SPEAK UP

NEBRASKAland invites all readers to submit their comments, suggestions, and gripes to SPEAK UP. Each month the magazine will publish as many letters as space permits. Pictures are welcome. NEBRASKAland reserves the right to edit and condense letters.— Editor.

RARE ONE—"Enclosed find a picture of a doe with antlers shot on November 3, 1967, by Ernest P. Lutes of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He was hunting with his brother, Vernon Lutes, in the Sand Hills of McPherson and Thomas counties in Nebraska. Their long tramp through wet snow was rewarded by this rare trophy.

"The doe was inspected on November 5 in North Platte by the biologist who was in charge of the area at that time. He said it was legal because the deer had horns. He also said the doe was a cross between a mule deer and a whitetail, with some of the characteristics of both.

"Very rarely a doe has spike horns, but this one had antlers with two points on one side and three points on the other. The biologist said this was extremely rare. He estimated not over 1 in 10,000. Mr. Lutes is having the head of his trophy mounted." —Mrs. Louis D. Lutes.

Antlered does are rare in any deer populations. Rarer yet is the lack of velvet on the antlers of a doe. The most common antlers found on a female deer are spikes less than eight inches long and they remain in the velvet stage. Another antlered doe was shot in 1967 along the Platte River in Douglas County — Editor

NOT NEW —"Several years ago, my aunt left me an old pump organ which had originally been my grandmother's. Since it was in nice condition, appearance-wise, and since (Continued on page 6)

MAY

SPEAK UP

it was a family heirloom, I have had it here in my home for several years. Recently, while cleaning out the organ, I found several hand-written copies of old songs. The papers were not dated, but they have probably been in there for many years. The paper is yellowed and brittle.

"There were many interesting songs, but one of the most interesting is titled, 'NEBRASKAland'. I don't know when it was written or who the author was, but I am enclosing a copy of the lyrics as they are written. It was probably sung to the tune of 'Beulah Land'. Perhaps some of your readers could give me more information concerning this song." — Mrs. C. C. Parmenter, Lincoln. I've reached the land of corn and wheat Of pumpkin pie, potatoes sweet. I got my land from Uncle Sam And I'm as happy as a clam.

There are five other verses to the song. — Editor

LARGE VACANT LOT?-"This is part of a letter to the Arnold Sentinel in which the writer comments on a series of articles about Nebraska by Bud Collins in a Boston newspaper.

"Mr. Collins makes reference to *a large vacant lot called Nebraska.' I agree it is large, but not altogether vacant. There are 77,227 square miles of it, more than the combined square miles of Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, New Jersey, and Delaware, with enough left over to make a sizable football field.

"Mr. Collins further said, 'Newport (R.I.) has chauffeurs and footmen who could buy Nebraska—but why should they?

"Permit me to mention briefly a few things to be found in this 'large vacant lot\ Nebraska has on its farms and ranches 6,077,000 head of cattle valued at $705,000,000 and 2,696,000 hogs. In 1966, wheat amounted to 96,488,000 bushel; corn, 312,200,000 bushels; and sugar beets, 928,000 tons. Our Game Commission issued 24,770 deer permits and 188,492 resident hunt and fish permits.

"Halsey is the world's largest hand-planted forest, Omaha's Stockyards are also the largest in the world. Hyannis, a Sand Hills cattle town has more millionaires per capita than any other town in the nation.

"We have given you Fred Astaire, Robert Taylor, Henry Fonda, Johnnie Carson, Harold Lloyd, Grover Cleveland Alexander, J. Sterling Morton, William Jennings Bryan, George W. Norris, General John J. Pershing, Willa Cather, and Buffalo Bill Cody."-M. M. (Duke) Forrester, Anselmo.

NO SUSPENSION-"We read in a local paper that NEBRASKAland might have to be discontinued because of the expense involved. We certainly hope not. Three of the people we send the magazine to are in other parts of the country, and all of them write us how much they enjoy this magazine.

"It seems to us that it is worth something for promotional value if for no other reason. Our friends write us they pass their issues on when they have finished with them. Perhaps spreading the word about hunting and tourist attractions in Nebraska is not a bad idea.

"We do hope you will continue the magazine in its present form. The colored pictures are outstanding." —Mr. and Mrs. Donald Mills, Kimball.

NEBRASKAland Magazine is here, and it is going to stay. That is the official stand of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commissioners. "We never intended that the magazine might cease publication," says Martin Gable of Scottsbluff, Commission chairman. "It is an excellent magazine that is doing an excellent job. Reports appearing in the press after a recent Commission meeting came as a result of discussions on how we might further improve it." In fact, the Commissioners have unanimously gone on record endorsing NEBRASKAland in a resolution that states in part, "We, the Commission, feel that NEBRASKAland is one of the finest publications of its kind, and it is our intent not only to continue this publication, but to strive to make it even better." NEBRASKAland has also received tremendous editorial support from the Nebraska news media. - Editor

BUNNY GIRL —"I enjoyed your write-up, Taste of Rabbit, in the December NEBRASKAland. I, too, am a housewife who has to cook what my two sportsmen bring home. When I cook cottontail, I always fry the rabbit that has been seasoned and rolled in flour, along with caraway seed, onion, and two or three slices of bacon. When brown, I pour a cup of water in the skillet and bake covered for iy2 hours at 350°. When half done, I pour V^-cup of wine (I use any kind of wine) over all. This is our favorite recipe. -Mrs, Joe L. Pokorny, Schuyler.

WHAT TO DO

MAY Roundup

MAY, SPRINGBOARD to summer, brings vacation fever to Nebraska. Youngsters yearn for school to get out, while mom and dad dream of travel or relaxation. Whatever the aspirations, NEBRASKAland offers both indoor and outdoor fun for everyone.

The streets of Brownville fill with people for the annual Spring Festival on May 26. The event is highlighted by a flea market, where antique dealers from five states display their wares along the streets. Carnival fun also draws crowds out-of-doors, as the Knights of Columbus sponsor a Spring Festival and Carnival in downtown Schuyler, May 24 through 26. The three-day excitement winds up with a free sausage supper on May 26.

Nebraska's exciting role in taming the Old West is always of interest to tourists. Animal skins, bright Sioux warbonnets, and a collection of impressive paintings depicting Indian culture surround the visitor at Indian Village in Red Cloud. The museum there opens May 1. Another part of Nebraska's Old West unfolds when the Broken Wheel Museum at Sutherland opens to visitors on May 30. The era of the Pony Express survives for tourists, when the Pony Express Station at Gothenburg opens May 15. Another type of ride is open to vacationers at Cambridge. The Saddle Club Trail Ride at Lakeview Ranch is open to everyone, May 1 through 5, and includes a 25-mile scenic horseback ride around Harry Strunk Lake.

Outdoor sports fans have all they can handle in May, as spring sports reign supreme. The State High School Track Meet brings young athletes to Kearney on May 17 and 18. Females are not left out of the track picture, as the Lions Club Annual Girls' Invitational Track Meet will be held the week of May 6 at Cambridge. Trackmen end this sports month with the Midwest Federation Track Championship at Cozad, May 30. Outstanding athletes from six states plan to participate in this championship event. On May 19 and 20, the State High School Baseball Tournaments are kicked off in Lincoln and Omaha. Eight American Legion baseball teams from surrounding towns converge at Cambridge May 30 through June 2 for the Lions Club Annual Memorial Day Baseball Tournament. The University of Nebraska hosts the State High School Tennis Tournament, as netmen vie for top state honors May 16 and 17. Hastings College sponsors the Kapp Tennis Tournament May 1 through 4. Other high school sports action can be seen at the State High School Sand Greens Golf Tournament at Hebron and Franklin on May 4 and at the State High School Grass Greens Golf Tournament at Norfolk and Lincoln on May 17.

Three other action-packed events dominate the spectator scene in May — horse races, stock-car races, and rodeos. Before the last dust settles at Fonner Park in Grand Island on May 1, horse-racing excitement will be switched to Omaha, where Ak-Sai -Ben racing begins on May 3. More racing thrills come to NEBRASKAland on May 18, when daring drivers take to the track at the stock-car races at North Platte.

Skill and daring of another kind combine to make (Continued on page 56)

Backyard Casting

TOO FEW OF us fishermen have time to pursue our sport with as much dedication as we would like. We also find, too, that our fishing ability, in general, and our casting proficiency, in particular, are not all we would like them to be. Our general fishing know-how can only be enhanced by working a favorite lake or stream, but casting techniques can be improved in our own backyards.

Equipment for practice casting is the same as that used for fishing, except for the lure. Practice plugs in various sizes and weights can be purchased at most sporting-goods dealers. This plug should be of the same weight as the lures generally used. One-quarter ouncers are preferred for most spinning or spin-cast outfits. Bait casters may want one a little heavier, in the %- to Vfe-ounce class.

Most casters prefer to tie the line directly to the lure rather than to a snap swivel because it is less apt to snag in the grass when retrieving.

Casting accuracy will put a lot more fish in the frying pan, so set up a target to aim at. This can be a pail, basket, box, or piece of paper. If the kids have a hula hoop around the house, it makes a good casting target. Fifty feet is a good range, but the caster should vary the distance. Thus, he becomes a better judge of what it takes to hit his target.

Most beginners find that the spincast outfits work the best, and are easiest to control, while those who have become proficient may prefer to work with the level-wind reel. The open-face spinning rigs are a little bit harder (Continued on page 49)

CANOE RESCUE

THE WEATHER WASN'T the best, but I had a sailboat, and I wanted to sail it, even though I had never spent a minute in a sailboat or any other type of craft. It was mid-May, 1967. My cruising water was the Interstate 80 lake at the wayside area beside the Grand Island Interchange. I hail from Harvard, Nebraska.

My sailer was an 11-foot polyester foam rig equipped with a 10-foot lanteen sail. I was all thumbs in the launching, but somehow I got under way. It was 45° and threatening a storm, but away I went across the lake and back again. I cut a turn and was beginning my second lap when disaster struck. The wind switched directions, catching my sail full blast. The sheet line snapped and the boat tipped over, dumping me into the cold water.

