NEBRASKAland
WHERE THE WEST BEGINS October 1968 50 cents REQUIEM FOR TEAL HOW TO ENJOY YOURSELF IN THE WILDCAT HILLS WHAT'S HAPPEN IN RINGNECK COUNTRY? A MODEL "T" TAKES TO LONESOME REACHES
OCTOBER
Vol. 46, No. 10 1968 PERIL IN A STOCK TANK 8 Doon Hunter OCTOBER ROUNDUP 11 THE LONESOME REACHES 13 Bob Snow BATTLE OF BLUE WATER 16 Jean Williams REQUIEM FOR TEAL 18 Fred Nelson THE YOUNG LANCERS 22 Dobby Lee ON STAGECOACH HILL 24 Elizabeth Huff DUST TO DUST 34 A GREAT RINGNECK COUNTRY 36 Donald D. Allen AN EGG IN A KEG 38 C. Catfish NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA 44 Karl Menzel TRAILING YOUR DEER 46 Lou Ell WHERE TO GO 58 THE COVER: Greg Bender's youthful optimism outglows the pale September sun as he adds the final blocks to a teal-decoying spread Photo by Lou Ell NEBRASKAland SELLING NEBRASKAland IS OUR BUSINESS EDITOR, DICK H. SCHAFFER Editorial Consultant, Gene Hornbeck Managing Editor, Fred Nelson Senior Associate Editor, Jean Williams Associate Editors: Bob Snow, Judy Koepke Art Director, Jack Curran Art Associates: C. G. "Bud" Pritchard, Roger Meisenbach Photography, Lou Ell, Chief Charles Armstrong, Richard Voges, Steve Kohler Advertising Representative, Ed Cuddy Advertising Representatives: Harley L. Ward, Inc., 360 North Michigan Ave., Chicago, III. 60601 Phone CE 6-6269. GMS Publications, 401 Finance Building, PC* Box 722, Kansas City, Mo., Phone (816) GR 1-7337." DIRECTOR: M. O. Steen NEBRASKA GAME AND PARKS COMMISSION: Martin Gable, Scottsbluff, Chairman; W. C. Kemptar Ravenna, Vice Chairman; Charles E. Wright McCook; M. M. Muncie, Plattsmouth; James Columbo Omaha; Francis Hanna, Thedford; Dr. Bruce E Cowgill, Silver Creek. NEBRASKAland, published monthly by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. 50 cents per codv Subscription rates: $3 for one year, $5 for two years. Subscriptions going to Nebraska addresses must include state sales tax: One year $3 plus 8 cents tax, two years $5 plus 13 cents tax Send subscriptions to NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509. Copyright Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, 1968. All rights reserved. Second-class postage paid at Lincoln, Nebraska. NEBRASKAland
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.
CATCH AS CATCH CAN-"This is the happy report of three successful female anglers who caught their fish under unusual circumstances.
"The trio began their afternoon of angling at a state lake and met with utter failure. After several hours the women decided something had to be done. They couldn't come home emptyhanded again.
"Deciding to move, the trio headed for a gravel pit. Midway between the state lake and the gravel pit, the youngest member of the group came up with a brainstorm. It seems she noticed a spring-fed, water-filled ditch along a country road. Deciding they couldn't have any worse luck than they already had, the enthusiastic women promptly plunked their baited hooks into the water. Sure enough, the ditch was filled with fish, and within a short time the girls had a pretty fair catch of bullhead.
"It must have been a funny sight, three women fishing in a road ditch, but it's catching the fish that counts." — Gretchen Einemann, Lincoln.
WRONG THISTLE-"I enjoyed very much reading your article on Touch of Color in the Sand Hills. It's a beautiful story and the photos are outstanding. As Weed Superintendent of Cherry County, I will say that someone has misled you in regard to the Canada thistle. These thistles that you see blooming along the highways and fields with the lavender flowers are called wavey-leaf thistle. The Canada thistle is only seen in the low hay flats and drainage ditches. Canada is noxious and wavey leaf is not.
"Canada thistle has numerous small lavender flowers and is very bushy." — Ralph Daniels, Valentine.
Our thistle expert has been sentenced to sift a thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb. — Editor.
CANADA LYNX-"After reading several NEBRASKAlands, I want to write you about an incident that took place near my home, six miles east of Bassett in Rock County, in the winter of 1915.
"At that time, some good neighbors named Kofton lived near us. One morning, Mr. Kofton sent his boys, George and Albert, to haul in a load of hay from a stack about a mile from their ranch.
"While passing a cotton wood grove the boys saw a large animal run in front of the horses and climb one of the trees. Excitedly, George and Albert turned the team and hightailed it for home. They told their father they had seen an animal that looked like a coyote and asked to use his old single-barreled shotgun for a try at killing it.
"After getting their dad's gun, the boys drove back to the grove and found the critter still in the tree. George killed it with his first shot. Both boys were puzzled for instead of a coyote, the animal looked more like a large, gray cat that had large tassels on the tips of its ears.
"The Kofton boys brought the animal over to our house to see if my older brothers, who did quite a bit of trapping, could help them. My brothers decided the animal was a bobcat as there were a few in the canyons of the Niobrara River about six miles from us.
"George and Albert sold the supposed bobcat to my older brother, Fred, who with me helping him, skinned it. As I remember, Fred saved the skull. Anyway, after the skin was dried, Fred took it to Bassett where someone from the University of Nebraska bought it for the museum. The buyer identified the skin as that of a Lynx canadensis. I believe this is the only one on record to have been killed in Nebraska. Could you tell me if other lynx have been killed there since?"—Walter Prelle, Cottage Grove, Oregon.
Since 1962, there have been four verified reports of lynx taken here. All were reported in the northern part of the state. It is believed these were the vanguard of a southern movement caused by a scarcity of snowshoe hares in the north country. You may be interested in knowing that your lynx is listed in J. Knox Jones' book, Mammals of Nebraska. — Editor.
Hunters
get fired-up
about NEBRASKA!
OVERLOOKED-"I just received the July issue of NEBRASKAland and find that you did not name the Chase County Historical Society Museum, which has been in existence for four years, in your article on museums. This museum is housed in a former high school building purchased by the society and is located in Champion, where there is also a water-powered mill. We are open every Sunday afternoon from May to mid-September." — Anoma Hoffmeister, Champion.
The list of museums was gathered through a statewide survey of the news media, who were most helpful. To our knowledge, there was only one other omission, the Furnas County Historical Society Museum at Arapahoe. However, data on it was just received too late to be included. Two revisions have come to our attention. The Dodge County Historical Society's museum is called Bocachee Pioneer House and is open 1 to 5 p.m. Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday. At the House of Yesterday in Hastings, hours are 1 to 5 p.m. on Sundays and 2 to 5 p.m. on holidays. — Editor
AND ONLY NINE-"My daughter, who is nine, made her first trip to the Sand Hills. I thought you would be interested in her reactions." —Norm Krivosha, Lincoln.
The Nebraska Sand Hills It's flat land. All of a sudden you see one, now two hills, springing up before you, before your very eyes. First the hills are small, then on either side of you and up ahead, all you can see are hills. The cattle are a different story. In Nebraska, "The Land of the Cowboy", cattle and the Sand Hills seem to go together. White-faced heifers are not only commonly seen, but beautiful to look at. The fresh air, the chirping of the birds, and the hills seem to make Nebraska complete. Living in Nebraska is beautiful.
A DUNDY OF A STORY-"The Courtship of Enne reminded me of one my mother wrote some time ago. Though its accuracy is a bit warped, it is also a play on county names.
"The author is a native Nebraskan and has been a state booster all her 86 years." — Mrs. C. L. Schluckebier, Palisade. A Nebraska Adventure
Arthur Hitchcock and Howard Adams had persuaded their fathers to give them a Boone of a vacation camping trip. So they loaded their gear on a two-Wheeler, brought their horse, Nance, and proceeded to Hook-er up and get going.
The day grew warm and warmer, until the heat was like a Furnas, seeming to Pierce their very bones.
Their journey took them over the plains, where in Frontier days the Otoe and Pawnee Indians had staged many a Chase of Buffalo and Antelope.
As the day began to Wayne the horse got so tired she could only Polk along slowly and could scarcely Hall the cart, even when they Custer she couldn't hurry, so they made camp in a Cedar grove in the Platte Valley.
While the coffee was Perkins on a fire of Red Willow sticks, they picked Logan berries to eat with their dried fish; however the fish was so Saline it took much soaking in water to make it edible. In spite of the heat of the day, the night became so cold they nearly got a chill Blaine.
