Speak Up

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

MORE NEBRASKAland-'! read Mrs. C. C. Parmenter's letter in the May 1968 NEBRASKAland in regard to the old parody, which I heard sung often in our sod house about halfway between Atlanta and Mascot in the 1890's.

"I have a book in the hands of a New York agent which I hope to see printed next spring. The title page reads:

"O NEBRASKAland, Sweet NEBRASKAland' and it has this verse on that page:

"Mrs. Parmenter is right; there were endless versions, and they were sung to the tune of Beulah Land, and those who did not have a verse ready ad-libbed one on the spot.

"I read Helen Heaton Banks', A Little Bit of Eden, May 1968, with great interest and nostalgia. Her recital and terminology were so true." — Vada L. Ireland, El Paso, Texas.

STAY-AT-HOME — "I have been promoting Nebraska fishing for some time. I don't see why people go to Minnesota and come back with less fish than they would have caught in Nebraska.

"I go to Niobrara State Park three or four times (Continued on page 6)

Speak Up

a year. The big attraction there is the accommodations. I think more people are fishing NEBRASKAland each year. We have as good fishing as any place." — E. B. Hager, Omaha.

FAWN FIRST AID-"When I read the article on Fawn Foray, May 1968 NEBRASKAland, and the statement: 'young deer begins long trail with but one goal —survival', it made me think of this picture which I took last summer.

'This fawn was injured during his 'drowsy languor' one afternoon last summer when our 17-year-old son, Allen, was mowing grass near the Bow Creek Lodge, which we operate three miles southwest of Hartington.

"First aid was given the helpless animal immediately and the conservation officer called. We kept the fawn through the night and the next morning until Conservation Officer John Schuckman, arrived to retrieve the animal. Pictured are our three daughters, Norma, 9, Lisa, 7, and Tina, 5." —Mr. and Mrs. James W. Kathol, Hartington.

PROPOSAL —"Just a suggestion, why not publish a book of your photos? They are outstanding." —G. C. Luibus, Portland, Oregon.

Your idea is a good one and we will consider it—Editor

LINK FOR THE PAST-"Being a subscriber of NEBRASKAland and a regular reader of Speak Up, I want to make a suggestion I feel will perpetuate a bit of the Old West.

"For several years it has been my good fortune to spend a few days with relatives in Alliance, Nebraska. On one of my visits, a special trip was made southwest of Alliance to see one of the sod houses used by an early pioneer family. I was informed that there were several sod houses in the area, but they were deteriorating fast and soon would be gone.

"It occurred to me that as many as possible of these early homes should be restored and maintained for future generations of Americans. The question came up on how this could be done. My suggestion for preserving this bit of early American history is to formulate Nebraska County Conservation Boards using the Iowa law for guidelines.

"Chapter 111 A of the Code of Iowa pertains to the subject of County Conservation Boards. The purpose of this is to create a County Conservation Board and to authorize counties to acquire, develop, maintain, and make available to the inhabitants of the county, public parks, preserves, parkways, playgrounds, recreational centers, county forests, wildlife, and other conservation areas, and to promote and preserve the the health and general welfare of the people, to encourage the orderly development and conservation of natural resources, and to cultivate good citizenship by providing adequate program of public recreation.

"Upon petition of 200 voters in any county to the board of supervisors there-of, said board shall submit to the people of the county at the next primary or general election the question of whether a county conservation board shall be created as provided for in Chapter 111A.

"Funds are provided by an appropriation of money from the general fund of the county or by an annual tax levy in addition to all other taxes, of not more than one mill on the dollar of the assessed valuation of all real and personal property subject to taxation.

"I would like to see Nebraska's sod houses restored and maintained as show places for tourism. Surely there are enough Nebraskans interested in conservation and recreation to begin such a program." —Lynn Wells, Piano, Iowa.

FAR AFIELD-"I thought you might like to know how far we Nebraskans advertise our fine state. The picture was taken at Camp Martin Cox, Bear Cat, in Vietnam. During the recent attacks on Saigon, this jeep has spread the word of Nebraska while resupplying the Panther Battalion, 2nd Battalion (Mechanized), 47th Infantry, from Kansas."-Capt. Leroy L. Brown, Beatrice.

LIKES PRETTY GIRLS-"As a young man, I appreciate NEBRASKAland's Hostess-of-the-Month page. Each and every girl adds an extra beauty to the grand state of Nebraska."-Lloyd Ronald Stepan, Pawnee City.

Roundup and What to do

SUMMER'S SWELTER begins losing its punch in Nebraska as September skies welcome the cooling breezes of a new season. The green tapestry of the land changes to golden brown as Jack Frost takes his paintbrush out of storage. An array of full-time fun is poised to ride the leaf-filled winds of autumn into NEBRASKAland.

On hand to welcome the new month and accent the start of archery hunting here is NEBRASK Aland's Hostess of the Month, Mary Lu McCoy, a participant in the 1967 Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant. Decked out in appropriate camouflage attire, Mary Lu extends an invitation for all to join her in this challenging sport.

A 1968 graduate of Peru State College, Mary Lu majored in education. She received her diploma with distinction and is listed in the Who's Who in American Colleges. Her favorite hobbies are playing the piano, sewing, and student activities. While in college she was active in student activities including student government, music educators' national conference, Peru Student Education Association, college chorus, and college band. Mary Lu's husband is Ron McCoy of Atchison, Kansas, and her parents are Mr. and Mrs. Earl Hicks of Auburn.

The whole family can kick up its heels for six big days in Lincoln as the giant Nebraska State Fair breaks loose on August 30 and runs through September 5. There's fun for all and it's all for fun during this gala celebration. All the usual fair attractions will be there — livestock shows, a giant midway, exhibits, judging competition — and much more. Al Hirt, Marty Robbins, Hank Thompson, the Young Americans, Don Rice, Skitch Henderson, the Tommy Dorsey orchestra, and several other well-known acts will be on stage. A few of the many events scheduled for the fabulous week include a national Hereford show, fireworks, a big parade, pony show, youth night, and a baton-twirling contest. Old-timers and youngsters alike will find plenty to see and do during the fair. Junior can scrub up his calf while sis and mom enter the homemaking contests, and dad can enter his prize beef for the coveted grand-champion blue ribbon.

White bass and catfish angling remain good through the month while walleye and trout appetites improve with the coming of crisper days. Sportmen's thoughts turn toward hunting as September speeds across the calendar.

Rifle hunters have four days to zero in on antelope, September 28 and 29 and October 5 and 6. September 1 brings squirrel under the gun and September 21 finds prairie grouse legal game in designated areas.

Football fans hail September as they jam stadia and bleachers across the state to cheer their favorite teams to victory. Some sixty-five-thousand fans will file into Lincoln's Memorial Stadium on September 14 as the Nebraska Cornhuskers tangle with Wyoming. One week later the Huskers host Utah.

Track action keeps the horses on the go at Columbus through September 7, then after a three-day recess the "Sport of Kings" resumes at Madison Downs in Madison, for a 15-day meet.

Festival goers can find plenty of their favorite activity during September as festivals and celebrations spring up about the state. Typical is the giant Kass Kounty (Cass County) King Korn Karnival at Plattsmouth, a three-day fall harvest fair and festival that kicks off September 26. The King Korn Karnival originated nearly 40 years ago as a "thank you" celebration for the farmers of the county by the townspeople. The celebration is highlighted by a farmer's parade, a merchant's parade, and a grand-finale parade of marching bands, clowns, veterans groups, civic organizations, and prize-winning floats. Other highlights include the coronation of King Korn and his queen. Thousands of spectators will flock to this Missouri River town as farmers bring in livestock for judging, grand champions are awarded ribbons, and everyone has an "honest to West" good time.

Flower lovers will find all their fancy desires as Sutherland hosts its Standard Flower Show September 8, while rock and mineral buffs have their heyday in North Platte on September 13 as the State Rock Fair gets under way.

Grandpa had better think young if he plans on being in Omaha on September 28 and 29 as the Midwest Teen Fair features all the newest styles, music, and fashions for the teen's way of life. For most teens and sub-teens September brings an end to fun in the sun as school bells ring finis to summer vacations.

With Nebraska's upland-game birds coming under fire in the near future, shotgunners can take advantage of numerous trap shoots to sharpen their shooting eyes. Cozad hosts a 500-Rock Marathon registered trap shoot September 1, and Alliance holds a Bull Shippers Special Shoot on September 22 which will feature more than a hundred top shooters from across the state. Other registered shoots include those at North Platte, Beatrice, and Minden.

Summer steps aside for autumn in September, but the change doesn't slow NEBRASKAland's whirlwind pace of work and play.

What to do

MISERY IN THE MARSH

LATE AFTERNOON of a perfect October day was creeping across the Sand Hills when four of us stopped at Ballards Marsh to hunt ducks back in 1955.

We split up. My three companions scattered to shoot along the north shore, but I cut back into the central part of the marsh. The place was clogged with phragmites, an aquatic plant that gets so dense it actually forms a mat on the water. Sometimes it gets so solid you can walk on it. It's touchy, though. It can give way and you're hip deep in water. I knew this, but I was eager to hunt and didn't think about the treacherous vegetation as I trudged across the phragmites.

By the time I got two ducks, it was getting toward the still of evening when noises carry a long way. I could hear my friends, and it sounded like they were only a hundred yards away. A drainage ditch came right down the middle of the marsh, and somehow I had gotten on the other side of it. Not wanting to retrace my steps and thinking it would be quicker, I decided to cross the ditch and walk straight toward my companions. The water came near the top of my hip boots, so I kept going farther, thinking there would be a shallow place. My friends' voices sounded so near, yet I couldn't come anywhere close to them.

Finally, it was obvious that I wasn't going to get across the drainage ditch. The foreboding darkness made it too late to retrace my soggy path into the marsh, so the only way I could go was to cross the ditch and get wet. But the farther I went the deeper it got. Pretty soon I was up to my chest in the chilly water. I didn't know what was ahead, so I backed off and waded up the ditch until I came to a body of open water.

By this time it was pitch dark and the marsh quit playing tricks on my ears. My companions were just a hundred yards away, but across that wide stretch. I yelled to them, but they weren't worried about me. Later, they said they thought my predicament a big joke. But they did drive the car to the shoreline to direct the headlights across the water. Fatigue was taking its toll, so I pulled off my hip boots, poured the water out of them, and slung them across my back with my gun and my ducks. I didn't have the slightest idea of how deep the water was, but my alternatives were nil.

I struck out. With all the aquatic vegetation it was tough walking. Somewhere I lost a sock and the plants tore my bare foot to bits.