Every time I got on the centerboard and tugged on the boat's side, it would come out of the water, but before I could grab the mast, the wind would catch the sail and whip the whole works back into the water upside down. After several attempts to pull the craft upright, I decided to abandon it and head for shore, 200 feet away.

Fifteen feet from the boat, fierce cramps hit my legs. They knotted up and I couldn't move them. The struggle with the boat had worn me out, and chances of survival appeared slim. Even with the life jacket, with useless legs and exhausted arms, I couldn't make it, but I had to try.

An unexpected burst of new-found strength let me paddle slowly back to the boat. The lake was rougher now with the wind boiling up the whitecaps. I finally reached the boat and grabbed hold. My legs and body were numb, and the water seemed to be getting colder and colder. To add to my troubles, it started raining.

After a long rest, I called on every available reserve to pull myself onto the boat. It was a difficult struggle, but at last I made it. The mast hung down far enough to tangle in the underwater vegetation and kept the boat from drifting shoreward.

On the bank, my wife was waving and yelling in a frenzy. Understanding her was impossible, and I didn't have the strength to yell back. By this time my antics had drawn quite an audience, and from what I understand, I gave Interstate travelers a good show.

I was in the water an hour before I saw a Nebraska conservation officer drive into the area. He was Fred Salak of Grand Island. But he was unable to give any help, since he didn't have a boat. Luckily, Salak spotted a car on the Interstate that had a canoe strapped to its roof. Salak left and a few minutes later returned with the canoe-bearing automobile not far behind.

Later, I learned the owners of the canoe had just bought it and didn't know how to handle it. Salak didn't have much canoeing knowledge or experience either, and with the rough water it was going to be a dangerous rescue attempt, but Fred didn't hesitate.

He launched the canoe and it immediately began to tip and bob. I thought sure he would meet my fate, but he stuck with it. I had now been in the lake for about two hours.

My rescuer pulled up along side and explained that he was not an experienced canoeman, but told me not to panic. While Salak hung on to the centerboard of my capsized craft, I dragged myself into the canoe and lay on the bottom to prevent tipping.

It took us a while to reach shore, but when we arrived sighs of relief punctuated the conversation. I worked the cramps from my aching legs, then climbed into the officer's warm car. I deserved one heck of a scolding, but Salak said he had seen worse, and knew I had learned a lesson.

Meanwhile, a car had pulled into the wayside area and an excited man popped out. He had driven to Grand Island to summon help. He said some men with a boat were on their way.

A woman then appeared before the car with our three children. She had been caring for the children while my wife was in such a tizzy. We never found out her name or the names of the men who came from Grand Island with a boat. They did recover my craft for me.

Names were lost in the confusion, but my wife and I will never forget the many who helped. Before I had time to thank anyone or do anything, they had me on my way home to get out of my wet clothes.

A few days of stiffness and a slight cold were my only repercussions from the incident. After my narrow escape I studied my instruction manual in depth before returning to the lake. When I did return, the weather was sunny and warm, the wind was right for safe sailing, and I was not so foolhardy.

THE DEVIL'S DESCENT

WHEN YOU ARE in the devil's country, it is comforting to have an angel along. True, my Angel didn't have wings, but she had four sturdy legs and a gentle disposition. What's more, she was sure-footed, and as we reined up above the Devil's Washbasin, I felt this a heavenly attribute.

Six of us were on a January trail ride to the Devil's Washbasin, a very unusual geological formation in the breaks of the Cheyenne Plain, south of Oshkosh, Nebraska. Satan's lavatory enjoys some area popularity, but it is not well known outstate. I had never heard of the place until a neighbor mentioned it, but one thing led to another, so my husband, Don, and I decided to have a look-see. We live in Alliance where Don works as a brand inspector, so it wasn't much of a problem to drive down to Oshkosh and line up a ride into the Washbasin. Fortunately, our day was warm and sunny, though a bit windy, and after we left Alliance I became more and more enthused about the expedition even if it was January.

Now that we were above the canyon with no way to go but down, I wasn't so sure that it was such a good idea. Others in our party included young Ron Saunders, who owns the property where the Washbasin is located, area rancher, Darrel Snow, and horse trainer, Fred Cargile. Ron, Darrel, and Fred had generously supplied horses for our trek, although the Basin can be reached on foot. I drew Angel, an easy-going mare, but my husband wasn't so lucky. He got Babob, a rather lazy, out-of-shape horse that looked more like a pregnant cow than a saddle mount. It was evident that Don and Babob weren't exactly compatible, but my husband is a good rider and I knew he could handle the rotund beast if it came to a showdown. Don would find out just what a trial Babob could be before the ride ended, although the horse was more sullen than stubborn at the start.

We had reached the general area by traveling south on Nebraska Highway 27 at Oshkosh and then turning right on the West Canyon Road and right 15   again until we came to the Saunders' spread. From there we cross-countried it to the devil's hideaway, threading between various canyons and breaks. Our ride took us through some mighty scenic country of pine and cedar, rolling hills, and sharp coulees. Deer were numerous and once we saw 10 mule deer in one bunch. Others bounded off too fast to count.

As we picked our way carefully along, Ron backgrounded the formation.

"Eons of snowmelt, flash floods, and runoff have chuted into the depression. Water hits the opposing walls with such force that it swirls back on itself. This is how the Basin was augered out as you'll see when we get there," he explained.

Then Satan really didn't have anything to do with it?" I asked somewhat facetiously.

Ron shrugged, "Who knows? But if you get caught in one ofthese narrow canyons during a flash flood, you are going to have a devil of a time. I have seen a wall of water at least four feet high racing down the canyon. This country is usually very tame, but it could be treacherous when the elements rampage."

The horses were pickish in their descent, but as we continued, I realized that going down was probably easier than going up. Still, it was relieving to reach the canyon floor and begin weaving through the bottom toward our destination. Our guide, Ron, pointed out entrances to One Man's Canyon and Wild Horse Canyon while Don, meantime, was having trouble with the over-stuffed Babob. The fat horse and the narrow canyon had the makings of a humorous but potentially serious situation. When Don voiced the possibility of the horse getting wedged in, Ron sluffed off his worry.

"He'd get out. Sooner or later, he'd lose enough weight to work free."

"Bet it would be later," Don grunted while making a comparison of Babob's girth with the canyon's width.

But the horse managed to make it, even through the narrow entrance that led us into Satan's lavatory. The Washbasin itself was a circular depression about 60 feet deep and 40 feet across. The bottom of the Basin was indeed shaped like a pioneer's washbasin, and a unique ledge wide enough to ride on circled this, except for the narrow break in the canyon wall which had brought us in. Erosion had scoured out the bottom of the walls to form the circular ledge which we were on. The Basin's perpendicular walls shaded the bowl, and snow from an old fall still lay in the shallow basin, 16 NEBRASKAland although most of the surrounding landscape was bare. I was surprised by the depth of Satan's lavatory and its air of isolation that seemed out of proportion to the relatively small area. To see the sky I really had to crane my neck.

There, in the devil's grasp, something suddenly seemed strange and at first we couldn't identify it. Then it came. The Devil's Washbasin was absolutely still. No wind could reach this walled-in spot, so the little natural sounds of the outdoors were missing. It gave us an eerie feeling to watch the trees near the rim bending before the brisk breeze and yet never hear a whisper. The place seemed more a Devil's tomb than a washbasin.

Ron, who was most familiar with the place, had some interesting comments.

This place isn't historically or archaeologically significant, but there is some romance connected with it," he said. "We know that primitive man and later the Sioux and the Cheyenne hunted through this area, and not far from here, researchers once unearthed one of the largest prehistoric camels ever found in Nebraska. You know there is a theory that this Basin began as a rodent hole. Water, (Continued on page 50)

NEBRASKA'S OLYMPIC HOPEFULS

THE ANCIENT ADAGE of don't count your chickens before they hatch is applicable to the 1968 Olympic Games. But Nebraskans are not counting so much as hoping. As with most previous Olympics, the "honest to West" flavor of NEBRASKAland may be present at the 1968 contests. Led by Olympic veteran Gary Anderson, Nebraska has several hopefuls who may compete in Mexico City this October.

Gary Anderson, Carol Moseke, Roy Washington, Charles Greene, Stuart Lantz, Bodo Fritzen, Ranee Kletchka, Wendell Hakanson, and Bob Portman are among the Nebraska athletes who show tremendous promise as contestants in the 1968 games. And, there may be other Nebraskans who will compete. Over the years, Nebraska's list of participants has grown lengthy. Some garnered medals, others failed to place, and some did not qualify. For each of these must-be amateurs, the road to the Olympics was a long, hard trek. But, win or lose, competing itself is one of the highest honors accorded an amateur athlete. Selection does not guarantee an Olympic win, for competition is very keen.

Mexico City will not be the first Olympic appearance for expert rifle marksman, Gary Anderson. Anderson, a lean, soft-spoken six-footer, is a native of Axtell, Nebraska. He captured a gold medal in the 300-meter rifle competition at the last Olympic Games, staged in Tokyo in 1964. Prior to that, Gary took part in the Olympic Games in Rome in 1960. At that time he was an alternate member of the U.S. Army rifle team. In 1962, he participated in the World Shooting Championships in Cairo, Egypt, and broke three world records —the 300-meter prone, the 50-meter three-position, and the 50-meter standing. In 1966, the Olympic winner entered the World Shooting Championships in Wiesbaden, West Germany, and broKe his own 300-meter record and again captured the 50-meter three-position and the 50-meter standing titles,

Olympic tryouts for rifle competition are in San Antonio, Texas, in mid-July. Gary plans to enter the 50-meter and 300-meter events. The top two marksmen in each category will represent the United States^

An almost certain representative from Nebraska is former University of Nebraska track ace, Charles Greene. Often referred to as the world's fastest human, the heralded Greene is co-owner of the world's records for the 60 and 100-yard dashes. Charles has now departed from the University of Nebraska sprint corps, but he left behind an impressive array of school, conference, national, and world marks. He was a three-time NCAA champion, and received the Henry Schulte Trophy for Big Eight excellence.