Next morning, mindful of the heat and Thurston of the day before, they decided to Fillmore water jugs before starting.
Fording the river, and being unable to Gage the depth, they became mired down in Clay. Later, in crossing the Loup River they got some hard Knox and skinned Nuckolls when they tried to get a Holt of a large Rock to move it to one side; they finally had to Dodge around it.
They visited many historic spots, including the home of Gen. Phil Sheridan with its beautiful Garden; and that of J. Sterling Morton with it's famous apple and Cherry orchards.
They saw the star-spangled Banner waving over old Fort Kearney and also over Scotts Bluff, where Boyd Hamilton fought a Deuel with Sherman Douglas.
Eventually they reached South Dakota, and Thayer through the Hayes, saw on the mountainside the carved faces of Washington, Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson, and Franklin Roosevelt.
On the return trip they had planned to visit their friend, Burt Greeley, who was a Butler for Cass Richardson, and his cousins, lively Brown-eyed Sioux Johnson and quiet little Cheyenne, who lived on Garfield Street in Madison, but they were not at home.
The Morrill of this is, always let your friends know when you are Cuming.
SOLD —"With the arrival of the June NEBRASKAland I won't delay any longer in doing what I intended long, long ago —congratulating you on one of the very finest outdoor magazines and the best of any state's outdoor publication.
"Your format, editorial content, and the breath-taking color photographs combine to provide an outdoor magazine that is a delight to any recipient.
"Nebraska has been pretty remote for this Delawarean — one of the 50 states, and a big block of land on the map has been about the extent of my knowledge of and interest in your Nebraska until you included me on your mailing list. And now I feel that you folks out in Nebraska are real friends, fine people, and that there is really a wide-open-spaces state of Nebraska. Referring to your 'Selling NEBRASKAland is our business'-you do the job, you've sold me."-Wm. H. Waggaman, Jr., Editor, Newark Post, Newark, Delaware.
6 NEBRASKAland
PERIL IN A STOCK TANK
OLD MAN Winter was knocking at the door that March morning as I woke up at my ranch, nine miles northeast of Hay Springs, Nebraska. While eating breakfast, I watched the dust blow across the ranch where I had been born and raised, and where my son and his family now help me raise registered quarter horses.
Although there was no snow on the ground, I could tell it was a brisk day, well below freezing. Draining my coffee cup, I headed out to the barn. Having been a rancher all of my 71 years, Fve learned one thing — blustery blizzard or sizzling scorcher, chores have to be done.
My favorite co-worker, a buckskin quarter horse named Corky, snorted a reply to my greeting as we got ready to round up a few colts and break them to lead.
I had just roped the third colt of the morning when I sensed trouble. Although small, the youngster was feisty and intent on giving us grief. The three of us wrestled around for awhile, neither giving an inch, until Corky and I were finally next to a stock tank. Overflow had sloshed down the sides of the tank and formed a small ice slick right where my horse was standing.
The colt stood still for a second and as we sized each other up, I hoped that he was going to see things my way. But no chance. He was just waiting to catch us off guard and that he did. He gave the rope tied to the saddle horn a jerk, and I could feel my mount's usually surefooted hooves slip from beneath him in one smooth motion.
Suddenly I was knocked almost senseless by a wave of cold water. The colt's struggling had landed both Corky and me into a four-foot-deep stock tank, filled to the brim with icy water. Coughing and sputtering, I thrust my head above the surface, intent on getting out of the tank as quickly as I could. In seconds the freezing water pierced my heavy coat, went through my flannel shirt, and seeped into my pores.
Threshing around wildly, I tried to get a firm footing in the tank, but 8 NEBRASKAland I couldn't. Old Corky was firmly planted on top of my leg. I bellowed like a banshee to get him to move, but his legs just kept flailing the water and getting nowhere. Then I saw why. The rope, taut as piano wire, was twisted under my horse in such a way that he couldn't move as long as the colt kept the tension with his stubborn four-legged stance. And I certainly couldn't move as long as that 1,200-pound critter continued to use me as a footstool. I could keep my head out of the water, but that's about all. The family had gone to town, so I couldn't expect any help.
I quit cussing the quarter horse and turned my wrath on the colt, who stared back in wide-eyed innocence. The bitter shock of the water was now just plain pain as the cold bit into my bones with surprising speed. Minutes that seemed like hours passed.
I realized that chewing at the colt wouldn't do any good, so I concentrated on getting out. My arms and legs were becoming numb and my mind was getting a little foggy from the cold. The colt would have to give in soon or Corky and I would be goners. At this point, I didn't care if that darn pony ever learned to lead if he would let up and put just enough slack in the rope to let us out of that freezing bath. I gave my leg another yank, but neither it or Corky budged.
The colt must have realized that he wasn't making any headway because he started struggling more violently against the rope. Lady Luck was with me, I guess, because that extra tug was all that old hemp needed. It started unraveling and broke with a snap. Instantly, Corky rolled to his feet and for the first time in 15 minutes I was sure I had a leg. Clambering out of the tank as quickly as my frozen limbs would allow, I led my soggy sidekick out of the water, and the two of us hobbled to the barn. After bedding down my horse, I headed for the house and the hottest bath I could stand.
After several hours of soaking, my disposition and circulation returned to normal. No bones were broken in my leg, but it hurt like crazy, and it soon swelled into a good-size and quite colorful burden. It turned coal black and kept me limping for several weeks, but I was thankful to be alive.
A week later, Corky and I returned to the smug colt responsible for our dunking. This time he knew we meant business. Within minutes the colt was following us like a docile lamb. But Corky and I have learned our lesson —we stay clear of stock tanks.
THE END
Roundup and What to do
October stirs up a magic brew of fun for everyoneOCTOBER BRINGS whole swarms of excitement to Nebraska. Autumn's chilly clutch sends chattering squirrels scurrying for their winter food, and eerie skies give hint to the approaching season of boiling cauldrons and unidentified flying objects.
Garbed in appropriate seasonal attire to officially welcome readers to the season of spooks and trick-or-treaters is Miss Beverly Ann Blount, NEBRASKAland's October Hostess of the Month. Miss Blount urges everyone to join in the many facets of western-geared Halloween fun in NEBRASKAland, as apple dunking and pumpkin-carving activity engulfs the entire state.
October's blue-eyed, blonde hostess erases the stereotyped idea of a witch, as she goes about preparing her special Halloween potion. A 1966 graduate of Benson High School in Omaha, her home-base, Beverly is now a junior attending the University of Nebraska, majoring in elementary education. She is a member of the Cornhusker yearbook staff and song-leader for her sorority, Delta Gamma. Beverly is presently reigning as a Cornhusker Beauty Queen and was first runner-up in the 1968 Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant. Her hobbies are music and art, painting, golf, and ping pong.
NEBRASKAland becomes "Go-Big-Redland" on October 12, as some 65,000 grid fans jam Memorial Stadium in Lincoln. Cornhuskers will tangle with their first Big Eight Conference opponent when the University of Kansas Jayhawks invade the Lincoln campus. With only a week recess after the Kansas contest, October 19 finds the Huskers back in action on home turf for a showdown with the University of Missouri Tigers.
Elsewhere on the Nebraska October sports agenda, South Sioux City is the action place to be for flashing silks and pounding hooves. Horse racing expires at Madison Downs on September 28 and resumes at Atokad Park in South Sioux City on October 2. The ponies circle at Atokad until November 2.
Some 20,000 spectators are expected to view the "Parade of Champions" in Omaha, October 5 and 6, as the annual Midwest Autorama gets under way. Hot rodders, auto lovers, and just plain old inquisitive onlookers alike have a field day In store. This year's theme guarantees that each automobile on display has something in common with all the others. In order for an automobile to qualify at this event, the car must have won or placed second in a major car show. Antiques, custom cars, new automobiles, hot rods, sports cars, and you-name-it, virtually every type of automobile will be represented.
Archery enthusiasts can shoot into action on October 12, as the state's deer population becomes fair target for arrows. Archery permit holders can romp the entire state in pursuit of the overly-cautious deer and may take either sex. Last year, 3,305 archery hunters went afield and tallied a near 25 percent success. October 5 and 6 are the second half of a two-weekend season for rifle-antelope hunters to cash in on pronghorns.
Fishermen are never ignored in NEBRASKAland. Cooling October waters promise anglers plenty of top-notch fishing action across the state. With the exception of white bass, which taper off quite rapidly in October, angling is good for most all species. October is especially notable for big walleye catches here.
