Speak UP

WANTS BOUNTY-"I would like to voice my opinion in the fact that I honestly believe you are making a very bad mistake by taking the bounties off on coyotes and fox.

"I have been hunting quail in your state for the past three years and I found that the birds were much more scarce last year than in the past two years. Most of the quail we got last year were old birds. We hunted in the Tecumseh area and our hunting trip lasted about eight days and during that time we saw about three or four coyotes each.

"Occasionally we saw some of the quail and pheasants light in the trees which indicated they were afraid of any animal they associated with a coyote.

"Perhaps, if enough hunters brought this fact to your attention, you may possibly rescind your decision." —Alvin E. Robinson, Warren, Michigan.

Bounty systems are highly expensive and they are not an effective control on predator populations. They tend to subsidize sport hunting for predators, but most hunters will not go out and expend much effort to hunt a predator just because of the bounty payment. However, if a predator is taken it will be bountied.

Bounty payments were made in Nebraska by individual counties. The Game Commission was not involved. Each county decided if it would pay a bounty and how much money it would allocate for such payments. Quite a number of counties were not paying bounties even before a 1965 law did away with bounties.

Poor production, not predation losses, were responsible for the poor quail-age ratios which you reported. Less than normal winter losses occurred in 1966-67. The carryover of adult quail into the spring of 1967 was excellent. Indications were for a peak population of quail but poor weather during the mating season resulted in only average production. Rather than a peak quail year, hunters then experienced an average season. No amount of predator control would have changed this. — Editor.

APPRECIATIVE —"I just want to express to you, and to your staff, my appreciation

House of Yesterday

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Welcome

FASTEST CANOES on the water!

for the fine job you did on the article Nee-Shew-Da, which appeared in the November NEBRASKAland.

"It was of great interest to me, because I taught school at Macy, Nebraska, from 1943 through 1951. During this time I was a civil service employee for the U.S. Department of Interior, Bureau of Indian Affairs, Indian Field Service, and was transferred to Macy from the Warm Springs Indian Reservation, Warm Springs, Oregon. Most of my students were members of the Omaha Tribe, and I thoroughly enjoyed working with them.

'Your article is certainly authentic and I remember well Mr. Maryott who had the trading store at Macy, and the facts relating to the history of the name 'Macy'. I think I have been over most of the reservation mentioned in your article, and the pictures presented brought back many fond memories. I remember well, many Indians whose surnames were the same as those mentioned in your account, and am sure these are relatives of those I knew.

"Later, I spent two years on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation as a teacher in the Oglala Community High School, at Pine Ridge, South Dakota, where my students were members of the Sioux Tribe. While in this area I was impressed by the beauty of the Pine Ridge Area, and have greatly enjoyed the colored pictures of this area which have appeared in your publication from time to time, as well as articles written about this land of beauty.

"Our daughter and her family operate a fine farm, south of Macy on U.S. Highway 73, and it was through her that I was given a year's subscription to your fine magazine, and which I still keep up. Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Piere, her married name now, lease and farm land from the Omaha Tribe, along with their own land, and their two sons, Dwane and Terry, attend high school in Walthill.

"I have retired from the Department of Interior and live in southern California now, and I do enjoy your NEBRASKAland, for once upon a time I lived in the fine State of Nebraska." — L. D. Fairbairn, Hemet, Calif.

WINDMILLS IN DEMAND-"Enjoy your magazine. It brings back memories. After reading the latest edition on windmills, my eye caught this item from the Los Angeles Times. Perhaps you could do something to help."-Don Linder, North Hollywood, California.

Mr. Linder enclosed a letter to the Times, which describes the plight of an orphanage in Qui Nhon, Vietnam,; Their gas-driven well pumps were destroyed, and the 400 children there are all but without water. Several American civilians in the area are trying to help by constructing windmills, but they lack vital parts. Any NEBRASKAland

reader who has an unused windmill he could donate should write to Alfred D. Tuck, Technical Representative, Vinnell Corporation, APO San Francisco, California 96238. - Editor

RACING GREAT —"I saw your article in the February issue about Joe Saldana and his supermodified racer.

"What I, and no doubt a lot of others of the older generation, would like to see would be an article on Noel Bullock of North Platte, the dirt-track champion of Nebraska and Colorado of the early 1920's, or any others who were in competition at that time.

"Bullock was the outstanding driver of his time and later became a famous aviator, being the first to fly the airmail from Omaha to Cheyenne. Later, he was lost in one of the earliest attempts to fly the Pacific Ocean, or so I have heard.

"For all of his outstanding acts, I don't think a word has ever been written about him.

"I think he was originally from Oshkosh." — Lloyd Condra, Seymour, Iowa.

VERY CLEVER-"A friend is sending us NEBRASKAland, and I thoroughly enjoy it, being a former Nebraskan, born near Springview.

"I want to thank the little girl who wrote The Courtship of Enne. It was very clever. Maybe she will write some other things. And thanks to her teacher, Mrs. Carl Wichmann, for sending it in."

— Amy Clapton Carlson, Palo Alto, California.

OLD PERMITS-"Can NEBRASKAland readers help me? I want Nebraska hunting permits issued before 1913 for my collection." - Conservation Officer Bill Earnest, Valley, Nebraska.

GREAT JOB —"This is to let you know how much my husband and I enjoy NEBRASKAland. The articles are well-written and the photography is out of this world.

"NEBRASKAland does a great job advertising and promoting Nebraska. "I would be willing to bet anyone who gripes about the magazine has never read it. I would be willing to bet also there isn't a businessman or outdoorsman (male or female) who feels he or she doesn't gain something personally from NEBRASKAland."-Mrs. Leonard Gahl, Omaha.

DOWN ARGENTINA WAY-"My sincere and enthusiastic congratulations on Nebraska's Centennial and for the most becoming January NEBRASKAland commemorative issue. Keep up the fine work providing the sportsmen with fish and game while simultaneously keeping the balance in preserving wildlife and protecting the innate beauty of Nebraska."-Raul O. B. Hinsch, Buenos Aires, Argentina.

take to the trail!

COOKING WITH A CRIMP

SKILLED CAMPFIRE COOKS usually get stuck with meal preparations for the whole party, and sometimes, even dishwashing afterwards. Don't be a sucker. Let everyone cook his own grub in a foil pack, and all can enjoy more fishing.

Make the meal simple. Hamburger, potatoes, and carrots are a zesty, taste-tickling combination when prepared in this manner.

You'll need a roll of broiling foil in the wider size. Lighter-weight aluminum foil may be used, but does require two thicknesses. Tear off a sheet about 18 inches long. Don't skimp, or you won't have enough for the necessary folds.

The secret of successful foil-pack cookery is careful wrapping. Crimp all of your folds well as they tend to unroll as pressure builds up during the cooking process. Proper crimping in the folding process will keep the folds from separating. Foil must not be wrapped too tightly around the food. Depending on the moisture content, the pack can reach football proportions, so space must be allowed for the steam buildup inside the package which causes it to expand.

Now, lay the sheet on a smooth surface. Place the hamburger in the

center of the foil. Cut potatoes and carrots in narrow strips, and put them around the meat. Add a slice of raw onion for flavor. Now, you are ready to make your foil pack.

Bring the two sides of the foil up over the food. Make certain that one side is about an inch longer than the other. Fold this excess over the shorter side; then wrap both together for at least four additional turns. Press the ends of the pack flat, fold the corners to lock them, and then roll toward the center of the pack, also using four turns. Take care not to puncture the wrap. Otherwise, you might end up with burned food. You now have your foil pack ready. Before putting the package in a bed of coals, make certain to remove any flaming stubs or sharp pieces that might cause punctures. Your bed-of-coals oven only needs to be two or three inches thick to be sufficient for your purpose.

Lay the food gently into the glowing bed. In a few minutes, steam will form. The package will expand. After five or six minutes under pressure, the contents of your food pack will be done. Using a pair of forked sticks or a gloved hand, remove the pack from the coals. Open it and eat the contents right from the foil. When finished, carry the wrap to the nearest garbage disposal as aluminum foil will not disintegrate if it is buried.

To develop your skill, try out various menus at home. You will find that the packs cook just as well on an electric burner, a charcoal barbecue, or in the oven of a gas range. Practice makes perfect, so pitch in, and good eating. THE END

NEBRASKAland HOSTESS of THE MONTH Carol Lee Lambley

Summer's sun shines brighter when 1967 Miss NEBRASKAland, Carol Lee Lambley, brings out her rod and reel. As June Hostess and out-going NEBRASKAland Queen, Carol hopes every fisherman gets a chance to try the waters of this "where the West begins" state.

Carol is a speech therapist in the Merced County, California, School. A 1967 honor graduate of Kearney State College, this brown-eyed brownette was listed in Who's Who in American Colleges and Universities. She was president of the Nebraska Student Government Association, and ruled as Kearney's Homecoming Queen. Other honors included being named outstanding senior woman. Her sorority is Alpha Phi, and her parents are Mr. and Mrs. M. B. Lambley of Bassett.

JUNE Roundup

IT'S JUNE IN NEBRASKAland-the time of the year when all Nebraska slips on its western gear and puts its "where the West begins" reputation on the line. From bang-up, rip-roaring rodeos and festivals galore to the solitude of a fisherman's waiting line, June's activity list is stuffed with fun for all.

Accenting the whole June shebang is Nebraska's fourth annual rip-snorting NEBRASKAland Days, June 17 through 23, held this year for the first time at its new home in North Platte. Wild West shows, rodeos, parades, shoot-outs, and pretty gals aplenty —all these are just a few of the many fun-filled activities on tap as NEBRASKAland Days joins forces with the long-established Buffalo Bill Blowout. This "biggest do" of June is sponsored by NEBRASKAland Days, Inc., North Platte, in conjunction with the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission.

Girl-watchers will have a field day when Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant hits the spotlight. Currently reigning is

Ainsworth's Carol Lambley. Rodeo stars from across the country will be itching for a crack at big money when NEBRASKAland Rodeo begins. This RC A-approved galaxy of rough and tumble will have enough saddle-bronc and bull-riding, steer-wrestling, calf-roping, and variety acts to excite everyone.

What promises to be the "Great-Granddaddy" of all Nebraska parades will be another highlight of the week-long event. From corner to corner and border to border of this great state, participants will head for North Platte. Fancy floats from hamlets, towns, cities, civic groups, and industries, sheriffs posses, high-stepping horses, cowboys and Indians, and gobs of gorgeous gals will reflect the glory of Nebraska when they fall in line behind the official parade marshal. Just as in previous years when Dale Robertson, Charlton Heston, and Chuck Connors led this galaxy of flamboyance, so will the Hollywood personality selected to receive the coveted Buffalo Bill Award, "presented for outstanding contributions to quality family entertainment in the Cody tradition".

Ogallala's Front Street Saloon will be crowded with pint-size horse wranglers bellying up to the bar for a root beer during the Little Britches Rodeo in the once-great cattle-trail town on June 8 and 9. Other of Nebraska's young buckaroos will be competing at the Junior Rodeo in Broken Bow on June 1 and teenage waddies will be whooping, bulldogging, and riding at high school rodeos in Thedford, Bassett, and Mitchell, as well as at the big Nebraska State Championship High School Rodeo at Harrison.

Still following along the line of good old-fashioned western fun, Grandpa had better have his dancing shoes on if he's going to be in Omaha, June 20 through 22, when square dancing will prevail throughout Nebraska's largest city. And this isn't just any old square dance either. Far from it, the occasion is the 17th National Square Dance Convention. In its honor, Governor Tiemann has declared the entire week as "NEBRASKAland Square Dance Week".