Only those persons classified as amateurs may participate, but the Olympic Games are not limited to male competition. Carol Moseke, a winsome lass from Cedar Rapids, Nebraska, specializes in the discus, which she has hurled more than 170 feet. Last year she won the Athletic Union Amateur Women's Championship discus event, and later in the year fattened her major win list at Winnipeg, Canada, at the 1967 Pan-American Games. While there, Carol garnered first-place honors.

Although certainly a hopeful, Carol is not the only feminine contender from NEBRASKAland. Ironically, her protegee, Ranee Kletchka, is one of Carol's major opponents for the Olympic trip. Ranee, a high school senior from Lincoln, began her discus career at 14. Ranee competed in the AAU championships in the past three years and in 1967 finished second, close behind Carol. At the 1967 Pan-American Games in Winnipeg, she finished a strong fourth.

Water sports are part of the competition, and kayak expert, Bodo Fritzen of Lincoln, shows much promise to represent the United States in that portion of the games.

Tipping the scales at 220 pounds and standing 6-feet, 5-inches, Fritzen is a firm believer in physical fitness, and stresses the need for strength and agility in manning a kayak. Fritzen participated in the 1964 Olympic trials in New York City and placed third in his event. Unfortunately, only the top two places were chosen to attend the Olympics, eliminating Fritzen from the Tokyo meet. Later in the year, he entered the National Championships and earned third-place honors. Again in 1964, Fritzen displayed his ability at the President's Regatta in Washington, D.C., where he placed fifth. Fritzen has won several first places in regional meets and is a top contender in this year's Olympic trials.

When it comes to top-notch basketball skill, Nebraska isn't out in the cold, as it presents Stuart Lantz of the University of Nebraska and Bob Portman of Creighton University. Both roundballers have been named to the 48-man squad representing NCAA colleges from across the nation who will compete in the Olympic basketball trials.

Lantz, a senior member of the University of Nebraska varsity squad, is an all-Big-Eight-Conference choice. Combining explosive skill with tremendous speed and agility, Lantz is a dangerous threat on any basketball court.

Portman, a junior at Creighton University, smashed school records right and left this past season. His 1967-68-season scoring (Continued on page 56)

FAWN'S FORAY

THIS DAY, unlike others, dawned on a note of terror for the mule-deer fawn. Instinctively, she dropped to the ground at the distant mutter of men. Some sixth sense warned that she was facing another test in her long education of survival.

As the two hikers ambled on, the fawn shrank closer to the ground, her dappled coat blending into the brown-green carpet of the forest. The men went on, unaware that watchful eyes and sensitive ears were tracing them. To her last day, the deer would associate these objects and their sounds with danger.

Finally, the youngster got to her feet. The peril was past, and now it was time for more lessons. To the impetuous fawn, this was a time of learning and a time of growing. Already she had learned much since the day when yet-to-develop instincts and wobbly legs confined her to the narrow environs of her birthplace. No longer was she so dependent upon her mother's milk. Tender browse was part of her menu now, and with this new food came increasing thirst. She had early learned the trails to the little creek and to muzzle its waters.

Unknowingly, the little deer was establishing a pattern of life. After a morning of curiosity, she napped in the grass, instinctively selecting a bed where the wind could bring both scent and sound. From time to time, she opened her brown eyes as unfamiliar sounds penetrated her drowsy languor, but mostly she dozed. For several more weeks, the fawn would depend more upon her eyes and her ears than on her nose, for the scenting ability is slower to develop.

It was late in the afternoon when the fawn roused. A patch of wildflowers caught her eye, and she gave it an inquisitive sniff. The flowers were harmless, but when she nosed a clump of yucca, its bayonet-sharp tips taught her a lasting lesson.

Feeling good, the fawn loped over the ridge and wandered through the timber. She came to a drop-off and hesitated. A minute of indecision, and she half-slid, half-jumped over the edge. From now on, leaping would be part of her confidence.

The sun was low behind the hills as she left the darkening evergreens and moved toward a meadow. She fed until the new dawn sent her back to the pines.

There would be more days and more learning, but for now, she was young and the world was a wonderful place.

Walleye Coincidence

WITH LITTLE CHANCE for deliberate aim, Douglas Leafgreen, my bow-fishing partner, drew and released his arrow in one motion. A long finger of line whipped off the spool as the barbed-point hit home. After fijshort tug*of-war, he banked the 7-pound, 8 ounce walleye. He was our second the day in the west inlet of Lake Minatare, an impoundment in western Nebraska, northeast of Scottsbluff. Earlier, I had bagged the fish's twin just 50 yards down the waterway. Landing two walleyes that weigh ffte same isn't so unusual, but when both qualify for state bow-and arrow records and both are taken from thejame place on the same hunt, that is real coincidence.

Although the lunkers were shot on April 5, 1965, I can recall the events as if they took place just yesterday. At thelime, Doug and I were setters in high school at Scottsbluff, and, as usual, We were spending our Easter vacations with our 45-pound recurve bows in hand. From past excursions, we knew that prime shooting times come at sunrise and just before sunset when the fish move into the shallows to feed. We pitched camp near the inlet the night before to get an early morning start

The two of us shart common outdoor interests, so that night we threw out some minnow-baited lines. Action came quickly when an 8-pound,8-ounce walleye latched onto some of our offerings and sizzled off several yards of line. Beaching the hefty fish without a landing not posed (Continued on page 52)

YESTERDAY TODAY

LIVING IN THE PAST might seem like a prerogative of the elderly. But to Pioneer Village's more than 1 1/2 million visitors, age is no requirement for appreciating the "good old days". This 22-building, 20-acre world-famed establishment at Minden, Nebraska, has been rated as one of the 20 most notable tourist attractions in the country.

It fascinates everyone, yet most of the items on display there are common objects, once used by people in their everyday lives. This "everyday" atmosphere is part of the Village's charm. Its displays and exhibits are not the efforts of genius or great talent. Instead they reflect the dignity, the hopes, the disappointments, and the accomplishments of ordinary people who did their best to make the future easier for those to come. It was because "ordinary" things were disappearing that this unique establishment came into existence.

According to Harold Warp, owner and founder of the Village, these ordinary objects were used for repairs of existing items until few remained intact. The Model "T" Ford was a good example. Folks just kept driving the Model T's until most of them were used for replacement parts. A handful of dedicated collectors realized what was happening, and Warp was one.

Pioneer Village started because of Harold's sentimental attachment for the old Grom schoolhouse. He had attended classes there and had relatives who taught in the humble structure, so he bought the 28 NEBRASKAland school. That was in 1948. Soon after, progress put other historical buildings on the auction block. Thus the railroad depot at Lowell, the government land office at Bloomington, a frontier fort in Webster County, and the first church in Minden were acquired by Warp.

First a few, then hundreds, then thousands of less bulky objects were also purchased. Soon, storage became a problem and a museum seemed a logical solution . Plans were made and work begun, and on June 6, 1953, Pioneer Village opened. Basic theme of the new establishment was to concentrate on relics from 1830 to the present, but more ancient samples are included.

People flocked to see the fabulous collection. Thousands came, and they told thousands more. In 1954, the first full year of operation, the Village attracted nearly 85,000 persons. During 1967, the attendance topped 155,000. Since 1953, the Village has entertained nearly 1% million visitors, and another record is hoped for in 1968.

Almost daily the remarkable Village increases its inventory. Additional antiques are acquired, but representative objects of modern life are also included, for they, too, will become objects of wonder for future generations. Continued growth of the Village's stock and a corresponding increase in attendance prompted the construction of a large addition.

Nearly equaling the original main building in size, this addition is 110 by 147 feet and is attached to the main section on the west side. It is one large arena with several small storage rooms, balcony, and display cases on the north wall. There is also a private office for Harold Warp, although he spends most of his time in Chicago where his plastics manufacturing plant is headquartered. His business enables him to finance the monumental project that has made Minden known throughout the state and across the nation.

Basically, the addition will be used as a transportation hall. Many of the more valuable antique cars, airplanes, and possibly other forms of transportation will be moved in. Although there are more than 200 autos now on display, only about 50 or 60 will be housed in the new section. The others will remain in a separate automobile building on the grounds.

Airplanes have an important place in the new structure. One of these is an exact duplicate of the Wright Brothers' history-making "Kitty Hawk" and is one of the only two copies in existence. The duplicate was constructed by an American officer stationed in Japan. He used original blueprints and painstaking workmanship to construct the replica. The rebuilt original hangs in the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, D.C.

Among the cars to make the short trip into the new quarters is a Model "K" Ford, a deluxe sports model put out in 1906 to determine if the automobile market should be geared for the rich or the average American. Only 150 of these fancy models were made with a stiff price tag of $2,800, compared with several thousands of the $500 Model "N's", which developed into the Model T.

Space thus made available will be quickly filled. Existing displays will be spread out and new items brought in. Among these is an extensive collection of paintings, tapestries, and needlework. Many of these have been on hand for some time, but could not be exhibited because of space limitations.

Other items will be added to the Village as time goes on, for each passing year means more to be preserved. Still, the museum remains a sentimental establishment, for it is not operated on a profit basis. Antique collection has become so popular that cost of most objects had climbed tremendously. Fixed costs far exceed the income during the "off-season" winter months, but the Village is kept open, regardless, seven days a week from 8 a.m. until sundown. This service is invaluable for school children who take advantage of the off-season opportunity to inspect the displays.

Many hours can be passed just in the main building, yet it is only a small part of the total displays. There are 21 smaller structures and several outside exhibits, including a railroad engine and tender, steam engine, and merry-go-round. One building is devoted to cars, another to farm machinery, still another to glassware and china. Old-time crafts such as broom making and weaving also have prominent places, and such shops are actually operated. A cigar maker may be added to the staff* in the future.

Each of the more than 30,000 items on display has historical, cultural, or economic significance. There are guns, buttons, Indian artifacts, tools, tractors, a complete general store, coins, watches, and just about everything else, including (Continued on page 51)

BIG DAY AT RED WILLOW

SPRAWLING OVER 1,600 surface acres of the Red Willow Valley, is Red Willow Reservoir. This fine lake, located 13 miles north of McCook, off U. S. Highway 83, is putting southwest Nebraska on the angling map. Battling northerns and bottom-hugging channel cats lead the parade of finny attractions to this watery haven. But the picture was not always so rosy. Red Willow Creek, the reservoir's provider, had the title of "Nebraska's Muddiest Water" for several years. And with all of that silt floating around, angling was pretty much restricted to carp. Then the government decided to clear things up and hand fishermen some more desirable species.