Two hours of slogging through mud and water had left me cold, tired, and just about whipped. Swimming would have done me in, so fear that the next step would put me in over my head and force me to abandon my gear didn't help. I struggled to thrust each foot forward, and luckily, the water stayed at chest level through the deepest part. It slapped me and lapped at the ducks and gear on my shoulder, while the strange night noises bounced around the marsh and the car lights cast an eerie reflection on the miniature waves. Numb from the cold water and chilly breeze, it seemed I was moving like a robot. The trip across took an eternity, but finally, I dragged myself onto the opposite shore and started to put my stuff in the car. Somewhere back in the water, a boot had slipped off my shoulder, but I hadn't felt it slide away. Right then I realized how close I was to total exhaustion.

Nearly frozen, I stripped off my wet clothes and crawled into our station wagon. With the heater on high we drove to Valentine.

It was more of a miserable experience than an adventurous one, but it is one that I will long remember. I haven't hunted in Ballards Marsh since, but if and when I do, it will be from the shore —not in the interior.

AFTER-THE-KILL CARE

THE VARIETY OF game any hunter can take during a NEBRASKAland mixed-bag hunt is a privilege enjoyed in few other parts of the nation. But this privilege also carries an ethical responsibility—the responsibility that none of this bounty, because of careless or irresponsible handling, finds its way to the garbage can instead of the table. Senseless and unnecessary waste of game is an illegal and a moral wrong no sportsman should tolerate.

Getting wild meat to the table with its true flavor intact, and without the strong, heavy taste most people consider "gamy", lies in prompt field care of the carcass after the kill. Delaying this chore for more than a few minutes means the risk of poor meat. Contamination of the flesh by juices and body wastes of a gutshot bird or animal is a rapid process and causes more spoilage than any other factor.

Choosing equipment to handle game in the field requires as much care as the selection of a fishing rod or a rifle. The fisherman or the average bird and small-game hunter needs nothing more than a small sheath knife with a 3V2 or 4-inch blade. The knife should be of good steel and very sharp, and cased in a heavy leather sheath. It should be worn on the back of the belt with the sheath tucked in the hip pocket. Wading anglers often carry their knives in the sleeve pockets of their fishing jackets.

Deer and antelope hunters need a bit more equipment. Their knives should be heftier with 4 1/2 to 5-inch blades. A sharp hand ax, or a small saw, made especially for big-game hunting, 25 or 30 feet of quarter-inch nylon rope, some strong cord, clean rags, and either a large muslin sack or some jersey-knit tubing to cover the butchered meat are essentials. Canvas or plastic sacks that prevent the meat from cooling out properly should not be used. Most of the mentioned items are available from sporting-goods stores.

Now, to the actual field-dressing procedures for game and fish.

As soon as the hook comes out of the fish, he should be belted between the eyes with the knife handle to quiet him, and then slit from vent to jaw for removal of the entrails. The red gills should be cut out and the dark streaks along the backbone 12 NEBRASKAland thumbed out. After rinsing the body cavity well, it should be dried with a clean cloth. Creeled fish should be placed on a bed of wet grass or moss, separate from any others. A creel should be kept in the shade and hung in a breezy spot when the angler goes ashore, assuring that the fish will remain firm and cool for several hours. Never allow cleaned fish to soak in water or in their own juices.

When boat fishing, keep the catch alive on a stringer for one big cleaning session later. Examine the fish frequently, and if any die, clean them at once. Fish to be scaled should be gutted, but immediate scaling is unnecessary. Wipe muck and slime off the scales before icing the fish.

The intestines, crops, or other vital organs of quail, pheasant, grouse, or the more lordly wild turkey are pretty certain to be shot-punctured. These should be eliminated promptly.

There are gourmet hunters who are ready to fight anyone so uncouth as to skin a game bird. They claim the skin retains the tenderizing juices and flavor in the meat, especially if the bird is roasted. This clan plucks the feathers from the bird before disembowling it. Within minutes after the kill, the feathers tighten to the skin, so the stripping should be done at once. The process is not a time waster, for it can be done while walking to the next game area. Aside from slower cooling no ill effects to the meat are caused if the feathers are left on until the hunter gets home.

In any event the retrieved bird should be gutted as soon as possible. Push the point of the hunting knife through the belly skin behind the breast and thrust it flatwise under the skin until its point emerges just to one side of the vent. Turn the knife and slice upward in a quick cut. The intestines should practically drop out. Another cut from the front of the breast to the neck allows removal of the crop, lungs, and windpipe.

Wipe the body cavity dry and stuff it with a handful of dry, long-stemmed grass. The carcass is then held open for quick cooling. Put the bird in a plastic bag for carrying in the game pocket. Be sure to leave heads and feet on both upland birds and a wing on waterfowl for identification purposes.

Ducks and geese require the same treatment as upland birds. They can be plucked between flights, and the long hairs under the down singed off with a small propane torch. Back at the car, the birds should be spread out (Continued on page 14)

for further cooling. If transporting them in the trunk, don't dump them in a bucket or directly on the floor. Remember, air circulation helps keep the meat sweet. A light rack of lx4-inch boards placed on edge and covered with screen wire makes a fine cooling device. Place this on the deck and the game on top of it. Avoid carrying the birds over the exhaustpipe area. The heat from it will turn them bad.

A mixed-game bag is sure to include rabbit and squirrel. These animals are easily cared for. Grab the skin in the middle of the back with both hands and pull in opposite directions. The hide will rip in two, and with continued pulling, it will peel off. Open the belly cavity from breast to pelvic bone. Bend the hind legs up over the back, until the head can be grasped in the same hand. Give a quick downward flick and everything will fly out. If parts of the body are badly shot up, trim away damaged flesh. Store each animal in a cloth bag to keep it clean.

A big-game animal on the hoof during hunting season is usually a healthy one. At the moment of killing it is good meat. If it ends up on the table tough and wild, it's the hunter's own fault.

As soon as the deer or antelope is stone dead, cut the musk gland off the legs, pitch them into the brush, and clean the knife. Drag the tail end of the animal downhill, and open the belly skin from breastbone to pelvis. To prevent cutting the abdominal wall, hold the hunting knife, cutting edge up, in the palm of the hand with the forefinger under the sharp point. Sliding the knife along places the hand between the skin and belly wall, while the extended forefinger prevents the point from digging downward. Cut around the anal opening. Pull back the skin, and cut through the belly membrane for access to the intestines. Gut the anus free and tie it off with cord. If it is a buck, cut the sex organs away and tie off the bladder. Reach inside the body and slice through the diaphragm in the chest. Cut the windpipe and gullet at the throat, hold them in the hand, and pull backward. All the organs can now be rolled onto the ground. With a hand ax or the little saw, split breast and aitch or hipbones.

The carcass, now completely opened, should be hung on tripod or tree limb, either head-up or head-down, to finish draining and cooling. Trim away any badly shot-up meat, as putrefaction starts quickly in the mangled areas. Most hunters do not wash the cavity of a cleanly-killed animal on the theory that a glaze of animal blood resists bacterial action. However, thorough washing is indicated if intestinal or bladder contents have been spilled on the flesh. Don't allow any hair of the animal to stick to the meat, or it will impart a strong taste.

Dry the cavity with clean rags. To discourage flies from landing and laying their eggs on the flesh, sprinkle the interior liberally with black pepper. Pull the cloth bags over the animal to keep it dirt free. The loosely-woven cloth permits the air circulation needed for rapid cooling.

If the kill is transported for long distances in a pickup, use a duckboard in the bed so air can circulate. To carry the animal on the cartop, a basket-weave carrier permits excellent air flow. Get the meat out of the field and into a cold locker as rapidly as possible.

Not all men who go afield are gifted hunters, but all individuals can be equals when it comes to caring for your game afield.

TWO-HOUR BUCK

SOMETHING WAS behind the nervous does, but what? They looked back, paused, and resumed their wary feeding below my tree stand. I watched and watched, but the concealing cedars were too thick. Then ever so slowly, the head and shoulders of a white-tailed buck emerged from the darkening trees. The buck knew something was amiss in the little clearing for he stared right at me. Almost subconsciously, I noted that he was a three-pointer, western count.

Fighting down an impulse to hurry a shot, I waited until the buck turned and looked at his back trail. Now, I had time to get set. My bow was almost parallel to the ground, but it was the only way to get off a shot. Pulling to full draw, I sighted in on the buck's neck just as he turned and looked at me. Committed now, there was no choice, the arrow had to go.

The buck spun and was gone. The solid "whomp" of the broadhead convinced me I had hit him, but long experience in archery hunting dampened my first flush of optimism. I remained in the tree stand, watching and listening. The woods were silent now after a slight threshing of the leaves just seconds after the release of the arrow.

As the slow minutes ticked by, I began to realize just how lucky I was even if I hadn't bagged the buck. In less (Continued on page 61)

Go=For-Broke CowBoy

Black-cat first go-round put the pressure on. Could Rocky Rising make a comback?

IN AN ATTEMPT to dislodge his 127-pound rider, the spinning bull lunged forward. The unexpected lurch caught Rocky Rising off balance and nipped him into the arena dirt. The critter s deadly hooves were just inches away from the young cowboy when a rodeo bullfighter moved in to distract the animal, giving Rocky the split second he needed to scramble up the fence.

As the sandy-haired youth unsnapped his lavender-and-white chaps, he preferred not to hear the announcer droning, "No score for the Marsland cowboy.' The mean-tempered bull had won the first bout at the Nebraska High School Championship Rodeo in Harrison, Nebraska, but the 18-year-old planned to win the next one. To qualify for the National High School Championship Rodeo in Topeka, Kansas, in rvugust, he had to place first, second, or third in average score in one event at this late-June rodeo.

Rocky wanted to go to the national meet so bad he could taste it. A very capable competitor in his chosen sport, the short, but well-muscled cowboy was the victim of bad luck from the very beginning of this show. His black-cat jinx began with the first go-round. By the luck of the draw, the high schooler's four events were scheduled for the first day of the rodeo instead of being spaced over a two-day period. In a sport that demands strength, alertness, and concentration, the rigorous lineup proved too much for the five-foot, seven-inch cowboy. He slapped his bareback bronc with his free hand to nullify a perfect ride; his saddle bronc preferred to run instead of buck and on a reride he was dusted off before the whistle; his bulldogging steer had outmaneuvered the hazer and the animal was lost 20 yards out of the chute; and now, the bull had caught Rocky off-balance to end the unperfect day.

In the lonely sport of rodeoing, Rocky had only himself to blame for the disastrous day. But the high school senior's luck hadn't been all bad. Earlier, he had been elected contestant president of the Nebraska High School Rodeo Association. Besides, his competitors hadn't fared too well, either. He still had a shot at the nationals, if he made a good showing in Saturday's second go-round.