More proof that pulchritude is "busting out all over" will be evident at the Miss Nebraska Pageant staged in York on June 24 through 29. From this bevy of beauties from all over Nebraska, one will receive the coveted crown from Terry Lee Schmidt, picked for this honor in 1967.

June 27 through July 4, Nebraska will have a population explosion of from 9,000 to 10,000 people when the Wally Byam Caravan Club's 11th International Rally starts at Grand Island.

All during the summer Czech communities erupt with colorful, exciting festivals. One of the first is the Schuyler Czech Festival on June 2.

Golfers will put their skill to the test in the Loup City Open Golf Tournament and the Tri-State Golf Tournament in Falls City. Shooters and marksmen from across the state will be in Broken Bow for two days of top-notch shooting in the Nebraska State High-Powered Rifle Championships, sponsored by the Mid-Nebraska Rifle and Pistol Club.

No matter what your taste or fancy, NEBRASKAland means variety for everyone as June ushers in a full season of fun for all.

WHAT TO DO

50 MINUTES OF TERROR

WHEN A WOMAN is married to an outdoorsman, it seems she has but one prerogative — like it. For the most part, it's not just a once-in-a-while "like it" as my husband, Dick, is a real fishing nut. He had caught four fat rainbows on Lake McConaughy the previous night, so we were back for more on July 4, 1965.

It was about 9 p.m. We had tied up to the huge concrete structure just off the dam known as Big Mac's "morning glory". The water was satin smooth with the moon sending beautiful reflections across the bay. Dick and I, who live in Lincoln, along with my brother, Gary Altig from Denver, comprised our fishing crew. Our boat was a 14-foot fiberglass runabout equipped with a 25-horsepower motor. Our fishing was just under way, but we had already hauled three lunker rainbows aboard.

Shortly after we arrived, a warm, refreshing rain began —one you could stay out all night in and still enjoy. As the lake had been crowded with boats all day, the solitude alone was relaxing.

In a matter of minutes, a chaotic turn of events caused a pleasant fishing excursion to become a battle for life and death. Out of nowhere, a huge wave, spawned by turbulent winds and rain, struck us broadside. Stunned, we tumbled helplessly in the boat as the wall of water smashed our craft toward the morning glory. We were washed toward the wall as the wave climbed the structure and splashed back into the boat. Then came another to repeat the performance. Lines and tackle flew everywhere as the three of us frantically grabbed for something solid.

No sooner had the wave receded, when another, even larger, struck. Our boat was more than half full of water now, and was facing into the wave with its bow riding high. More water from the splash-back swamped it this time. Our craft submerged, stern first, leaving us wallowing in 120 feet of water and minus life preservers. Our runabout was properly equipped with jackets, but we didn't have them on when the boat went under.

The force of the wave swirled my brother, Gary, underwater and carried him about 100 feet to the jutting rocks of Kingsley Dam. Dick and I had managed to keep our heads above water when the boat submerged. Spitting water, we fought to keep from drifting away from the steel-and-concrete bulwark, while fearing another onslaught. After quite a struggle, we were able to climb up the support braces to the first level of the huge structure.

Meanwhile, Gary had emerged from the water, gasping for breath and wondering where he was. He regained his composure and yelled at us or for us. With the rain-filled wind howling around, it was impossible to hear what he was saying. However, we used a last burst of strength to yell back that we were fairly safe. Gary heard us. Soon, he was tracking up the face of the dam for help.

Great zig-zag flashes of lightning accented by ominous, booming thunder did little to quell our fears as we waited for help. Realization that we were hanging on to steel girders, not knowing whether our massive life-saver was adequately grounded or not, added to our apprehensions.

The rain continued to come down in torrents as our fears grew in proportion to the wind. Below us, the boat with only the bow visible, bobbed in the rough water.

Just when my spirits were at their lowest ebb, Gary appeared on the catwalk that topped the structure above us. By the time he had climbed up the dam and made it to a nearby service station, our plight had already been noted. The man at the place had told him help was on the way. My brother had also phoned my dad in Ogalalla. Gary's presence and his news reassured us. Then, the storm receded as quickly as it had engulfed us. Rain became faint sprinkles, and McConaughy's waters stilled. It was as though nothing had happened — more nightmare than reality.

After 50 minutes that seemed more like hours, the Keith County sheriff, Ivan Armstrong, came to our rescue in a boat.

While getting to shore, we learned that considerable damage had been done to several boats, campers, and trailers around the lake. Weathermen called the sudden winds and stormy weather a "thunderstorm high". Whatever it was, this freak of nature had turned our successful fishing excursion into a full hour of fright. Worse, we lost our fish.

Gary was on hand to meet us when we landed. My father arrived a short time later. Once assured that we were safe and unharmed, Dad began making preparations for saving our boat. For the first time in his life, Dick didn't lift a finger to help. It was only important to my husband that we were safe and unhurt. Dick and I got into the car, leaving my father, Gary, and some friends to fish out the boat.

The towering morning glory stood unchallenged against the mass of now-quelled water as I whispered a quiet "thank you" to its massive silhouette. Dick shared my gratitude.

VOYAGE INTO THE UNKNOWN

AS ECHOES FROM the cannon salute subsided, well-muscled men bent smartly to their oars. Their efforts sent a 55-foot keelboat with two heavy swivel guns mounted fore and aft and two dugout canoes or pirogues nosing into the Missouri River's current. A fine, cold rain fell on Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark and their 42-man crew as they watched the village of St. Charles, in what is now Missouri, fade into the gray haze. The boats, loaded with bales of clothing, tools, medical supplies, Indian trade goods, six tons of food, and an array of firearms, had embarked on an ambitious adventure to chart the unknown West.

The six-foot Lewis turned, patted his dog, Scannon, and then focused his deep-set, blue eyes on the river ahead. Late that night, under the date of May 21, 1804, in the bad spelling that would mark his journals, he jotted down the first of many day's proceedings.

For the next two years, four months, and nine days, the explorers would trace the Missouri River to its source, cross the Rocky Mountains, descend to the Pacific Ocean, and then return. The expedition would travel 7,500 miles on [Continued on page 49)

Color it Blue

PIONEERS WERE still streaming into Nebraska when fabled strongman, Febold Feboldson, decided the settlers needed a diversion. He proceeded to stage the state's first circus. As was his style, Febold did everything in a BIG way, and he commissioned one of the world's greatest designers to make a gigantic, many-hued tent from the finest fabrics available. When the task was completed, Febold borrowed the entire garrison from Fort Kearny to erect the huge, expansive tent.

As the bluecoats strained and struggled to pull the billowing fabric into place, a terrific gale struck and lifted the tent toward the heavens. The startled onlookers could only watch as the wind lofted it higher and higher-until finally it came to rest against the clouds. There it stayed, for all future generations to admire. And thus it came to be that Nebraska skies are unique in the universe in their diversity of beauty. Fantasy, you say. Perhaps, but how often have you marveled at the depth ofblue in a spring sky or silently absorbed the rich purples, golds, and pinks created by the setting sun? NEBRASKAland is blessed with a wealth of beauty beyond price and treasures beyond counting for those who have but the eyes to witness and souls to appreciate, for a constantly-changing and awe-inspiring panorama is overhead. This majestic canopy courts many moods. It is gay yet pensive, threatening yet serene, contrary yet agreeable.

Somehow, though, the most carefully chosen words and the most exquisite photographs cannot capture completely the infinite qualities of a Nebraska sky. It is something quite personal between the individual and nature, for each of us is moved and reacts in a different way. A Nebraska sky is best beheld in the mind's eye and stored in the album of the heart. Each second brings minute alterations, and once changed,

it is never quite the same again. Each glimpse is a precious keepsake of time to be cherished for an eternity.

Flecked with cotton-candy clouds on a balmy summer day, the azure sky beams a message of tranquillity to all horizons. Men, women, and children bask in the glow as they go about their work and play in this intriguing world known as NEBRASKAland. From the coursing Missouri River in the east to the high plains and butte country of the west, this broad and beautiful land reflects the triumphant spectacle above.

And, as the afternoon slips into dusk and twilight ebbs into evening, a majestic, breathtaking scene unfolds. Man is struck mute as he gazes in awe at the extinguishing sunlight and the emerging moon and stars. The transfiguration overhead grips the beholder in a hypnotic spell that is only accented by sounds of the night-the splash of waves against a lake's edge, the distant bark of a coyote across the solitude of the Sand Hills, or the cheerful chirping of crickets in the backvard

There is haunting appeal, too, in the gathering gray of an approaching storm. Nature marshals her forces to spill forth life-giving rain, and the sky turns leaden and sullen, as if pouting at the thought of disrupting the careful combinations of colors and clouds.

Sometimes menacing and violent, sometimes flawlessly resplendent, Nebraska's sky is ever gloriously enchanting and forever changing. It matches moods with the passing seasons and adapts its countenance to coincide with the coming of each new day. It presents a soft background when viewed through a filter of early-morning fog or an eerie effect of the netherworld when engulfed in the swirling mists of night.

Wherever your travels take you in this vast "where the WEST begins" state, you will find that somehow the heavens blend with the landscape below to produce a vivid portrait that is "just right". A steely sky complements rugged, snow-shrouded peaks in the Pine Ridge, while a saffron hue accents the golden fields of wheat at harvesttime. Turquoise velvet highlights white sails at Lake McConaughy in summer, and crisp contrails streak a spring morn as a jet lifts from the runway in Omaha.

Whatever the season and whatever the area, the many-hued fabric of a Nebraska sky is majestically interwoven in the overall scheme of things. You may boast about your moonrise over the ocean or the sunrise over the mountains, yet the land called Nebraska will take a backseat to none. The limitless horizons provide a view unequaled on earth. The sun rises in glory each morning and sinks in splendor each evening. Pause a moment in the hurry-scurry of everyday life to drink in this evolving panorama. It's free for the looking, and even Febold would burst in pride at his handiwork.

NIGHT OF THE FROG

OUR SHADOWS, projected onto the ebony water by the artificial bubble of light, looked like scenes from a science-fiction movie. Absolute silence added even more to the unreality of the setting, as only ripples from my waders and the boat disturbed the polished surface of the lake. Although the setting was eerie, our purpose was not. We were hunting bullfrogs.

It was a chill evening in September, 1967, when my son, Tom, and I eased along the shoreline of a small pond near Atkinson on the Elkhorn River. The lake is located on public lands on the Atkinson Lake Recreation Area, one-half mile west of Atkinson, Nebraska, and 20 miles west of O'Neill, where I am chief of police. Although we were almost in our own backyard, it was a particularly memorable occasion. It was the first frog hunt for my 10-year-old son, and my first in 20 years.

Our pond had been formed after earth removal for construction of the big lake. Groundwater quickly filled the excavation, and the frogs found an ideal residence. Few people even notice this lesser body of water because the large lake overshadows it.

Green willows virtually surround the pond. Cattails, reeds, and bushes cover the area. We arrived at the backwater late in the afternoon amid cool, blustery weather. Tom and I unsheathed our fishing rods and tied on a couple of gaudy flies to jig for frogs. Although we finally managed to entice two of the long-legged hoppers, it was evident they just weren't hungry. Even though the water still retained some of summer's warmth, and the frogs were still out, cool weather had done away with all the natural insects. Our jumping friends had apparently forgotten what they looked like.

I noticed Tommy was losing interest in this new-found sport due to the lack of action, not because he is one to give up quickly. Our whole family, including my wife and daughter, make numerous trips to Merritt Reservoir where many are the times Tommy has managed to out-fish me. My boy has the patience to play the trout rather than try to yank them onto the beach. Even when we "menfolk" are working the trout waters, and I leave Tom alone for awhile, I often find that he's calmly played a fish, tired him out, and has him on the stringer when I return.