Construction of Red Willow Reservoir was begun by the Bureau of Reclamation in the spring of 1960. It was completed in the fall of the next year. From all indications, it would rank high on the recreational charts, but something had to be done about the rough fish whose rooting was muddying the waters and ruining them for gamesters.

A fish rehabilitation project was launched through the co-operation of the Bureau of Reclamation, the U. S. Bureau of Sport Fisheries and Wildlife, and the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission.

This was the first time in state history that the Bureau of Reclamation had supported such a project. It also pitched in $1,160 for chemicals and supplied hydrologists to read stream-flow conditions before the chemical application. The Game Commission was the largest contributor, donating $2,290 for salaries, subsistence, travel, and equipment. The Bureau of Sport Fisheries and Wildlife supplied planning help and manpower. The job was a long-range one, and included gathering progressive data and reporting the farreaching results of the project.

Some planning had to come before biologists could move in to quell the rough-fish problem. Farm ponds, springs, drain ditches, beaver ponds, and marshes located on private property had to be found. Then permission, either written or oral, had to be secured from the landowners before eradication could begin. Even landowners whose holdings bordered on the stream and lake had to approve the plan. Technicians found and treated 40 such sites before work was begun on Red Willow itself.

There was no precedent for the type of operation planned for Red Willow. An earlier project at Rock Creek came the closest, so it was chosen as the pattern for Red Willow. Technicians decided to use a 2V2 per cent emulsifiable liquid rotenone, at 5 parts per million. This material suffocates fish, but is harmless to humans and warm-blooded animals that come in contact with it. It is also quickly and naturally neutralized with no lasting effects. Measuring stations were set up to check the amount to use and the speed in which it would be carried downstream. Army marker dye was used to calculate the rate of down-stream movement. Bureau of Reclamation hydrologists measured volume of flow at several preselected stations.

The measure-interval method of application was used to treat most of Red Willow Creek. The stream was divided into stretches that one crew could treat in a 12-hour working day. Rate, volume of flow, dissipating rate of chemical concentration between stations, and the length of the working day governed the establishment of each control stretch. For Red Willow Creek, the workmen were divided into three crews, one for each designated section of the stream.

Each team was given a glass jar calibrated in cubic centimeters per minute. This they used to check the rate of rotenone release at various intervals. Each also had a card showing their station's number, starting time, total amount of rotenone required, and the rate at which it should be dispersed. One man treated pond waters and special areas along the stream. Finally, biologists were asked to list observed dead fish in order of abundance and to save typical samples.

By the morning of September 6, 1961, the project was all ready. Red Willow Dam had been closed at 8 the night before for preparations. Work began just after dawn to insure the entire stream would be treated from station to station before shutting down at 6 p.m. Since the closing of the dam, approximately 50 acre feet of water had flowed into the reservoir. This was treated with 125 pounds of 5-per-cent, cube, rotenone powder, premixed with water to a stiff dough. The impounded water was held until the chemical's toxic effect dissipated.

Along the stream, 17 drip stations fed the chemical into the water. To prevent clogging of valves on the containers it was diluted to half strength. An experimental pressure tank was used, but proved ineffective. Oiler valves, like the ones used on irrigation pumps, were the ideal tools.

A series of beaver ponds near the headwaters were treated with the same strength rotenone used on the dam-held water. Working from both a canoe and shore, workmen towed rotenone-filled burlap sacks through the area or applied the chemical by hand. Ponded waters were given a five-pounds-per-acre-foot treatment of the five-per-cent rotenone dough. Springs and drains received approximately five pounds of five-percent cube dough.

Within hours of the rotenone's application, Red Willow Creek began to clear. By the next day, the entire stream carried clean, clear water instead of the mud-clogged mixture it had always known. With the rough fish gone, the bottom settled into a level, relatively stable surface. All along the stream, checkpoints reported belly-up carp. Area residents were encouraged to salvage any edible fish they found.

In the fall of 1961 and again in the springs of 1962 and 1963, finger ling forage and game fish were stocked in the reservoir and reclaimed stream area. With no rough-fish competition, these gamesters grew as they never had before.

A sampling of the fish in the lake in October, 1962, showed 1962-stocked northern pike averaging 15 inches. Five were taken that hit 22 inches and weighed 3 pounds apiece. Only one walleye was taken, but he hit 15V2 inches and weighed almost a pound. Techni- cians have found few rough fish since the rehabilitation. However, walleye, northern pike, largemouth bass, 32 NEBRASKAland bluegill, channel cat, and crappie are doing very well in the treated waters.

No fish, other than legal bait, may be introduced into the Red Willow Creek watershed without the written approval of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. Despite the restriction, several large carp and good-size bullheads have been taken from the waters. This is proof that the rotenoning was not totally successful. However, the chemical's employment improved the area's fishing a thousand per cent.

Anglers with an eye to top catches should obtain permission to fish the creek, for entry privileges still rest with landowners.

Red Willow Reservoir now ranks high in the list- ings of prime Nebraska fishing waters. It is readily accessible for a day, a weekend, or an extended stay.

Journey INTO 1867

TRAIL BOSS Lyle Hutchens watched the five covered wagons splash through the muddy farmyard as hard-muscled draft horses leaned into their traces. The date was June 3, 1967, but the setting was 1867.

Teamsters flashed smiles as Lyle nudged his horse forward to take his place at the head of the train. This was the climax of a long-planned event. Now all that remained was the actual 17-mile journey from Lyle's farm near Hendley to a prearranged campground on the banks of the Republican River near Holbrook.

This was his second trip into Nebraska's yesterday. In 1966, only his wagon made the trek, but in 1967, word got around, and there were 5 wagons and some 40 people. This June there will probably be more. But whether there is 1 or 50 wagons on the yearly excursion, the experiences of living in the pioneer past for a day will never be forgotten by those who take part in it. Lyle's family dates back to early Nebraska, so the one-day trek is really a return to his forefathers' way of life.

To make the jaunt authentic, a detachment of eight troopers from the Seventh Cavalry, clad in blue and gold, and an Indian scout escorted the wagons through an imaginary frontier full of hidden dangers. As the wagons rocked back and forth over the uneven trail, their bright canvases billowing in the wind, it was easy for both participants and onlookers to imagine themselves in the pioneer era.

Children skipped beside the creaking wagons and bearded men carried muzzle-loaders in readiness, for this was once Indian country, and in the old days wagons were easy marks. Like the trail boss of old, Lyle had to solve some problems before the 1967 train could roll. Most of the wagons on the trip had to be rebuilt, painted, and fitted for canvases.

Research on the cavalry uniforms also took time, but the Twentieth Century remakes were authentic right down to the red long Johns each trooper wore under his uniform. Calico dresses and children's clothing had to be made, too. The Hutchens, however, had one problem that others on the trip did not. Lyle's wife, Susan, was expecting a baby in two months, and he wondered if the trip would be too rough for her. But the doctor approved, saying that if mothers-to-be could travel across the plains in 1867, they surely could take one day on the trail in 1967, so Susan went along to share the adventure with her husband.

As far as Lyle was concerned, there weren't any farmhouses along the way, so if the modern pioneers wanted drinking water they had to carry their own. Modern Nebraska limited the wagons to back roads, but when possible the teams pulled their loads cross-country.

After six long, dusty hours, the tired overland travelers came to a spot overlooking the Republican River Valley. As the men tended the teams, the children quickly gathered wood for a fire. The women prepared a meal of homemade breads, pies, stew, and home-ground coffee. At sundown, the troopers fell in for retreat, and the colors were lowered to the sound of a bugle.

As the moon and clouds fought for their positions in the night sky, a blazing red-yellow fire was the scene of an old-fashioned hoedown, as the wagon train from Hendley did its bit to revive Nebraska's heritage.

A LITTLE BIT OF EDEN

THE CONICAL BUTTE, with its three rock-rimmed canyons spreading almost finger-like down the west side, was the only signpost that marked the way to our ranch. If we came by the west road, we couldn't see the four-room sod house, with its added summer kitchen and well house of pine slabs, until we were almost on top of them. They nestled on the edge of the meadow at the foot of the low hills which formed the western rim of the valley.

When the road reached the top of the hill it turned downward to the right. From here, we could see the black, iron stovepipe above the sod-covered roof. A few hundred feet down the hill, we turned sharply to the left and were in the dooryard. Home! The place where I was born and where I spent most of my first 20 years.

Spring-fed Box Butte Creek, which meanders for 25 miles in a northeasterly direction across the Nebraska panhandle, flowed just below the house, past the foot of the butte, and under a small bridge which carried the road on eastward over the north shoulder of the butte, and into the then mysterious distance of the Sand Hills.

A few hundred feet below the bridge the creek made a horseshoe bend, and at the round end widened and deepened enough to provide a swimming pool, and — in early days —a place for occasional baptisms.

A quarter of a mile farther on, the creek picked up the cold, bubbling water from the "Indian Spring", divided to form an island of a few acres, and then flowed on to empty into the Niobrara —a swift, rushing river which flows out of nearby Wyoming across northern Nebraska for 300 miles to join the "Wide Missouri".

The sod house, the butte, and the creek form the background of a memory picture which recalls a way of life that few remember, although many share its proud heritage.

In the spring of 1885, my father, with a small group of covered-wagon travelers in search of free land, camped on the hillside above the island. As he started to walk toward the creek, a Sioux Indian from a group of teepees a half-mile upstream, approached with a friendly, "How." Seeing father with a pail in his hand, the Sioux beckoned him a short distance downstream where, pointing to a spring, he said, "Heap good." This was the everflowing Indian Spring. The Indian said his people had come here for many seasons to trap for mink, beaver, muskrat, and skunk. As he left he indicated with a sweep of his hand the length of the creek that was in view and said, "Runs always." This was to be the end of the journey for father. Here he would stake his claim, build a sod house, and send for his wife and two little boys. Here there would always be good water for drinking, for cattle, and for the trees he would plant — trees which would some day stand high against the skyline above the rolling prairie.