Nebraskans truly put their best foot forward on October 18 and 19, when Omaha sets the stage for the state's most elaborate social function —the Ak-Sar-Ben Coronation and Ball. The annual fall event began some 73 years ago with its theme that NEBRASKAland was Quivera, a mythical land sought by Coronado's weary Spanish soldiers with dreams of gold, milk and honey, and beautiful women. Scholars disagree when it comes to exactly pinpointing this mythical land, but the Ak-Sar-Ben Coronation keeps the deed reading Nebraska. The 1968 affair will mark the 74th Ball.
It's fair time again in Nebraska, as the Holiday Fair gets under way at Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha on October 31 through November 2. This is an annual happening of the museum shop and the Women's Association of Joslyn. The fair offers gift selections from around the world and is an excellent opportunity for Christmas shopping. Admission fee to the museum is waived during the event.
Art is the center of attention for the Brownville Fall Festival, October 13. The little Missouri River town throbs with excitement as main street is lined with art displays and eager-to-buy customers browse with a searching eye. Neon lights and movie marquees do not clutter the quaint beauty of Brownville's main street. The town appears much as it looked back in the days when river boats linked the east with the untamed frontier. Last year some 2,500 visitors attended the gala event. Brownville expects a larger crowd of inquisitive festival-goers for the 1968 fall festival.
Music buffs can appease their appetites in Lincoln on October 5 as Andy Williams is in concert, and on October 26 Lincoln sets the stage for the University of Nebraska Fall Kosmet Klub production, "Trivial Traditions", at Pershing Auditorium.
October truly is filled with fun-time activity in NEBRASKAland. Whether its thrill-a-minute excitement or a preferred slower pace, there's plenty of October see-and-do fun in this "where the West begins" state.
THE END What to do 1-27 —Japanese Prints, International Paintings and Graphics, Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha 2-Nov. 2 — Horse Racing, South Sioux City 5 —Farmers Day Celebration, Kimball 5 —Melody Roundup, Hastings 5 —Lord's Acre Festival, Endicott 5 — Harvest of Harmony, Grand Island 5 — Andy Williams Concert, Lincoln 5_6 — Rifle-Antelope Season, Designated Areas 5-6-Bird Dog Field Trial, Kramer 5-6 — Antique Tractor and Engine Demonstration, Wilcox 5-6-A.K.C. Licensed Field Trail, Omaha 5-6 — Midwest Autorama, Omaha 5-13 —Nebraska Association Art Show, Hastings 11 — Homecoming, Big Springs 12 —Harvest Holiday, Diller 12 —University of Nebraska vs. University of Kansas, Football, Lincoln 12 —Archery-Deer Season Opens, Statewide 13 - Fall Festival, Brownville 13 —Registered Trap Shoot, Cozad 14-18 —International Order of Odd Fellows, Lincoln 16 —Free Pancake Feed, Clarkson 16-Trap Shoot, Minden 18 —Bill Cosby Show, Lincoln 18-19 —Ak-Sar-Ben Coronation and Ball, Omaha 18-Nov. 3 —Lincoln Community Playhouse, "How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying", Lincoln 19 —University of Nebraska vs. University of Missouri Football, Lincoln 19 —Annual Firemen's Ball, Lincoln 19-20-A.K.C. Licensed Trial, Fairbury 20 — Supper Shoot, Minden 20 — Region 6 Marathon and Bikeathon Races, Falls City 20 — Lincoln Boat Club, Fremont 20 —Turkey Supper, Howells 24-25 — State Teachers Convention, Chadron 25 —4-H Achievement Day, Loup City 25 — Lincoln Community Concert, Childrens Choir, Lincoln 26-Pancake Day, O'Neill 26-Fall Kosmet Klub, Lincoln 26-27-Antique Show and Sale, Norfolk 27-Skeet Shoot, Minden 30 —U.S. Air Force Band, Lincoln 31 —Halloween Parade, Ord 31-Nov. 2 —Holiday Fair, Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha THE END OCTOBER, 1968 11
LONESOME REACHES
by Bob Snow We challenge Sand Hills in Model 7. If we lose, help is long miles awayTHE 1924 MODEL "T"coupe is back in Sawyer's Sandhills Museum in Valentine, a little tired after taking on 190 miles of the toughest terrain in Nebraska. I chuckled when Morse Sawyer first invited me to ride along on a test tour of the car over the sandy ranch-country roads between Nenzel and Mullen. I can remember my grandfather joking about the old temperamental cars, so I jumped at Morse's offer to experience automobiling as it was almost half a century ago.
Retired Valentine rancher, John Lux, would help Morse keep the flivver running. Both men were one-time Model T owners, and they were anxious to see if the 44-year-old coupe could still stand up under the stress and strain of rugged Sand Hills travel after years of retirement. Traversing the cattle country in a jeep is no mean feat. To drive them in a "Tin Lizzie" seemed darn near suicide. If something went wrong, I anticipated a long walk to a Cherry County ranch house.
As Morse readied for our late July
jaunt, he explained that when the Model T
was queen of the American road, sandy
trails were the only highways. The trail we
would be traveling was a holdover from
the old days, because lack of population
still does not require a hard-surface road.
The first real highway into Valentine
wasn't constructed until the late 1920's.
The last Model T left the factory in 1927,
so by then the car was already on its way
out. Morse said years ago he had driven
Sand Hills' trails in a flivver and had
nearly always made it to his destination
13
without much trouble. I didn't like
the word "nearly", so I asked him
about it.
"Oh, I have had to push the car up some hills, nurse an overheated radiator, patch a few tires, and stop along the road for baling-wire repairs," he said nonchalantly. "But sooner or later, I got there."
In case of trouble Morse gathered together a flivver tool chest —baling wire, pliers, screwdriver, and hammer. Three spare tires, a jack, a pump, an extra motor mount, a shovel, two tins of oil, a few bolts, a stick to measure the gasoline, and a can to fill the forever overheating radiator, followed the tools into the well-like trunk.
"With a Model T you have to be prepared for anything," Morse explained, seeing my quizzical look.
Our Model T adventure started before we left Valentine because cranking the antique is to risk life and limb. If the spark isn't retarded, the old car kicks like an army mule, so cranking one is to flirt with a broken arm. However, Morse knew the vagaries of a Model T well. He tickled the carburetor and held the wire choke in just the right position as John grabbed the crank and gave it a quick turn. The startled engine sputtered, coughed, and died. John yanked again. This time the car shook itself into life. Morse advanced the spark and opened the throttle. It seemed like a lot of work to start a car, but John assured me the coupe had started easily.
Emitting a hideous putt-putt, the flivver headed down the blacktop highway to Nenzel, jump-off for our jaunt. Now I understood why Morse and John claimed the car was "conceived in a fit of madness". The Model T seemed to defy all the laws of physics. Without a fuel or water pump, the Lizzie runs on a gravity-feed fuel system and a siphon cooling system. Mechanical brakes, a four-cyclinder engine with a two-speed planetary transmission, a flywheel magneto, and uncomplicated wiring combine to make the car a piece of engineering magic. Prestidigitation on wheels, it somehow averaged 30 miles per hour on the blacktop.
On its 30-inch spoked wheels our ludicrous lady rolled south out of Nenzel, first on blacktop, then improved gravel. After passing through the pines of the Nebraska National Forest, the vastness of the Sand Hills with its notorious two-rut trails stretched endlessly into the horizon. Modern civilization with its souped-up cars, tow trucks, and garages was far beyond these lonesome reaches. As the awesome remoteness of the hills swept over us, we suddenly realized that we had entrusted our fate
Fortunately, the weather that morning was overcast and cool, for the old Ford didn't like high temperatures. But even on this cool day, Lizzie decided to act up. After chugging up several long slopes, the black coupe made like Old Faithful. Her radiator erupted in a geyser of steam. With the T gasping for water, not a windmill in sight, and miles of remoteness ahead, I tensed with the prospect of spending a long, dry day trying to satisfy her thirst.
"T's are easy on gas, but they can't pass a windmill, lake, or creek without pausing for a drink. There is a pond just a few miles down the road where we can fill the radiator," John said, unconcerned. "Lucky we have a watering can. Bucketless T drivers used to quench their cars' thirst with a cowboy hat or boot and you are wearing both."
