bumper trailer parades will block traffic for miles and miles. The Wally Byam people will leave in twos and threes, and two days later only committee members will be left to gather up the loose ends. The four winds will have caught the rally-goers and scattered them around Nebraska to sample the state's hospitality. THE END

FLINTLOCKS ARE COMING

popular belief, few of the old-timers made a flintlock, "lock, stock, and barrel". They were specialists, with one making barrels, another working on locks, and still another forging frizzens.

The term Kentucky is actually a misnomer for the old flintlocks. Most of them that won lasting fame on "The Dark and Bloody Ground" were made in Pennsylvania, where gunsmithing was a high art and a flourishing industry.

The firing cycle of a flintlock looks complicated, but actually it's quite simple. A hammer, holding the flint, is activated by the trigger. Most flintlocks employ the set-trigger system. The back trigger "sets" the lock mechanism while the front or hair trigger touches if off. Driven by a spring, the hammer-held flint strikes the hardened frizzen, creating a shower of sparks. These fall into the powder-primed pan and ignite. Flame from the priming powder passes through the touchhole and fires the main powder charge in the barrel. Its expanding gases force the ball through the barrel and send it on its way to the target.

Bill does some hunting with his flintlocks, but most of his shooting is confined to paper targets.

"I shoot a few jackrabbits and cottontails, and I have my eye on a prairie dog town, but I get more pleasure out of making than snooting flintlocks," he says.

Last deer season Bill took one of his pets deer hunting and managed to connect with a small forkhorn.

"He sagged when I hit him, then recovered and made off, but the round ball had done its work. My buck collapsed after a hundred yards or so, and he was about done when I got to him," he said.

Bill's flintlocks are accurate. From a rest, they'll consistently print two-inch groups at 50 yards and will deliver acceptable accuracy at 100 yards. They are black-powder burners all the way and velocity of the 45-caliber, 132-grain lead ball is around 1,500 feet per second.

In a way, Bill and the other Nebraskans who make and shoot flintlocks are pioneers. The graceful Kentuckies were never very popular in the West. Percussion muzzle-loaders were well developed before settlers started streaming into Nebraska and other western states. These percussion arms were uglier and heavier than the flintlocks, but they were more dependable. Also, the long and fragile Kentucky was never made for carrying on a horse. Western game was another factor. The relatively smallcaliber rifle was fine for the mild-natured, thin-skinned animals of the East, but it didn't have the slam-them-down authority needed to drop a buffalo or discourage a grizzly.

But now, 200 years after their heyday, the graceful flintlocks are making their appearance in NEBRASKAland, thanks to Bill and others who are bringing great old-time rifles into a country where men have always admired and cherished fine firearms.

TRAIL COUNTRY

nation's first homestead at Homestead National Monument.

Returning once more to NEBRASKAland's eastern border, the days of the rowdy river town come to life at Brownville, one of the oldest settlements in the state, a jumping-off point for westward-bound pioneers, and an important riverboat stop during the heyday of the Missouri River. Upstream, the last stop on the Trail in Nebraska takes travelers to Nebraska City, the home of J. Sterling Morton, founder of Arbor Day. His mansion, Arbor Lodge, has been restored as a state historical park and possesses an arboretum with hundreds of trees from throughout the world. Another point of interest in Nebraska City is John Brown's Cave, one of the many "depots" on the underground railroad.

This then is the Old West Trail in NEBRASKAland. It may take a bit of doing to see it all, but such a journey is well-worth the effort. And, this same thought is being presented to all America through the many Trail promotions. This summer, 20 families will tour Trail country thanks to a joint endeavor worked out with Kellogg cereals. A three-pronged program with Kellogg will result in lfe billion package exposures on 10 different cereals, as well as reaching millions of American homes through 33 commercials on 16 top network television shows.

A second major promotion is a 20-minute movie by award-winning producer John Savage. Released by Paramount this spring, "The Old West Trail" will accompany a major feature film to theaters across the nation during the next two years. Other developments include fly-and-drive promotions with airlines and car-rental firms, and colorful brochures, available free from the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, outline the Trail in detail.

Soon, nearly every family in the United States will be urged to "Go Adventuring on the Old West Trail". It's the place to go, partner. Why not join the fun?

CRAZY ABOUT SKUNKS

Ernie slowly worked his way up. At the top, he pushed past me with a rush.

Mud covered his clothes, soot from the lantern blackened his face, and tear paths ran from his eyes.

"So you hit him when he came out?" he spat. "It must have been a real sociable blow."

I didn't feel guilty. If I was at fault and Ernie blameless, how come he was down in the tile instead of myself? At the same time, I wondered what permitted me to become involved in such situations.

"He had a tough hide," I continued.

Ernie didn't reply. He made futile efforts at wiping his face with his muddy coat sleeve and took a deep breath.