The home had been established five years before I was born, and it was thus identified with all of my early recollections. The house wasn't pretty, but it gave us shelter and protection, and it was home. Its thick sod walls provided a cool retreat from the unshaded prairie, and it was snug and warm when fierce winter blizzards almost buried the house under their drifts.

By today's standards we would have been considered poor, ill-housed, and underprivileged. But, we had a richness of living, because we had the greatest blessing with which any children can be born: wise, cultured, and devoted parents. They taught us there is dignity in hard work if the job is well done, and that truth, honor, industry, and consideration of others are the foundations upon which character is built. They taught us love for, and duty to, God and Country.

We did not have or need expensive toys to develop manual dexterity or to prevent frustrations. The actual business of living took care of those things. Survival meant food, and that required daily work in the fields and garden and caring for livestock and poultry. We had to provide not only enough for our own use, but 44 NEBRASKAland for a surplus which would be traded in the stores in Hay Springs —20 miles away —for shoes, clothing, and foods we could not produce.

At any early age, we children, now five in number, began to share in the work, and we were especially proud when allowed to help with those tasks usually done only by adults. But there was playtime, too. The creek, the butte, and the meadow were our playgrounds and our lands of make-believe. Along the stream's edge we gathered flowers, looked among its rushes for nests of the red-winged blackbirds, fished for sunfish and chubs, waded in the shallow spots, and sailed imaginary boats to undiscovered lands.

The top of the butte was the highest spot I knew, and as a little child, the very top of the world. From here we could see for many miles to the north, south, and west. To the east, the view was shortened by higher ranges of hills beyond which my imagination often wandered. The "East" was the place from which people came, where living came, where living was far different, and where, I thought, dreams must always come true.

On the butte's slopes we found bluebells, starflowers, wild sweet peas, and daisies. In the shelter of its canyons, the air was sweet with the fragrance of wild roses. The limestone rocks were castles where I lived as a "princess" in magnificent splendor and where someday a knight on a white horse would come and take me far away to live happily ever after. He did come, too, not a knight on a white horse, but a handsome "prince" on a bay one. And later, he did take me to many places and more than 50 years of happy living.

But there were recreations and pleasures in our own world, too — occasional visits to other ranches, attendance at church services in the sod schoolhouse a few miles away, horseback riding under the high, ever-changing prairie skies, sleigh rides and coasting in winter, and for the boys, hunting ducks, wild geese, prairie grouse, and other game.

Sometimes there were less pleasant, although more adventurous, happenings. One morning in early June, I was churning in the summer kitchen. My 10-year-old arms were tired, and I was impatient to finish and get out of doors.

I could hear the swish of the broom as mamma, in the kitchen, swept up some sand from the floor, sand which my father had tracked in when he came from the garden with rhubarb and asparagus. When the swishing stopped, I knew she had paused in the corner of the room to get the dustpan which hung at the end of the woodbox. Then I heard her call. Her voice sounded low and strange. When I stepped to the door, she put her fingers to her lips to command silence, and pointed toward the corner of the room. As my eyes followed her finger I froze with horror. Outlined against the high back of the woodbox was the ugly, flat, triangular head and several inches of the diamond-patterned body of a huge rattlesnake.

My mind flew to the always-loaded double-barreled shotgun which hung over the door behind me, but I realized that a shotgun, and in the house, was not for me.

"Rattlesnake. Don't move," I whispered, and tiptoed across the floor to close the door of the adioining room where my grandmother was rocking by a window.

I knew she would be terrified if our intruder should try that escape route. Then I moved carefully back to the outer door. Once outside, I screamed to my father who was on his way back to the garden. "Come quick, there's a rattlesnake in the house."

For an instant he stood as if uncertain of what I had said. Then with a "Get me a pitchfork," he pointed toward a haystack. I ran for the fork and met him at the door. "Where?" he asked. "Woodbox," I answered.

He balanced the fork in his hands, with tines turned downward, and stepped inside, pausing to adjust his eyes to the lesser light of the room. Neither the snake or mamma had moved. The gentle ticking of the clock sounded like hammer strokes. I moved to stand near mamma while father inched his way forward so slowly he seemed scarcely to move. When he got within striking distance, he thrust the sharp tines squarely into the head of the rattler. Mamma gave a gasp of relief as the room rang with the whirring of the tortured snake. Father edged the fork upward until it cleared the top of the woodbox and pushed the tines more securely through the snake's head. Then, holding the fork with its twisting, furiously-rattling victim, he moved backward. When he reached the door he paused, looked at mamma, cocked his head, and said with a grin, "Well, mamma, when we built this old sod house we never thought it would be a little bit of Eden, did we?"

Mamma managed a weak smile while he went out to the woodpile to finish his grim job with an ax.

Mamma again started for the dustpan, but as I took the broom from her, we noticed a gaping hole in the pine baseboard where a dried knot had fallen out. Evidently, the snake had used it as an entrance. With the broom handle, I stirred the small sticks and the corncobs in the woodbox, ran the handle along the floor behind the box, reached under the cabinet table, behind the wash bench, and under the nearby cupboard. Rattlesnakes were said to move about in pairs, and I was taking no chances. Mamma resumed her sweeping, and I opened the door so recently closed. Grandmother turned, smiled, and said, "Isn't it a lovely day?"

When I returned to the churn its thumping was soon replaced by loud splashing, and I knew the butter had "come". I drew off the rich buttermilk into large pitchers which I put in the ice chest. Then, I went out to the buggy shed, got a hammer and some small nails, and pried the lid from a small can. Returning to the kitchen I nailed the lid firmly over the knothole. As I started to get the "butter print" for molding the butter into pound blocks, Mamma said, "I'll finish the butter. Don't you want to finish your story?"

I didn't want to read or even stay in the house. I went around to my favorite spot, the big swing back of the house where I did much of my "traveling". Facing eastward, I would swing higher and higher until it seemed I could almost see beyond the butte. Here, with no one to see, I could now let the tears come. Seating myself in the swing, I stepped backward uphill as far as the rope would permit. Then with a strong push I was in the air where my tears dried as fast as they came.

My father, passing along the path below with a wheelbarrow, on his way to get a block of ice, paused to warn me, "Don't ever jump out when you're high like that; it will make your feet big."

I shook my head. I didn't want to jump. I didn't want to come down ever again. I wanted to keep traveling. "Some day," I told myself, "perhaps I will live where there are no sod houses (Continued on page 56)

VALLEY of the BUNNIES

WHENEVER I GET musty minded and tension tight, I go rabbit hunting. So one dreary day last winter when the world was getting the best of me, I set up a hunt that turned out to be a dandy. Scuttlebutt said that Terry Cacek, a student at the University of Nebraska, had a fine beagle, so I gave Terry a ring. My snow job was so good that Terry's buddy, Ben Schole, also a student at N.U., couldn't resist the blarney and signed on. Allan Sicks, a Nebraska Game Commission photographer, eavesdropped my end of the conversation, and got bit by the bunny bug, too.

We selected Stagecoach Lake, U/2 miles south and Va-mile west of Hickman, for our morning's hunt. The lake's surrounding land is 1 of 10 such state-recreation and special-use areas within an hour's drive of Lincoln. These areas have some of the best cottontail cover found in eastern Nebraska. Signs and fences mark the public-hunting boundaries at these flood-control impoundments.

Five minutes after Allan and I met Terry and Ben at the south end of the lake, I knew the lanky Cacek was a bunny man. He carried his slide-action 12-gauge with easy familiarity and had that slow, watchful saunter of the experienced rabbiter. Ben was more of a bird hunter and had a tendency to crowd the dog until Terry explained that rabbit hunting is more wait than walk. Ben had a single-barrel 20 while Allan carried his "goose gun", a tightly-bored 12-gauge autoloader. Since I don't have to kill rabbits to have a good time hunting, I had a little .22 autoloader, but my side-by-side 20-gauge was in the car in case I had to teach the young men humility. As we started out, Terry told me that he was from Beatrice, and that Ben hailed from Hooper.

Lady Bird, Terry's six-year-old beagle, was a goer. We made a short pass through some tall weeds and then hit a small ravine that flanked a milo field. Lady Bird sniffed out all the likely-looking spots, but our jaunt didn't pay off. We regrouped and short-cutted across the milo toward another field at the south outlet of the lake.

I was lagging the others and wasn't expecting the rabbit that dashed out under my feet. Two hops put 46 NEBRASKAland him into the weeds and out of sight. Terry whistled the beagle over to the fresh track.

Lady Bird chopped a couple of times and lined out. She took the rabbit through the weeds, across the road, and down along the outlet. We spread out and waited. The beagle's yap yap grew faint before the cottontail circled back. His arc was wider than we anticipated, and he made home territory without any shooting.

The beagle stayed with him as he pell-melled through the milo and cut his old trail. I saw him twice, but I couldn't get a bead on him. The dog gained a bit, and the rabbit went into a figure eight and started looping the north end of the milo. Allan and I hurried to cut him off, but he was smart. He started crossing the rows to check the dog and then doubled back to the road and across to the outlet where he disappeared. Lady Bird plodded by, giving me a reproachful look.

"I'm sorry, beagle, I just couldn't get lined up on him," I apologized to the panting dog.

"Never heard you apologize to anybody for anything," Allan commented, watching the hound.

"I'm kind to kids and dogs," I answered. "Why didn't you shoot?"

The photographer shrugged, "He was just too darn fast."

Terry elected to pull the beagle off and try for another cottontail rather than have Lady Bird cross the feeble ice of the outlet and risk a possible ducking. We crossed to the south shore of the lake and worked a patch of brome grass near an abandoned farmstead. Allan and Ben stayed on the lower slope while Terry and I worked a sharp little rise. I was watching Allan beat the weeds when his gun came up and blasted twice. Weeds exploded, but his target was long gone.

"Mowing weeds?" I questioned.

Allen's reply wasn't original, but it was very, very emphatic. Terry started toward the spot, but Lady Bird announced a rabbit. This one wasn't a big runner. He cut a tight circle in the brome, trying to outwit the dog. Finally, the bunny crossed a little opening, and Terry was ready. His shot stopped the animal cold. We hunted out the rest of the patch, but the beagle didn't show any interest, so we returned to the car and headed north to the inlet of the lake.