After watering the car at a one-acre pond, we pushed on. Shouting above the horrendous roar of the engine, Morse gave out bits of information on why the Model T was so popular in the Sand Hills. Henry Ford's tin wonders had the surefootedness of a horse and the ability of a camel to march through the sandy lonesome reaches of these hills. The high-framed flivver sold for under $500, was easy to operate, and could go places that would have ruined any other car. In fact, Lizzie could go anywhere except "in society".
The skyscraper car, standing seven-feet high, was made with the rancher in mind. Parts for the car could be bought in any dime store and most Model T owners became shade-tree mechanics to keep their pets running. A Spartan of transportation, the car bumbled along year after year until baling wire and luck were the only things holding it together. Although every T was black, no two cars had the same personality. Ranchers joked about their Tin Lizzies, yet Nebraska rated among the top eight T-buying states per density of population in the 1920's.
Although our mechanical drab lacked surface personality, it had the inner stubbornness of a mule. Morse and John claimed that if you wanted her to run, you had to heed Lizzie's sensitive feelings and shower lavish praise. Swearing or coaxing just made her sit and pout. After clipping along beautifully for the three hours over rugged terrain, our temperamental Lizzie pulled a common Model T trick. She buried her 3 1/2-inch-wide wheels in the sand and refused to move.
Henry Ford must have known about the perils of Sand Hills travel. He made the T light, yet heavy enough so that we worked up a sweat and muttered a few choice words as we attempted to push her uphill. As John and I shoved, Morse throttled the car in low range. She sputtered, spit sand, and balked, but a combination of strength and threats put her over a sandy crest. When the tall, balding Morse mentioned that back in the 1920's a carload of strong cowboys was necessary for making a trip into Valentine, it dawned on me why he wanted us along. We were the man power to help his antique's 20 horses.
Everyone should experience a Model T trip. It builds up athletic stamina and teaches an appreciation of modern-day transportation. As I hopped back into the shock-absorber less bump-buggy, Morse shoved down on the low-speed pedal, pulled down on the throttle, and the car jerked forward. Once the flivver was rolling, he eased back on the throttle, removed his foot from the pedal, and the T shifted into high through some strange alchemy in its planetary transmission. To keep the Lizzie rolling Morse needed co-ordinated feet, hands, eyes, and faith in the Almighty.
Though the road was rough and dusty, the trip wasn't tiresome. With all its faults, the car we were riding in is one of a proud breed. The T had put Americans on the road and opened the vastness of Nebraska. In this land of mountain-size hills, antelope, grouse, deer, and the cattail-laced lakes with resident ducks and even a blue heron or two, the old Ford had not only furnished the transportation but helped make this state a wildlife watchers' paradise. The beauties of green valleys endlessly stretching into the horizon, yellow sunflowers and white-blossomed prickly poppy bobbing in the winds, and other scenic enchantments had become available to all when the Model T gave man the greatest of all gifts, mobility.
Luckily, my hosts understood the maze of criss-crossing trails, or I might have been out in the hills yet. Inexperienced travelers have been bogged down in the sand and faced the terrifying prospect of walking miles for help. Other sightseers have become lost and have had to seek directions at the all too infrequent ranch houses. Although our Sand Hills trek was far from over, the trip was going smoothly. A spouting radiator and uphill pushes were to be expected.
In the early afternoon we parked near an oasis of trees to eat lunch. When it was time to leave, Lizzie decided to stay. Instead of cranking, we jump-started her —a frequently used method of curing the Ford's temperamental habit of not responding to the crank. John explained that there were still other ways to start the flivver. If the car was in a hollow and couldn't be cranked or pushed, the resourceful driver could jack up the rear end, then spin the wheels fast enough to turn over the engine. Sniggering, he added that for those who couldn't get the knack (Continued on page 50)
OCTOBER, 1968 15
Battleof Blue Water
First major combat action between Army and Sioux sparked a controversy that rages after 100 years by Jean WilliamsEXHAUSTED AS HE was, Second Lieutenant Gouverneur Kemble Warren could not sleep on the night of September 3, 1855. The gruesome horror of the cave-pitted hill that he had encountered after the morning's battle still held him in a vise of shock and disbelief. The heart-rending groans and moans of Indian women and children, horribly mangled with Minie balls from the muskets of the Great Sioux Expedition, were a dirge in his ears.
After the Battle of Blue Water Creek, he had joined other troopers in searching out and caring for the wounded Indians. Later, he wrote in his journal:
"The poor creatures were found in such a situation because they had taken (Continued on page 54)
REQUIEM FOR TEAL
Last special season on speedy little puddlers causes young hunter to feel both glad and sad by Fred NelsonFOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD Greg Bender doesn't call ducks; he whispers to them and it seems to be just as effective as the strident squawks, quacks, and clucks of a mechanical caller. At least his technique worked one September morning when I shared a teal blind with Greg and his dad, Wally. I was watching a "little" duck gyrating around the lower end of the marsh when I heard a sibilant, "Come on, bird, come on. The water's a lot better over here than down there. Now, come on."
I was more amused than surprised when the bluewing swung, climbed, and beelined for our blind and its scattered decoys. Greg was a little too anxious; he came up with the 12-gauge slide-action just as the teal was setting his wings for the glide in. His first shot was behind the bird and his second was just a nipper. The bluewing shuddered, dropped a leg, and pumped skyward. Wally's ancient 12-gauge double barked and the duck plunged.
"Guess we'll call that a community bird," Wally puffed as he returned to the blind with his prize.
"You were a hair too quick," he admonished his son, "but considering that this is only your second teal hunt, that's to be expected."
Wally, Greg, and I were finishing up the 1967 special teal season on Rolland Lagoon No. 2, south and west of Grafton. We had missed the morning flight, but there were plenty of teal milling around and we were confident we would score. It was the eighth day of the special nine-day season, and most of the bluewings and greenwings in the 90-acre marsh were shotgun sophisticated, but a few hadn't got the message and were inclined to decoy. Traveling birds, moving from marsh to marsh, promised some challenging pass shooting.
Wally is a farm-implement dealer in Sutton. An ardent hunter, he specializes in ducks and pheasants. Active in the Boy Scouts, he had just returned from a Canadian canoe trip with some of his troop and had missed the opening week of the special season. He was more than anxious to make up for lost time and planned to use the morning's hunt as sharpening-up practice for the regular duck season that would open later.
Greg is a student at Sutton High School and plans to enter the wildlife-management field after high school and college. A big boy for his age, Greg had graduated from a 410-gauge to a 12, and was learning the capabilities and limitations of the larger gun. Like his dad, he was shooting high-base No. 6's.
As managing editor of NEBRASKAland Magazine I was looking for a story and doing a little hunting at the same time. I had brought my side-by-side 20-gauge and a box of high-base 6's.
There was a lull after the first teal, so Wally and I visited while Greg kept scanning the sky, looking for more targets. Like myself, Wally was sorry that the three-year experimental teal seasons were ending at least for a year.
"This special season is a fine one, especially for the younger hunters. The long days of late summer give them a chance to get out after school and get in a little hunting. Also, since only teal are legal targets, it teaches the kids some identification discipline while giving them enough shooting to keep them from being bored," he said.
I was inclined to agree with him. I'm not a dyed-in-the-wool duck hunter, but I did enjoy the special seasons. The weather was usually pleasant, the birds plentiful, and the shooting easy, but not too easy. Regulated by special permits, the teal seasons were popular with a good many other casual hunters, too. Each year, the applications for the free permits had increased in Nebraska. The first season in 1965 was a good one. There were lots of birds and plenty of water to attract them. The middle year was down a bit because of a drought that had dried up many ponds and marshes. Still, hunters who tried got their share of the little ducks. The 1967 season was a banner year. June rains had filled up the ponds and marshes and created plenty of good habitat for both local and migrating ducks.
Greg was interested in the marsh which is owned and administered by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Rolland Lagoon No. 2 is 1 of 28 such areas scattered around the Rainwater Basin country of south-central Nebraska. Besides the teal population, these marshes 18 NEBRASKAland attract big ducks and provide sportsmen with some top-flight late-season gunning for mallards, greenwinged teal, and pintails.
"How did the federal government get these marshes," Greg questioned. "They are comparatively new, aren't they?"
"Yes and no," his dad replied. "Money from the sale of duck stamps bought these marshes, but they were always here. Many of them, though, were being drained for cropland, so the government bought up as many as it could for waterfowl-production areas and opened them up to public hunting. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service will buy more as they become available."