"Let's get to the house and get out of our clothes," he said. "I don't know if they can be salvaged or not. We can bury them and try."

"Nothing is wrong with my clothes," I said, following a respectable distance behind. "I don't smell."

Mike was following still farther behind and as I neared the house, I waited for him to catch up. He refused to come closer than ten yards. The dog's action was not lost on Ernie.

"You can bury your clothes, too," Ernie said with a trace of satisfaction in his voice. "You just think you don't smell, but you can't fool a dog."

SHOOTD0WN AT GREENWOOD CREEK

intent on their strutting than seeking out the hen we were trying to imitate. When the toms moved off, Byron and I stalked them and succeeded in getting within 150 yards before we ran out of cover. They soon trotted up a ridge and disappeared into the buttes.

Tom and Lorraine, working from the blind, had much the same success and made a sneak on the three gobblers after they went into the ridge. They, too, had to watch helplessly as the birds ran out on them.

The afternoon in the blind gave us hope that the birds would show sooner or later, and Tom suggested we go to the ranch for some hot coffee, pick up Lorraine, then get a makeshift blind together near a stand of big cottonwoods 300 yards downstream. The turkeys had been using the trees to roost in. The last couple hours in the day might produce there.

An hour later, warmed and eager, we hiked the quarter mile to the creek. Byron, Tom, and Lorraine would hide in a patch of heavy brush some 50 yards from the roost trees. I volunteered to use our afternoon blind, where Tom had seen birds come down the dry wash on their way to roost.

Just before sunset I saw a lone hen feeding her way toward the roost. With only 10 minutes of shooting time remaining. I kept hoping a torn would come along. Then I heard my partners leaving their blind. Leaving the creek, I took a shortcut across the pasture toward the ranch. Stopping to light a cigarette I noticed movement along the hogback that came out of the ridge toward the roost trees. Glassing the area, I saw a dozen birds trotting down the hillside toward the trees. I figured they had seen or heard the other hunters and stayed under cover.

"See any birds?" Tom asked as the trio joined me.

"One hen while I was in the blind," I answered.

"We saw her, too," Byron interjected. "She came within 10 yards of us, then flew up in the roost tree. She spooked when we left."

"Tomorrow's the day," I continued. 'Those birds watched you leave, then came running down that hogback to the roost. If we can get into a good spot in the morning we should score. With that many birds there has to be a torn or two."

"When they come off the roost, they usually work down the creek into the alfalfa field or fly across it near the blind," Tom informed us. "I suggest the same set-up tomorrow that we used this morning."

Next morning, Byron and I worked up a makeshift blind where we had seen the three birds opening morning.

"Birds might be late coming off the roost with this overcast," the Texan whispered as I fed two rounds of No. 4 shot into my 12-gauge side-by-side.

"Agreed," I answered, "but they should be coming down soon."

Byron and I were reflecting on turkey hunting and guns when we were interrupted by a rattling gobble near the roosting area. The sound was followed by two more.

"Could be our three old boys from yesterday," Byron suggested.

The writer waited a few moments, then sent out the yelping notes of a hen. The gobbler's answer came from the same area. We waited, if they wanted to socialize we were ready. At least 10 minutes passed. The toms gobbled again, but this time the sound came from the area south of the roost trees.

"They're evidently going back up the ridge again," I said, somewhat chagrined. "Either we aren't saying the right thing, or those toms are just so much talk."

"This cold weather could be the trouble," Byron (Continued on page 53)

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Best Defense: Attack. Charles Laux of Freeport, Pennsylvania, tells how one night while coon hunting with his dogs that had never run deer, his dogs were attacked by a buck deer. The dogs naturally fought back and the deer took them into a creek that was about four feet deep. The deer clobbered the dogs, and kept pushing one dog under with his hooyes. Whenever he came up he shoved him under again. Laux, fearing for the lives of his dogs, tried to beat the buck over the head with a cane. He hit the deer on the head and the cane bounced back, striking him on the chin and bruising him badly. The deer finally tired of the fight and left. The dogs did not make any move to follow.— Pennsylvania

Lucky Deer. Lloyd Dyer, an El Reno, Oklahoma hunter, had looked forward to the deer season for months. When the season opened, he made the long trek to southeast Oklahoma and began hunting near Sam Williams' Mountain. Dyer shot at a deer and then started running down the side of the mountain toward the animal. He stepped on a loose rock and fell. X-rays revealed a broken bone in his left leg. — Oklahoma

Dirty Trick. A 15-year-old Colorado boy never liked to hunt alone, but he is getting over that. During last year's duck season he rode his bike to a local lake for a little hunting. After waiting several hours for a blind, he finally got one, and set up shop for the hunt. Shortly afterward a man and his young son came along and asked if they could share the blind. While the man was getting his hunting equipment installed, our lad downed two ducks. The man sent his son after them, which seemed like a friendly gesture. But, the duck shooting seemed slack, and the man said to his son, "Come on, let's go home, we've got our ducks," and away they went with the 15-year-old boy's ducks. - Colorado