Even though I had wanted this first frog outing to be successful for Tommy, it wasn't turning out that way. So, when the sun's glow faded from the sky, we broke out our spears. Mine had three tines, while Tommy's was a more business-like six-tiner. Our only NEBRASKAland sources of light would be a portable fluorescent lantern and a flashlight. It was overcast, so darkness became absolute when the sun disappeared.

Gradually, everything else became very remote. We could see no farther than our lantern's beam, which spread out over a wide area. The brilliant greens of the foliage on the bank, just a few feet away, became our entire world. Its quality was magic as everything was reflected in the mirror surface of the water. The wind had gone, leaving it breathlessly calm. Not even the weird "karump" of a frog broke the serenity.

Tommy was standing in the aluminum boat, which I trailed behind me. I was wearing the bottom half of a skin diver's suit, slowly moving in about two feet of water around the edge of the pond. Tommy was obviously pleased with this new phase of the hunt, for his face showed renewed interest and anticipation. He manned a light with one hand while nervously clutching his spear with the other.

Within minutes after we set out, our lights picked up a pair of eyes among the reeds. Nothing else showed of the frog but those eyes as he crouched in the water for warmth. While easing the boat nearer, I muttered to Tom that he should hold the spear high, so that he could jab it straight. When we came as close as we dared, Tom thrust and retrieved his first jumper.

It was a new hunt now. Tom eagerly scanned the shoreline, peering under the overhanging willows and into the reeds for give-away eyes. The setting was marvelous, and we enjoyed it to the fullest. Ghostly images danced and bounced around us as we silently drifted around the pond, pausing frequently to stalk a motionless frog.

Every few minutes brought us new excitement. As Tommy saw it, it was the hoppers against us. Even I became involved in this strange game. Once we spotted our critter, we would work in close enough for a try with the spear. Even though we missed a lot of the croakers because our aim was poor or we spooked them, our game bag was growing heavier from our success. We concentrated only on the larger, meatier frogs and then took only a few of these which averaged about 10 or 12 inches.

One big granddaddy was of particular interest to us. We saw him several times and earlier had tempted him with our flies, but to no avail. Now, each time as we circled the pond, we checked his favorite roosting place, hoping the ancient hopper would be waiting. Twice more we located him, (Continued on page 54)

GOLDEN EAGLE ROUTE

NEBRASKA FAMILIES weave their travel dreams around passports to happiness. And if their happiness is an interlude with nature, then Golden Eagle passports are the ones to buy. Instead of coughing up a dollar every time his clan wants to spend a day at De Soto Bend or others of Nebraska's federal recreation areas, a budget-minded dad can buy a good-for-a-year passport for $7.

This blue-and-gold, wallet-size card admits him and his family to any federal-recreation-fee area in the United States for an entire year. With 2,500 of these federal-fun spots in the U.S.A., Operation Golden Eagle adds up to a recreation bargain. At most areas, daily fees levied against non-card visitors are 50 cents a day per individual or $1 a carload. However, certain special services available in some of the golden-passport areas are not covered by the card.

Golden Eagle is a kind of pay-as-you-go program that promises outdoor recreation opportunities for both today's and tomorrow's generations. Every dollar of the seven paid for a passport goes into the Land and Water Conservation Fund. This fund, established in 1964, and launched in 1965, is administered by the Bureau of Outdoor Recreation through the U.S. Department of the Interior. Sixty per cent of this money goes back to the states which match the allotments for their own projects.

Nebraska is right in there pitching for space to walk, ride, hike, camp, fish, hunt, boat, ski, and study nature. Biggest project so far in Nebraska, financed in part by Golden Eagle money, is the James Ranch, a more than 16-square-mile tract in the Pine Ridge. In time, this acquisition will become part of the Fort Robinson State Park complex, making it one of the largest state parks in the nation. Thanks to the fund, individual cities can benefit, too. Utilizing part of Nebraska's share, towns like Alliance, Howells, North Platte, Omaha, and Papillion each bought land for city parks, and Valentine was first in the state to get a new swimming pool through this program.

Signs, each sporting a golden-eagle-and-family motif, mark the fee areas on Nebraska's Golden Eagle Route. Vacationers can follow it from De Soto National Wildlife Refuge, to Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge, to the Bessey Division of Nebraska National

Forest, to Scotts Bluff National Monument, and to Harlan County Reservoir.

Prime playground for two states, De Soto Bend opens at 4:30 a.m. and closes at 10 p.m. between May 1 and September 15. Visitors coming in from Iowa should get off Interstate 29 at the Loveland Interchange and go west about five miles to enter the southeast corner of the refuge. Nebraska's entrance is six miles east of Blair, just off U.S. Highway 30.

The seven-mile length of the mighty Missouri River, isolated by rechanneling, forms an oxbow or horseshoe-shape lake. Roped-off pools dot the spacious swimming beach at the upper tip of the peninsula. To the east, water skiers and motorboats keep the water in turmoil, while to the west, fishermen roost on the river pilings.

Sharp eyes can detect white-tailed deer, mink, muskrats, beavers, raccoons, opossums, squirrels, cottontails, and coyotes, all in their natural habitats. While few waterfowl linger at De Soto during the Golden Eagle season, swarms of songbirds warble away the summertime.

Next stop on the Golden Eagle Route is Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge, and it boasts a more lurid history than De Soto Bend. In 1879, after the Indian wars, the government established Fort Niobrara Military Reservation to keep the Sioux on reservations to the north and to keep peace on the frontier. Later, it was abandoned as a military post.

Located five miles east of Valentine, off Nebraska Highway 12, the refuge honors Golden Eagle passports from Memorial Day to Labor Day. At the refuge museum, visitors can see pictures of old Fort Niobrara and a collection of prehistoric-animal fossils excavated from sites along the Niobrara River.

Tumbling Fort Falls, near the headquarters, adds sparkle to any visit to the refuge, while canoeing down the Niobrara can be a novel way to see this wildlife preserve. Fort Niobrara's bison herd of 275 is one of several the federal government is raising to let the public view buffalo in their natural environment.

Although once fairly common on the Nebraska prairies, elk, or wapiti, were particularly vulnerable to firearms, and were among the first large animals that the white man extirpated from the plains. Removed from much of their former range, elk were reintroduced at Fort Niobrara in 1913 along with the bison. Today about 50 animals roam the refuge.

Other wildlife attractions include prairie chickens. Male chickens have the fascinating courtship habit of congregating on the booming grounds where they strut, inflate the colored air sacs in their necks, fluff their feathers, and then expel air from the sacs to create the peculiar booming sounds. Their spectacular dancing is best viewed from a blind, since a prairie chicken doesn't let romance interfere with his fear of humans. Sociable prairie dogs make plenty of noise, too. They busy themselves around the mounds of their towns and captivate many a visitor with their playful antics. Viewers should use binoculars.

The refuge's 260 Texas longhorns often cause visitors to wonder what cattle are doing on a wildlife refuge. However, these critters are tied up in Fort Niobrara history. They became both the foundation herds of many beef empires and, periodically, the government-meat ration to the Sioux, Cheyenne, and other Indian tribes on the early reservations.

Straight south of Fort Niobrara lies the Bessey Division of Nebraska National Forest. Of Nebraska's Golden Eagle areas, only this forest and Harlan County Reservoir allow overnight camping. The Bessey, Cedars, and Claypit campgrounds listed in the Golden Eagle directory are merely extensions of the main campground. All of them are within walking distance of the swimming pool, which is open only when life-guards are on duty. A wading pool, a shelter house, and tennis courts are adjacent to the campgrounds and picnic areas.

Travelers can drive into the forest any time of year. It is simple to find. Two miles west out of Halsey on Nebraska Highway 2, the visitor takes State Spur 2 south to the well-signed forest road.

Visitors can follow this road to Scott Lookout Tower. Rangers on duty encourage people to climb the fire lookout for an aerial view of the forest. Driving away from the tower, travelers can follow a scenic 35-mile circle through the Sand Hills and a portion of the forest. The whole area offers good browse for deer and wild turkey. Grouse, prairie chicken, pheasants, and other small game reward perceptive eyes.

The largest man-made forest in the United States if not in the world, Bessey was established by Presidential proclamation in 1902 to see if trees could grow in the middle of the Great Plains.

To the west, over the Golden Eagle Route to the sunset edge of NEBRASKAland, sits majestic Scotts Bluff National Monument (Continued on page 56)

WING SHOOTING EXTRA

One thing sure with this sport, misses far outnumber hits

COMPLETELY UNSCATHED, the varicolored birds faded into the mid-morning sun as I half-cussed, half-chortled at my blunder. It was the fastest shooting I had ever known, and somehow in my excitement, I had managed to pump a spent shell back into the chamber of my 12-gauge. Swinging fast on my target for the necessary lead, I had been confident of a score. Instead, the disheartening "click" meant just another birdless pass.

Ken Dietrich, my hunting partner, and I hadn't noticed the birds until they were nearly overhead, zigzagging along with the wind at an unbelievable speed. Ken, armed with a bolt-action 20-gauge, had been caught unaware, too.

"Mark left," he hollered from his position against the fence. "They are coming back."

We were enjoying a late-March outing for a bird which offers a tremendous wing-shooting challenge — one which reproduces fast enough to provide plenty of action, and one that cooks into a gourmet's delight. Even more remarkable, our quarry had no season-length or bag-limit restrictions. Had we discovered some new exotic game-farm species? No. We were gunning the common barnyard or domestic pigeon.

The adjective, "domestic", is a misnomer, for many pigeons are no longer domestic. They are, at the very least, semi-feral, nesting around grain elevators, on building ledges and in barns, raiding grain, and otherwise feeding on waste or sharing handouts meant for other critters on the ranch or farm. Other pigeons have gone into the true wilderness, nesting in buttes and bluffs, under county bridges, and in other undisturbed spots.

Our pigeon is derived from the European rock pigeon, Columba livia, and was brought to this country by early settlers. Today, pigeons overpopulate some areas. They cause very special problems in towns, although whether or not they create a health hazard is a subject for debate.

As a boy, I enjoyed dove hunting in Missouri, but this great game bird is still off limits in Nebraska. Soon after moving to Nebraska, I found out that pigeons are legal game since the how, where, and when to hunt them is up to the landowners and gunners. Permission to shoot them, while a must, is not hard to obtain. No hunting license is required. Although I had thought about pigeon shooting, I never got around to it. Now, I was going to satisfy my long-time curiosity.

My mind made up, I enlisted the aid of an expert. Ken Dietrich, an insurance agent in Alliance, was quite enthusiastic when I phoned him, so we set a midweek date. Ken was raised on a farm and was familiar with pigeon ways and customs. I phoned Rancher Leonard Scherbarth and asked if we could try to reduce his barn-loft pigeons. The Chadron-area Nebraskan gave us the green light.

"Come on up. I am pretty busy with calving, but I will be here every day," Leonard replied when I explained our idea.

We left Alliance on a cool and windy morning, but it was sunny, and my hopes for an exciting day were high. I didn't know the exact whereabouts of the Scherbarth spread, but a neighbor in the general area was able to direct us.

As soon as we arrived we saw the pigeons. A blue one, a white one, and two mixed-colors circled over my car. A big barn with a broken loft window was their obvious nesting spot, but there were plenty of other buildings, too, that could shelter the birds. We found Leonard behind the house. He had told us that his son had some pet pigeons and that he didn't want them shot. So he had to be with us.

Pigeons circled above while we became acquainted and found out more about shooting these birds. I could tell that Ken was getting anxious, and it was catching. Leonard sensed our anticipation.