I chipped in that duck hunting in many places is almost a closed affair on private land, so if you don't have a lease or belong to a duck club, opportunities are pretty limited. Marshes like these fill a void.
We hadn't noticed it, but the day which had started bright and clear was turning sour. A bank of clouds to the east had thickened and spread into a ropy canopy that shrouded the sun and cast a somber light over the marsh. A few drops of rain dimpled the open water around our blind and rattled off the head-high bulrushes. The lagoon was thick with vegetation. Patches of flowering smartweed interrupted the almost solid mat of bulrushes which protruded from the hip-deep water. We had set our decoys in a feeding pattern in one of the few open expanses and had placed the blind about 35 yards from the blocks.
Greg's whisper alerted us. He was soft-voicing a
flock of bluewings that was hanging high over the
NEBRASKAland
OCTOBER, 1968
19
blind, but they weren't interested. They swirled across
the marsh in a fine display of aerobatics and vanished
into the haze, apparently headed for another lagoon.
"Your sweet talk didn't work that time," I teased as the youngster relaxed.
"I think that bare face of his hanging out of the blind had something to do with it," Wally grinned.
None of us saw the approach of another flock until we heard the sharp tsp, tsp of their wings. We looked skyward when we should have looked about head high. About 15 bluewings had screamed in from behind, hedgehopped across the reeds, and sped on over the marsh. Wally and Greg brought up their guns, but the speeding birds were out of range.
"I think we better set up a 360° watch or these darn birds will give us the slip," Wally suggested.
I didn't answer. A single was circling the marsh, dipping and rising above the weeds as though undecided on whether to land or not. Twice I thought he had pitched in, but each time he would reappear and resume his aimless circling. Each swing was bringing him closer to our blind. One more pass would bring him in range.
Wally and Greg were watching, too, and at my sharp, "Now"! they came up shooting. Their four shots were so close together I couldn't distinguish them, but the little teal never faltered. He picked up speed and zoomed away, untouched.
"You've picked the two worst shots in the country for blind mates," Wally muttered, watching the duck dwindle into the distance.
I was going to agree when the distant duck turned and headed back. I crouched lower in the blind, listening to Greg whisper up a storm as the teal kept boring in. He swung to my side, well out, but still within range. I chanced a shell and was probably more surprised than the duck when he splashed in.
"Mark him," I yelled, scrambling out of the blind.
Greg was right behind, but we hunted for five minutes before the teen-ager spotted the teal floating belly up in the algae-tinted water. The lad was just tucking him in his shell vest when a skein of ducks appeared 20 NEBRASKAland on the horizon. I melted into some high rushes, but Greg was caught in the open. He crouched and froze, but the boss duck was the suspicious sort. He pumped skyward taking his colleagues far out of range.
"Always happens," Wally laughed as we griped our way back to the blind.
"How come a teal looks so much bigger in the air than he does in the hand?" Greg asked, voicing an ageold query of teal hunters.
"Wingspread, mostly," I replied. "A bluewing has roughly a 24-inch wingspan, but his body area isn't really much bigger than that of an adult quail. Greenwings are even smaller."
The weather changed its mind and began to brighten again as we waited for some more ducks to come along. A flock worked in from the north, but as they got closer, we saw that they were mallards. They went toward the head of the marsh, circled, and pitched in on some open water about 200 yards below us.
"With these corn and milo fields surrounding this water, there's going to be some mighty fine big-duck hunting here," Wally commented. "I am going to get in some mallard shooting when the season opens."
The implement dealer was interested in my reaction to the special season. Like many others, he hoped it would become a permanent part of Nebraska's hunting picture after the one-year recess.
"I am sorry that we won't have one in 1968," I said. "But it takes time to evaluate the effects of this three-year experimental shooting on the teal. Besides, the authorities must study how many big ducks were killed by mistake and find out if this is a significant factor in their future well-being. Like everything else, a few bad guys may spoil it for a lot of good guys. Personally, I don't think the teal resource was hurt at all by the early seasons."
Greg was all ears. "You mean there won't be an early teal season next fall?"
"No."
"Well, that just about spells the end of our bluewing shooting," Wally concluded. "Most of them will have migrated (Continued on page 53)
THE YOUNG LANCERS
Despite drizzles and broken tines, 17 Scouts start a carp-spearing tradition by Dobby Lee as told to Charles DavidsonWITH A FLASH of silver, the confused carp disappeared in the muddy ditch. Temporarily, at least, he had won a reprieve, but his young pursuer couldn't have been happier.
"Did you get him?" someone yelled.
"No, but I got a scale," shouted the lad. He highstepped through the shallows, holding his spear aloft so the others could gaze upon his one remaining tine, complete with fish scale.
"Where did he go?" the almost-successful boy asked.
"There!" His buddy pointed toward a movement in the water. He lunged, but his spear came up carpless.
"Shucks, I missed him. He's coming back your way."
"Where? Where? Why did you have to miss him?"
"You missed first."
"I almost had him."
Just then a V-wake arrowed from between the pair.
"There he goes! Hey, Dobby, here comes one!"
"Stop him, Dobby! Get him!"
I would have done about anything in the world to get him, but my spearing ability wasn't one bit better than the boys.
It was the third weekend in June, and 17 Cub Scouts, 8 supervisors, and I were on a carp-spearing jaunt in southwestern Cherry County north of Ashby. The boys, ages 9 to 11, represented the dens of Alliance Pack 207. Our day was overcast and rainy, but the Cubs were having one heck of a good time. Our carp-spearing luck so far had been negligible, but there was no question about the success of the outing. It would have rated No. 1 even if we never impaled a carp.
As pack leader, I had thought about a carp-spearing expedition, but it was several weeks before I could schedule it. After we got things firmed up, the Alliance Kiwanis Club, sponsors of the pack, put up money
Nebraska permits year-round spearing of nongame species in a private lake with the owner's permission, so with all systems go we had one more very important matter to deal with. We wanted the boys to enjoy themselves, but we also hoped they would gain a greater awareness and appreciation of the outdoors. Above all else, we had to impress on them the need for safety. A hastily-jabbed spear could cause an injury and we wanted to avoid that possibility. I summoned all supervisors and boys to my place two days before the big Saturday event.
Over and over we stressed the importance of obeying commands and being careful. The boys were clued in on what to wear, safe use of the spears, and how to remove the fish from the tines. That done, we sent the boys home to work on their spears.
In several years of Cub Scout leadership, Ive discovered that youngsters want to do things for themselves, so I left the rounding, sanding, and painting of the shafts for the boys. They really came up with some beauts.
Saturday dawned cool and overcast, but the excitement was evident.
"Come on, Dad. We can beat them all there.
"Can I go in the camper? Huh?"
One of the supervisors had volunteered his camper and it was sardine-packed with Cubs.
"We've got to wait for the rest," explained one boy to a companion. "I wish they would hurry up, though."
Soon, everyone showed. All the participating Cubs lived in Alliance except one who lived in Antioch, so we picked him up on the way to the lake.
The sky was spitting as we pulled to a spot above the lake where we could keep 17 boys under some pretense of control. A shallow ditch meandered through a grassy meadow for several miles and dumped into the lake below us. I got there before the main group, so I went over to the ditch to look for carp. About 50 were milling around in just one hole. Spearless, I stood there staring at the easy targets, but seconds later the fish spooked, roiling the water so much I couldn't see anything.
A charge equal to the Little Big Horn was about to break, so I hurried back to the arriving camper and headed off my "Injuns".
"All you boys stay right here. We've got a few things to go over first."
"When are we going spearing?" The question, asked by one, quickly gained the support of his comrades.
"Can't we go now?" another questioned.
"In just a bit. Now, everyone pair off and each dad take one group to supervise, one your own son isn't in. You've got to be careful. If there is any foolishness or cutting up that endangers or hurts anybody, we'll all go home and the boy involved won't get to keep his spear. Any questions?"
"Did you say if we could spear other fish?" questioned one of the elders.
"Nongame species only, and that's just carp here. There are a couple of bows here, though, if you want to try for something else. Nebraska allows bow-and-arrow fishing on game fish from April 1 to December 1 and nongame species the year around. O.K., let's spread out up and down the (Continued on page 51)
OCTOBER, 1968 23
ON STAGECOACH HILL
NATURE WIELDED a heavy hand as she swept across the High Plains Country of western Nebraska. As she passed, she chiseled out an unyielding, untamed terrain that centuries hence the white man christened the Wildcat Hills. Left over from another time, these buttes, pinnacles, canyons, crevices, ramparts, coulees, and gorges first impeded, and later, fascinated man. Here, the hurrying traveler slows his hectic pace. Here, he can give full reign to all that is wild and free within himself. Here, time seems to stand still, and a man can roam unfettered through a playground for the spirit. Here, contact with the peacefulness of nature allows him to breathe deep and absorb the wonders around him.