Lion's Share. The mountain lion lives about 12 years, even though it has few natural enemies within its range, except the bear, jaguar, and porcupine. So he must live dangerously. —South Carolina Wildlife

Want a Whale? The Interior Department's Bureau of Sport Fisheries and Wildlife receives some unusual requests, and is often times stumped for an answer. Take the case of the lady who wrote asking where she might find some golden bullfrogs to match the decor of her lily pond. Or, how about one school teacher who wrote in for a "small whale for classroom demonstration." Then, there was a curious inquiry about rattlesnakes — "Will getting bitten by a rattlesnake help you, if it doesn't kill you first?" - Washington, D. C.

Fox Fourth. The fox hunt was supposed to have been an all-male dog event, but since the rules had been indefinite and the contestant had come a long way, the other members decided to let the late contestant enter his female hound.

When the fox was released, the dogs followed. Soon the chase was out of sight of the owners. As they were crossing a farmer's land one of the members asked the farmer if he had seen a pack of dogs chasing a fox. The farmer replied that it was the first time he has seen a fox hunt where the fox was running fourth. — Missouri

Under-Cover Man. When an Ohio man returned to his native Pennsylvania for a deer hunt, he didn't know that he'd make a spectacle of himself. After hunting in a heavy downpour the first day, he removed his soaked outer clothing for the drive home, hoping that his car heater would dry out his long Johns. During the drive, he spotted a seven-point buck, but it managed to run into the timber. After some fancy trailing, our hero retrieved his trophy. His elation, though, was dimmed somewhat by onlookers who had stopped to watch, laughing at him as he struggled back to his car, red-faced and dressed only in his long Johns. —Pennsylvania

Dead Weight. Dr. J. J. Pocsik of Kansas City, Missouri, caught a bass that weighed 5 V2 pounds at Pomme De Terre Lake. When he cleaned the fish, Dr. Pocsik found a one-pound trotline sinker inside. It was not an easy-to-swallow round or pear-shaped sinker, either, but a cylindrical kind with sharp edges at the bottom. — Missouri

Almost Gone Gooses. Once regarded as extinct, the Aleutian Canada Goose, was rediscovered in 1963 on remote Buldir Island. Present numbers are about 300, and attempts are being made to rear captive birds for restocking the former range. - Wildlife Guide

Flying Fish. An Illinois fisherman had worked long and hard one day trying to catch a fish, but no dice. After innumerable casts he was ready to give up, but decided to try one more retrieve. He used all his skill to make his lure attractive, but nary a nibble did he get. Ready to head home, he lifted the plug from the water. Just then a 13V2-pound northern made a wild leap for the plug and landed kerplunk in the bottom of the boat. - Illinois

SHOOTDOWN AT GREENWOOD CREEK

replied. "Maybe Tom and Lorraine will get to them. They're headed their way."

Two hours later we saw the duo hiking down along the creek.

"Those three toms have more luck than sense," Lorraine said. "They started up the creek toward us, strutting like overstuffed peacocks, but cut up into the ridge. We couldn't get close to them.

"The morning's about gone. Why don't we go back to the house and have an early lunch?" she added. "Then, you three can try again."

'Yesterday afternoon's blind O.K. with you guys?" Tom asked as we started out after lunch.

"Good as any," we agreed. "Maybe those two hens have picked up some boyfriends."

We settled down shortly after noon, hoping the birds would return to water. It was nearly 2 o'clock when we heard a gobbler followed quickly by a second.

"That's close," Tom stammered. Byron hit the call; the toms answered. We waited. Five minutes passed, then ten, but the gobblers didn't show. We called again, and got an answer from the same area.

"Enough is enough," Tom exclaimed. "I think I know about where they are. With any luck, a couple of us could make a sneak on them. There's a high cutbank along the field up there. If we come up that bank in the right place, we could either get shooting or push the birds down this way. What do you guys think?"

"I'll hold down the fort," I replied. "Why don't you and Byron give them a try?"

"Let's go," the writer agreed, "it's about time we gave them a scare anyway." Dropping down to the edge of the creek, the two were soon out of sight.

As the minutes dragged by I edged my way to the rim of the timber. Only the gurgle of the stream broke the silence. A shotgun blast shattered the stillness, and Tom's distant voice called, "Birds coming your way."

Looking up along the north edge of the field, I saw a gobbler break cover and head straight at me. He was 200 yards, then 150, 75. The torn swerved to the west, running like a racehorse. The distance — 40 yards. I reared up for the shot. Swinging the double ahead of his beak, I jerked the trigger. My lead wasn't what it should have been, but it was enough to trip him up. Still, his momentum carried him into the brush and out of sight before I could get off a second shot. I either missed or almost missed, for a split-second later, I saw the big bird flailing into the air behind a much-too-thick stand of trees. Jumping back, I found a hole in the brush about 50 yards out and waited for the torn to break into it.