After two go-rounds, only the top 10 contestants in each event would qualify for the Sunday finals. To make the cutoff, Rocky had to forget about his bad breaks and mistakes and concentrate on Saturday's action that had him riding a bull in the afternoon and bulldogging, saddle bronc, and bareback riding that night. The other cowboys had first go-round leads to protect, but Rocky could catch them with high-point, go-for-broke rides. As a proven National Little Britches Champion in saddle bronc and bull riding, he had the ability to come from behind.

Earlier in the spring, Rocky had competed in seven rodeos to condition himself for the Nebraska championships. Unlike a calf roper, actual rodeo competition is the rough-stock rider's practice. However, a short-eared, shaggy donkey on the Rising Ranch helps him polish his skills before each rodeo season starts. Rocky was 10 when he bought the bucking mule at an auction. Like most ranch youngsters, young Rising was eager for rodeo competition. Riding the donkey constantly the youth developed a sense of balance and timing that is essential in rough-stock competition. 1 he shy slow-talking teen-ager admits that even now, the donkey sometimes turfs him. Old Short Ears has accounted for Rocky's only serious buck-off injury-a broken collarbone.

Rodeoing is a Rising family tradition, and Rocky was riding colts in the arena when he was 11 years old Since then, he has boarded over 300 head of competition stock. Like any athlete, a rodeo performer must stay in top condition but ordinary ranch work keeps Rocky fit. The Marsland teen-ager has his sights set on Rodeo Cowboys Association competition, but right now high school rodeoing is giving him the experience he will need in the big-time circuit

That future is a long way off, but the snorting, wild-eyed bull m chute No. 8 was a harsh reality. Two 20 NEBRASKAland and mark his mount from 1 to 25 on the way it bucks for a possible 100 points. Rocky needed a high-point, eight-second ride to get into the finals. With the bull standing square in the chute, the serious-faced cowboy settled on his back and cried, "Outside!" The 1,200-pound whirlwind spun into action with the determined cowboy spurring for points. When the whistle blew, Rocky emerged from the arena with a self-assured grin. A buzzing crowd told him he had made a good ride, and the announcer confirmed it with, "Sixty-eight points, the high-point ride in the rodeo so far." The teen-ager had made the bull-riding finals.

In the first bulldogging go-round Rocky had missed his steer, so his jump Saturday night would not get him into the finals. But when the steer was rammed out of the chute, the go-for-broke cowboy dove at the sharp horns and twisted the critter to the ground in 14.2 seconds. Although Rocky stayed on board his bareback bronc for the required time, the ride was nullified when he failed to mark the horse — spurring the bronc over the break of the shoulders when the horse's front feet hit the ground on the first jump out of the chute.

Rocky still had a chance to qualify on his saddle bronc. In the first go-round only three cowboys had stayed for the required eight seconds. To make the Sunday finals, all Rocky had to do was stick in the saddle, but to be in contention for Topeka a high-point ride was a must. Saddle-bronc riding is the toughest, most colorful rodeo event. As Rocky rigged his full-of-fire mount he reminded himself that for a qualified ride he had to mark the bronc, keep both feet in the stirrups, and avoid touching the animal, saddle, or rein with his free hand.

After lowering himself onto the snorting bucker, the young cowboy leaned back in the saddle and with a "Let's ride a horse", the white-barred gate opened. The bronc planted all four feet, then arced for the sky. On the way back down, the horse lost his footing in the loose dirt and both he and Rocky went sprawling. Almost stunned by the sudden fall, Rocky fought to get away from the flying hooves as the shook bronc struggled to his feet.

"Rocky Rising is awarded a reride," the announcer blared.

For his reride Rocky could draw another bronc, but he wanted the same mount, for ordinarily the horse was a sure point-getter. Again, Rocky slid onto the bronc and nodded the gate open. The horse quickly broke out of the chute and Rocky wasted little time collecting hair on his spurs. The horse twisted and turned, skied, and came back down on all four feet. When the whistle blew, Rocky was on top and had collected 57 points.

Ranking tenth in bull riding and fifth in the saddle bronc going into the Sunday finals, Rocky's chances of placing at least third in average score in an event were less than even. But high-point stock and wildcat rides might put the odds in his favor. In the stock draw he pulled bull No. 2, a dynamo of buck that usually broke straight out of the chute for 10 yards, then went into a merry-go-round spin. His saddle bronc, No. 421, was a high-jumping, eight-second bucker.

Only seven cowboys had qualified for the saddle-bronc finals, but each was a hard-to-beat competitor. The first bronc tamer out of the chutes ate dirt, but another contestant put the pressure on with a 65-point ride for a total of 119 points. Rocky was next and with the announcer's introduction he nodded the gate open. The horse shot out of the chute with Rocky spurring high on his shoulders. One mistake, leading to a momentary loss of balance, (Continued on page 63)

FLYING FOR CARP

THE SIX-POUND-test leader was invisible under the muddy waters of the Little Nemaha River, but the fly line stayed on the surface in a lazy coil. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the coil got smaller until leader and line were stretched tight.

Still in no hurry, the line moved upstream, then back down, leaving a small wake in the silty water. John Sanders of Auburn, editor of the Nemaha County Herald, set the hook with a jerk. Suddenly the Nemaha became a battleground as the big fish shot upriver, broke the surface with a rush, then dived for the bottom and a snag that could end it all.

With a "No, you don't", the excited angler heaved back on his 8V2-foot fly rod, and brought his struggling opponent to the surface. But the finny warrior was not to be so easily conquered. A strong thrust with his broad tail and the golden-hued fish resumed the battle. Running deep now, his frantic struggles sliced the line through the well-churned water.

Another strong heave on the rod and the battler was on the surface again, this time for keeps. Keeping the carp's head high, John brought the exhausted fish to shore. Our fly-rod expedition was off to a fine start.

Deb Falk, the second member of our party and owner of an automobile-repair shop in Auburn, had been watching the contest from the other bank.

"Nice work, John. You played him just like you knew what you were doing," he chided his long-time friend and fishing companion.

Big carp, cruising in the shallows, were promising more action, and I was glad I had managed to become a part of this late-afternoon fishing trip.

A few days earlier, as part of my job with the special publications section of the Nebraska Game Commission, I had been making a routine check of fishing conditions with the conservation officer in Auburn. As an afterthought he mentioned that for some change-of-pace angling two Auburn fishermen were planning a go at carp with their fly rods. Carp are usually taken with heavy gear, or jug and bank lines, so the prospect of deftly playing these fighters with light fly tackle sounded very interesting. I decided to wrangle an invitation.

Over the phone, John Sanders was very enthusiastic about his fishing trip and welcomed my company. He and Deb are primarily bass and trout fishermen, and over the years they have tried many of the waters in the state. Both had accidentally hooked carp with fly rods, but now they were planning a special trip to enjoy the fighting habits of these big fish. Our target area would be the Little Nemaha just east of Auburn.

The Little Nemaha is a slowly meandering stream beginning in Lancaster County near Bennet in south-eastern Nebraska and completing its journey 76 miles to the southeast in the Missouri River near Nemaha. In the Auburn area, the river runs only 3 to 4 feet deep, but it is protected by 15-to-25-foot bluffs cut into the bordering fields. Carp, catfish, and bullhead are its pre-dominant species, so fishing prospects were excellent.

"Carp will take almost anything," Deb said as he dipped his fingers into the container of prepared bait and molded the dough on a No. 4 hook. "But dough and whole-kernel corn are my favorites. I used to make my own dough, but these store-bought baits are real good."

"I prefer corn and a No. 6 treble," John added. "We tie on about three feet of six-pound-test leader and add enough lead to get the bait to the bottom. Anything lighter than six-pound probably won't hold them; anything heavier takes the fun out of playing them." Both had 81/2-foot rods and automatic reels.

We were fishing an area where the Nemaha made a bend to the east. At the base of a 15-foot bluff was a hole about 4 feet deep and 10 feet long. A fallen tree had washed into the pool and carp were feeding among the barely submerged branches.

John dropped his line into the water, let the split-shot carry the corn to the bottom, and sat back to wait. Deb moved downstream and tossed his sweet-smelling doughball into carp country.

"It may be a fly rod, but the technique is pure cane pole," he laughed as he pulled off some line and swung the baited hook in a (Continued on page 64)

Portfolio of a Mixed Bag

ANYONE WHO appreciates the fluid grace of a running pronghorn or the explosive rise of a ringneck from frost-rimed goldenrod has the eye if not the hand of an artist. Every outdoorsman can recall wildlife scenes that were so entertainingly different and so unusual in composition that he longed to preserve their visual excitement and aesthetics on something more durable than memory.

In these 10 pages, NEBRASKAland artists, portraying some of the game birds and animals that make Nebraska the mixed-bag hunting capital of the nation, have satisfied the sportsman's ageless plaint of "what a picture that would make".

Using the media of pastels and acrylic, artists Jack Curran, C. G. "Bud" Pritchard, and Roger Meisenbach have spurned the old, the conventional, and the tried and true for new and imaginative compositions. Viewers, familiar with the wildlife community, will find it easy to associate these scenes with their own experiences. Viewers who have not prowled the outdoors will now see what they are missing.

The hooded mergansers created by Bud Pritchard will strike a familiar chord with waterfowlers. It is a slightly modified version of the scene on the 1968 Federal Migratory Bird (duck) Stamp which was designed by Bud and selected by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

SECOND TIME AROUND

BECAUSE THOUSANDS of people in Nebraska's Third City consistantly do a little bit more than they are asked to do, bright red-and-white banners are now flying throughout Grand Island proclaiming its unusual status as an All-America City for the second time in 12 years.

Less than a dozen towns across the nation who enter the annual All-America Cities competition, co-sponsored by Look Magazine and the National Municipal League, emerge as finalists and received the award; fewer still have been doubly chosen.

Purposeful action, not perfection, was the criterion used by the All-America Cities jury in making the selections last November in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Look stated that the residents of all the cities selected had shown "that extra spark of openness that encourages hometown people to care to act, and to prove, particularly in this year of simmering tension, that Americans can still live together productively and peacefully."

People participation and unity of citizen interest have been the hallmarks of residents living near La Grande Isle in the Platte River since the first settlers came in July 1857. What one of the founding fathers, William Stolley, stated in 1907 that, "things changed rapidly around us, but the 'picked troops' of our settlement remained true to the soil on which they settled", is applicable to the community as a whole, today.

So truly dedicated to the welfare and progress of their town were these pioneers that their attitude in turn evolved as a mystique which their own descendants have inherited, and which succeeding generations of newcomers to Grand Island have sought to acquire, so they, too, could share in the community's future.