OCTOBER, 1968 25
Ten miles south of Gering on Nebraska 71, Wildcat Hills State Recreation Area and State Game Refuge nestle in the heart of these historic and jagged hills. Flanked by Hogback Mountain to the southwest and Sheep Mountain and Castle Rock to the southeast, the 852-acre area is maintained by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission.
While a rugged nature etched out terrain attractive to the eye and pleasing to the spirit, her savage touch created headaches for park planners. Since there is no electrical power, water is supplied by an excavated spring and carried uphill by a gasoline-powered pump. Level land is in short supply, and space suitable for camping must be gouged from the unwilling ground and molded into usability. But, the very things that create ulcers for park designers also provide the unique appeal of this scenic area.
Campers flock to this isolated spot to set up temporary homes in history's shadow. Near here hundreds upon hundreds of white-masted prairie schooners rumbled through the famous Robidoux and Mitchell passes on their westward trek. Today's travelers explore the same areas where these pioneers set up camp and rested before continuing their long journey.
While the Wildcat Hills area is not one that can accommodate a large number of visitors at one time, some 700 tent and trailer units took advantage of the free camping last year. The rustic facilities, designed to harmonize with the setting, include room for 30 camping units, 4 shelter houses, 19 fireplaces, 30 picnic tables, sanitary facilities, and a play area for the youngsters. Some 50,000 people visited the area in 1967.
Wildlife fanciers, too, can have a field day,
since this is a game refuge as well as a recreation
area. The only state-game preserve of its kind in
Nebraska, the area was purchased by cooperative associations in towns in Scotts Bluff County
and presented to the state in 1930. While many
species of wildlife call the Wildcat area home, the
lords of the realm are the massive buffalo, the
OCTOBER, 1968
29
regal elk, and the stately deer. Visitors are in for
a treat if they can catch a glimpse of these aloof
and elusive residents.
The first animals placed there, four deer from Texas, were unable to withstand the northern climate. Four mule deer from the Kaibab Forest in Utah replaced them. Since then, elk, bison, and wild turkeys have been successfully introduced. The only other governmental area in the state offering a similar attraction is the Fort Niobrara Wildlife Refuge near Valentine.
Extremely rugged and wooded country, the Wildcat area is located on Stagecoach Hill, so called because the old stages from Kimball to 30 NEBRASKAland Gering took the route. For the ambitious, hiking opportunities abound with 2% miles of developed footpaths. For side excursions, it's a good idea to wear a sturdy pair of boots, since the going gets plenty rough at times. To really cover the countryside, a good horse is the best bet.
A variety of geological formations accent this section of the Wildcat Range. Breaking through the grassy slopes of Brule clay are nearly vertical cliffs of sandstone banded in several colors. The ravines and higher slopes are wooded with pine, while the canyon floors are overgrown with Cottonwood, oak, box elder, willow, chokecherry, and buffalo berry. Wild flowers dot the open spaces, notably the wild rose, cream-colored yucca, and brush morning glory.
Driving through and around the area presents an intriguing panorama of the surrounding country. The North Platte Valley slopes gently toward the east and northeast, while the farther horizon outlines the familiar landmarks of Oregon Trail days — Signal Butte and Bald Peak to the west, Scotts Bluff National Monument to the north, and the spire of Chimney Rock, now a National Historic Site, down the river to the east.
Seeing and doing in the shadow of history — that's NEBRASKAland's Wildcat Hills State Recreation Area.
THE END OCTOBER, 1968 31
DUST TO DUST
Although still a pinpoint on a road map, Wayside's population is counted in memories of pastA CLOUD OF billowing dust, first thrown to the wind by the homesteaders' plows, has settled now where towns once stood. Nonpareil, Grand Lake, Hoffland, Bodarc, Wayside —the names belong to Nebraska's past. These towns are gone now and for the most part, forgotten. Yet, who can deny them their place in Nebraska's heritage?
Today, only a few buildings stand as a reminder of these small and unheralded settlements, but a few stand out and one in particular, Wayside, is still on the map, literally. Located north of Chadron off U.S. Highway 385 near the South Dakota line, the town can be found by following any up-to-date road map.
Of the buildings which keep a silent vigil over this old townsite, only the old school built in 1911, but since remodeled, is back in use. The steepled church, utilized long after the decline of the town by area residents, remains, holding what is left of an organ and piano, church pews, chair desks, and a pulpit, handmade from wooden crates.
Most unusual is the enormous two-story livery stable, once the largest in Dawes County and in later days a dance hall. A judge's office, part of a general store, and a red-brick, iron-doored vault, the only evidence of the bank, complete the ghost town on the prairie. A walk through the old livery barn is a return to the days when Wayside was a town with all the magnetism that a town generates. It is easy to visualize pioneers entering the general store, their wagons clustered on the dusty street. A loose board thumping in the wind can be the drumming of hooves as youngsters stage an impromptu horse race. A look at the brands, burned into the livery barn's siding, brings speculation on old outfits and the men who ramrodded them. Men who are long gone now, their trail-hard-ened bodies long since returned to the earth from which they sprang. The old vault, rusted tight, conjures visions of bullion, wildcat currency, and long-forgotten documents. Its contents may never be known because not even Wayside's present owner, Glen Snook, living within a stone's throw of the relics, knows what is inside. Some of Wayside is still to be found in the immediate area, for the huge depot and warehouse, the hotel, and billiard hall have been bought and moved to various spreads.
Though the buildings are falling into ruins, it is remarkable that any should be standing at all considering the expediency with which they were built. For Wayside, like many homestead towns, popped up like a jack-in-the-box. Following the Kinkaid Act in 1904 Nebraska's northwest country grew rapidly. The land giveaway was nothing new; 120-acre tracts had been available for some years, but most who tried to farm these small parcels were soon burned out from lack of water and plenty of sun. In 1900, 110 foreclosure cases were brought to the district court by the county attorney and the lands were sold.
But in 1904, patents were authorized on tracts up to 640 acres in 37 counties. The requirements were not too difficult. Five years (Continued on page 51)
A GREAT RINGNECK COUNTRY
In Nebraska shooting abounds, but to me hunting is more than bagging birds by Donald D. AllenTHE YOUNG CLERK in the Omaha hardware store was very obliging.
"All you have to do to make friends in Nebraska is to get a little manure on your shoes," he said, pulling out the nonresident-hunting permits. "If you do," he went on, "you will be as welcome as an elderly land-rich widow."
"How long you plan to be here?" the good-natured clerk continued as he filled out my 1965 permit.
"A couple of weeks, I guess. Why do you ask?" I replied.
Smiling, the young man directed my attention to the first two sentences on the back of my permit.
"Welcome to Nebraska. The Nebraska Game, Forestation and Park Commission appreciates this opportunity to welcome you to Nebraska to avail yourself of the diverse kinds of small game Nebraska has to offer."
The clerk's gentleness and good-humored welcome gave me a warm feeling that lasted my entire hunt. It was good to be back in my native state again. I was born in Chambers and went to school in Fullerton, Nebraska. Every year since 1946, I have managed to make it back for a hunt from my present home in Chevy Chase, Maryland.
Eight days, 4 hours, and 11 minutes later while placing my cache of pheasants, grouse, quail, rabbit, and a pair of soiled boots in my duffel, it dawned upon me that with my $21 hunting permit and upland-game-bird stamp I had bought a passport to a golden utopia for ring-necked pheasants. (Editor's note: The Nebraska nonresident-hunting permit fee has since been increased to $25 plus a $1 upland-game-bird stamp.)
Pheasants come thick and fast in NEBRASKAland, but to me the hunting is more than shooting and stuffing birds in the game pocket. A rooster pheasant with his bright red, green, brown, and orange plumage is symbolic of autumn for his brilliant colors match the hues of fall to a T. When he flushes from cover with that rackety cackle, a pheasant is a hunting thrill personified, and everytime I bring a rooster down, I feel that I have outwitted a wily antagonist who has tested me to the limit. And deep down, there is anticipation of a wonderful dish called barbecued pheasant, a concoction guaranteed to quell all distress caused by hunger.