"Well, I guess you want to get started. Don't shoot any of the big blue ones, though. My boy wants to keep those."

"How do we go about this pigeon shooting?" I asked. "Well, first we will chase them out of the barn," Leonard told me. "Then, it is up to you."

"But won't they leave after the first barrage?" Leonard was ahead of me and didn't hear my question, but Ken did, and said that from what he remembered, they wouldn't. "They will circle for awhile and then try to come back."

Ken stayed behind, but I hustled and caught up with the rancher near the barn door. Several small groups of pigeons were already airborne, and a stray flew smack-dab into our faces as we went through the door. As we climbed, pigeons were everywhere.

"A week ago I had more birds," Leonard complained, "but a cat got in and really raised a ruckus." "Still seems like a hundred or more up here," I said. "How do we get them out?"

"Like this." He chucked a corncob upward. Excited pigeons flew about in a frantic effort to escape, but most of them returned to their perches. Each time, one or two winged through the window. "Kind of stubborn, aren't they?" My host commented. "But I guess we have shooed enough out for now."

I started to agree but the report from Ken's shotgun interrupted. I was willing to bet he had tallied his first. Once outside, I saw that the pigeons had grouped in two large bunches and were making wide-sweeping circles around the barn, so we took up our stations in the barnyard. Several birds split off and flew over the insurance agent. He pulled up and tumbled a white-and-blue one end-over-end into a small corral.

"Good shooting," I congratulated, "but you are cheating. It is not fair picking on those going into the wind."

Leonard grabbed the bird and tossed him to me for a closer examination. The bird's size surprised me. The breast was big, and there was more meat on him than I had expected.

Ken's "birds" alerted me to some incomers. They were riding the wind and zipped by like a flock of canvasbacks riding a 40-mile-an-hour gale.

Baroom! Baroom! Baroom! "Behind?" I asked. 'Yes, way behind, about a mile." "Little harder when they're going that way, eh? Good thing I brought plenty of shells."

I caught Leonard's "shoot them, don't educate them", and knew that on the next pass we had better produce. I had seen some feathers come streaming down from one of the birds on my second shot, so I waylaid the cripple as he circled back against the wind. It didn't take much to down the pigeons when we connected, but connecting was the hard part.

For over an hour we had a continuous ball. Ken was giving me lessons on how to hit, but I was really enjoying wasting last fall's leftover shells on the far-out tricky shots. On any other species I might have been embarrassed at my poor hit percentage, but not with these rascals. Often, I threw two or three shots at the same bird and never caught up. My companion, who could get off only one (Continued on page 53)

Pine Ridge Retreat

YOU ARE DRIVING north from Alliance on U.S. Highway 385. Nebraska's level, rolling, unchanging wheatfields and farmlands lull your mind into day-dream reveries. Without warning a ridge of pines pops up on the horizon like a mirage. Just as awestruck as you, your children stop their end-of-a-long-drive bickering and take new interest in the scenery. The endless row of pine-studded bluffs looms ahead like an impenetrable fortress surrounding a treasure. However, the highway drops you right through the barrier of bluffs and trees. Nestled inside the Pine Ridge, downhill about three miles from the top of the table, lies the treasure, Chadron State Park.

The park is west of the highway, but before you drive in, you note a white cross on the high bluff just across the road to the east. When you inquire at headquarters, Park Superintendent Victor Leonard tells you the cross is on privately-owned property and is lit at night. He adds, ffIt is quite an asset to the park".

For 50 cents a day, you could have brought your tent and planned a camping trip. Or you could have brought a trailer, even though hookups for campers are not available. But you figured it is worth $8 a day to give your wife a vacation, too. So, you wrote the superintendent and reserved one of the 16 individual

cabins for your stay. All reservations must be made directly with Chadron Park. Single-night reservations are not accepted in advance, but this policy does not put a taboo on one-night rentals on the basis of availability.

Every cabin boasts two bedrooms with double beds, indoor sanitation and bath, and electricity. Bedding, towels, and cooking and eating utensils are furnished. Roll-away beds are also available for a small fee. All that you have to carry are the groceries and the luggage. You can buy your food staples, camp necessities, and concession items at the park store, or you can drive nine miles north into Chadron for other shopping.

If Pierre Chardon (Chadron) could see the park today, his eyes would pop. Today's charcoal-barbecued hot dogs and steaks are a far cry from the camp fires and jerky of the one-time fur trader who lived and trapped around the town that bears his name. Today's campers are far removed, too, from the Sioux, the trappers, and pioneers of yesteryear who left a rich heritage in the scenic Pine Ridge.

Now a family-recreation haven, Chadron Park delights your son and daughter. They pad the playground into dust around the swings, slides, and small merry-go-rounds. But they spend many of their sunlight hours around the horses, too. Horses are available at $1.50 an hour. All rides through the park are on designated trails and are supervised.

Another way for your family to become enamored with the park is to walk through it. About three miles of foot trails and their offshoots provide plenty of hiking opportunities. If you walk quietly through the ridge country, you might glimpse a deer or wild turkey. Chipmunks and squirrels chatter at you, and the local birdwatchers claim that about 90 species nest in the park. So, if you are a family of birders, binoculars are a must on your luggage list. Of course, it would not be a vacation unless your fishing tackle gets a workout, too. Some trout, bass, and bluegill live in the three-acre lagoon. Your son will have fun with the

small trout in brave little Chadron Creek. If you are a quite-serious fisherman, Chadron City Reservoir, a mile north of the park, Box Butte Reservoir, 35 miles to the south and west, and Bordeaux Creek to the northeast will tempt you. The city reservoir contains trout, smallmouth bass, and catfish. Bordeaux Creek rates as one of the better trout streams in the state, while Box Butte Reservoir offers perch, crappie, walleye, bass, and channel cats.

Daily dips in the park's modern swimming pool cost only 35 cents for adults and 20 cents for 7 through 16-year-olds. Your wife will relish this easy way to get the day's play dirt from behind your youngsters' ears, and the children will not balk, either. The guarded pool and bathhouse open about the second week in June and close about Labor Day. Small children can have the time of their lives in the wading pool. Chadron Park is open year-round to vacationers like yourself Cabin facilities rent from May 15 through September 15 and for the hunting seasons. Popular with Sunday picnickers and sightseers, too, an estimated 216,000 people visited the timber-covered park in 1967. They came from 44 states and several foreign countries, including Canada and France.

Parks personnel will tell you that it is also a popular stepping stone to the historic and picturesque area west of Chadron. Surely Nebraska's own enchanted land, this corner of the state will impress you with its many patches of contradictory scenery squeezed into such a small area.

For instance, compared to the pine-scented buttes of your vacation haven, Toadstool Park is the mystic land of another world almost devoid of vegetation. Twenty miles north of Crawford, slabs of sandstone balance on narrow stems to create the formations that give the weird area its name. Wind and water, those destructive forces of erosion that work as timeless chisels, have eroded the toadstools until only narrow pedestals of sun-baked soil remain for the rocky, umbrella-shape stools to perch upon. For another quick change, drive north out of Harrison through the timberland of Monroe Canyon into the Oglala National Grasslands. Elevation in the tree-covered canyon hits a mile at some points and drops off

nearly 2,000 feet at others. The Oglala Grasslands with their rolling swells of grassy rangeland are in sharp contrast to the canyon.

Pine Ridge country is a land where history lives. Just three miles east of Chadron on U.S. Highway 20, you can see an 1846 trading house and warehouse which have been restored on their original foundations. Called the Museum of the Fur Trade, collections here include rifles, knives, Indian jewelry, clothing, hdnd-forged traps, tomahawks, and many other relics.

Four miles west of Chadron's neighboring community of Crawford on U.S. Highway 20, two more museums at history-rich Fort Robinson can tell you more about the past of the Pine Ridge. Nestled at the foot of towering rock and clay formations called the Red Cloud Buttes, the Fort is surrounded by a serenity that seems incongruous to the bloody role this area played in the Indian wars of less than a century ago.

All in all, your Chadron Park visit and side trips have been stimulating and refreshing. At the end of your stay, you decide you enjoyed your vacation so much that you plan to recommend Chadron State Park to your son's camping group. The park has a group-camp facility with an overnight housing capacity for 60 people. The dormitories can be converted into six separate cabin units. A central building doubles as combination kitchen-dining room and meeting hall.

Weather is one of the most appealing features of Chadron State Park. With an altitude approaching 4,000 feet, the relative humidity is generally low and nights are cool. You drive away, sorry that your vacation is over. For once exposed to the pleasures of this park, you cannot leave it without regret.

FIRST COME FIRST SERVE

IF YOU WERE 1 of the 24,400 Nebraska hunters who got a 1967 rifle-deer permit, you were happy. If you were 1 of the 4,100 applicants who didn't get a permit, you were unhappy. Since you were unhappy, you may have criticized Nebraska's permit-allocation system, forgetting that it operates on a first-come, first-served concept, and that in 1967, demand for permits far exceeded the supply. Consequently, there were more than the normal number of unhappy applicants.

Nebraska controls its deer hunting by a management-unit system with a certain number of permits allocated for each unit. In 1967, these allocations ranged from a high of 3,500 for the Pine Ridge unit to a low of 100 for the De Soto Unit. These limitations were not picked out of a hat. They were established after a careful census of the deer and a studied estimate of how many animals could be harvested from each unit without endangering the resource.

An example is the Elkhorn Management Unit in northeastern Nebraska. Deer populations there were such that only 1,000 permits could be authorized in 1967. Since the unit was in the easy-travel distance of Nebraska's major population centers, it had a high demand for permits. The 1,000 permits were sold out on June 16, 1967, one day after applications could be accepted. Applications received after the sellout were returned or filled from second-choice units.

Among the disappointed were some farmers in the Elkhorn Unit. They protested, charging the Game Commission with favoring the urban sportsmen in the distribution of permits. Some posted their land on the principle, "that if I can't hunt, nobody else is going to."

But what were the facts on permit issuance in this unit? Of the 1,000 permits, 831 went to residents of the unit, 124 went to Douglas County (Omaha-area) hunters, and the remaining 45 permits were divided among applicants from 10 other counties. M. O. Steen, director of the Nebraska Game Commission, had this to say about the charge of "rural" discrimination.

"If we were to make the allocation of permits to citizens of the state on the basis of their population numbers, the distribution of permits in the Elkhorn Unit would have had to be the exact opposite of what occurred because of the vastly greater number of people who live in Omaha, Lincoln, and other centers of population."

Last year for the first time, all applications had to be mailed, and none could be accepted if they were postmarked earlier than June 15. In 1967, floods delayed some mail from outstate, and this may have prevented an applicant from getting a permit in one of the quick-sell areas. The mail plan was an attempt to give everyone an equal chance at permits. In the past, some outstate applicants complained that Lincoln-area hunters had the advantage because they could buy permits "over the counter" in the statehouse.

When dissatisfaction with the permit system was noised around, some hunters questioned Nebraska's method of handling permits. One of the common questions was: "What is this first-come, first-served policy?"

The first-come, first-served law is nothing new. It was established in 1957 by the Nebraska legislature as the fairest way to distribute permits. This law has to be followed by the Commission. There was no change in 1967, but there were a lot more applicants last year. Another frequently asked question was this: "My buddy and I mailed separate applications from the same place at the same time. He got a permit and I didn't. Why?"

Several things could have happened. One, the disappointed hunter might have been right at the critical cutoff. His application might have been the 1,001 received for a 1,000-permit unit, while his buddy's could have been No. 999.

Second, letters mailed at the same time are not necessarily processed by the post office in exactly the same way. One could have been delayed in the sorting, shipping, or delivery. Finally, was the application correct in every detail? Often, the applicant makes mistakes that preclude acceptance.