This was different terrain. Wooded, it was a mixture of tall trees, briery understory, and patchy marsh growth. Lady Bird struck pay dirt right away, but this rabbit was no gambler. He ran a line and holed up. We walked another hundred yards and spooked a second bunny. The beagle was on the trail in a flash.

This one left the woods, crossed a privately-owned field, and then started doubling back. I climbed up on a gatepost to watch the chase. The rabbit belted in toward me and then stopped. He stood up like a curious cat, his long ears extended as though trying to pinpoint the location of his pursuer. He dropped to all fours, hopped forward for two or three yards, and then backtracked over his original trail. Apparently satisfied that he had checked the dog, he side-hopped for several yards and straightened out. I was too interested in the bunny's tactics to shoot, but I yelled to Allan that he was coming.

The photographer's 12-gauge sounded like the crack of doom and it was - for the rabbit. A couple of minutes later, Allen joined me, carrying a fat cottontail by the ears.

"He was just loping along," the photographer replied to my how and where.

Both of us watched as Lady Bird reached the rabbit's check spot. Her eager barking dwindled to whines of frustration as she nosed at the confusion of scents, but after a minute or so, she solved the puzzle and ran the line to where Allan had stoned the bunny. The beagle seemed to know the rabbit was bagged. She joined us after one half-hearted little sweep of the area.

While we waited for the other boys, I marveled for the umpteenth time, how hounds can determine from scent alone which way their quarry is going. As far as I know, no one has ever come up with a satisfactory answer.

We took a break to rest the hound and plan a campaign. It was evident there were more rabbits in the woods, so we spread out and ambled along, letting the dog hunt on her own.

Allan almost got a shot at the cottontail that spurted out to his right, but at my, "Let the dog work him," he held up.

Terry and Ben listened to Lady Bird's progress until they got a line on the bunny's course. The rabbit was coming back through a little erosion ditch, so the two students took up positions on each bank. Ben's shot sent weeds, grass, and dirt flying, but the target came through unscathed. Terry's shot was right on, and the cottontail tumbled for 15 yards after the llA ounces of No. 6's hit.

Lunch was uncomfortable for Ben and me. We didn't have any rabbits and our companions made us well aware of our empty game pockets. After a bit, Terry turned serious and suggested we try Wagon MAY, 1968 47   Train Lake, another in the Salt Valley chain. Wagon Train is rather heavily wooded, and since the drizzly day was getting damper and damper, he figured the rabbits might be formed up in the timber.

We drove two miles east of Hickman and came in on the west side of the 315-acre lake. A field of winter-killed goldenrod edged the woods that sprawled along both sides of the creek that fed the impoundment. We spread out and coursed the weeds, hoping to boot out a sleeper or two. I saw one rabbit and was trying to get the beagle on the trail when she routed another.

He took straight through the weeds and into the woods. The beagle ran him beyond sound, and we thought she had given up until we heard her faint chop in the far distance. I had a good spot, and I watched carefully, but somehow that rabbit slipped by. Lady Bird tongued on past, not 15 yards from my stand. Terry was waiting at the edge of the timber, but the bunny got by him and finally holed up.

The hound was tiring, so we helped a bit by kicking brush and tangles. Allan almost stepped on a sleeper, but he wasn't fast enough. This second rabbit went way, way out and took his time coming back ahead of the slowing dog, but when he did come back, Allan was waiting for him. His head-on shot stopped the bunny for good.

"What's the matter, old man, going blind?" Allan chided. "That's the second rabbit that got by you."

"I'll show you who is blind on the next one," I retorted. "I've got the shotgun now."

We were about halfway through the timber when Lady Bird pounced on a tangle. I have never seen a rabbit break so fast in my life. His first leap was 15 feet if it was an inch, and the second put him over a bank and out of sight before I realized what was happening. Lady Bird was right behind the bunny, so he didn't have time for evasion. He went out and right back, straight toward Terry's waiting gun.

"If you and Ben would help, we might get our self-imposed limit of eight, but I guess Allan and I will have to shoot them all," he remarked, displaying his kill with an exaggerated gesture.

"Pride goeth before a fall," I reminded him.

Our last timber rabbit was waiting at the far edge of the woods. The beagle moved him out into an adjoining pasture, and then pushed him into a shallow circle toward Allan. The photographer's goose gun cut loose, and the cottontail cartwheeled.

"And how many have you got?" Allan leered. "Here, if you can't kill one you can at least caddie."

I tucked the limp bunny in my coat and put some distance between me and my tormentors. Since I was too far away for easy razzing, the two successful hunters ganged up on Ben. There was a shallow erosion draw to the right of the woods and it looked very rabbity. A huge brush pile at its top looked promising, and I was sure there were bunnies in it. If I could get the beagle to work into it, I might have a great plenty of cottontails in a hurry.

Lady Bird did her best, but the tangle was too much. She couldn't wiggle into it. The others saw what we were doing and hurried up to join us. The beagle had backed away from the brush pile and was working her way toward the approaching hunters. Suddenly, she chopped, and I turned in time to see a cottontail twinkling over the lip of the ditch. Terry chanced a snap shot, but it was Ben who stopped the rabbit.

Ben was tickled. "I never realized that rabbit hunting could be so sporting. It makes me a little mad to think how much fun I have missed by not trying this before," he beamed.

"Rabbits are probably Nebraska's most under-harvested game. They are plentiful, the season is long, and the daily bag limit is very generous, yet not many of our hunters take advantage of this fine sport," I answered.

Farther down the ditch, a windfallen tree slanted up some 15 feet above the ravine. I was sure that the ditch held more rabbits, and the windfall offered a perfect vantage point to cover the surrounding area. Not wanting to make it too obvious, I lengthened my stride to get ahead of the others, but Terry outfoxed me. He reached the tree and climbed its slanting trunk.

The student had hardly established his footing, when Lady Bird started her familiar chop. This rabbit broke over the ravine and hotfooted through the weeds. He didn't want to leave home, though, and cut right back. Terry rolled him at 40 yards with one of the nicest shots of the day.

The afternoon was running out, so we stopped to work some photos. Finally Lady Bird got tired of modeling and wandered away. We heard her yelp, and looked up in time to see a bunny tearing up the opposite slope.

The three young men grabbed their shotguns and pelted for the rise. They formed a tight little skirmish line as the rabbit circled back and headed for them. I was almost 50 yards behind the trio, and didn't expect to get a shot. The cottontail must have seen one of the hunters, for he turned and ran parallel to the waiting gunners. The seven shots were one long roll of sound, but that bunny must have led the good life. He streaked through the barrage without a scratch, and angled toward me. He was running almighty fast, and I had to keep dropping the muzzles of the 20 to cover him.

Four more seconds would have saved him, but for once my shotgun trigonometry was working. The fleeing rabbit went two feet in the air when the shot hit.

He was No. 8 and ended the day. My erstwhile tormentors were quiet on the way home, but I wasn't. Revenge is sweet even on a rabbit hunt.

BACKYARD CASTING

to operate because of the line control. This is done by the index finger feathering the line as it goes out and then dropping the finger to the edge of the spool to stop it.

Casting techniques should be standardized. Hold your spin-cast and bait-casting outfits in your hand with the palm down. In other words, you will be looking at the side rather than the top of the reel. Aim the rod tip at your target, but pick a spot about a foot above it as you can thumb an overcast onto the target. Bring the tip to a 10 o'clock position, snap it back to 1 o'clock, then power your cast forward. Stop the tip on target, as the plug sails toward it.

For good accuracy, watch the lure, and control overcasts or correct an off-center cast by moving the rod tip in the direction you want the lure to go. This combination of rod control and thumbing will soon put you in command of your lure.

Practice the different deliveries such as the underhand, the conventional overhand, and try some sidearm casts. Often these various approaches to casting come in handy in actual fishing if obstacles prevent the more routine toss outs.

There are also a number of "exotic" casts that are fun to do and can at one time or another be used in fishing. The bow-and-arrow, for example, is a highly accurate cast. With a little discretion on the part of the angler to avoid the hooks on a fishing lure, it becomes a useful cast where overhead obstacles won't allow a normal cast.

Using a foot to cast with might sound complicated, but it's rather simple with a practice plug. Crank your plug to within a foot of the rod tip, drop the plug on the ground with its eye facing the target, then step down on it with the toe of your shoe. Move the rod handle up and out until the rod has a good bow in it, and then kick your foot forward to release the plug. With a little practice, this fun cast becomes most accurate.

Regardless of how you approach it, backyard casting can be every bit as much fun as target shooting, pitching horseshoes, or playing bad- minton. One nice thing about this "dry-land" angling is the chance that after a few sessions you will be able to drop a lure on some lunker's dinner plate, and you know what that means.

THE DEVIL'S DESCENT

wind, and time have made it what it is today, and it is still changing, because these natural elements are tireless. The formation once rose out of the sea and ever so slowly it is returning."

Ron went on to explain that the DeviPs Washbasin is even more picturesque in the spring and summer than it is in the winter. Water, from snowmelt and runoff, pools in the bottom, and on bright days, the surrounding walls and the sky are reflected in the surface to give the Basin a multi-dimensional effect. It wasn't particularly colorful during our visit, yet the bleakness of the winter landscape and the dark frown of the walls gave the Basin a certain somber charm. The place looked like something Satan would use for decor if he ever got around to designing a lavatory.

I was surprised to see names and dates carved on the ledge's walls, so Ron explained their origin. "This is quite a popular picnic spot. At one time, we let everybody come in, but some got careless with litter and other abuses, so now we insist on visitors asking permission."

As we rode around the ledge, I tried to find the oldest inscription, but there were far too many. We spent over an hour there, exploring and discussing the unusual formation.

Babob, who had clowned the whole day, saved his best antic for the trip out. He simply laid down and refused to move. It took a lot of vocal and some physical prodding to get him up, but finally he heaved to his feet and resumed his lubberly way. He had lost a skirmish, but he knew he was going to win the undeclared war between his rider and himself.