Aside from the greatness of the hunt, I am impressed by NEBRASKAland and the character of its people. This is a good country filled with genuine people. This is not a tangible thing that you can immediately recognize, but it's there, and I realize it more and more each time I hunt the state.
Though I first soiled my boots in the vast, rolling cattle ranges of the Sand Hills with their luxurious carpet of bluestem, and their prolific herds of deer and flocks of ducks, sharp-tailed grouse, and prairie chickens, Nebraska is still corn-and-cattle country to me. The more I see of the state, the more I'm convinced that Nebraska was tailored by the Almighty for whole-section, half-section, or quarter-section farming, and this in turn made a prolific land for the sporty ringnecks.
In portions of the state, these fine game birds are as abundant as perhaps any other locale in the world. During the 1965 93-day season, thousands of nonresident sportsmen headquartered in small communities where they shared their lavish hunting tales with the local citizenry. More important, these visitors also shared some of their economic resources with the natives.
After flushing birds out of every field, it was hard for me to believe that Nebraska had to start from the bootstraps with its pheasants, yet this is true. My brother, Ross, who lives in Ord, gave me some interesting information.
"In the early 1890's, market hunters and large bag limits had greatly reduced the once-abundant native game: prairie chickens, plovers, snipe, sharp-tailed grouse, and quail that swarmed the territory in earlier days. The ringneck was introduced in various parts of the state in the early 1900's with the first season held in Sherman and Wheeler counties in 1927. Since that eventful day, this foreign refugee has been cackling his way into the hearts of thousands of Nebraska and out-of-state hunters," Ross said.
In 1965, 1.4 million birds fell to more than 160,000 pheasant hunters. This fantastic total grew from relatively few stockings by interested individuals and from 36 NEBRASKAland transplanting of live-trapped birds by the Nebraska Game Commission, which has also done quite an admirable job on deer, antelope, and wild turkey. These projects have taken money, lots of it, but revenue has kept pace with the growing needs. I am interested in Nebraska's game program and how it built its present momentum, so I did a little checking.
Reports from the Bureau of Sport Fisheries and Wildlife reveal that for the fiscal year 1953, Nebraska sold a total of 196,901 hunting permits. This figure, broken down, shows 90,652 resident hunt-only permits, 100,953 resident combination hunt-fish permits, and 5,29ff nonresident hunting permits. Total revenue from all these sources was $461,978.50.
Fifteen years later, in fiscal year 1967, Nebraska sold 98,209 resident hunt-only permits, 56,581 resident combination hunt-fish permits, and 26,301 nonresident hunt permits for an overall figure of 181,091. Revenue from these totaled $1,209,237.50.
True, the number of resident hunters declined from the 1953 figure, but the number of nonresident hunters increased almost fivefold. The reasons for a decline in resident-hunting permits can be attributed to at least three factors. Many young men who normally buy hunting permits are off to war or in training while others are matriculating at out-of-state colleges. Also, Nebraska issues some 15,000 free hunting permits to World War I and disabled veterans. Farmers and ranchers are also given a special non-license privilege to hunt their own lands.
Three license-fee increases since 1953 and the establishment of a (Continued on page 50)
OCTOBER, 1968 37
An Egg in a Keg
Coddled life of tiny fiddlers makes hatchery story a sweet tune by C. Catfish as told to Lana JacobsDEEP WATER surrounds me in a different life. This is the big world, and I am but a small fish. No walls or shallow water bind me and it seems as if I could swim for miles. Amazing details confront my eyes. Long, green plants sway. Tiny creatures pop up. So do big ones. They are all odd and barbaric and so different from me.
This is no bum trip on LSD, because I am a catfish. I see other channel catfish who look like me. But my smooth, scaleless, silver-gray body and strong, sharp spines in my pectoral and dorsal fins set me apart from many of the others around me. Eight fleshy barbels or "whiskers" around my mouth add distinction to my way-out appearance. I'm a special breed.
My new world is adventurous and very unfriendly. But who is a friend, and what is an enemy? I don't know. Only my fish instinct can guide me through another experience, and this one is my biggest bubble.
A few hours ago I was still being sheltered at the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission's Gretna Fish Hatchery. I was pampered, spoiled, and protected, but 1 was also a participating member of a rigid, select, and exclusive society. My 53-acre nursery is located 8 miles south of Gretna on Nebraska Highway 31. It can be reached by driving south 5 miles from the Ashland and Fish Hatchery Interchange on Interstate 80, or 2 miles north and 6 miles west of Louisville.
This hatchery is Nebraska's oldest. The fish house and surroundings are landscaped on the split-level design, adding beauty to my old riverside birthplace. During the summer, thousands visit my alma mater to view the "rearing" stages of those special baby cats.
My parents are only 1 of 235 pairs of adult catfish placed in the hatchery's 2 cat ponds early each spring. These bowl-shaped ponds run four feet deep and are filled with river water. Spawning takes place during May and June, or after the water reaches about 75°.
In stream environments the cat clan seeks spawning habitat in hollow trees, rocky ledges, undercut banks, and old muskrat runs. Lacking natural sites, catfish may use sewer tile, cream cans, or old tires. At Gretna, empty nail kegs dot the shallow ponds, and cats find these excellent substitutes.
In our special clan, father is the true master. When the spawning site has been selected, he cleans the nesting area. After spawning, he drives mother from the nest and assumes family duties until hatching.
However, he is not allowed that pleasure at Gretna. I never saw my parents, nor did they see me. Each day during the spawning season, hatchery workers checked the empty kegs for eggs. A first-time spawner will lay about 4,000 eggs, while a larger female may lay 20,000 or more. I was one of these thousands of adhesive eggs, each about half the size of a pea, formed in a yellow, gelatinous mass.
After the workers scraped this mass from the keg,
we were placed in a wire basket inside one of the long,
OCTOBER, 1968
41
rectangular hatching troughs. Above us, automatic
paddles swung back and forth in the water to serve
as mechanical nursers. These took the place of our
fathers' tail fanning. The nursers not only aerated
us, but circulated the mass to keep bottom eggs from
suffocating. It is also during the egg stage that we were
treated for fungus.
In 7 to 10 days, we hatched and dropped out of the wire basket. Each of us in the mass hatched within seconds of the other. As fry, we were then placed in another trough. Like many babies, our appearance was strange. We had tiny whiskers and large, yellowish stomachs. These were functional yolk sacs and served as our food supply until they were absorbed in four or five days.
I remained in this raceway until I reached fingerling growth and started to feed actively on dry feed. During the first two weeks of my fry state, hatchery workers treated me daily for external parasites. Then, preventive-type treatment was administered, enabling me to leave the hatchery strong and healthy.
I was held at the nursery until I reached two to three inches in length. Then, as a fingerling, I joined the ranks of my 380,000 comrades who leave the hatchery yearly for bigger Nebraska waters.
I scan my new home as a stranger —a whiskered wonder of the fin set. But I come here to learn about life. I come here as the new-generation catfish, ready to challenge the best of them.
THE END
NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . .GRAY FOX
Although he ranges in great part of this state, sighting him is unusual by Karl AAenzel Section Chief, Game DivisionTHE GRAY FOX has two unique possessions: a hefty scientific title and the ability to climb trees. Take those away from him and he's pretty inconspicuous. In fact, he's one of the least known of NEBRASKAland's large mammals. The scientific minds call him Urocyon cinereoargentus which is a combination of Greek and Latin terms. Urocyon in Greek means "tailed dog" and the specific name, cinereoargentus, is from the Latin and means silvery gray.
The gray fox's method of climbing varies with circumstances. Sometimes he uses a partially downed tree for the initial start, or a leap to a low branch, and then progresses upward by jumping from branch to branch. He can shinny up a branchless trunk by using his forelimbs to grasp the trunk and his hind limbs to scramble up. Gray foxes have been found in squirrel nests and abandoned hawks' nests up to 60 feet above the ground.
Distribution of the gray fox includes most of Central America, most of the United States east of Nebraska, and the southwestern states. Distribution in Nebraska covers about two-thirds of the state. There are no records of him in the Sand Hills, that part of the Panhandle north of the North Platte River, or in most of seven counties in southwest Nebraska. Apparently, he's gaining in numbers and reports of occurrence have become increasingly frequent in recent years, including primarily eastern Nebraska and the Platte River drainage to the western border. Several records were obtained in Brown and Rock counties during the past few years, which are outside the range shown in the early 1960's. In most of his range the gray fox lives in wooded areas or brushlands of varying density. He is still considered uncommon to rare in all of his occupied range in Nebraska.