Processing rifle-deer applications in 1967 was a monumental chore for Game Division personnel. On June 16, one day after the legal-mailing date, approximately 15,000 — 7 big mailbags full —of applications swamped the office. Keeping everything straight called for dedication as well as competence on the part of those who did the processing.

Some sportsmen, familiar with other deer-hunting states, are curious about Nebraska's unit-management system and cannot understand its purpose or the reason for limited permits.

Nebraska has substantial deer populations, but it does not have the deer that some other states have. Also, Nebraska's human (Continued on page 48)

THE TROUBLE WITH PLESY

THE PALE glow of the autumn moon barely revealed the fossil as it lay buried in a cutbank on the Adolph Rezac farm near Valparaiso. If Dr. Bertrand Schultz was to make a more positive identification of the Oak Creek find, he had to have more light.

"It's too dark to tell. I need a better look at it," the curator of the University of Nebraska State Museum sighed as he straightened up and turned to Gene Eno and Roger Pabian.

Gene fumbled in his pockets and came up with some state-fair literature.

"This might do," he suggested, handing Dr. Schultz the paper.

A match flickered in the darkness as the trio lit the impromptu torch. Again, the gray-haired curator knelt and brushed away the tiny bits of shale around the fossil. His hand trembled a bit as he studied the exposed vertebrae. There was a chance that his 40-year quest for a complete plesiosaur skeleton was at an end. Still, he had been disappointed once before when only portions of this prehistoric reptile were found in 1955 near Garland.

When the curator finally spoke to Roger and Gene, both members of the Lincoln Gem and Mineral Club, his characteristic bass voice held enthusiasm, but his words lacked optimism. Only the slow, tedious work of uncovering the find would prove the fossil a plesiosaur.

Behind the paleontologist's probe into the prehistoric world lay a chain of fantastic events that would eventually preserve the rare find for science and awe museum visitors for years to come. Nearly 120 million years ago, Plesy, as the excavators soon called the skeleton, swam and fed in the Cretaceous sea that covered most of Nebraska. While vicious dinosaurs prowled the shorelines, the 41-foot plesiosaur feared few of his monstrous neighbors. Glistening droplets ran down his sleek, 23-foot neck as the serpent pushed himself through the seas with his 6-foot flippers. The 20-ton reptile, with a body shaped like a turtle's without the shell, stoked his huge bulk with fish as he roamed. But in time, death came and he sank to a muddy grave beneath the water.

Eventually, the layers of silt that built up around the plesiosaur compacted into shale as the shallow tropical sea receded. But nature had not finished with Plesy, even as he lay in his rock coffin. A gigantic glacier moved in from the north, scattering fossils far and wide as it gouged through Nebraska. For some reason, the glacier missed Plesy's remains. Eons later, a creek cut through the serpent's graveyard and began the slow process of disinterring the now-fossilized monster. Violent rains pelted the earth to wash away the covering overburden and expose the reptile's ribs and two of his four flippers. Oxidation and erosion slowly decomposed them. As the runoff washed away pieces of shale around several vertebrae, nature, which had guarded the serpent's earthly resting place, was ready to make the plesiosaur's presence known.

In the dog days of August 1963, Hal DeGraw of the Nebraska Geological Survey, Charles Osborn of JUNE, 1968 43   the Bureau of Reclamation, and Phil Emory of the United States Geological Survey were examining Cretaceous shale outcroppings on the Rezac farm along Oak Creek. As the men compared geological notes, Phil idly threw fragments of loose shale into the creek. As he cocked his arm for another throw, the feel of the odd-shape rock stopped him. The experienced fossil hunters examined the rock and quickly identified it as a vertebra. Realizing they may have stumbled on a rare find, the geologists dropped their field work and headed back to the University of Nebraska State Museum in Lincoln. The key to one of the most important fossil finds in Nebraska was waiting, but fate was still unwilling to unlock Plesy.

To determine the site's importance, Dr. Schultz sent a graduate student to Oak Creek for a preliminary investigation. This student found several small vertebrae, probably from Plesy's tail, and deduced that the animal was a mosasaur or sea lizard, a relatively common find. With more pressing finds begging for attention, the report was shoved into the maybe-someday box.

The lonely sea monster waited on the bank of Oak Creek through the winter, spring, and summer of 1964. Ironically, Plesy's entry into the museum world was as casual as his disappearance from the inland sea. In search of a worthwhile project, Gene Eno, field-trip chairman for the Lincoln Gem and Mineral Club, volunteered the club's services to the museum for collection of the Oak Creek fossil. His only request was that museum staff members supervise the diggings.

One evening in early October, Dr. Schultz, Gene, and Roger headed for Valparaiso to appraise the site for possible excavation. At dusk, the men crossed a stubble field and picked their way down the timbered hill to the 18-foot bank. The men forgot a flashlight and their probe of the reptile's grave was hampered until Gene came up with the paper torch. In its flickering light, the museum's search for an almost-complete plesiosaur ended.

On October 24, the Rezac farm was the scene of much activity. Members of the gem club had started the tedious, time-consuming job of digging the fossil out of his Graneros shale bed. The diggers were working against time as winter loomed ahead. To make matters worse, Plesy rested in a precarious mausoleum, 6 feet above the creek with 12 feet of shale and dirt over it. Workers who lost their footing ran the risk of a cold bath in the muddy waters of the creek, but this was minor compared to the hard and meticulous work of chipping away the shale around the fossil.

As the museum staff members Larry Martin, Lloyd Tanner, and Dr. Schultz and others supervised, 44 NEBRASKAIland the skeleton was chipped out in four-foot sections. The 120-million-year-old bones crumbled easily, so they were shellacked and plaster-of-paris field casts made to protect them. The casts, weighing 50 to 200 pounds, had to be carried across the creek and up a hill to the waiting trucks. The 50-yard tote was necessary, because the trucks could not move down the steep, wooded slope to the site. In the fall chill, coatless men strained and sweated as they struggled with their priceless burdens.

The first weekend's work went smoothly as the volunteers followed a line of vertebrae along the edge of the bank. The plesiosaur showed a stubborn streak on the second weekend when his neck turned into the bank. By now, the workers were sure of Plesy's identity and his text-book statistics scared them. Some sea serpents averaged 40 feet in length, so several feet of Plesy's neck still lay buried under tons of dirt and hard shale. Even after removing the overburden the diggers could not be assured of a complete skeleton.

Picks and shovels rose and fell in untiring rhythm as men and women chopped, scraped, and chipped their way into the shale bank. Calloused hands and sore backs were the only rewards for their dedicated efforts. Only two people could work at a time in the cramped quarters of the trench as the fossil was chiseled out. It was now early November and the work was progressing much too slowly to beat the coming winter's cold and snow. Donations by Walter Behlen of Columbus and the Lincoln Gem and Mineral Club were used to rent a tractor with a power lift and backhoe to help speed up the back-breaking toil.

With steep banks guarding Plesy's resting place, there was no safe way for the tractor to reach the site, but still the tractor inched slowly down the wooded hill behind the diggings. The driver, unable to back up and not sure of the path down, lost control as the tractor picked up momentum on the steep slope. When the dust and leaves had settled, a shaken driver was able to back the time-saver into position. The mechanical monster grabbed mouthfuls of shale and dirt as it dug into the plesiosaur's tomb.

In mid-November the temperature tumbled to 6°. The club members had manhandled nearly 20 tons of dirt, and now with a nearly complete plesiosaur skeleton within their grasp, they shrugged off the weather. Plastic sheeting was tossed over a wooden framework constructed over the fossil quarry, and buckets of red coals from a roaring fire were brought into the make-shift shelter. The bone slabs had to be kept above freezing, so the plaster casts would set properly. The day's coffee consumption doubled as the workers fought the increasing cold.

The serpent's small dinosaur-like head was uncovered on the day before Thanksgiving. As the excavators chipped away the last bits of shale and lifted the skull from its niche, the museum could at last claim a plesiosaur skeleton. Club members, after devoting over 1,000 man-hours to the project, were almost too tired to care.

Plesy made front-page headlines all around the state. The public clamored to view the monster that nature had so reluctantly given up. Dr. Schultz issued a plea for help in reassembling the plesiosaur and again the Lincoln Gem and Mineral Club responded. The head and neck were laid out in four sections and the painstaking task of chipping away deeply embedded rock and dirt began. The museum decided to expose only the top side of the bones and leave the specimen in the field casts exactly as it was found. For five weeks in their spare time the members cleaned and shellacked the 23-foot neck with its 63 vertebrae. During Christmas week, Nebraska's prima donna of the fossil world made his first public appearance. The plesiosaur's tail and body vertebrae are yet to be assembled.

In the spring of 1965, Dr. Schultz took a University class to the site and the animal's gizzard stones or gastroliths were recovered. Analysis of these stones indicated that the widely-traveled plesiosaur probably spent a good deal of time feeding along the eastern border of an ancient sea in what is now eastern South Dakota and Minnesota.

Nebraska's rare find drew the attention of Dr. Samuel P. Welles, a renowned authority on plesiosaurs. Dr. Welles's study of the Nebraska sea serpent shows that Plesy has the longest neck of any plesiosaur yet found and the second longest neck of any animal that ever lived. Only the gigantic dinosaur Brachiosaurus brancai, found in East Africa, has the longer neck, 26 feet, 6 inches.

Plesy is now on display with the other world-famed fossils in Nebraska's nationally-known Morrill Hall in Lincoln. After 120 million years, he is once again reunited with his ancient colleagues. THE END

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . WHITE BASS

ONE OF THE MORE popular game fish in Nebraska is the white bass, Roccus Chrysops. This sporty fish is a member of the true bass family, Serranidae, and a close cousin to the striped bass and the white perch. Originally, white bass were found in the north-central part of the country, particularly the Great Lakes region. Now, however, their range includes at least 30 states, as far south as the Gulf of Mexico and as far west as the Rocky Mountains.

Imported from Iowa to Nebraska in 1944, white bass have found good homes in Nebraska's larger lakes and rivers. From the initial stocking of 39 adults into Lake McConaughy in May of 1944, the fish have multiplied astronomically. They can now be found in most of the large impoundments of the state.

Unlike the largemouth bass which is a member of the sunfish family, the white bass has two well-separated dorsal fins. He closely resembles his cousins, the striped bass and the white perch. A white bass is distinguished from the white perch by several intermittent dark lines along his sides and back, and by the number of soft rays in the anal fin. The white perch has no dark lines on his side and has lesp than 9 soft anal rays, while the white bass will havp between 10 and 13. Striped bass have more slender profiles, wider separations between the two dorsal fins, and more prominent unbroken longitudinal stripes on their sides and back.

The back of the white bass varies from gray to steel-blue while the belly is milky-white. His sides are silvery-white with several intermittent dark lines.

White bass in Nebraska reach sexual maturity when they are two or three years old, but there is some indication that size rather than age is more of a determining factor. It has been observed that white bass usually do not become sexually mature even as three-year-olds if they have not reached ten inches.

In Nebraska, spawning activities occur in late April and May. The adult fish move into inlet streams or shallow waters with sandy or rocky bottoms. Large schools of male and female fish literally thresh the water with rolling, twisting, swimming movements as they simultaneously discharge their eggs and milt. After spawning, the eggs are abandoned. Hatching requires about 2 days in 60° water.

The eggs of the white bass are small and will number 1 Vz to 2 million per quart. Large females may contain 650,000 to 950,000 eggs. With such astronomical capacity, it is not hard to see how the white-bass population in Nebraska has expanded to its present number.