Like residents of any town in America, Grand Islanders assert their individual rights to grumble about economic, social, or political conditions in the community. However, the people as a whole present a unified indignation when an outsider dares cast aspersion on the good name of the city.

Such was the case in 1952 when Look Magazine cited Grand Island, proposed as a new Capital of the United States in 1858, as being one of the 25 most vice-ridden communities in the nation. This was according to a survey conducted by the American Hygiene Association in 1951. Citizen indignation immediately became bulldog determination to disprove the assertion.

In December 1955, Look and the League announced Grand Island's first All-America City award, and included a special commendation for citizen achievement. In 3 short years and with 7,000 volunteer man-hours of work and planning, community-minded people had turned Nebraska's Third City into a town nationally recognized for its beautiful churches and fine schools.

An editorial in a Lincoln newspaper commending Grand Islanders for what they had achieved stated: "The question is frequently raised how can an individual effectively express his citizenship, and there are 34 NEBRASKAland many who feel that the bigness of the country rules out grass-roots service. But a strong nation is built from the bottom up within the family, the neighborhood, and the community. There is more opportunity than ever for community service. In Grand Island it was demonstrated in a convincing fashion. Thanks to its people it no longer has an educational problem. Instead it has an admirable school system to grace its community and bless its children. And it has a refreshed pride in itself which its neighbors like to see and feel."

A $4-million bond issue passed in 1952 enabled Grand Island to construct 3 new elementary schools, renovate the old high school building to provide a junior high school facility, and build a senior high school complex which received national recognition. Even today, groups of educators from throughout the plains region visit Grand Island both to view the facility, and to observe the educational program, considered one of the best in the nation by many experts in the teaching profession.

In spite of a drought which had caused a sharp decline in retail sales and bank deposits, and news that the Cornhusker Ordnance Plant was closing, which would put one out of eight of its residents out of work, Grand Island spent $25,000 on a Centennial celebration in July 1957. Islanders felt it was important to show pride in the growth and progress of their town no matter what economic conditions were in their sprawling Platte Valley community.

During this time, however, Grand Islanders were doing more than just expressing pride in their community. They were making plans to alleviate the depression that existed. Two hundred local businessmen formed the Grand Island Industrial Foundation and began discussing ways and means of attracting industry to the city. "Horn blowers" of the Chamber of Commerce soon started making personal contacts with manufacturers across the nation.

Several small factories had moved into Grand Island by 1960, but community boosters were not satisfied and wanted more industry. Mention of this was made at the annual Chamber of Commerce banquet. After the affair, famed radio commentator, Paul Harvey, asked a group of these men just what they were working toward. Those present today say it was Harvey's question which set them thinking in the right direction as well as giving them a guideline to follow. As a result, the first successful effort of the Industrial Foundation was accomplished when a trailer-manufacturing company from Dallas, Texas, located in Grand Island in 1961.

Two years later, a local urban-renewal program was initiated when an outgrowth of the Chamber traffic-and-parking committee formed the Grand Island Parking Corporation. Downtown merchants, property owners, and professional men bought shares, and obtained a $300,000 loan to start moving antiquated buildings from the downtown area, and to provide adequate free customer-parking facilities in this section of Grand Island. Today, the Park 'N Shop project has proved so successful and remunerative to Grand Island, that Norfolk, Beatrice, Columbus, and Lincoln have adopted the plan.

An announcement in 1964 that one of Grand Island's oldest industries, a sugar-beet processing plant, was closing, momentarily put a damper on booster enthusiasm.

At this point, news reached the city that one of the nation's oldest meat packers was considering Nebraska's Third City as a site (Continued on page 57)

TEN-YEAR PHEASANT STUDY

TEN YEARS OF intensive pheasant watching seems a singularly awesome project, but to gain a basic understanding of how Nebraska's No. 1 game bird operates, such a study was undertaken. Initiated in 1954, in the intensively farmed portions of Clay and Fillmore counties, three nme-square-mile study areas were established in co-operation with the resident landowners. A co-operative agreement allowed biologists to conduct year-round work on the areas and allowed hunter use of the land through a special envelope-return system.

Designed to collect all basic facts related to the life history and ecology of the pheasant, this study differed greatly from the regular survey project Pheasants, resident on the study areas, were followed through the year in order to determine population numbers, reproductive success, mortality, and every other fact related to their existence. Many methods and techniques were used or tried, to discover where birds nested and roosted, how far they moved, and how long they lived.

When field work was ended in 1964, some 1,750 nests had been examined, about 4,516 broods had been closely observed, and over 11,000 miles had been driven on selected sample brood routes. As a result, data on south-central Nebraska pheasants accumulated at an unbelievable rate. Thanks to computers, the bulk of this information is now tabulated. These are some of the findings.

Because of the importance of nesting and hatching, much study was focused on the summer reproductive period. To determine which cover hens selected for nesting, and which type of habitat was most productive, every piece of land that offered some potential for nesting was systematically sampled. In most cases, each cover type was searched twice during the summer.

Findings indicated that roadsides and wheat received high nesting use. Over the 10-year period, 77 per cent of all chicks hatched were produced in these two cover types. Because of mowing, alfalfa, although a preferred nesting cover, contributed few live chicks (about three per cent). Weedy or brushy 36 NEBRASKAland fencerows, long thought to be good nesting cover, were completely unproductive. In all 10 years, many nests were found in fencerows, but not a single one was successful.

While reproductive success in wheat, hay and pasture, and unused cover was variable, chick production from roadsides was quite constant. To determine more accurately why this cover was more productive, hundreds of measurements were taken of vegetation and other environmental factors existing in the roadsides. Generally, roadsides with well-developed, solid stands of native grass or smooth brome, were not preferred types. Rather, hens selected roadsides with an abundance of early maturing grasses such as bluegrass, downy brome, or western wheatgrass mixed lightly with annual weeds. The females also showed a definite preference for nest placement within the roadside profile. The bottom area was considered the choice spot to establish a nest. To test the hens' sense of direction, tests were devised to see if birds showed a preference for north-south roadsides as opposed to east-west ones. No preference was found.

The causes of nest failure or poor pheasant reproduction always come in for talk in the hot-stove league. Weather, the most variable of the environmental factors and one with little possibility of control by man, gets a lot of play. After analysis of seven different weather factors, only two were found to exert an influence on nesting. Departure from normal precipitation was the primary factor and departure from normal temperature was the secondary factor. Earliest hatching, and usually the most productive, occurred in years classified as warm and dry while the latest occurred in a cold, wet year.

Determining the fate of nests figured prominently in the study. Every unsuccessful nest found was carefully studied to learn causes of its destruction. Three primary factors were responsible for nest failures: farming operations, destruction by predators, and abandonment. All three operated at varying degrees. When abandonment of nests was high, failures from predation and farming operations were low. Low abandonment rates saw failure from the other primary factors increase. Generally, the years of high-nesting success were also the years in which predation rates were high.

Tied closely with the fate of nests are egg fertility and hatchability. Based on examination of many hundreds of eggs from unsuccessful nests, embryos were present in at least 88 per cent. Considering that an additional 4 per cent of the eggs couldn't be accurately classified, a figure of 92 per cent fertility is more realistic. This figure agrees with the 91.7 per cent fertility figure from successful nests where 82.2 per cent hatched and 9.5 per cent contained dead embryos. Most embryonic mortality occurred in the last six days of incubation.

One of the most difficult phases of the project was accurate study of pheasant broods. With any animal population, some mortality of young is expected. With pheasants, it was important to know when mortality took place and how it affected census methods. Regular brood census over 30-mile routes was one method used to follow chick biology. Birds were aged to the nearest week and counted. By mid-September, mortality could be estimated by decline of brood size within the various age groups.

Over the 10 years, mortality of chicks was found to be quite constant. From hatching until 6 to 10 weeks of age (the most accurate census grouping), about 35 per cent of the young die. Young from early nests suffered a higher mortality rate, while chicks from late-hatched nests incurred less.

In looking at an "average year" for the Clay Center area, about 80 chicks were produced on each square mile. By September, only 52 remained. Mortality from then to hunting season was of little consequence. With the sex ratio equally distributed at hatching, about 25 young cocks would be living on each section of land. Adding the cock pheasants surviving from the previous year, the harvestable number of birds on an "average section" would be from 35 to 45.

Studies of cover use by broods indicate that pheasants have very definite preferences, thus explaining why proper habitat can be wholly important in maintaining birds, and why careful selection of cover is important to the hunter. Pheasant broods showed a strong preference for uncultivated areas and exhibited definite seasonal shifts within the four component parts of this cover type. Fencerows were preferred for midday loafing sites. Use of unused, weedy areas or feed-grain diverted acres was directly related to the amount of cover present. Secure roosting cover for pheasants was shown to be wheat stubble. In areas lacking this important cover type, lagoon edges were used for roosting.

The life span of a pheasant and his home range were other aspects of the detailed study. Over 1,000 birds were trapped and banded during late summer, fall, and winter in order to gather data on movement and mortality. Sixteen to 18 months are the average life spans of Nebraska ringnecks which have survived the hazardous chick phase. The oldest bird recorded through band recovery was 2Vfe years old. He had moved less than one mile from where he had been originally trapped. Average movement for juvenile birds was about 1,300 yards, while adults averaged about 1,000 yards. Cock birds moved only slightly more in their lifetimes than hens. For management, the importance of harvest was reemphasized for these short-lived birds.

For the sportsman, the hunting season is the end result of the ringneck's spring-and-summer activity. The average hunter is only sure of one thing when he goes afield on opening day. His target will live up to a noted writer's description of "a brass-bound, hell-for-leather, unblushing roughneck — shingled with galvanized feathers —who spouts cusswords as he flies".

In studying the bira during the hunting season, researchers documented what most hunters find hard to believe —the cock (Continued on page 63)

THREE-MAN PACT

MY BUCK sped over a knoll and headed for the fence. His horns locked on the barbed wire for a second as he literally dove under the bottom strand. Then he was up and dusting away. When the scope on my .284 Magnum told me he was in range, I led him until his brisket showed through the cross hairs. I squeezed the trigger, and all I could see were feet and body going over and over. The 140-grain boattail bullet caught him in the spine, killing him instantly. When I reached him, I saw he was a fine buck antelope. My part of a three-man pact made the day before with Curt and Tom Maas of Stanton was fulfilled.

Our hunt for prize antelope had started on a bright, cool September morning in Cherry County, Nebraska, during the three-day season in 1965. I had driven down from my home in Norfolk the night before to meet the Maas brothers at the George Seabolt ranch, south of Merriman. Curt was then a co-worker at a printing company in Norfolk, although he is now living in Denver, Colorado. Curt and I, and his brother, Tom, who is in the cattle-feeding business at Stanton, had planned this hunt for a long time.