Getting out wasn't as difficult as I anticipated, but it did take time and some careful horsemanship. Our mounts seemed glad to quit the place, especially Angel who probably figured that any- thing connected with Satan wasn't for her. We had to backtrack quite a way to locate a place where the horses could get footage to climb up out of the canyon. The first likely-looking spot was too icy, 50 NEBRASKAland so we went back nearly to where we had dropped down into the canyon.

Once on top we easily worked our way back to the Washbasin. Here, it took on a quite different but equally exciting view. However, the sound of earth falling from beneath our horses' feet to crash what seemed like hours later into the deep hole below was rather frightening. When we approached the rim of the Washbasin I was thankful to have an Angel along for protection even if she was of the four-footed variety rather than winged.

The wind had picked up a bit and cooled off, and by the time we started back, it was getting late. Nonetheless, the return trip to Ron's through the rugged countryside was most enjoyable. We had spent a wonderful day enjoying one of Nebraska's most unique geological formations and had satisfied our curiosity about it. We were all smiles as we dismounted back at the ranch —all except Don.

He rubbed a personal part of his anatomy and groaned, "That darn horse won in the end - my end."

YESTERDAY TODAY

bathtubs, all arranged in chronological order.

From ponderous steam machines to dainty crystal, and from oxcart to "aeroplane", history is here captured in material form. One-of-a-kind specimens, such as President Grover Cleveland's desk and hand-made pocket sundials, to products of mass production, share the limelight.

Some articles are more popular than others, however, because they played more important or colorful roles in early life. Others attract attention because they are so unusual. One example is the violano virtuoso, an odd, coin-operated machine emitting the sounds of a violin and piano via a punched paper roll. There are also genuine nickelodeons, player pianos, and other music machines lined up in the order of their development.

It is only natural that many vacationers describe their visit to Pioneer Village as the highlight of their trip. Many area residents return time and again to view the fascinating panorama of this unique establishment.

Pioneer Village is one of Nebraska's biggest tourist attractions and one of its finest accomplishments. Diversion of traffic from U.S. Highway 6-34 to Interstate 80 hasn't reduced attendance, which is understandable, for in this whirling age, fondness and nostalgia for a quieter, more sedate past is very evident.

Dreams and follies, suffering and joy, defeat and triumph are all mirrored in the displays. Perhaps this is the real magnetism of the place, for it is a portrayal of life itself.

WALLEYE COINCIDENCE

a problem, but Doug solved it by wading in and scooping the walleye out on the bank.

My companion shook me out of the sack in the gray haze that preceded the dawn. Self-satisfied with the earlier catch, I took my time as I sleepily prepared for the morning hunt. Doug was already surveying the water when I arrived at the inlet. He calmly indicated that he had spotted several fish well over our self-imposed minimum of two pounds.

As dawn's first rays warmed the chilly spring air, we moved cautiously down to water level. Two years of bow-fishing experience told us one rash move and all that would greet us would be a clouded swirl of silt left by spooky fish.

I notched a fiber-glass arrow and scanned the shallows. A two-pound walleye slid between two rocks, and I brought up my bow. Allowing for refraction, the bending of light rays as they hit the water, I sighted in just below the fish's belly. The shot was deliberate, but a hair high, and the walleye scurried for deep water. Amid chuckles from Doug, I dejectedly retrieved the arrow.

Robin Hood fishing takes practice — lots of it. There are so many variables in shooting a fish with a bow and arrow, that it is easy to miscalculate. Refraction, for instance, makes the fish appear closer to the surface than he actually is, and to compensate for this illusion the archer must aim below his target. But refraction varies with light intensity, depth of the water, and the angle from which the archer is shooting. The bowman must allow for these factors in this inexact science. Long ago I learned to count only the hits and forget the misses.

Doug had already bagged a two-pound walleye, and to make life livable I had to score. I inched along the bank, studying each rock and shadow. Then, in the watery depths, I saw a tail moving slowly back and forth. I tiptoed into position. This was the trophy I wanted and my muscles tensed as I drew back. I had gone to school on my earlier miss, so this 15-foot shot looked easy.

At the arrow's impact, the water exploded. The 72-pound-test nylon line hummed off the bow-mounted reel as the walleye headed for deep water. Clumsily I grabbed the out-going line, and nearly dropped my outfit in the water. With a 7V2-pounder tugging at one end, and a 145-pound youth pulling at the other, arrow and fish could part ways. I had to turn the fish and start an overhand retrieve, but at the same time, I had to play the walleye. I gingerly worked the lunker to shore, and my excited shouts brought Doug on the run. Elated with my catch, I hoisted the fish out of the water with a see-if-you-can-do-better grin.

Nearly 15 minutes later, Doug just about did. When his target flashed into view, there was little time to determine the proper lead and the amount of re- fraction. Doug drew and shot in less time than it takes to tell about it. The spunky walleye darted (Continued on page 54)

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Boiled Crow. Metal strips for banding game birds from Washington Biological Survey, used to read "Wash. Biol. Surv." The wording was changed after a hunter shot a crow and disgustedly wrote the Survey. "Dear Sirs: I shot one of your pet crows the other day and followed instructions attached. But when I washed, boiled, and Curved' it, it tasted Tvurrible'. You should stop trying to fool people with things like this." — Missouri

Big Haul. In Crown Point, Indiana a man arrived home from work one afternoon to find that thieves had stolen two large walnut trees right out of his yard. Working in broad daylight, they buzzed off the trees and drove away with the main boles, leaving tops and limbs. At today's prices for walnut, their haul probably equaled a moderate-size bank robbery.— Michigan Conservation

Stick Retriever. Three men from Clarion County were duck hunting on State Game Lands in Pennsylvania. They shot a duck which fell into the water near another hunter who shouted, "My duck." The first hunter told his dog to retrieve him. The other hunter also told his dog to retrieve the bird, and threw a stick close to the duck. The dog swam right by the duck and retrieved the stick.— Pennsylvania

Many Happy Returns. A deer hunter in Wyoming lost his wallet, containing $115, while in the hills. After a futile search the hunter gave up and returned to his Detroit home. Nearly two years later a package arrived, which had cost someone $1.45 to send. Inside was the long-lost wallet, still containing the $115. The happy hunter was unable to reward or even thank the sender. There was no name or return address. —Michigan

Not Hydrophobia. A very worried father called a Pennsylvania game official one night, informing him his son had been bitten by a fish. After assuring the distraught father there was no danger of rabies, the official reflected that at least the fish were certainly biting in that particular area.—Pennsylvania

Seeing Good Points. Everyone likes the outdoors, but not everyone learns to appreciate it fully. A 14-year-old Ohio boy works at it, though. He handles both fly and spinning rod well, loves to camp, and is a good swimmer. Last season the teenager went on his first deer hunt with adult friends. In addition to doing his share of camp chores, he followed one of the hunters through the woods, and was able to tell which way the deer were moving when the hunter couldn't. This is a particularly outstanding feat, considering the lad has been blind since birth. — Ohio

He Flew The Coop. A hunter in eastern Kansas spent two tiring days in the field during pheasant season. The only game he bagged was a lone pheasant, which was safely deposited in the trunk of his car. A game warden, wishing to inspect the results of the two-day hunt, asked to look into the trunk. As the warden and the hapless hunter watched, the pheasant flapped out of the trunk and flew over a nearby hill. —Kansas

Deer-Tag Blues. A Pennsylvania hunter took a considerable pride in the fact that he has just returned home with a fine buck during the past deer season. While unloading his tagged deer from the car, two small neighbor boys sidled up and asked where he got the animal. He explained his hunt to them, but heard one whisper to the other, "He didn't shoot it," he said, "he bought it. There's a price tag on its ear.' —Pennsylvania

Flat-Tailed Thieves. A Canadian lodge operator likes to plan ahead, so he airlifted a 14-foot wooden boat into a remote lake in preparation for a later fishing trip. A few months later, he returned to the lake with a party of fishermen, proud of himself for having had the foresight to bring the boat in. After a lengthy search for the craft, however, the fishing party found that beavers had taken advantage of the new-found lumber and built the 14-foot boat right into their latest dam. —Anon

Sudden Chest Pain. A Pennsylvania man was repairing his boat near a lake. After working steadily for some time, he stood up to admire his handiwork. Suddenly, he was struck in the chest and knocked to the ground. Much to his surprise, a large Canada goose was flopping near his feet. The goose had been coming in for a landing when the sportsman stood up directly in its path. The goose finally arranged itself, and continued on its way.— Pennsylvania

Catch Your Breath. Fishermen who release the fish they catch may have to perform artificial respiration on them first, a scientist has suggested. The scientist said that in the excitement of being hooked, the fish is unable to get the additional oxygen needed for his system. This would mean the hooked fish is actually suffocating, rather than merely tiring. To make it more sporting, maybe the angler could hold his breath while the battle is going on. —Anon

WALLEYE COINCIDENCE

in and around rocks, then headed for the inlet's channel as he tried to shake the shaft. Doug kept the fish in check and hauled him out of the water. He hadn't bested me, but he had equaled my earlier prize right down to the ounce. Both of our fish stretched the tape at 27% inches.

At the time, neither of us gave any thought to state records. We were more interested in finny targets, and by 8:30 a.m. we had our walleye limit. As a remembrance of the day, we had a picture taken of our catch. It was already a good day, but I had one more big thrill still coming.

As Jim McCole, area conservation officer, walked toward me, I spotted a northern pike loitering in the two-foot-deep water. I aimed and hit the 15-to-20-pound fish in the nape of the neck. The lunker took off like a dragster prepping for a championship race. As the line whistled off the spool, the fish did a series of sharp turns and jumped out of the water. On his second lunge, the northern shook the arrow and escaped.

Jim checked our catch, but like Doug and I, the fact that we possessed two record-breaking walleyes did not register. Several months later, the conservation officer stopped at the sporting goods store where I worked. One look at the photograph told him we had broken the old walleye record of 3 pounds, 15 ounces.

Thanks to Jim, Doug and I share a state record, but both of us have seen other archers take larger walleye. Maybe these shooters just don't care about state records, or like us, were not aware they had shot lunker fish.