As fry, the white bass feed primarily on zooplankton, but switch quickly to a fish, insect, and crayfish diet when they are fingerlings. When they are four to five inches long their diet consists almost exclusively offish and crayfish, if available.

The white bass is gregarious and tends to feed in schools of fish fairly uniform in size. They are often seen feeding near the surface, and their savage rushes will send schools of minnows or shad skipping across the top of the water in an effort to escape. When feeding in this manner, white bass will take almost any bait. In some areas, night fishing with crayfish, minnows, or jigs yields good returns. In Nebraska, the best white-bass fishing starts with the spawning season in April and May and may last until early September.

The white bass is a relatively fast-growing, short-lived fish, and in Nebraska seldom lives longer than five years. As with other fish in this latitude, the white bass puts on most of his growth during the warmer

months. Growth varies in different lakes, but generally white bass here grow to 4 to 6 inches in their first year, reach 7 to 10 inches in their second year, 10 to 13 inches in their third year, 11 to 15 inches m their fourth year, and 13 to 16 inches in their fifth year.

White bass have an important place in Nebraska s fishery. He is every inch a fighter and will provide anglers with plenty of sport. When a feeding school is located, these fish will take almost any bait, artificial or natural. They are not only fun to catch, but are also good to eat. Their flesh is firm and white, and many think the flavor is equal to that of a walleye.

From all indications it appears as if the white bass will play an important role in Nebraska's sport fishing for years to come.

FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE

population is in the eastern part of the state, while its heaviest deer populations are in the west where people populations are thin. If Nebraska permitted statewide, unlimited hunting, the deer in the east could be wiped out, since hunters would concentrate on close-to-home animals.

A season or two of unlimited hunting could end up with few or no deer in the east and too many in the west. Nebraska's present permit system equalizes the hunting pressure and keeps the deer at safe population levels while still providing hunters with as much sport as possible. Hunting also keeps the animals within land-owner tolerance levels.

Deer in Nebraska are extremely vulnerable to the rifle. The animals literally have no place to hide in this state's relatively flat, spare-cover terrain. Once a deer is routed, he is often in sight for hundreds of yards before he can find a draw, brush, or hill for protection.

Deer in Nebraska are extremely vulnerable to the rifle. The animals literally have no place to hide in this state's relatively flat, spare-cover terrain. Once a deer is routed, he is often in sight for hundreds of yards before he can find a draw, brush, or hill for protection. About 60 per cent of Nebraska's deer are mule deer, a much easier animal to hunt than the elusive whitetail. Where a whitetail must be outguessed, the mule deer is really a pushover for an experienced hunter. His lack of wariness coupled with terrain disadvantages makes him easy to hunt. If Nebraska did not use the unit-management system of controlling the harvest, it is possible that our mule-deer populations could be decimated beyond the point of no return.

States that permit unlimited hunting are either wooded or mountainous, two terrain factors that give the deer, not hunter, the advantage.

Nebraska's reputation as a deer-hunting state is very good. Last year, an estimated 20,000 animals were taken. This high-hunter success is one reason for the growing demand for permits. Attempts are being made to increase Nebraska's deer, but our human population is growing with a corresponding increase in sportsmen, so it is probable that this state will never be able to issue a permit to every hunter who wants one in the locality where he wants it. To preserve our deer herds, it will always be necessary for the hunter to go where the deer are present in numbers sufficient to the harvest imposed. By and large, Nebraska's deer-management system is one of the best in the nation.

Some disgruntled applicants claim the Game Commission favors the nonresident. This is not true. Of the 24,400 permits issued in 1967, only 1,149 went to out-of-staters. Last year, nonresidents could not apply until July 1, which gave residents a two-week edge on the coveted permits.

Applicants themselves can goof their chances for a permit. Many of them are careless in making out their applications, and these errors can cost them.

In 1967, 16 applicants failed to send their fees with their applications. One luckless individual sent a money order made out to himself. Another problem is 48 NEBRASKAland the multiple-applications, single-check bugaboo. If, for some reason, one application cannot be honored, all must be returned, for the Game Commission is not authorized to cash a check and then write another to refund its unused portion.

About 50 applicants either sent too much money or too little during 1967. Lack of return addresses, failure to answer the questions on the applications, or omitting unit choice are factors that can spell the difference between acceptance or rejection of an application. It behooves an applicant to double-check before dropping that pink envelope in the mail.

The Game Commission knows full well that it can never satisfy all deer hunters, but the Commission has and will continue to be fair and impartial in the distribution of permits while still obeying the laws that govern it. If new and better systems can be found, the Commission will find them.

Deer hunters who feel sorry for themselves should hark back to the years before 1945. There wasn't any deer hunting in Nebraska then, and there hadn't been for almost two generations. In fact, 55 long years elapsed between the last state-wide deer season and the reestablishment of another.

Rifle deer hunters in Nebraska can apply for 1968 permits beginning May 17. Permits will be sold over the counter at the Lincoln office of the Game Commission in the Capitol or accepted by mail, providing they are not postmarked prior to May 17. Nonresident applications will not be accepted if postmarked prior to July 1.

Big-game resident permit fees are: $10 each for deer and antelope, $5 for turkey. Nonresident fees are $25 each for deer and antelope and $15 for turkey.

Deer season opens November 9 in all sections of the state except for the southeast corner, bounded on the west by U.S. Highway 81, and on the north by U.S. Highway 34. That area will open November 2. Number of permits for respective management units have not been set at press time.

VOYAGE TO THE UNKNOWN

this epic journey, 5,500 of them on the Missouri, 1,000 overland, and 1,000 on the Columbia River.

President Thomas Jefferson's dreams of northwest exploration were unseen passengers as the keelboat fought the hazardous current. Jefferson, even before becoming president, had promoted exploration of the Missouri River regions. With the purchase of the Louisiana Territory, the chief executive used the influence of his office to quickly finance the expedition. The need for the venture was evident. Politically, it would secure the recent American acquisition and extend American claims to the Continental Divide, while economically, it would provide knowledge of the area's resources. In addition, Jefferson instructed Lewis and Clark to study the land with an eye to settlement and military defense.

Jefferson knew the expedition's success would hinge on its leadership. In 1801, he had called on Lewis, a long-time friend, to serve as his private secretary. The appointment gave Jefferson a chance

o study the eager captain's character and ability. Lewis's scientific mind, distinguished military career, and his hunger for wilderness exploration convinced the President that the 29-year-old was qualified to head the expedition. Lewis suggested that the 33-year-old Clark share his command. Clark, a very likable and natural leader, had a feeling for geography that would be valuable in charting the way west. Both men were experienced in the ways of the frontier and were expert hunters and rivermen.

During the winter of 1803-04, Clark had diligently trained the expedition's hand-picked soldiers and frontiersmen at Wood River Camp near the junction of the Mississippi and Missouri rivers in Illinois. But even the rugged volunteers who answered Lewis's request for "stout, healthy, unmarried men, accustomed to the woods and capable of bearing bodily fatigue", found the river a brutal task-master. For two months, the party sailed, rowed, and poled the boats across what is now Missouri. On July 11, they reached the border of the present state of Nebraska.

After traveling 69 days and 600 miles, the party reached the Platte River, the divide between the upper and lower Missouri River. That night Clark laboriously wrote:

"The current of this river comes with great velocity, rolling its sands into the Missouri. We found great difficulty in passing around the sand at the mouth of this river. Captain Lewis and myself with six men and a pirogue went up this great river Platte about two miles."

To Lewis and Clark, the frontier started above the Platte, so they were anxious for their first Indian council. Two scouts were sent out to bring back any Indians they might find. During the layover, the men made oars, mended moccasins and buckskins, and hunted deer and turkey in the timbered hills. Clark worked on his maps, a task he enjoyed much more than writing in his red journal. The party headed upriver on July 27 after a report that Indians were not in the vicinity.

A few days later, contact was made with the Otos when a hunter surprised three of them skinning an elk. On July 30, the group camped at the foot of a high, timbered bluff to await its guests. Clark named the meeting place Council Bluff, near what is now Fort Calhoun in eastern Nebraska.

As the August sun dipped in the west, 14 tribesmen galloped into camp. Early the next morning, under an awning made from the square sail of the boat, Lewis and Clark counciled with the red men, thus setting the pattern for future meetings with the tribes upriver. The captains told the Indians they were no longer French and Spanish subjects, but were now ruled by a "Great White Father". The officers, through an interpreter, initiated a "system of government chieftainships". As appointed rulers, the United States expected the new chiefs to keep peace with neighboring tribes and let the white man probe their lands unmolested. As the day grew hotter, each chief, wrapped in a buffalo robe, presented his long-winded arguments. At 3 p.m., after passing out medals, certificates, a flag, gunpowder, and a little whiskey, the expedition reboarded the boats.

That day, Moses Reed, one of the soldiers, deserted. While the rest of the party continued upriver, three men were sent out to bring Reed back dead or alive. The river above the Platte was noticeably shallower, and the men bent under heavy ropes as they towed the keelboat over the shallows. Ugly snags poked out of the muddy water, and more than once disaster was narrowly averted as the boats dodged these deathtraps. Mosquitoes left welts that burned like the hot prairie sun, while mild dysentery and colic made life even more miserable.

Lewis and Clark took turns exploring the regions ahead. Lewis, often moody, usually walked with Scannon as his only company as he carefully collected plants

and made notes on the wildlife. Clark, who could get along with a rattlesnake if he had to, often took several men as he prowled the hills for game. These hunters were often gone for days. One of them, George Shannon, the youngest of the party at 17, had a knack for getting lost. Once he wandered through the uncharted land for 16 hungry days before returning.

On August 11, the men banked their boats on the Nebraska side of the river and scrambled up a 300-foot "yellow sandstone" bluff to an Indian grave. Buried here was Chief Blackbird, a cunning leader of the Omaha's, who had squeezed tributes from terrorized traders and enforced his own tribal authority by poisoning his rivals. Clark, his red hair blowing in the wind, helped tie a flag on an eight-foot pole to mark the grave.

Although only the Indian knew this land intimately, white traders had moved into the area years before. On August 13, the rivermen passed near Fort Charles, an abandoned trading establishment. The captains, hoping for another council, camped that day near a deserted 300-lodge Omaha Indian village, burned during a smallpox epidemic. Lewis and Clark kept the men busy on the week-long layover. The frontiersmen's ingenuity in living off the land was apparent when Clark took 12 men to a nearby creek and made a drag from small willows and bark. On the first drag the men swept up 387 fish and on the second 709.

On Captain Lewis's birthday, August 18, Reed, the deserter, his captors, and eight Indians arrived at camp. After a short meeting with the chiefs, the officers court-martialed the soldier. He was sentenced to run the gauntlet four times, and when the ordeal was over trickles of blood ran from his back. This gruesome chore over, the men celebrated their commander's birthday. As the one-eyed Pierre Cruzatte played his fiddle, whiskey-drinking men forgot the snag-filled river and mosquitoes to dance by the light of the flickering fire.

They set sail on August 20, but early that afternoon, Sgt. Charles Floyd died in Clark's arms. Floyd, who may have been stricken with appendicitis, was the only man lost on the two-year trip. His comrades buried him on a bluff overlooking the Missouri. After marking the sergeant's grave with a cedar post, the party moved three miles upriver and camped by a creek which they named for him. Later, when the Missouri River threatened his original resting-place, Floyd's remains were transferred to a spot near Sioux City, Iowa.

The expedition was now in the land of the Sioux. On the Nebraska shore, near what is now Gavins Point Dam, the men met with 60 trader-robbing Sioux. Under a large oak tree with the American flag rippling in the breeze, Captain Lewis talked of peace and passed out gifts. That night the hills echoed with heavy drumbeats as the warriors danced out their hunting and fighting exploits.