The three of us were up long before dawn and downing coffee when we made a pact not to shoot just any pronghorn — only ones worth mounting. All of us were eager for a Nebraska Game Commission Trophy Antelope Citation, and George's ranch seemed the ideal place to try. Affable George Seabolt offered to drive us, so he headed for the barn and his pickup while my buddies and I gathered up our gear.

Heading out, our host told us we were going to a spot where there might be a herd of 35 antelope. Soon, our driver stopped the truck on a knoll by a fence, saying it was a good place to wait. If the herd spooked, it was a likely spot for it to cross. I got out of the cab and stretched out on a rise to wait while George dropped Curt and Tom some distance away. After the pickup left, it was so quiet I could hear the birds singing.

Suddenly, I noticed a large herd of pronghorns grazing deep in the valley below me. Quickly glassing with my scope, I saw two bucks that appeared to be records, and three that were worth taking.

Before I had time to shoot, another party of hunters on an opposite knoll fired several shots and spooked the herd in my direction. Those prairie speedsters turned toward me, then slowed up by the fence and made a circle. I couldn't get a shot without hitting a doe, so I didn't try. The herd now headed toward Tom and Curt who took several shots. Then, silence.

During the quiet that followed, I kept wondering if either of them had killed a buck. It wasn't long before I saw George and my buddies heading toward me. I knew by their expressions that neither Tom nor Curt had made a kill.

They stopped and I found out that Tom had ruined his rifle. After George had picked him up, Tom had laid his .25/06 rifle, which he built himself, on the seat of the cab, barrel down on the floor. Some mud on the floorboard had worked up in the bore and hardened while we were driving over the prairie.

When Tom fired the rifle, the barrel split in two and fell apart. He was completely disgusted. It didn't seem to matter to him that he was lucky not to be seriously injured. Fortunately for Tom, Curt had brought a spare, an 8mm which he had left at the ranch house. All of us piled into the truck and went back to pick it up.

With Tom rearmed, we headed for the herd again. George drove for a short spell and then let us out. We 38 wanted to walk in different directions, so we split up after agreeing to more or less circle the area.

After plodding for a time, I came to the top of a ridge and looked down into the valley where I had earlier spotted the herd. They were there. Quickly, I ran to a rise and signaled Tom and Curt, who by now, were not too far away. The pronghorns started circling us, but a doe was always blocking a suitable target.

Finally, Tom let go with his 8mm and those prairie speedsters exploded in all directions. The antelope were over a knoll and gone before I could get one in my scope. Tom let out a whoop and a holler. He had brought down a fine buck which looked like a citation. We were one down now, and two to go on our pact.

The three of us decided to put the pronghorn on a fence and use him as a decoy. We did, and walked away. I hadn't gone more than 75 yards when I noticed a small buck come over a rise. The antelope was about 250 yards away when Curt triggered his 6mm/.284, and sent a slug into the buck's shoulder. Down he went.

It was getting late, and Curt had an appointment in Denver for the next day, so he had decided not to be choosy. We said good-bye to him, and George took him to the house. The rest of the afternoon we tried to spot a good head for me. I saw several average-size bucks, but none of them satisfied me, so we called it a day.

Sunday morning, we awoke to the smell of night rain in the air, and the mixed aroma of pancakes, eggs, and coffee. Impatient to get started, Tom and I gulped our grub, but not George. He sat lazing over his coffee like pronghorns were only 10 feet away, just waiting for us. Finally, noticing our fidgeting, George told us not to worry. Earlier in the week, he had seen a buck and a harem of does west of his outbuildings, and that was where he planned to take us.

About 11 a.m., George stopped the truck and told us the herd should be just over the next hill in an alfalfa field. We got out of the cab, walked to the ridge, and slowly eased over to glass the area. There, standing proudly with 11 does, was a big buck. George said there was only one way for the herd to retreat, and that was toward the east of the field. Since we were on the west, we piled into the truck and circled the field toward a fence which was high off the ground in one place. This was a good spot for me, for antelope won't jump fences. The herd spotted us and started getting nervous.

I told George to drop me off by the fence and let Tom off to the east, so he could chase the herd my way. I dropped off the far side of the truck so as not to spook the herd, and still pick a vantage to watch the opening.

A few seconds later, I killed my buck. Tom and George heard the shot and came right back to help me admire my prize pronghorn. The 140-grain slug had done its work well and the head was not damaged.

As soon as I got back to Norfolk, I spent quite a lot of time caping out the head before sending it to a taxidermist. It seemed to me that head never would get back, so that a representative of the Nebraska Game Commission could measure it. When the mount did arrive, it scored at a little more than the 70 points which are needed for the Trophy Antelope Citation.

Another fall, I hope to go with Tom and Curt to George's ranch and try for another trophy. For big-game hunting, antelope are hard to beat-especially in NEBRASKAland.

Old-Time Chautauqua

STREETS OF THE summer city were deserted, cottage doors were closed, canvas tents were folded up, and benches were empty. The platform was bare where great orators, ministers, and entertainers once stood. The Chautauqua had left town and would not return until the next summer.

Bringing "culture" to millions during its era, the Chautauqua movement first began after the Civil War on the shore of Lake Chautauqua in New York. Under the direction of Methodist Bishop John H. Vincent and his friend, Lewis Miller, the grounds became the site of out-of-door Sunday school meetings in 1874. Additional classes, music, lectures, and entertainment were soon added, and the idea spread quickly.

Nebraskans grasped the Chautauqua idea with fervor and were greatly responsible for turning it into a great entertainment and cultural movement. In the 1870's, small towns here had neighborhood literary societies, an outgrowth of those in New England. From these and the outdoor assembly in New York, the local Chautauquas evolved. Nebraska was a perfect breeding ground for Chautauqua since neighbors and towns were few and far between. With great concern about politics and a yearning to become less isolated from the nation's affairs, many families would travel a hundred miles to hear one speaker and to visit.

Larger towns like Kearney and Lincoln were naturals for Chautauquas, but they also sprang up in mere wide spots like Long Pine in northern Nebraska.

The first Nebraska Assembly gathered at Crete in 1882. Twelve sessions later in July, 1894, the Crete Assembly not only boasted the oldest but the largest Chautauqua in the state with 109 acres on the Big Blue River and 26 permanent buildings. Hundreds of Nebraskans traveled dusty roads in sweltering weather (a reported high of 106° on July 9, 1897) to set up a tent city and look forward to inspirational performances by a talented Chautauqua group.

The Crete Chautauquan, a newspaper published every afternoon during the 1897 Assembly, described the opening day:

"Although the sultry hot weather of yesterday made it extremely hard work to even move, the Assembly grounds looked quite animated. People from a distance as well as from Crete were hard at work trying to get settled for their outing of a week or two. Great dray loads of household goods and furniture were unloaded in front of tents, often impressing on the minds of occupants the fact that they had planned for far more space then the 10x12 tent enclosed. Some are amateurs in camping out and have brought with them such articles as dustpans, bedsteads and perhaps the best set of China dishes. Everyone appeared to be in good humor and mistakes and delays were often more laughed at than otherwise."

Preparations for the Chautauqua meant excitement for the people of the small towns, and working together almost became a ritual of the movement. With a strong community pride, residents would work hard to tidy up their town. Decorations advertised the event, and businesses came alive with color. Businessmen would organize trips to the neighboring towns to advertise the event and welcome prospective guests. Chautauqua was praised from the pulpit, and preachers would dismiss meetings and services interfering with an assembly program. Women would bake and cook in advance, then welcome travelers at their homes. Plenty of good cheer and good food greeted the visitors.

Living in a new home for a week or two, families had to adjust to (Continued on page 51)

Happiness is a BUTTERFLY

UNFORTUNATE IS THE lad who never chased a butterfly through the sunlit delight of a summer day. He has missed a greatness of boyhood. Boys and butterflies have ample chances to play their ancient game of pursuer and pursued in NEBRASKAland, for this state has an abundance of the colorful insects.

Butterflies are more than "bugs with pretty wings" to a youngster. They are symbols of all that fascinates those who count SEPTEMBER, 1968 43   their years in single digits. A butterfly's vivid colors appeal to a child's innate appreciation of beauty, but butterflies are more than beauty in the hand to a boy. Their seemingly effortless flight fulfills vicariously a lad's eternal wish to rise above the earth, to fly and glide, and be a peer of bird and cloud and fitful wind.

But more than anything else, chasing butterflies satisfies a boy's primeval hunger for the hunt, to enter the chase with an ultimate of success that is his and his alone. True, he may need the help of mom and her sewing machine to make a net, and possibly dad's aid to bend the wire hoop, but once in the meadow, a boy after a butterfly is his own man.

There are some fine trophies in NEBRASKAland for the boy with the net. Great striking attractions like the eastern tiger swallowtail with its lemon-yellow wings, bold black stripes, and twin tails. Someday the boy, man-grown, may know the hard-won ecstasy of trophy hunting, but the fall of a mighty elk or the final slump of an angered grizzly will not equal the thrill 44 NEBRASKAland of that first swallowtail taken on the wing with one deft swoop of the net.

But if the swallowtail eludes the net, and he can, for he is a swift flyer, the boy can turn to the red-spotted purple, a May flame of iridescent blue markings and rows of red spots. Late in June, the boy is bound to meet the great-spangled fritillary. This orange-hued lover of woods-edged fields is easy to identify. Black checkering above, and large, silver spots on the undersides of the hind wings tell all this is the butterfly with the hard-to-pronounce name. In late summer, the monarch, dapper in orange, white, and streaked black, will challenge the young netter. There are others, too, to catch his eye and test his skill.

The boy won't realize it, but when he holds his catch to the sun, he is seeing a miracle of color and design. A butterfly like the great-spangled fritillary has two types of color. The oranges and blacks are produced by pigments, dye-like substances in the powdery scales that cover the wings, while the silver spots on SEPTEMBER 1968 45   the hind wings are structural color, produced by a series of microscopic ridges or rods which reflect light like a prism to produce the iridescent hues.

There will come a day when a boy will want to preserve the vibrancy of winged color that he has captured. Now he is both captor and collector. And as this desire grows, the boy will follow a few simple rules. He won't touch the wings, for the colorful, powdery scales rub off easily leaving only a transparent membrane. Instead, the boy will handle his catch by the thorax or soft center body with careful fingers or even a pair of tweezers.