The blast of a shotgun when you pull the trigger is one thing, but to hear one before you pull is something else. One second I was tightening down on the trigger as the bird entered the opening and the next instant a shot roared out to my left. The gobbler dropped like a stricken bomber.

I guess I must have been looking rather perplexed as I turned to see what happened. Byron's head was poking up over the bank.

"I've been behind you ever since Tom shot," he grinned. "I stayed down behind the creek bank. I noticed you swing to the left, so I ducked down and ran a few yards to get down here. When you shot, this old boy came winging over my head, sure glad I didn't goof it up. I assume you got one, too."

"That torn you shot was all alone and I missed him. Glad you were here to back me up," I said.

The gobbler was a good one. His beard measured better than 8 inches, and we guessed his weight at 20 pounds.

"Not bad, even for a Texan," Byron chuckled, admiring the bird. "Let's go see what Tom did. We saw two gobblers 75 yards out in that field, and Tom thought one of us should make a run at them. I suggested he was the better sprint man, so he waited for me to get back here."

A few moments later, we hiked across the field and saw Tom toting a gobbler.

"Things worked just like you thought they would, Tom," Byron said, as we admired the rancher's prize. "These birds are almost identical, but I think the beard on mine is an inch longer."

"I shot the one with the shortest beard," Tom quipped, "because I knew I shouldn't outdo a Texan. Besides that, he was the slowest. I made a run at them from the cover of the creek, and this one couldn't make up his mind which way he wanted to go. He hesitated along the edge of the timber for a couple seconds. I dropped him at about 40 yards."

Byron and I described our end of the hunt on the way back and planned the afternoon campaign. It was nearly 5 p.m. by the time our trio crammed into a makeshift blind along the hogback. We had gathered a few boards and added them to a weathered corner of an old corral and plugged some of the holes with tumbleweed.

The shadows were growing long when Byron whispered, "About 15 minutes before official sundown. Think those turks will show?"

I was scanning the open area toward the ridge when a hen popped into sight along the east side. She was busy feeding, but within seconds we saw other birds strung out behind her.

"They're on their way," Tom whispered. "Get ready, one of those birds has to be a gobbler."

I eased my shotgun into a six-inch opening in the blind and waited. Peering out the narrow slot, I saw the hen feed past the blind at 30 yards. The rest of the flock was following some 50 yards behind her,

"Two yearling toms," Byron whispered, as the lead birds closed in.

Step by step the young gobblers came toward us. I risked a look at the other birds and saw the tail-ender carried a three-inch beard.

"Shoot," Byron hissed in my ear, as the two young gobblers moved to the left of the blind. "Those birds are going to see us. They can't be more than 10 yards away."

"Bigger one coming," I whispered back.

I bent back to check on the young toms, and they picked up my motion. They cocked their heads, trying to identify the movement. Satisfied for the moment that all was well they went on feeding.

I checked again on the larger gobbler. He was 30 yards away and directly in front of me, but two or three hens were in front of him. As I eased into the gun, a movement 50 yards behind the group caught my eye. Another bird was coming in, and I saw that he was a magnificent gobbler.

Tom and Byron were about to explode, but I kept shaking my head, "No," indicating Mr. Big was on his way.

"The Big Tom" closed the gap, swinging off to my left. Gobbler No. 3 had moved out of sight to my right, but the two younger ones were still feeding. I turned my head slowly when my companions jabbed me in the ribs. Tom's line of view was covering the left as was Byron's. When I turned, a young torn saw the reflection of my face. He voiced an alert, and I froze.

The seconds seemed hours as we stared at each other. The old gobbler must have kept moving, for the next thing I heard was: "He's there, Gene, shoot. It's that big son of a gun," Byron hissed.

The turkeys showed alarm at our voices. I crammed toward a slight crack on my left and saw the huge gobbler looking toward the blind. Judging from his looks, he was about to depart. I couldn't get my gun into position, so I came as far forward as I could, and swung the barrel slowly to the left until it was parallel with the face of the blind. There wasn't enough room to get the gun to my shoulder. Alarmed, the torn uttered a cry.

I dropped the butt of the 12-gauge into the crook of my elbow and my head came over the barrel from a 45° angle. When it settled on his neck, I pulled the trigger. The load of No. 4's went blasting in on target, cutting the gobbler down like a scatback tackled by a 300-pound guard.

Turkeys flew in every direction, and my two companions practically stomped me as they piled out of the blind.

"You all like to gave me heart failure," Byron drawled after we had settled down.

"I'm still not sure which bird you guys were telling me to shoot and never thought I would get the job done," I said, lifting the gobbler. "Say, he is worth a half-broken arm and a bruised lip. That's sure not the way to fire a 12-gauge shotgun, but it worked."