As a cold September wind blew sand in bearded faces, the keelboat sailed upriver until the wind-weakened mast cracked under the strain of a powerful gale. Wind-blown and tired, the party passed the mouth of "The Rapid River" or the Niobrara. The band camped near the river and repaired the mast. Captain Clark ascended the Niobrara and noticed that it, like the Platte, deposited great quantities of sand in the Missouri.

As the boats glided into South Dakota, the journey might have come to an end had it not been for the coolness of Lewis and Clark. A conference with the Teton Sioux, led by Black Buffalo, went well until the expedition decided to push off. The jealous Sioux didn't want the men to visit enemy tribes upriver, so the large swivel guns were ordered loaded. After several anxious minutes, the Indians backed down.

Flying wedges of south-bound ducks and geese meant winter's approach. On October 26, 165 days after embarking, the expedition counciled with the Mandan chiefs and built their winter quarters, Fort Mandan, north of where Bismarck, North Dakota, now stands. During the winter, Lewis and Clark spent much of their time gathering information on the wilderness ahead from the Indians. At a nearby Minnetaree Village, the officers met Toussaint Charbonneau and his Shoshone wife, Sacajawea. The explorers hired Charbonneau, hoping that Sacajawea's knowledge of the Shoshone and their language would gain them passage across the Rocky Mountains.

The signal to resume the journey came in late March when the Missouri River ice began to break up. Ice-swollen, the river ran deep, but it was evident the keelboat could go no farther. Only pirogues could navigate the upper reaches of this now-swift waterway. Corporal Richard Warvington and 13 men went back to St. Louis with a keelboat full of natural-history specimens, dispatches, and letters. On April 7, 1805, 30 men and the Charbonneau family headed into a wilderness that seemingly stretched into infinity.

Through April and May, the expedition made steady progress. This was a lush land with plentiful game, but as the hills along the river grew higher, the going got tougher. Clouds of mosquitoes plagued the party as the men heaved, pushed, and rowed the pirogues toward the mountains.

Lewis and Clark were surprised when they came to a major fork in the Missouri River on June 2. Information gained from the Mandans did not allow for this waterway, the Marias River. Most of the men thought the northern branch led to the Great Falls on the Missouri, but the captains disagreed. After a four-day reconnaissance of both streams, the party headed up the south branch. While Lewis went overland to look for the falls, Clark labored with the boats.

Lewis viewed the Rocky Mountains for the first time on June 12. A day later, he saw the mist and heard the roar of the falls. Clark estimated that the water dropped 87 feet, only 10 feet off the modern-day figure of 77. For four weeks in the scorching Montana heat, the men tugged, pulled, and prayed their boats and equipment over an 18-mile portage around the falls. Grizzly bears were so numerous that the order was given that no man could wander out alone. Finally on July 4, the men celebrated the end of the portage by drinking the last of their 30 gallons of whiskey.

The celebration was short-lived for the explorers were in trouble. The expedition had not spotted a single Indian since leaving Fort Mandan, and without the Shoshones' help over the Continental Divide the journey could well end. When the men reached the Three Forks of the Missouri, they named the branches the Jefferson, Madison, and Gallatin rivers. The pathfinders, behind schedule and virtually lost, toiled up the Jefferson.

Lewis foraged ahead overland, looking for the Shoshones, while Clark remained 50 NEBRASKAland with the boats. The captain passed through Lemhi Pass and found a stream running westward, toward the Pacific. A day later, August 13, he contacted the Shoshones. The Indians offered a guide and 38 horses to traverse the rugged Lolo Trail to the Nez Perce country on the Clearwater River in what is now northern Idaho.

After counciling with the Nez Perce and building six log canoes, the explorers shoved off on the last leg of their trip down the Clearwater and Snake rivers to the Columbia. In November, the expedition sighted the Pacific Ocean near the present site of McGowan, Washington. Near the mouth of the Columbia River, the Americans erected Fort Clatsop.

President Jefferson had advised them to return by sea if possible. Since no ships appeared, the expedition made ready for a return trip in the spring. In late March, after patching the canoes and outfitting themselves in new elk skins, the party headed up the Columbia. Ironically, if the men had waited another 20 days, the expedition could have returned by sea.

Except for a skirmish with the Blackfeet Indians in Montana and another brief encounter with the Teton Sioux in South Dakota, the return was uneventful. With the Missouri's downstream current, the party averaged nearly 50 miles a day, and on September 9 the group passed the mouth of the Platte. Fourteen days later, Lewis and Clark pushed ashore in St. Louis.

The voyage into the unknown was over, but for modern-day explorers the adventure of retracing the trail is just beginning. In 1964, Congress established the Lewis and Clark Trail Commission to encourage development of the route as a "scenic avenue across America". Silhouettes of the famous explorers on brown-and-white highway signs beckon the tourist to follow the Lewis and Clark Highway Trail through some of the 11 states.

This trail is expected to draw thousands of vacationing tourists into Nebraska. Along the Nebraska route, the traveler's attention will focus on such sites as Blackbird Hill, Fort Atkinson, the Mormon Cemetery, Brownville, Bellevue, De Soto Bend, and Lewis and Clark Lake. Although most of the expedition's campsites cannot be pinpointed because of the ambling Missouri River, historical markers saying Lewis and Clark camped near or passed by will be erected.

This summer, plans are in the making for a scientific expedition, led by Mrs. Belva Jensen of La Plata, Maryland, to retrace the water route of the two explorers and to study pollution in the rivers. If all goes well, the group, in canoes pushed by outboard motors, was expected to reach Nebraska sometime in June.

Man is still the explorer, but now his wilderness is space. But even as he reaches for the moon, he will be inspired by Lewis and Clark who successfully completed one of America's greatest conquests.

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Fish On The Lawn. Two South Carolina men spent a long day fishing on their favorite river, and headed their boat homeward with nothing to show for their efforts. As they approached the dock, a fish jumped out of the water and landed on a pile of floating grass. While the fish struggled to free himself, the anglers scooped him from the grass into the boat. The largemouth bass weighed in at nearly 8V2 pounds. Next time, the men plan to use lawn clippings for bait. — South Carolina

Basket Case. A group of Oklahoma youngsters were trying their luck at a city lake recently when one of them had a bite. Thirteen-year-old Ralph Ross reeled in the catch and got quite a surprise. Not only was a small wastebasket on the hook, but inside were two very much alive catfish. — Wyoming Wildlife

Spectator Deer. Many drivers of autos stop to look at highway-injured deer, but here is a switch. Recently a big semi-trailer bogged down, so the chief of police stopped two other semi's going in the opposite direction. The flashing red light of the patrol car and the head and tail lights of the trucks made the area look like the Northern Lights. In an adjoining field, a dozen deer were very interested in the night's confusion and stood statue-like, watching with great curiosity. They even seemed to be extending their sympathy as people do toward them. — Pennsylvania

Color Safety. A safety measure developed by the Federal Cartridge Corporation is the color-coding of shotgun shells to prevent mismatches in the field. The new shells are made with brilliant plastic or paper tubes —red for 12-gauge, purple for 16-gauge, yellow for 20-gauge. Aim of the safety coloring is to prevent the insertion of smaller gauge shells in larger gauge guns, which often have disastrous results for careless shooters. — Oklahoma

Dressed To Kill. Some men may take hunting a little too seriously. Take the Wisconsin fellow who was all dressed up in a tuxedo to serve as best man at a wedding. While driving through a wooded area, he spotted a large buck. The season was open, and he had his rifle. So he bagged the deer. A newspaper considered the incident a worthy subject, and snapped his picture. It might prove embarrassing for the hunter, though. It seems Wisconsin law strictly requires wearing red, orange, or yellow .clothing while deer hunting, and a tuxedo is none of these. — Wisconsin

Need More Teeth. Alligators are seldom considered an object of pity, as they seem well able to take care of themselves. Such is not the case, however, in Florida, according to U.S. Senator George Smathers. Senator Smathers claims the alligators are in danger of extinction because of money-hungry poachers. Tens of thousands of the big reptiles are being taken illegally each year for sale to the leather trade. If the poaching is allowed to continue, he says, this living fossil of 200 million years ago may "bite the dust". —Florida

On Your Honor. A New York teacher almost lost faith in his fellows after a breakdown in the self-service honor system at his bait shop. When school was in session, he used the honor system, but became discouraged when the cash coming in was far less than the number of minnows going out. Finally, however, a regular customer caught the culprit in the act and solved the mystery. He spotted a fat old mink climbing out of the minnow tank with his mouth full of bait. And, the slinky mink had no intention of paving. —New York

WING-SHOOTING EXTRA

shot with his bolt-action, had to take more time and make his one shot good, so he was doing better. After a lot of experimenting, I settled on a lead of about seven lengths on with-the-wind pass shots.

Finally, the action slowed, so we thought it best to let things quiet down. "If we leave them alone for awhile, they'll eventually come back to the barn," Leonard advised. Our host suggested we visit his one-room "schoolhouse", so we unloaded our guns and tagged along. "I bought this old schoolhouse and moved it up here for storage," Leonard informed us as we entered the building. "I had to have a place to keep my collections."

he schoolhouse was a sort of private museum, complete with head mounts of deer, geese, buffalo, bobcat, and various other heads and pelts, as well as unique rock, gem, artifact, petrified wood, fossil, and miscellaneous collections.

"I put in all my spare time on this stuff and collect whenever I get the chance. Most of the agates, artifacts, petrified wood, and fossils are from northwest Nebraska, but many specimens come from far and wide. Of the mounts, I prize the buffalo head the most. It was kind of hard to come by," the rancher explained. I interrupted, "Do you get many visitors?" "Oh, most of my neighbors have been here, but anybody that wants to spend the time is welcome."

We visited Leonard's museum for a good hour, and then returned to our shooting.

The wind hadn't died down a bit. This, though, made shooting all the more interesting. Before getting back to my station, I made a trip to the car for more shells.

Be ready, Ken. I'll send them out right through there," I said, pointing to the broken window in the barn. Up in the loft, I found the stick I had used before and started flinging. There were fewer birds than before, but now and then a pigeon found his way out. Ken's shotgun barked three times. I looked around for results when I rejoined him, but I didn't see any. "What happened?" "What do you mean, what happened? Three for three. They are over here."

Just then a pair came swinging downwind. We both picked out the same bird and he fell like a rock. The action slowed quicker this time, so we took Leonard's advice and headed for cover and out of view of the birds. We got behind a fence, but it kept us from seeing the fast-flying flocks until the last second. Our inaccuracy increased. Once, I blew three shots, missing the whole kit and caboodle.

On the third pass I made partial amends. I doubled —a scratch double. I don't know who was the more surprised, me or the pigeons. One went down nearby. The other finally tumbled far out in a

field. I was proud of those shots, for I hadn't seen the birds until after I had heard them passing above. Leonard volunteered to chase some more out of the barn for us, but they were too stubborn to supply much more gunning.

"Send them out when I yell 'pull'," I teased. "If you can't, you don't have them trained right."

Our host couldn't quite get the birds to cooperate, and besides, it was time to be heading in. Still, Ken had one more tactic. Some of the birds had set down in the middle of a field and he was eyeing them with a speculative look.

"If I walk out there, maybe we can get them moving back and forth and get a bit more action," the agent suggested.

His effort paid off, and we got in several more rounds. By that time my stomach was reminding me that it had been a long, long time since breakfast. I started for the car to case my gun when a single loafed in against the wind. My two shots were only "educators" to wind up the day.