No longer will the boy let his prize flutter itself to death. He will use a killing device, a wide-mouth jar with a layer of plaster of paris well saturated with carbontetrachloride, for the quick and merciful killing of his specimens. In time the boy will use a grooved "spreading" board for positioning and drying of his trophies. He will learn to bring the rear edges of the front wings up to right angles with the body and to 46 NEBRASKAland bring the hind wings up close under them for a neat and natural-looking display.

If the fascination of collecting waxes the bov will discard his cigar-box receptacles for for a glass-faced case to display his catches. He will know that special pins longer, finer, and sharper than ordinary pins, aid in the proper mounting of his prizes. A handbook will join the boy's equipment to identify the catches.

Interest may dim with manhood, but the iovs of boyhood and butterflies will not be forgotten.

WHERE TO HUNT

FEDERAL WATERFOWL AREAS IN SOUTH-CENTRAL NEBRASKA THAT ARE OPEN TO PUBLIC HUNTING

Game Processors

THE FOLLOWING people, when contacted this summer, indicated their willingness to dress and freeze game for hunters. If addresses are not given, the towns are likely small, and a minimum of effort should locate them

CHAUTAUQUA

camp life. Some would cook their meals on oilstoves but others used a public dining hall, often a big tent. Nebraska weather was sometimes a problem to the tent dwellers, but the Chautauqua came only once a year and missing it was unthinkable.

The price of admission for season tickets ranged from $1.50 to $2. Single-admission tickets were available for 25 or 50 cents for only one lecture or concert. The system operated on advance sales, and local community members usually underwrote the financial risk. At the last session of an assembly the audience was asked to sign pledges to insure a return of the Chautauqua for the next season.

Meetings were held in a large wooded auditorium or a rented tent known as the tabernacle. Afternoon and evening programs featured classes for reading, Bible, cooking, and current events. Serious discussions ranged from literature to women's suffrage, child welfare, and ethics. Talent, including lecturers and entertainers, mounted the platform to give the crowd listening enjoyment.

The speaker was the man of the hour. Clergymen, scientists, explorers, professors, judges, lawyers, politicians, writers, and women spouted emotion-appealing words to "inspire" the crowds. Their words made listeners want to "freshen their ambitions to aspire a little higher, to become better neighbors and friends, to clean the town up a bit, to kiss the children when they returned to their homes, and perhaps pray a little more."

Entertainers were usually humorists, magicians, make-up artists, or readers of plays. Often an entire play was well-portrayed by a single actor. Concert companies were very popular. They included Negro Jubilee singers, instrumental ensembles classified as orchestras, and male quartets. Many times a local band added its musical color to the assembly.

In those early days, local Nebraska Chautauquas advertised such crowd pleasers as the Rev. E. L. Eaton of Des Moines, Iowa, preacher and lecturer on astronomy; Gen. John B. Gordon, Southern lecturer who spoke about the last days of the Confederacy; Harry Clinton Sawyer of New York, known to the vaudeville world as Tom Sawyer Minick; the Dixie Male Quartette, and the Swiss Alpine Yodelers. These early performers were only a few of many who offered words and music to hungry ears.

By 1906, there were about 150 well-established Chautauquas in the country, with the majority of them centered in the Midwest. Since local Chautauquas were so popular, the idea of establishing circuit Chautauquas was quick to come. This idea soon enlarged the movement throughout the United States and Canada. The first 2 of approximately 100 circuits began operation in 1907. One of them started in Nebraska under the management of Charles F. Horner, a Lexington, Nebraska lad who dropped out of law school. After managing a Chautauqua for one summer, the business was "in his blood". He then thought of organizing circuits in a fairly limited territory and engaging talent for one-night stands. The towns could be served far more cheaply if the agency furnished not only the talent but tent auditoriums as well. There would be no great investment beyond the ticket-selling campaigns. In line with this idea, Horner raised his first tent at Blair, Nebraska. During that 1907 summer, all members of his first circuit were confined to the state, supporting his limited-territory theory.

So the Chautauqua grew into a highly specialized money-making system. Supplies, furnished by the companies, included the big top along with everything needed to erect it, as well as platform decorations, ticket booths, and costumes for children's pageants. The Chautauqua became so specialized that Horner established a tent factory to meet the needs of his circuit.

Because of these circuits, the grand old independent Chautauquas found they could not support their one-performance system and make it pay, so they faded away. In 1920, 21 companies operated 93 circuits in the U.S. and Canada. These circuits included 8,580 towns and cities and gross attendance was 35,449,750 people.

The greatest attraction in Chautauqua history was Nebraska's own William Jennings Bryan, a famed orator and politican, who joined the movement shortly after (Continued on page 56)

Private Accommodations, Guides, and Meals

FAIRBURY-Hotel Mary-Etta, SF, M; information and directions; bird processing

HALSEY —(deer, grouse) — Higgin's Texaco Service, Jim Higgins, SF by reservation; information and directions

PRIVATE ACCOMMODATIONS, GUIDES, AND MEALS

LITCHFIELD - (pheasant, quail) - William Vocke, 3 miles east, 2V2 miles north, Phone 446-2487, SF and M $12, can accommodate 12 hunters; freeze only; 1,200 acres

LOUP CITY-(pheasant, quail, deer)-John J. Dzingle, 8 miles north, 2 miles east, 2 miles south, east side of Sherman Lake, Trail No. 10, Phone 337-W12, SF $4.50, G $10 per group, can accommodate 8 hunters; dress and freeze .50; 8,000 acres

CHAUTAUQUA

his third and last presidential race in 1908, when he was defeated by William Howard Taft. He signed a contract to lecture with the Horner circuits and did more to enliven and extend the movement than anyone else.

He had two motives for joining Chautauqua. First, he wished to express his ideas outside of politics. Secondly, he wanted to make a living, and the lecture platform could do it. However, he never spoke for pay in Nebraska as long as he resided here.

Bryan was a remarkable lecturer, and could be heard distinctly whether his audience was 1,000 or 10,000. A crowd of any size at any town would sit spell-bound, drinking in every word he uttered, as he talked about "The Prince of Peace" or "The Value of an Ideal". His matchless memory let him speak without a manuscript.

Bryan was a man of the people, who never failed to greet a waiting crowd. He drew crowds not only at scheduled appearances, but even at railroad stops, where hundreds would gather just to see him. After performances, when he did not have to rush to another speaking engagement, he would take time to joke and visit with the show crew or the townspeople.

A false rumor claimed he had a great taste for grape juice. At nearly every town on the circuit, admirers would make sure he received a sufficient supply of his "favorite drink". He always thankfully accepted it, but could never understand why grape juice was chosen over other fruit drinks.

Although speakers carried no political labels, many other politicians took their turn at the platform. Nebraska Governors George L. Sheldon and Charles W. Bryan, Senator George Norris, and President Warren G. Harding were among the political greats who spoke on the Nebraska circuit.

As plays and dramas grew in importance, so did an interest in Shakespeare. The Ben Greet Players, among the finest portrayers of Shakespearean drama, performed for many Chautuaqua audiences.

Strickland Gilliland, of dry but hilarious humor, was a familiar face to the Nebraska-circuit crowds. He became famous for his railroad rhyme of "off again, on again, gone again, Finnegan". As with many great performers, ad lib was his speciality. During one speech he called to a young stagehand for a glass of water.

At this unusual request for a Chautuaqua performance, the boy inquired, "Do you want it to drink?"

"No, lad, I always make a high dive in the last act," the entertainer replied.

Chautuaqua performers were entertainers in the true sense of the word. No beaming lights, microphones, sound effects, or stage settings aided their efforts, so they had to provide special effects with their own voices, faces, and personalities.

Never pampered, these entertainers faced slow travel on dusty or muddy roads, sickness, or accidents with incredible grace.

An early issue of the Crete Chautauquan revealed an entertainer's stamina:

"Mr. Royal, who sings second bass for the Jubilee Singers met with quite a serious mishap this morning. He has been in the habit of taking a wash for his throat, which has been bothering him considerably lately. This morning he accidentally took up a bottle of ammonia and poured quite a dose of it into his mouth, burning his tongue and throat very badly, and causing him great pain. The doctor says that if he had taken much more it would have killed him. He insists that he will sing tonight."

World War I gave a new impetus to the Chautauqua and during it and the four following years the movement reached its peak. President Woodrow Wilson declared the Chautauqua an integral part of national defense. Competition among circuits was forgotten for the unified war effort. Government needs formed a major portion of the discussions of all circuit meetings. Selected lecturers were sent to the battlefields of Europe under the direction of the Red Cross and returned to tell the war story to mass audiences.

At first, the Chautauqua withstood the impact of the postwar boom days, and the mental and moral relaxation of the early 1920's, but the system was dying. The entertainment programs were booming and expanding, but other sections suffered. Many of the young performers went to the Broadway stage or headed toward the glamour of Hollywood.

Several factors led to the downfall of this great traveling media. One was managerial inability to provide enough powerful speakers and a lessening skill to promote them. Another was the general relaxation of concern over public questions. Automobiles, radios, and talking movies were the new creations of the entertainment world. In 1928, the last circuit Chautauqua in Nebraska took down its last big tent. THE END

WHOM TO CONTACT FOR HUNTING INFORMATION

SECOND TIME AROUND

for a plant. To insure this becoming a reality, 10,000 Grand Islanders proudly donned "We Want Swift" buttons and signed petitions which were taken by Grand Island envoys to plant officials in Chicago. The plant opened in 1965 and is now planning to enlarge its facilities.

The Hall County Housing Authority, a board of citizens who serve without remuneration, spearheaded a project in 1953 to build within Grand Island a special sort of a community unheard of in the region at that time: a Golden Age Village to provide pleasant and economical living for Hall County's senior citizens. A 37V2-acre site containing Broadwell Courts, barracks-type buildings used to house ordnance-plant and air-base workers in World War II, was purchased from the federal government with $14,000 borrowed by the Authority from a local bank. Today, the Golden Age Village has become just that for people in their December years.

Besides the original apartment unit, the complex now has a beautiful chapel, a unit which provides housing and care for bed patients, plus another groundlevel apartment building. Its newest addition is Golden Towers, a multi-floor apartment structure containing the latest in comfort facilities for the elderly. Faidley Park, a beautiful recreation and picnic area located across the street, is also a part of the village.

The Housing Authority itself spends $150,000 annually in Grand Island, and village residents contribute additional thousands yearly to the economy. Once again, Islanders proved that by helping others, they in turn help themselves. More, the Golden Age Village has received recognition as one of the finest in the United States. Its financing is one of the soundest in the country.

Led by Grand Islanders who wrote the bill and lobbied for passage of a new state law allowing area schools, hundreds of people in a 17-county area developed a campaign which resulted in a central-Nebraska technical school at Hastings, the fastest growing one of its kind in the Midwest. Its first graduate was hired by officials of the Cornhusker Ordnance Plant after its reactivation in 1967 following a 10-year shutdown.