Although Doug is now a student at Chadron State College and I attend the University of Nebraska, we still manage to get together for occasional bow-fishing. When we do, that day in April of 1965 always crops up in our conversations. Why not? Sharing a state record is worth talking about.

IF YOU CATCH A RECORD FISH: Have the fish checked and weighed by a conservation officer or other Game Commission official, obtain his signature, and submit this statement and other pertinent information to the Information and Tourism Division, Nebraska Game Commission, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509. If this is not possible, the angler may submit a notarized affidavit signed by two witnesses, giving weight of the fish, where and when it was taken, girth, length, and other information to the agency mentioned previously. Photographs of the fish should be sent if possible. - Editor

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

OLYMPIC HOPEFULS

average of 29.5 points per game was some 6 points over the previous school record. Playing a corner position for Creighton, Portman also broke the schoors free-throw record.

The first tryouts for the Olympic basketball team will eliminate about 25 of the eligible players. Then, after training during the summer, the final team selections will be made in late August.

Wrestling has long been one of man's favorite competitions, and Nebraska has hopeful contenders in this field. Wendell Hakanson and Roy Washington, sophomores at Omaha University, recently captured first-place honors in the National Association of Intercollegiate Athletics wrestling tournament. This qualified both matmen to attend the Olympic wrestling tournament trials in Ames, Iowa, in August.

Both wrestlers have acquired impressive win lists during their two years of competition. Washington's over-all school record is 45 wins and 3 losses and 1 tie, while Hakanson has tallied 44 wins and 3 losses. Last year Washington placed second in his 145-pound class at the NAIA tournament. Hakanson, a native Omahan, is a three-year state high school wrestling champ.

Acceptance into the Olympic Games is often complex and always difficult. Each individual sport in the Olympics has its own separate committee. The duties of these committees are many-fold. They set up sites and dates for tryouts and select the coaches, managers, and other technical personnel. However, the most important duty of each committee is the final selection of individual and team competitors.

Whether NEBRASKAland is represented by 1 or 1,000 athletes, each will carry the true spirit of sportsmanship to the games. For each athlete, determination and talent are the principal prerequisites for competing in the Olympic Games. But, as hopeful contestants, all 45 have the full support of NEBRASKAland.

A LITTLE BIT OF EDEN

for snakes to crawl into. Some day, some day, perhaps some day."

That some day of long ago is now a reality. From my apartment windows, high on the New Jersey Palisades, I watch the evening lights of New York City come on, throwing their brightness against the sky and their many-colored reflections on the dark waters of the Hudson River. I know that at this same time, 2,000 miles away to the West, beyond "the butte", the sun, sinking behind a cloud mass, is lighting the sky with a flaming brilliance so common to the high plains. Now it throws its glow over the miles of wheat fields that have replaced much of the buffalo grass on those wide prairies and over the paved highways which have followed the once-rutted trails. It touches the groves that stand against the skyline, marking the spot where a sod house once stood. Trees that shade the modern homes of the third generation of these pioneers are living monuments to those who had a dream and the will to make it come true.

The limestone rocks have weathered with the years and the butte does not have the impressive height of childish eyes. The sod houses are gone these many years, and the Oglala Sioux who pointed out the "Indian Spring" perhaps died at Wounded Knee where the U.S. Seventh Cavalry— Custer's old regiment — using Gatling guns, massacred the several hundred men, women, and children of Chief Bigfoot's band.

But the waters of the spring are still "heap good", and the little creek "runs always". The red-winged blackbirds call out their evening song and are answered by the turtledoves among the rocks and by the meadowlarks from the hill. As the last fading bit of color gives way to the silvery haze of moonlight, I see with memory's eye, the grassy spot that was once "A Little Bit of Eden."

NEBRASKAland proudly presents the stories of its readers. Here is the opportunity so many have requested-a chance to tell their own outdoor tales. Hunting trips, the "big fish that got away", unforgettable characters, outdoor impressions-aft have a place here.

If you have a story to tell, Jot it down and send it to Editor, NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln 68509. Send photographs, black and white or color, too, if any are available.

ROUNDUP

the rodeo the same rip-roaring event it was in Wild West days. Finals for the Central Plains Rodeo Association bring college cowpokes from several states to Curtis on May 19 and 20 for the University of Nebraska School of Technical Agriculture Rodeo. Even the girls get into the act at this rodeo with barrel-racing and goat-tying events. Earlier in the month the University of Nebraska is host to a rodeo in Lincoln, May 3 and 4. High school rodeos bring more excitement to the state with events at Gordon on May 18 and 19 and at Valentine on May 30.

Action slows down to a musical pace at Union College in Lincoln, when 23-year-old Sergiu Luca performs May 11. The Romanian violinist began lessons at age four and has studied with the world-famous Ivan Galamian at the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia.

Stargazers will delight in the planetarium sky shows available in May. Those interested in the myths and concepts of the tide and the moon can attend the Ralph Mueller Planetarium in Lincoln. The House of Yesterday at Hastings plans a sky show explaining the universal movements — the earth, sun, Milky Way, and planets in motion.

Whatever the occasion, May offers bushels of activities to prepare both vacationers and inhabitants for an inexhaustible summer of fun.

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . WESTERN COACHWHIP

MOST PEOPLE, on finding a snake, seldom stay long enough to notice such details as length, girth and scale pattern. But some do, and if their snake appears to be very long and very thin, with a scale pattern resembling the braided rawhide of a whip, the odds are that it is a coachwhip. Masticiphis flagellum flavigularis (Hallowell). These snakes are members of the family Colubridae, which includes garter snakes, water snakes, bullsnakes, hognose snakes, and king snakes.

The general range given for the western coachwhip is southwestern Nebraska through western Kansas and southeastern Colorado to central Mexico. In Nebraska he is known to occur only along the Republican River in Hitchcock County.

A coachwhip has a color pattern of light brown to brown on the upper part of the body and belly that is generally creamy-white or pinkish and spotted with reddish-brown toward the forward part of the body. Young coachwhips may have alternating dark and light bands on the forward quarter of their bodies which fade out toward the tail. These banded patterns fade as the snakes grow older and generally cannot be detected in adults. Coachwhips reach lengths of 6 feet and in areas other than Nebraska, have been recorded at 8 to 8% feet.

Further identification includes 17 rows of smooth scales that reduce to 13 rows immediately in front of the anus. The only other snake in Nebraska that resembles a coachwhip in body form is the blue racer.

The most notable characteristic of this snake is his speed. While no snake can move faster than a man on even ground, this one can outdistance many people over brushy or rough terrain. A coachwhip can also climb rapidly through trees and bushes although he is not usually found in association with them.

Coachwhips are completely diurnal and do not hunt or move after dark. Ordinarily, they are not tolerant of handling. They are completely nonpoisonous.

This snake feeds on other snakes, lizards, birds, small mammals and larger insects such as grasshoppers and cicadas. He is not a constrictor, but the body is often used to hold the prey down as it is being swallowed. Mating occurs in April and May and as many as 12 eggs may be laid, although the average is 8. Like other nonpoisonous snakes in Nebraska, the western coachwhip is beneficial and should not be disturbed.

Restored Fort Sidney, Eppley Airfield WHERE-TO-GO

THE NOW-RESTORED Post Commander's Home at Old Fort Sidney was once one of the most refined mansions-in-miniature on the frontier. Today it has regained some of its former glory, thanks to the efforts of the Cheyenne County Historical Society. Of course, incidentals that add that just-right extra touch to a house are missing, but than a commanding officer's wife at an old-west post had to make do with what she could squeeze under the 1,000-pound personal transportation limit.

The first lady of Fort Sidney was lucky, though. She had all 12 rooms of the house to herself. Dependents of lower-ranking officers had to share quarters, two families to a house. One of these double-dwellers, the commanding officer's home, and the old stone magazine are the only buildings still standing at the historic fort.

The home will be opened for its second season every afternoon starting about May 1. Last year, some 5,200 people from 6 foreign countries and 36 states turned off U.S. Highway 30 at Sixth Avenue on the east edge of Sidney and drove two blocks south to visit the place.

In 1966, the Cheyenne County Historical Society restored the commandant's home as nearly as possible to the time when Fort Sidney's last commanding officer, Colonel William J. Lyster, was living there. They took off layers of wallpaper and whitewash, refinished the woodwork, and verified that donated furnishings are definitely pre-1894, the year the army abandoned the post. Only an 1895 cooking range in the kitchen postdates the abandonment. Old, old stoves are most difficult to locate, so the society could not resist this one-year-too-young treasure.

Other kitchen relics include an iron kettle, an 1850 honey jar, and a single-piece rolling pin, hand-whittled in 1867. A kitchen washstand, with a top made of six-inch tongue-and-groove floorboards probably has been in the house since the floors were put down in 1870. The old washstand was found in the cellar.

White-washed walls are the rule in the restored home, with the exception of the main kitchen and the maid's kitchen which are brushed with mustard-colored paint.

During the quarter-century life of the post, army officers often expected their small sons to act like soldiers. The boys slept on cots rather than beds and the much-needed packing crate often doubled as a dresser or washstand when not in other use. Girls in the family were more pampered; they got an iron bed. A relic in the master bedroom is a cobbler's shoe-soling set, bought in 1892, and used for years to fix all the shoes for a Sidney family of 11.

Clock-fanciers will want to see the 1871 eight-day timepiece in the library. And piano lovers cannot resist the 1877 rosewood piano, Sidney's first, that dominates the parlor.

On the opposite border of the state, native and tourist can glimpse the ] international-flavored jet pace of NEBRASKAland at Eppley Airfield in Omaha. Although not an international port, it is not out of place to hear a couple conversing in French or to meet someone who just flew in from Athens. Many travelers change planes here for coastal cities.

The easiest way to reach this largest commercial air terminal in Nebraska is to follow Douglas Street in Omaha to the west edge of the Missouri River Bridge, take a left and go north for one block, then follow the curve to the right for several miles. Five commercial airlines send 72 planes out of Eppley each day.

Guided tours of the terminal build- ing follow the general route of the passenger and generally end up on the observation deck. A chance to see boarding and the baggage oper- ation are on the tour agenda. Tours of the control tower can be arranged by contacting the Federal Aviation Agency.