MUSKIE DAY

a monster, and if someone had told me it was a motorized crocodile, I would have believed it. All I knew was that it was big and had stripes on its body.

Our fight continued without letup. First one and then the other of us seemed to have the advantage. One long run followed another, and I expected the light monofilament to snap as the mighty fish strained the line and arched the rod. My nerves were as taut as the line, and my right arm began to ache with the effort.

All I could do was wait for the fish to wear out. The excitement of the first few minutes had worn off as the battle dragged on. The fish would take the line whistling off the reel, then I would begin reeling it back on. A series of heavy jerks threatened to snap the line or jerk the rod from my hand. Twenty minutes passed, then 25, but the spunk was going out of the fish, and gradually I gained a little line.

Finally, after 27 grueling minutes, the fish came into the shallows. He didn't look so terrible now, but he was still big and had the frightening aspect of a northern. By this time, more people had gathered to watch the proceedings, including a family from Colorado. They did not think it so unusual that the fish might be a muskellunge, but the trout fisherman and I were astounded. We had spent many hours at Merritt and other Nebraska fishing waters, and never heard of muskies before.

It was getting late and I was bushed, so the beaching of the muskie ended my day. After gathering up my gear, I headed into Valentine to show off whatever I had caught, and to seek out someone from the Game Commission to identify him. Conservation Officer E. V. Zimmerman checked my catch and identified it as a muskie, all 13 pounds, 6 ounces, and 37 inches of him. He also called a biologist from the Game Commission's hatchery at Valentine to confirm his identification.

Later, I learned how the muskie came to be in the trout lake. The Nebraska Game Commission had acquired muskellunge eggs from New York State and hatched them at the Valentine hatchery in hopes of establishing muskies here. After several years the project was abandoned when they failed to reproduce. Rather than destroy the 50 or so fish remaining, they were released into Merritt Reservoir. This release was made in October, 1964, when the muskies weighed between 3 and 8 pounds. At that time, some were six or seven years old. Since muskies live for 20 years, there are probably others in Merritt.

The release was nearly three years ago, but no one had caught one before. Mine was the first verified catch, so my name went into the state record book in the muskie division. Later, I talked with another angler who believes he latched onto a muskie while fishing at Merritt.

"It was a big fish judging from the way it hit," he said, "and the leader was snapped or bitten through."

Muskies are the largest members of the pike family, and also the best fighters. Generally, the northern pike has a dark body with light spots, whereas the muskie has a light body with dark stripes. Identification is certain, the technicians say, by counting the pore openings on the bottom jaw. Northerns have five or less while the muskie has six or more.

Most fishermen at Merritt are after trout or black bass, and their light rigs will not handle these tigers with the razor-sharp teeth. I was extremely lucky. My hook was imbedded in the very corner of the muskie's mouth, in a bony area, and the line ran up behind the protruding corner of the upper jaw. He could not bite through the line, and couldn't shake it out of position. It was one of those freak things.

It is also doubtful that he was after the worm. Probably a smaller fish was inspecting the worm and the muskie took a swipe at him and missed, then caught my hook by mistake. Mistake or not, he ended up on my stringer. On returning to North Platte, my prize was put on display at a sports store which has a freezer there for just such exhibits, and my muskie rated considerable attention and speculation.

Although I toyed with the idea of mounting him, I finally decided it was too expensive. Then one day the store called and said someone had wanted to take the fish home to eat. I agreed, and never saw my muskie again.

A FUR PIECE

he had personally designed. He wore fringed buckskins and tucked under his leather belt was a butcher knife.

Of all those who traveled through frontier America, the trappers' life was by far the most hazardous. Indians, grizzly bears, disease, hunger, and the elements took a heavy toll of these seasoned mountain men. The American Fur Company lost at least 100 men in its existence, and the other major companies didn't fare any better. His pay for a year's work averaged $400, but after being in the wilderness for long periods of time it was soon spent in wild sprees. When his money ran out or civilization made him restless, he returned to his home and his family, the wilderness.

The trapper lived with the wilderness and the Indians, and in order to survive he became as wild as the beasts he trapped and as skillful as the red man who hunted near him. He had an unsettled and watchful expression in his eyes and would rather use gestures than words. He was a master of woodcraft and self-defense and could throw a tomahawk or scalping knife with the best of Indians.

Trappers were crude and rough, because they had to be. The river they had to tame was a mistress of misfortune and a temperamental taskmaster that carved out the eastern border of Nebraska. The Missouri drained 490,000 square miles of land above Independence, Missouri, and nearly all of the river was navigable. The Platte River, a major tributary of the Missouri, served as an equator of the west for traders, dividing the Upper from the Lower Missouri River. After passing the mouth of the Platte newcomers on the river were initiated into the fur frontier in rollicking ceremonies.