Islanders, by helping to make technical training possible for young people in the area, have also helped industries already in Grand Island and those yet to come, for all will have a pool of skilled workers to draw from as a result of their efforts.

Community spirit has proved valuable to the town through other projects. A dream of Leo Stuhr, who left $500,000 to fulfill it, expanded through citizen interest and co-operation until it has become a reality as the Stuhr Museum of the Prairie Pioneer. A vigorous door-to-door and telephone campaign by supporters, raised $20,000 to build a facility for the Humane Society. The structure was built without cost by union labor. Green-stamp contributions by animal lovers provided the down payment for a station wagon. Other private citizens invested $50,000 to insure a plant site for a manufacturer of agricultural implements from Pennsylvania. On a pay-as-you-go basis, both regular and storm sewers are being put in throughout Grand Island. One of the finest waste-treatment disposal plants in the state has been in operation since 1965. Thirty new churches and more new schools have been built since Grand Island's first All-America City award in 1955.

In June 1967, near disaster was averted in Grand Island through the help of its young people. Paul Harvey spotlighted their efforts on a newscast when he said:

The recent flood was the worst in Grand Island's (Continued on page 61)

When it's time to bed down...

After you've trod dusty fields hunting ringneck, or sat in a damp blind waiting to zero in on that prize mallard, or stalked through dense underbrush to bag that four-point buck...when the sun climbs down the crimson sky and the autumn air sharpens ...find a motel.

Your room is warm and waiting for you to unwind. Your shower is hot. Your bed is crisp and clean. Good food is only steps away.

Next hunt, make yourself at home, make a motel your hunting headquarters.

The motels listed on the next pages will do the most to serve you.

Nebraska Motel Association

SECOND TIME AROUND

hundred-year history. A third of the town went under. Property loss was astronomical, but conspicuous in the army of volunteers who hastened to the rescue and stuck it through, were hundreds of school-agers. They carried sandbags and cared for the homeless. They moved furniture and served meals. They rode rescue boats and grubbed out backed-up sewers, and shoveled and mopped and scrubbed and rescued a city from drowning. And come Saturday, grateful Grand Island is hosting them with hot dogs, toasting them with pop, and celebrating with a Sandbaggers' Ball, and hanging a plaque in the courthouse entrance to tell all present, here and hereafter, they're not delinquent."

While cities and towns across the nation were battling problems of juvenile delinquency, the young people of Grand Island proved that young Americans can be good citizens. This unselfish work on the part of school-agers was given consideration by the judges in the All-America Cities competition after the nomination speech was made by the Grand Island envoy last year in Milwaukee.

A century and a decade of community spirit, civic-mindedness, and strong adherence to the Golden Rule by its citizens has indeed made Nebraska's Third City a model for the nation.

It is evident that Grand Islanders believe very firmly that bricks and mortar make a city, but active people make a community.

TWO-HOUR BUCK

than two hours of hunting, I had gotten a chance at a whitetail with my bow and a good possibility of a score.

My brother, Murry, and Russell Tinsley, outdoor writer of Austin, Texas, had accompanied me to Nebraska for an archery-deer hunt. Murry and I manufacture game calls at Marble Falls, Texas, while Russ is an outdoor editor on an Austin newspaper.

We were hunting north of Bassett along the Niobrara River. Big white-tails haunt the canyons and bottoms of this country and we were eager to take them on. Ponderosa pine and cedar cover most of the sidehills, but the canyon floors and the river bottoms are a mixture of cedar, cottonwood, elm, box elder, and oak. Murry and I had hunted Nebraska before, but this was Russ's first trip.

Thanks to Gene Hornbeck of the Nebraska Game Commission, we were operating out of some mighty plush quarters. Jerry Severson, headman at Lincraft Trailers in Lincoln, had lent Gene a new unit he was making. Russ summed up our first reactions to the 15-foot trailer by asking, "What, no television?"

As I waited in the tree stand, I reviewed the (Continued on page 62)

TWO-HOUR BUCK

events leading up to my moment of truth with the white-tailed buck. Besides setting up the hunt, Gene had rebuilt some tree stands that commanded deer trails in the area. My spot was a dandy. There were several runways within shooting range of my bow and one showed extremely heavy use. Deer moving along it would offer me targets from my right to a little left of center at about 15 yards.

Once in the tree, I quickly checked out the positions to make sure there was shooting room for a full draw. From center to far right, where the runway disappeared behind some cedars, I would have to move my bow up and over a limb to get a good shot.

My check-out revealed unexpected trouble. My bow was rigged with a new optical-type sight which I liked very much. Somehow, it had worked loose. It could be tightened, but then I wouldn't have any idea where I was shooting. Shooting around it would be tough, but it could be done.

"Oh well, archers aren't supposed to score their first hour out," I told myself. "I'll check it in the morning."

Soon after I settled down, nature's community came alive. The strain of the long drive from Austin drained away as I sat there, enjoying the peace and serenity of the October woods. A fox squirrel loped down the limb of my oak and stopped five feet short of me. He whisked his tail nervously trying to identify the strange interloper in his domain. After a bit, he accepted my presence and bypassed me and was gone, swallowed up in the autumn foliage.

Flocks of migrating crows drew my attention to the west and I was surprised to see the sun just beginning to dip behind the trees. There was still a lot of shooting time left.

A bow hunter learns to use his ears as well as his eyes, so I paid attention to every little rustle. A blue jay, searching for his evening meal, gave me momentary anticipation until I identified him. Squirrels were looking for acorns and their scurryings kept me tuned to the surroundings.

A slight movement to the left brought me around slowly, and my pulse jumped as the head of a large doe emerged from behind a big cedar. Within seconds, she was followed by another. The pair stopped in a little clearing and surveyed the runway that led past my stand.

The doe had me in a spot. If a buck was following the baldies, I had to get my bow up over the limb for a shot and if the does became suspicious, they could well spook the buck if there was one. Still, I had to chance it.

The task seemed to take an excruciatingly long time, but in reality it was only a few minutes. Each time the does resumed feeding, I inched the bow into position. The alert deer below knew something was wrong, but couldn't place it. A liberal application of commercial deer scent was diffusing the feared human odor to some extent, but the does were still very suspicious.

I was sweating them out when I saw the buck. Easing my bow into position, I was dismayed to find that I couldn't use a vertical draw —the space was too small.

"Go for broke," I thought to myself and released the shaft.

It was almost dusk before I climbed out of the tree and headed for the trailer. The rest of my party was in, so we took a flashlight and went back to the stand. The light picked up a blood trail right away and in less than 50 yards we found the whitetail — stone dead.

It isn't often that you get the chance to relive a hunt twice, but I got the opportunity the next morning when practically a Who's Who in the archery world dropped in for a visit.

Dick Mauch of Bassett, and a representative of Bear Archery, was hosting a party of noted archers including K. K. "Nick" Knickbocker of Charlotteville, Virginia. A real old-timer in the archery game, Nick was one of the first members and directors of the Pope and Young Club, record keepers for big-game trophies taken with the bow. Nick has a couple of spots in the book. His Rocky Mountain goat is 7th and his pronghorn 16th in the records. His son-in-law, Gordon Ford of Grosse Pointe, Michigan, was along, too. Gordon is just breaking into the archery game.

Another in the party was Glenn St. Charles of Seattle, Washington, who has a Roosevelt elk, a Barren Ground caribou, a Canadian moose, and a typical mule deer behind his name. Pete Grigsby, a Chicago industrialist and an ardent bowman, rounded out the party.

I knew Dick had the credentials to join this distinguished company. The Nebraska archer has a Wyoming moose and several African trophies to his credit.

Of course, the visitors wanted to know all about my "quick" buck. And you know, my story was even more exciting, second time around.

TEN-YEAR STUDY

birds don't evaporate, but they do use every trick in their survival handbook to evade the shotgunner. Challenging the average hunter isn't too hard in the corn-milo country of south-central Nebraska. Following the same behavior used as chicks only a month previously, birds move into large crop fields where they stay most of the day. Only bad weather forces birds into more sheltered habitat such as plum thickets and weedy fence-rows. The ability of birds in outwitting the hunter appears uncanny. Observations of hunters afield often indicated that they simply walk by most birds without flushing them.

With heavy cover, this was a common error. In a typical year on the Clay Center Study Area, an average of 9.8 birds were harvested per section. Over the 10-year period the total hunting efforts on the Clay County areas were significantly greater. The self-regulatory pattern of pheasant hunting was dramatically emphasized on the study area. Hunter effort simply followed the availability of birds. In years when bird numbers were down, hunting effort and subsequent kill were also low. On the average, five hours were needed to bag a cock on the Harvard Area while only three and a half hours were required on the Clay Center Area. In both areas, the harder the hunters searched for birds, the more they killed.

Loss due to crippling was another study factor. Road-killed pheasants found on or near the study areas were fluoroscoped to detect the presence of lead shot. Over 10 years about 1 in 5 cocks was found to be carrying shot while about 1 in 10 hens showed the presence of shot. This agrees with an average crippling rate of 16.5 per cent for the Clay County areas.

With the liberalization of season lengths, concern arose that increased crippling would occur. Statistical testing of hunter data indicated that an increase in season length had no effect on the number of birds carrying shot. Again, the self-regulating aspect of cock-pheasant hunting became apparent.

To follow pheasant numbers from the end of hunting season until nesting began in the spring, a variety of census techniques were employed. Cold weather accompanied by snow provided the best conditions for counting birds. By flying low and slow in a two-place airplane, birds could be accurately counted and sexed. Ground counts were used as a cross check.

Sex ratios in the late winter and early spring substantiated that cocks were never in short supply for breeding. A 10-year average shows that 1 cock was present for every 2.5 hens, far more than enough to maintain fertility.

Much has been learned about Nebraska pheasants and their relationship to the environment since 1954. Some of the suspicions about pheasant ecology proved to be true, but many new facts were brought to light. A further insight will be gained after more analysis.

Speculation that the Nebraska ring-neck is becoming smarter each year will go unsolved, at least from the scientific angle. But to anyone who pursues these gaudy birds each fall, the answer is obvious. From studies of both the pursued and the pursuer, it can only be said the pheasant has mysterious methods for making himself scarce during the hunting season. Since natural selection operates constantly in the wild, NEBRASKAland pheasants may be the "fittest" in the world.

G0-F0R-BR0KE

would make this teen-ager eat dirt. The crowd roared with enthusiasm as the high-kicking, twisting bronc gave the cowboy a go for his money. A shrill whistle ended the eight-second test and the pickup men moved in to rescue the cowboy who had earned 60 points for a total of 117.