Leonard told me that pigeon meat is dark and rich and is incomparable in taste. He claimed it is better than dove, for there is no wild taste to it at all. I had heard that roasted young pigeon was considered a delicacy, but didn't know how to prepare it.

"Take at least five," Leonard said, throwing in an extra to make six. "If you want a good recipe, my wife can tell you how she cooks them." "They are easy to fix," Mrs. Scherbarth explained. "Just flour, salt, and pepper the whole birds, and brown them off in a big iron skillet. Then add a cup of water to the gravy and a half cup of sour cream and steam until tender." "Delicious," added Leonard, and I knew he meant it. "And you know what? They're even better the next morning cold."

As we drove down the gravel road, Ken and I had that contentment that comes with a fine day.

NIGHT OF THE FROG

but both times he disappeared before we maneuvered into spear range. Finally, on the third visit, Old Granddad chose to sit still. He was at least half again as large as the other croakers. This time he stared, fascinated at our light. He decided to make his getaway at the last moment, but not soon enough to 54 NEBRASKAland evade Tom's spear. One tine of my son's harpoon caught the big fellow in the leg just as he leaped. Old Granddad's frantic kicking almost freed him, but not quite. He was longer than Tom's forearm and scaled out at about three-quarters of a pound. Both Tom and I checked his drumsticks as we plopped him into the game bag with his smaller companions, satisfied he was the prize of the night.

Except for our misses, everything went smoothly. Only once, when I jabbed a log instead of a frog and converted my weapon to a two-tine spear, did the routine change.

An old thrill was revived as I watched Tommy duplicate moments that I had enjoyed in my own youth. I recalled the many nights when my two brothers and I poled our homemade raft around the lake near our farm home in Holt County. These pleasant reminiscences of my childhood days made me realize how Tom felt. I couldn't help but recall that, in my boyhood days, I never got enough frog legs to satisfy me. Even with the three of us hunting, we couldn't keep up with the appetites of the family. Hopefully, we were going to satisfy that craving after this outing, or, perhaps, renew it.

Why I had let 20 years go by without frog hunting is beyond me. If the subject had not cropped up in conversation one day, and if Tom hadn't suggested we give it a try, it might have been longer still. Now, we were hard at it and having the time of our lives.

We saw great numbers of jumpers on the pond. One little cove, not more than 50 feet across, had at least 30 big bullfrogs and oodles of small ones. While not all areas have such dense populations, there are few places in the state where frog hunting is not available. Only a minimum of gear is needed, regardless of whether jigs, spears, bows, or firearms are used.

Of the several methods, jigging is probably the most fascinating. Using a bow or firearm puts a premium on good marksmanship but doesn't require stalking skill. Spearing is, perhaps, the easiest, especially at night. The frogs appear transfixed by the light and enable you to approach to nearly an arm's length. This more physical aspect makes it a favorite with many.

While not as spectacular as trout fishing, there is much to be said for frogging. A mess of frog legs, browned in butter, is considerable reward and ample reason to plan future expeditions.

So engrossed were we in our hunting that we didn't realize how late it was getting. Before we noticed, it was nearly II p.m., long past Tom's usual bedtime. We decided to call it quits, although our collection of 18 frogs left us under our limit of 12 each. Our elation was still obvious as we returned to the car to clean our leggy catch. Placing a board on the ground in front of the car lights, we laid out the jumpers, ready to skin them and remove the "saddles". One of the croaker's still had life in him, so I gave him a rap on the head with my new belt knife. When the blade snapped off, I stared in disbelief. Tom chuckled over

my dismay, saying he hoped the legs were not as tough as the heads.

Even the broken knife could not lessen my reawakened enthusiasm for frog hunting, however. It had been an enjoyable and gratifying evening, one that both Tom and I will remember. And, although he was exhausted when we arrived home, Tom had to relate the events of the night in full detail to his mother before turning in. It appears that now the two of us have frog fever and it will not be long before we return for another bout.

Bag limits for 1968 are reduced to eight daily and in possession, but that still provides plenty of sport. The season, this year, runs from July 1 through October 31. A fishing permit is needed to take bullfrogs with rod or spear, while a hunting license is required to take them with bows or firearms.

As frogging is done around water, I believe that the major consideration is safety. Youngsters should wear life jackets even if hunting from shore. The "tools" are also dangerous, so there should be no horseplay. Generally, however, even 12-year-olds are normally able to enjoy it on their own, and even younger children can hunt frogs with proper supervision. I have always been convinced that outdoor recreation, such as fishing, is an important part of growing up, but it is just as important when growing old, as it continues to bring enjoyment throughout life.

Many things were brought back to me during that frog hunt, and some new memories were created for both Tommy and me. In the future, each time I go, I will recall that cool, calm evening last September when my son and I shared a happy experience.

GOLDEN EAGLE ROUTE

commemorating the old migrations. Many a pioneer heart soared with fresh encouragement when Scotts Bluff came into view on the Mormon and Oregon trails.

Golden Eagle purchasers can drive up the mile-and-a-half paved Summit Road from the Visitor Center at the bottom. Three tunnels add a bit of adventure to the trip. Once to the top, visitors can get a bird's-eye view of the Oregon Trail, and trace where the pioneer wagons passed. Laramie Peak, 125 miles to the west, is visible when the weather is clear. Nebraska's own Chimney Rock is 26 miles to the east.

A number of scenic trails emanate from the top of the bluff. Golden Eagle members can hike down on a self-guided tour. Anybody can hike up, for there is no fee for starting up the bluff on the foot trails or for touring the Visitor Center.

The bluff, a 4,600-foot promontory, rises south of Scottsbluff on Nebraska Highway 92. Summit Road starts on the east edge of Mitchell Pass, another land-mark that cheered the pioneers. The old Oregon Trail through the Pass is now a time-eroded trough, 10-to-30-feet wide and 6-feet deep.

The National Monument opens at 8 a.m. and closes at sundown, although Summit Road closes to up-bound traffic about an hour earlier. This summer, starting the second week in June, park personnel will devote every Thursday evening, beginning at 9 p.m., to outdoor programs. Rangers or historians will interpret the history or natural history of the area.

For a refreshing glimpse at the story of westward migration, the Visitor Center uses dioramas to illustrate the history of western exploration and expansion. One panel tells the legend of Hiram Scott, the fur trapper of the 1820's, for whom the bluff was named. Mystery surrounds his final fate. The William Henry Jackson Gallery displays 40 original watercolors by this American artist and pioneer photographer who crossed the plains and made landscape sketches as he went along.

Just a few miles from the Kansas border, Harlan County Reservoir's Gremlin Cove and Hunters Creek open magically to Golden Eagle families from May 1 through September 30. Harlan offers an extra bargain. A family can buy a limited passport for $3 and come to the reservoir anytime during the season. Harlan is operated and controlled by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Other federally-built reservoirs in Nebraska have been turned over to the Game Commission and no visitation fee is charged.

Both fee areas are on the north side of the reservoir. Located close to the dam, Gremlin Cove is used more heavily. Here, one can bask on the beach on a sweltering afternoon or go swimming, water skiing, pleasure boating, or fishing. The shelter house is ideal for picnics, and over-night campers find it handy, too. At Hunters Creek, up the reservoir about a mile, camping facilities include tables, fireplaces, potable water, shade, and hot and cold showers for those who like the comforts of home in the wide-open spaces of NEBRASKAland.

Both the cove and the creek cater to boat enthusiasts with their boat-launching ramps. For a fun experience, one can shop by boat if he follows the north shore west to Alma. Its business district is only one block from the waterline.

To get to these Golden Eagle areas, travelers should turn off U.S. Highway 136 at Republican City and go south. The manager's office is about one-half mile off the road. Gremlin Cove and Hunters Creek are down the lake farther. Travelers on Interstate 80 can take U.S. Highway 183 straight south.

Passports are on sale at entrances to any of the Golden Eagle areas, or outdoor fans can write the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, State Capitol, Lincoln 68509, or Bureau of Outdoor Recreation, Operation Golden Eagle, Box 7763, Washington D.C. 20044. A directory, listing all of the Golden Eagle areas, comes with each passport.

Those who yearn for the wide-open spaces and a break in routine can spend a little time or a lot at any one or all of the federal recreation areas on Nebraska's Golden Eagle Route. Or they can follow the Golden Eagle Route cross-country and see everything from the Statue of Liberty National Monument in the east to Bighorn Canyon in the west. Either way, the seven-dollar Golden Eagle passports make the great outdoors of NEBRASKAland and America the fun bargain of the year.

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

Classified Ads: 15 cents a word, minimum order $3. September 1968 closing dote, doty 1,

WHERE-TO-GO

TWENTY THOUSAND to 40,000 feeding rainbow trout are real tourist attractions at the Fattig Camp Grounds and Trout Ranch, located one-fourth mile south of the Brady Exit on Interstate 80.

Visitors are welcome the year-around, and there is no charge to see this phenomenal trout ranch in action. The ranch began when the Fattig family started raising fish about 10 years ago. In 1965, this ranch supplied the Nebraska Game Commission with about 55,000 Kentucky spotted bass, which were later released into Interstate Lakes. About 55,000 largemouth bass are also raised each year in 30 acres of bass ponds.

Fattig first began raising trout about 2V2 years ago. Since then, this ranch, with a natural pond-type raceway, has proved to be perfect for raising these finicky fish. The raceway is 30 feet wide, 4 feet deep, and 600 feet long. Four hundred gallons of 50° water stream through the raceway every minute the year around.

Stages in trout growth interest many. The trout are purchased as one-inch fingerlings, and until they are four inches long, they stay in the concrete raceway. From there they go to a growing pond where they increase in size to the extent of about IV2 inches per month. Later, the ll-to-20-inch trout are let loose into the catching end of the complex. Not only is the fishing great, but a fishing license is not required. The ranch works on the put-and-take technique, with anglers paying a fee for what they catch.

Along with the trout, the 200-acre ranch offers campgrounds which are open through spring, summer, and fall. Showers, indoor facilities, and soon-to-be-installed electric plug-ins are provided for the campers.

Offering the visitor plenty of room to roam around, the ranch also has a nature trail where 100 species of plants have been identified and labeled by a plant specialist.

While the Fattig Ranch caters to the fisherman, the hunter is not left out. A

state-approved dog training area, stocked with quail, is also available.

From Fattig's on west, there is another attraction—an attraction of a different caliber, but still interesting because of its spiritual and historical significance.

Keystone Church, nestled in the Platte River Valley, stands as a symbol of faiths working together to build a place of joint worship. It can be reached by taking U J3. Highway 26 north out of Ogallala and then Nebraska Highway 61 across Kingsley Dam. A right turn on the blacktop leads into Keystone.

Though no longer in regular use, it is not abandoned. Now preserved as a shrine, the little mission church is open every Sunday afternoon in the summer. Occasionally, it is the site of summer weddings.

rom the outside, Keystone Church could be mistaken for any little country church, but inside two altars adorn the place of worship. Seventy-five seats are reversible to accommodate the members of the particular faith using it. On the north end is the Catholic altar, and on the south, the Protestairt.

This church was dedicated August 16, 1908, and served its community well for over 40 years. The original Bible and organ used at the dedication are still on display. The last regular church services held about 18 years ago were Lutheran.

Construction of the little church started when 11 teen-age girls, known as the Kings Daughters, raised the bulk of the money for the $1,200 structure. Under the direction of Mrs. William Paxton, Jr., whose family helped to build the town of Keystone, these youngsters held bazaars and food sales to raise the money. When the church was completed, it was and remained entirely debt free. Today, insurance and repair on the church are kept up by donations.

Although small in size and simple of structure, Keystone Church is a giant in ideal, and a tribute to those who knew how to forget religious differences for the greater good.