To those who had time to look, the Missouri was beautiful. Grapes along the shore hung in dark clusters from wild arbors and lush green brush and trees lined the banks. The river was full of giant catfish, and deer, small game, and even elk scampered along the banks.

Insects on the river were bloodthirsty and clouds of mosquitoes hovered over the winding waters. Wood ticks burrowed into the skin, and bug bites left burning welts for days. The air was warm and humid, and sweat glistened off of the traders' powerful backs and ran off their unshaven faces. To ply the turbid waterway the men used canoes, bullboats, keelboats, and in later years steamboats.

The heavy 50-to-75-foot keelboat was a common means of transportation. With a battery of oars on each side, the flat-bottomed boat was frequently towed upstream by means of a long rope, manned by 20 to 30 men scrambling over rocks and through water. The boats could not move up the middle of the river because of the torrid current, but staying near shore meant grounded boats and plenty of snags. These snags could and did rip boats to pieces.

But, in spite of adversity, hundreds of men continued (Continued on page 56)

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

A FUR PIECE

to ply the waterway. Many of those who passed through Nebraska left little proof of their existence, and many were buried in shallow, unmarked graves along the river. Still, legends were built around the stronger frontiersmen like Manuel Lisa, Jedediah Smith, Mike Fink, William Ashley, Hiram Scott, Jim Bridger, Kit Carson, and others. These men spent time in Nebraska and helped chart the state's destiny because of it.

If any one man had an effect on Nebraska's role as a fur-trade center it was the powerful Manuel Lisa. The state's story as an important jumping-off point for expeditions into the mountains is essentially the biography of this man. Lewis and Clark's tales of the upper Missouri captured Lisa's imagination, and in 1807 he left St. Louis with a keelboat of goods to establish a beachhead at the mouth of the Bighorn River in Montana.

When Lisa came back down river he was elated with his finds and formed the Missouri Fur Company in 1809. The average fur expedition numbered around 100 men, but for his 1809 journey upriver he took 153 men. Lisa, like other captains of an expedition, had as much authority over his men as a captain on a ship, and disobedience to his orders was punishable by fine, flogging, and even death. Although trade on the Bighorn was good that year, Lisa lost several men and a good share of his trade goods to the Blackfeet Indians.

In 1812, after some dissension within the ranks, the company was reorganized and as principal agent in the field, Lisa again started upriver. The War of 1812 broke out and a combination of the British and the Indians forced him to retreat from the Upper Missouri to a point near Council Bluffs where he built Fort Lisa, a post destined to become one of the most important on the Missouri River. In Lisa's day, Council Bluffs did not apply to any post, but rather denoted a locality. The meeting of the Platte and Missouri River valleys played an important part in its location, 25 miles above the modern city by that name and near the present town of Fort Calhoun.

From the fort, Lisa, like the fur barons that followed, ruled the large kingdom of the Upper Missouri with the Indians and the fur traders as his subjects. In his wooden castle he tried to keep peace with the Indians, organized trapping expeditions, instructed his trappers on where and how to operate, and served as judge and jury over his often rowdy men.

As was the custom with fur traders, Lisa took an Omaha Indian wife to solidify his position with the Nebraska tribes. In 1819 when the other Mrs. Lisa set foot on Nebraska soil to become the state's first white-woman settler, Lisa dissolved his marriage with his pretty Indian wife.

In 1819 the ill-fated Yellowstone Expedition, under the military leadership of Colonel Henry Atkinson, made it as far as Council Bluffs before a winter camp was set up near Fort Lisa. Camp Missouri, as it was called, later evolved into Fort Atkinson, the first military outpost on the Missouri River, and the first step in taming the western frontier. Strangely enough, the first winter for the U.S. Army on the Missouri was the last for the region's most powerful trader. Manuel Lisa died in August, 1820, at Sulpher Springs, just outside of St. Louis.

Lisa left as his legacy a legend and the roots from which a territory and eventually a state would grow. As part of his Nebraska legend it is said that in 1805 the fur trader came to a spot on the Missouri and exclaimed, "Belle vue". He staked out a cabin, and now 163 years later those words live on in the name of Nebraska's first town. Unfortunately, Lisa's first known trip into the state was in 1807. Ramsay Crooks and Robert McClellan were probably the first trappers to stake out a post in the locality. The two men built a cabin on the west bank of the Missouri a little above the mouth of Papillion Creek in 1810.

But whatever the case, Bellevue was to become a trading post town. In 1823, Joshua Pilcher, then head of the Missouri Fur Company, moved his base of operations to Bellevue, while John Dougherty moved the government Indian agency there. From 1830 to 1840 independent and company traders moved in and out of the area, but from 1831 on, the American Fur Company under the strong leadership of Peter Sarpy controlled fur trade in Bellevue. As a result of Sarpy's endeavors in building the town and Nebraska, his name is perpetuated in the name of a county.