But would 117 points against this competition be enough? His trip to the nationals hinged on the next four performers. Two of the riders couldn't surpass Rocky's point total, but contestant Ben Schomp could be the spoiler. The high schooler watched the gate swing open with Ben spurring a high-jumping mount. When the whistle blew, Ben had collected 63 points and a saddle-bronc first place. Rocky had missed the nationals by just two points. If his horse had bucked out two more points, or if he had stayed on board in the first go-round, he might have ended up with a national title. But rodeoing is made up of ifs, so he congratulated the top three winners, then concentrated on his last event —bull riding.

Rocky's bull-riding competitors had made it into the finals by qualifying on two critters, while his 68-point single ride had been just enough to scoot him across the cutoff line. As the first bull rider, he could pressure the other performers with a completed ride. The high school senior felt like he had a whole migration of monarch butterflies in his stomach as he nervously slid onto the sulking hunk of mad in chute No. 4. When the bull broke out of the chute, it was like riding a white tornado into a hurricane. The spinning tempest wanted to eat a cowboy, and because Rocky was on his back he was a likely choice. The teen-ager, clinging for life with one hand, added to the bull's mean disposition by scratching him with his spurs. Then the world fell out from underneath Rocky. Gritting his teeth, he tried a hand stand on the bull's side, but a quarter of a second before the whistle, he was dusted off.

As Rocky slowly picked himself up, he hopefully looked at the two judges. The judges, staring at their score sheets, ruled that he had hit the ground a fraction of a second before the whistle for no score. Only two other cowboys completed their rides in the final go-round. Rocky couldn't help but think that if he had clung on for that fraction of a second more, he could have packed his bags for Topeka.

There is no bitterness in losing an event, just disappointment. Next time the breaks might go Rocky's way; they have before. But for now, he would just have to settle for a fourth-place trophy in bronc riding and a trophy for the highpoint bull ride of the rodeo. The trophies helped assuage Rocky's disappointment. Besides, he knew that experience gained in 1968 would come in handy when he battles the bulls and broncs in the 1969 championships.

FLYING FOR CARP

big half circle behind him and out over the water. The dough landed with a splash, settled to the bottom, and the wait began.

Suddenly John gave a shout. His fly rod was bent to the breaking point.

"It's a big one," the editor exclaimed, "and he tooK it like a bass, with no messing around. You never know what a carp is going to do."

The unseen adversary came straight at his antagonist. The Auburnite's automatic reel sang as he triggered in the slack. The carp reversed his charge, briefly showing his broad back and tail as he headed downriver.

"Looks about four pounds," the newspaperman exulted as he applied more pressure to the dancing fly rod in an effort to turn the fish before he reached the sanctuary of the submerged branches.

But the carp hadn't reached his healthy size from lack of fish sense. He reversed direction to gain some slack, made a sharp turn toward shore where the tree entered the water, and lodged in the snags.

"I'll move along the bank," John stated, hoping to save his catch. He did, but there was no give from the hidden foe.

"I don't believe I can help John with that one," his friend offered, "so I'll just stay here with these bait stealers."

He had been losing bait as fast as he could replace it, but so far had not been able to set a hook.

After five minutes of futile tugging, John gave a final yank, snapped the line, and morosely began readying a new offering.

"Carp are found all over the state in many waters that don't provide good bass or northern fishing," he said as he threaded kernels of yellow corn on the treble hook. "Many anglers are missing real action, a lot of it close to home, if they aren't trying for these fellows."

Upstream, we could hear Deb berating every bullhead in the state for the antics of the few that had been stealing his bait.

"I'll try that fallen tree on up the river; it ought to be a good spot. Maybe the bullhead will leave me alone and I can catch a carp," he decided, moving toward us.

Deb stepped into the knee-deep water on the edge of the hole under the fallen tree, swung his line pendulum-fashion in under the brush, and had a good bite before he had time to settle back.

"Now it's my turn," he proclaimed as his rod shot up in the familiar hook-setting motion, but he had problems.

Back-pedaling furiously and swinging the rod tip downstream, the experienced angler tried to haul the carp away from the haven of snags around the tree.

"I think I can turn him," the busy fisherman exclaimed as the carp made a run for cover.

Carefully manipulating the rod, Deb brought the fish into open water for his first catch.

"That's more like it," he told John. "Now we're even."

Until now I had been content to watch my companions, but as the sun dipped behind the tree-lined bank and feeding activity increased on the river, I decided to get in on the action.

Following John's lead, I put some corn on a treble hook and dropped it into a little backwater pool.

Since this was my first experience with carp, I didn't know what to expect. Long, uneventful minutes passed. My line made several small back-and-forth circular movements which I assumed were caused by the current.

For want of something better to do, I reeled in to check my bait. It was gone. Then I remembered the carp's feeding tactics —slow, gentle, and deliberate.

I quickly added more corn to the treble and dropped it into the hole. Sure enough, the small movements began again. A quick jerk to set the hook and the carp's gentle feeding habits gave way to a battle royal. The two-pound fish provided more fun than I had had in a long time.

"We sure aren't skunked," John commented from his spot downriver as I proudly added my carp to the stringer. "The action has been pretty fast so far. That isn't always the case with carp."

"Right," his friend agreed. "There is usually a lot of patient waiting for carp to find your bait during their vacuumsweeper feeding on the bottom."

However, the automotive-parts man was not doing much patient waiting. He had found a hot spot under that tree and was hooking a fish, or trying to, every few minutes.

"Craziest thing I ever saw," he told me as I moved in beside him. "You get them right to the surface, and they seem to spit it out. They must be just holding on to the bait and not getting hooked, but I'll set a hook for keeps in a minute."

Just then John shouted from his position downriver. We both turned to see him struggling with a carp that was slicing the river in a series of short runs.

"Looks like John has..."

"Deb, your line," I interrupted.

"This one's for keeps," he vowed, setting the hook and repeating the back-pedaling operation.

True to his promise, Deb landed the one-pounder about the same time John scored with his second catch.

"Let's catch a couple more and call it a day," John suggested as the two fish were added to the stringer.

"Fine with me," his companion agreed. "But I'll pull one out of that fallen tree, get my tackle put away, and be smoking my pipe by the time you catch another one," he taunted his fishing buddy.

The challenge made, both set off for the spots that had been good to them so far. I stuck with Deb.

As deep twilight set in, Deb started getting some teasing nudges on his doughball.

"I'll go one up on John in just a minute," he confided.

But the challenge was to remain unresolved. Just as Deb set his hook, we heard another exclamation of success from downstream.

We met at the stringer and decided to call a halt. Admiring our carp, we relived each catch with only slight exaggeration. My companions decided to release the fish. The carp had been good fighters for us, and chances were, they could provide a lot of good opposition for other anglers wise enough to try their luck in the Little Nemaha.

In the car headed for Auburn in the gathering darkness, I thought of the excitement of the fishing trip and how easy it is to find great angling if the sportsman explores all the possibilities. Carp can be found in most of the waters in the state, and if glamorous favorites like bass and northern aren't hitting, they can mean endless hours of pleasurable fishing.

'You can't beat carp for determination and fight," John said, voicing my thoughts.

"I'll go along with that," Deb agreed. "Especially on a fly rod."

Where to go

MEDICINE CREEK RESERVOIR, SHERMAN LAKE

LACED WITH 11,000 miles of streams and dotted with 3,300 lakes, Nebraska is where the West is at its best. With more fishing than fishermen, Medicine Creek and Sherman reservoirs are proof of that. But these waters are more than an angler's paradise. Everyone from scuba divers to hunters to nature lovers can find his heart's desire at these recreation havens.

On Medicine Creek Reservoir, two miles west and seven miles north of Cambridge on U.S. Highway 6-34, fishermen can motorboat or rowboat to their favorite spots. All craft are allowed on this 1,850-surface-acre body of water called Harry Strunk Lake. Two boat ramps on the west side of the reservoir and one on the east are launching pads to fishing fun, pleasure boating, and the thrill of skimming this azure lake on skis. The reservoir claims a year-round hold on avid sportsmen, for ice fishing and ice boating are becoming quite popular.

Anglers rate crappie and channel catfish as tops, but they also hook a lot of walleye, bluegill, and drum in this huge lake that has a maximum depth of 66 feet. Other species delight fishermen, too. Largemouth, northern, smallmouth, white bass, bullhead, flatheads, and yellow perch add variety to the stringer.

Autumn spells hunting magic at this State Recreation Area. Gunners can tramp the 7,009 land acres for pheasant, quail, deer, cottontail, and squirrel. Sportsmen will have their best luck, though, behind a duck blind next to the reservoir. Geese come in occasionally, so hunters get a chance at the Canadas, too.

Medicine Creek Dam is one of several impoundments on the Republican River that help make the Republican Valley lush and green. However, flood control and irrigation are not the only reasons for the reservoir's existence. It was also designed for pleasure.

The camping and picnic area on the west shore is ideal for an afternoon picnic or a several-day stay with a tent or camper. Picnic tables, drinking water, fireplaces, sanitary facilities, and shelter houses are there. Safety is the watch-word for swimmers for the beaches are unsupervised.

Small adventurers will enjoy exploring the grounds of another State Recreation Area, Sherman Lake, located three miles east and three miles north of Loup City. The lake's branched structure fills its edges with numerous covers and points, while abundant trails are scattered along the shoreline. A small island in the central portion of the lake is a haven for young explorers.

With 2,680 surface acres of water, Sherman Lake State Recreation Area is not only for explorers, but for anyone who loves water and the outdoors. The lake was built as part of the Farwell Irrigation Project, and supports nearly every sport that goes along with water.

Each fisherman seems to find his favorite spot along the lake, whether it be from Fisherman's Bridge at one end or Sherman Dam at the other. Northern pike, channel cat, bullhead, largemouth bass, and carp are ready to test any fisherman's skill.

All types of craft are allowed on the lake, and rental boats are available at a marina. Two boat ramps at the southern end of the lake help handle the boat traffic.

Campers will find no better spot, for Sherman Lake contrasts its rustic scenery with modern facilities. A groupcamping area is also available. Picnic tables, fireplaces, and drinking water serve campers' needs. For the casual camper there are day-use areas at the north end of the lake. Shelter houses along the lake provide adequate cover-up when dark clouds gather.

With plenty of shoreline, Sherman Lake is an excellent spot for fun in the sun and sunbathers take advantage of it. Active hiking buffs will find plenty of roaming room in the surrounding area. Hunting during the seasons is allowed. Waterfowl and small game provide plenty of targets for eager hunters.

Whether for one family picnic or for a vacation stopover, these two Nebraska State Recreation Areas are not to be missed. They exemplify water fun at its best.