Although Bellevue was the hub for fur-trading activities after 1830, other posts flourished on the Nebraska frontier. No fewer than 20 posts were established between the mouth of the Platte and old Council Bluffs. Time has long since gobbled up their remains, and the names of many posts have been lost forever. But trading posts weren't limited strictly to the Missouri River. In 1846 James Bordeaux built a cabin on the creek now named for him in northwestern Nebraska, and it became the base for his White River operations. Pierre Chardon (Chadron), a one-time trader for the American Fur Company, lived and trapped around the town named after him. Posts sprang up around Scotts Bluff, also. In 1848 Robidoux Post, destroyed in 1852 by Indians, was established near Robidoux Pass, and in that same year the American Fur Company built a post near Scotts Bluff.

Trading posts were, of course, important to Nebraska's settlement, but probably the fur trade's most profound effect on the state and the nation was the marking of the Oregon Trail by trappers. When William Ashley took the first wagon through the Platte Valley in 1824, he could not have realized he was trailblazing a path through Nebraska that thousands would later follow. To Ashley the Platte Valley route was the safest way to reach the mountains. Indians on the Missouri were brewing deadly trouble, and after his one encounter with them he looked for a new way west. Although Ashley pioneered the trail across Nebraska, he followed the South Platte rather than the North Platte River on his way to set up the first fur-trade rendezvous.

In 1830, Jedediah Smith, David Jackson, and William Sublette took 10 wagons pulled by mules over what was to be the Oregon Trail. Successors to Ashley, the three men followed the Blue River to the Platte, and followed the North Platte to the head of Wind River where they set up a rendezvous. They stopped here, but noticed wagons could cross the mountains through the South Pass.

By opening the Platte Valley route these men essentially opened the door for civilization and closed it on one of the most romantic periods in American history. After 1850, beaver were scarce and because of silk, the new craze, fur prices were low. Trading posts along the overland trails supplied overland travelers, and the mountain men didn't like it.

The last great wilderness of the United States had finally been conquered. Like the grizzly bear and the buffalo, the trappers could not stand the pressures of civilization and eventually became a dying breed of men. Now, only legends remain to remind us of the men and the rivers that built Nebraska.

RETURN TO THE BAT CAVE

sepulchral echoes. My partners were unwilling at first, but when I mentioned the exit they followed. As Dudley ambled up, he pointed out one of the rules of good spelunking: "You never shout at the top of your voice in a cave with falling rocks."

Drip water from the ceiling had frozen into two-foot high icicles, and each of these was shaped like the foreleg of a horse. We broke one off to take home as a melting souvenir. Dudley shined for bats, but the furry creatures didn't like this cavern.

For five hours we had stumbled through total darkness and found hundreds of bats in the cave, yet we had collected only two species, compared to five on Dudley's previous expedition. Had changes in the cave altered the bat populations, and if so, where did they go? Was there another cave in the area that offered them more protection or had we failed to explore all of the mine? Perhaps our lights had simply missed the other species. Dudley didn't have a good answer, but I could tell he wouldn't be happy until he found out the whys of the change in bat populations.

Larry and Kent were sorry to see the trip come to an end, and so was I. There is something about the unknown that curdles the blood and sparks the imagination. Once you have known the fascination of exploring you can't wait until your next rendezvous with the unknown.

SWAINSONS HAWK

THE SWAINSON'S HAWK was named after the Swedish ornithologist, Swa Inson. This contradicts a common theory that he got his name when papa hawk asked his boy, "How is your swain, son?" The boy replied, "She's a real beauty."

During the summer months, the Swainson's hawk, Buteo swainsoni, is the commonest of the soaring hawks in Nebraska. He is a common migrant through the state and a summer resident and breeder in central and western Nebraska. In a two-year study conducted in Nebraska during the mid-1940's, more than 2,600 hawks were tallied and about 10 per cent were Swainson's. Greatest abundance here is during the May and September migrations.

A great traveler, the Swainson's hawk summers from Alaska south to northern Mexico and winters on the Pampas of northern Argentina. This involves migrations of 11,000 to 17,000 miles. His eastern limits in the United States include western Minnesota, Iowa, Oklahoma, and Texas, making him essentially a bird of the wide open spaces.

Two color phases are common: the normal plumage and the darker or melanistic phase. In the latter, the entire plumage is sooty-brown. In the common phase, the adult male is grayish-brown above while his forehead, chin, and throat are white. His chest is bright chestnut and the rest of his underparts are whitish, usually barred and spotted with brown. The female's coloration is similar except for a grayish-brown chest. Young are dark brown on the upper parts and largely buff or buffy white on the under parts. A Swainson's is about 20 inches long and his wingspread is about 50 inches.

Nests are large and bulky, constructed of sticks with a lining of smaller twigs, weeds or grasses, and occasionally feathers. Nests are generally in trees, with heights varying according to the tree. They are well constructed and may be used for several years.

Laying occurs in early June, with two eggs the normal clutch, but occasionally as many as four are laid. Eggs are dull white, unmarked or lightly spotted with brown. Incubation is shared by both parents and lasts for about 28 days. Young can fly after four to five weeks.

The Swainson's hawk is almost entirely beneficial with small mammals and insects providing most of his food. Mice, ground squirrels, gophers, and rabbits are commonly taken. When abundant, grasshoppers and crickets are eaten. Over 200 grasshoppers have been found in a single stomach. Frogs, lizards, and snakes add to the diet. Birds are taken occasionally.

This hawk searches for prey by soaring and circling over the open prairie, or by watching while perched on a tree limb or telephone pole. He can move readily on the ground, and hunts insects by running them down. Other birds generally have little fear of the Swainson's, sometimes nesting in the same tree or even in the mass of the hawk's nest.

His voice is a prolonged and rather shrill whistle or squeal, described as "kree-e-e".

Because of his beneficial habits, this bird is entirely protected in Nebraska. He is one of the tamest of hawks, allowing close approach by man. Therefore, he is occasionally the target of misguided individuals who classify all hawks as "chicken hawks".

WHERE-TO-GO

BELIEVE IT OR NOT, at the turn of the century, Nebraska had a spa (health resort, if you're reaching for the dictionary). Today, it is better known as Victoria Springs State Recreation Area. In 1900, though, it was doing a booming business with a 600-capacity bathhouse and a bottling works that turned out 500 bottles of mineral water, ginger ale, pop, champagne, and cider every day.

"The famous springs which are located here, a dozen or so in number, for the past 10 years have been the wonder of all who have visited them. The one peculiarity is that each spring is heavily charged with a different medical property," an old newspaper states.

Victoria Springs is no longer a health resort, but it is still a mighty popular spot. The recreation area encompasses a secluded 70-acre tract on the eastern edge of the Sand Hills, 30 miles northwest of Broken Bow. It can be reached by State Highway 302, 7 miles east of Anselmo, or by driving 10 miles north out of Merna on a county road.

Open year-round, Victoria Springs is a favorite stopover for campers and family vacationers. Two air-conditioned cabins are available from May 15 to September 15.

The heavily-wooded area offers camping, fishing, rowboating, and just plain relaxation. Its five-acre, horseshoe-shaped lake is stocked with black crappie, bluegill, channel catfish, black bullhead, and largemouth bass. Some trout are available in a small creek that flows through the grounds.

Victoria Springs boasts not only out-of-doors inducements for campers, but it teems with the historic excitement of NEBRASKAland, where the visitor can feel he is part of the past. In the 1870's, the region was settled by C. R. Matthews of Virginia. At age 31, he helped organize a party of settlers to explore the unorganized land around the Middle Loup.

The year the settlers planted their first crop, grasshoppers devoured everything. The next vear, there was a general uprising of the Sioux, who resented the intrusion of whites into the Black Hills. Most of the settlement retreated to Loup City, the nearest town. A few, including Matthews, armed themselves and built a fort of cedar logs. No Indians molested the community, although a Sioux hunting party camped a few miles north.

In the meantime, Matthews petitioned for and received the mail contract for the area, thus founding the first post office in Custer County. In 1874, he built two log cabins, one his residence and the other the post office. Both cabins still stand and are in good repair. The only changes from their original state are new sod roofs. Among items on display is one of Matthews' tables, scarred from years of scratching matches.

"Near the mouth of Victoria Creek," Judge Matthews once wrote, "we met some trappers who described the beauties of Victoria Valley, with pure cold springs gushing from its sides." Victoria Springs has changed some through the years, but it is still a beautiful spot.

Another park in NEBRASKAland endowed with "beautiful" water is Norfolk's Ta-Ha-Zouka Park. Its scenic lagoon, a half-mile long, borders the Elkhorn River. In summer the lagoon assumes a dreamy South Sea Island quality, and in winter it is often transformed into a glistening wonderland for ice skaters.

Ta-Ha-Zouka, the Indian word for "Forked Horn of the Elk," fits the park's location along the Elkhorn River, VA miles south of Norfolk on U.S. Highway 81. Facilities at the 27-acre area can accommodate 40 to 50 campers. There is no charge for camping.

Ta-Ha-Zouka provides well for outdoor buffs, with grills, playground equipment, softball field, fishing in the lagoon, and shower facilities. A zoo is an added attraction.

A delight for tourist and campers alike, Ta-Ha-Zouka provides outdoor fun aplenty, opening April 15 and closing October 1.

CZECH CAPITAL

Nebraska can claim over 20 per cent of all Czechs in the United States. This marker, located near Wilber at the junction of Nebraska Highways 41 and 82, is dedicated to the Czechoslovakian people who have helped build Nebraska. Each August, Wilber, the Czech Capital of Nebraska, brings this colorful heritage to life.