His upperparts are mixed gray and black, with the buffy underfur showing through. Reddish-brown fur occurs on the sides of the neck, insides and backs of the legs, sides of the belly and chest and the undersurface of the tail. The tail of the gray fox follows his name. It is gray on top with a black strip down the middle and a black tip. Overall body length averages about 40 inches, and his weight varies from 7 to 13 pounds.
In comparison, the red fox is generally reddish-yellow in coloration, with a white tip on the tail, and weighs from 10 to 15 pounds. Skulls of the two species can easily be separated, as prominent ridges on the gray form a "U", while the ridges on the red fox skull form a "V". The gray fox has six teats, compared to eight for the red. Adults of both species, like all members of the dog family, have 42 teeth.
The bark of the gray is louder and harsher than that of the red, and is given four or five times in succession. Other vocal efforts include growls and snarls.
Dens may be used most of the year. These are located in holes in rocks, hollow logs or hollow trees, or occasionally in the ground. Average daily movements, which center around the den, will cover an area of four or five miles. One animal, trapped and tagged in a Pennsylvania study, was recovered two years later, and 52 miles from the original point of capture.
Gray foxes are monogamous with the male probably assisting in raising the young and remaining with the family group until it breaks up in the late fall. Breeding occurs in February and early March, with the first litter produced when the parents are about one year of age. Following a gestation period which averages 53 days, 2 to 7 young are born in late March to May. Average litter size is probably four in Nebraska. The young weigh about one-quarter pound at birth, and are born with their eyes closed. The vixen nurses the pups for 8 to 10 weeks, breaking them in on solids during the latter part of this period. Pups begin following the parents by late summer or early fall.
Not a finicky eater, the gray fox will down a wide variety of foods, including mice and other rodents, rabbits, birds, carrion, apples, berries, cherries, wheat, oats, corn, and insects, particularly grasshoppers, crickets, and beetles. Gray foxes in a Missouri study showed this food selection: rabbits, 47 per cent; mice and rats, 21 per cent; poultry, 10 per cent; wild birds, 7 per cent; insects, 1 per cent; and plants, 9 per cent. Most of the poultry consumed may be carrion, as the gray fox is not noted as a raider of hen houses and farmyards. Like the domestic dog, the gray fox will sometimes bury extra food.
Considered less wary than the red fox, the gray is not as well liked by the fox hunter as the red, since he dens more readily or eludes dogs by climbing and sometimes moving through the trees.
Pelts of the gray fox are of very low value even in comparison with the red fox. Still, the gray fox has a place in nature's scheme and he meets his obligations well. Anyone seeing and positively identifying an elusive gray in NEBRASKAland has enjoyed a bit-out-of-the-ordinary experience.
THE END
TRAILING YOUR DEER
Tracking wounded animal is part of hunt. Although tough job, work will be easier if you follow these tips by Lou EllFORTUNATE INDEED is the hunter whose deer drops in its tracks and stays down at the impact of the bullet or lodge of the arrow. He can mentally pat his own back and say, "Well done." Due to a number of factors, however, less than perfect hits do occur, and the hunter is faced with tracking down a wounded animal.
First, how can you be reasonably
certain the deer has been hit at all?
If your rifle is of large enough caliber, or your broadhead hunting shaft
is driven by the proper bow, the animal will seldom fail to register a
positive reaction of some kind at the
instant of impact. A walking deer
will usually break into a run. If he
was already running, his speed increases. If he is standing, he will leap
ahead. As he runs, a break in leg
rhythm and a weaving from side to
side indicate a fatally-hit deer. If any
of these clues are present, it is your
duty to do all you can to track him
OCTOBER, 1968
47
Go directly to the point where you last saw him and check immediately for blood sign. If you expect a blood trail that appears to have been laid down with a sprinkler can, change your thinking. Unless a bullet passes completely through the body, in which case it will leave quite a hole at its exit, the deer will bleed mostly internally, with only flecks and spots of blood to mark his escape route. If he was hit hard ahead of the diaphragm, sign will certainly show within the first 20 or 30 yards. Bright, frothy blood spells a lung shot. Smears on brush above ground, depending on their height, indicate a neck or shoulder wound. If sign appears on both sides of the trail, your bullet or arrow passed completely through him.
Darkly colored blood, possibly mixed with flecks of intestinal content, immediately sets you up for a rump kicking. The animal has been gut shot, a wound that produces a lingering death, and if he was badly frightened, the deer can cover a distance of several miles before collapse. If you recover such a deer at all, his flesh will be badly tainted and unfit for human consumption.
Think back a moment to when the deer was first hit. Was there a sudden silence after he first smashed into cover? That could mean he fell just inside the first row of trees. Look at his tracks. If they vary from centerline and are unevenly spaced, he is having trouble keeping on his feet, and should go down soon.
A large blob of blood tells you the animal stopped for a minute, then moved on. A badly bleeding deer will lie down in the nearest heavy cover, and likely be unable to get up again. However, if the trail shows a few drops of irregularly spaced sign, which becomes less frequent and then disappears after a hundred yards or so, you can assume your deer has a superficial wound. Chances are he is gone for good.
Closely examine the tracks left by your deer. If the depression left by one foot is lighter than the others, he's favoring an injured leg. Look for marks that denote a chipped or broken hoof. It might help you to unravel the trail if his flight takes him over an area where other tracks are present. In timber, where a mat of leaves conceals tracks, look for scuff marks in the duff, or a leaf that has been turned over. Blood marks show up well on a settled leaf mat.
If you lose the trail, go back to your last blood sign or hoof mark. Mark the spot with a white handkerchief or other prominent object, and work in a widening circle around the spot. A deer that has been badly hit, but still capable of moving fast, will ordinarily change directions sharply as soon as he gains heavy cover. Look closely for this change. When you find it, scan the area ahead. You can expect him to head for the roughest, most heavily timbered area in the new direction. He will bed down when he figures he has eluded you.
As you work out the trail, keep your weapon at the ready. You never know when you might come upon your game, and a fast, finishing shot might save you further trailing.
If you shot the deer during the last few minutes of the day, and are faced with a night trail, blood signs will shine like mirrors in the light of a strong electric lantern or flashlight beam, provided the ground or vegetation is dry. This allows you some chance to recover your game and save the meat. Lacking a good blood trail, you have no alternative, but to wait until morning before you begin your tracking, and if you find the animal at all, the meat will almost certainly be spoiled.
Trailing a deer to his deathbed is uncertain at best. It can change an otherwise good hunt into a lot of grueling work. Your best bet is to make absolutely certain of the placement of your first shot and register a clean kill. Your hunt will be a lot more satisfying if you do. THE END
OCTOBERm 1968 49
LONESOME REACHES
(Continued from page 15)of cranking, a self-starter was available at extra cost.
Driving a Model T successfully depends upon a combination of prayers, magic, and a lot of resourcefulness. If the gas line clogs, you lift up the right seat, and blow into the tank. With a gravityfeed gas tank, a car low on fuel often cuts out on a hill. A driver's only alternative is to take the slope in reverse. A leaky radiator can be fixed by dropping a raw egg into it, and the soon-boiled egg will seal all leaks.
As we chugged through the hills, Morse and John taught me to respect the antique cars and the people who drove them. When a frost plug on the engine block sprung a leak, Morse calmly took out his pocketknife and whittled a stick to clog the unexpected hole. When the tail pipe and muffler were knocked off by a sudden high-centered jar he picked up the appendage, saying he would fasten it on with baling wire when he got back to town. Losing the muffler didn't seem to make too much difference in the sound level. Lizzie didn't seem any noiser without the unrefined putt-putt catcher.
By late afternoon, after four uphill pushes, we pulled to a stop at a black-top road leading into Mullen. We had averaged 13 miles an hour over the deep-rutted trails. With the end of our trip just six miles away, Morse climbed out of the Model T, removed the front seat, unscrewed the gas cap, and checked the gasoline with a measuring stick.
"We've burned a little over 4 gallons on 100 miles of road," he smiled.
With John's help, the museum owner crawled under the car and unscrewed two pet cocks to check the oil. The 44-year-old car had burned some, so he put in a quart. Morse checked the tires, tightened a radiator hose, and looked north.
"I think the T can make it back through the Sand Hills to Valentine before sunset," he said. "So far we've been lucky and haven't had any problems, but that could change. Want to give it a try, John?"
John said, "yes", but I didn't share his enthusiasm. The antique car could probably take the punishment, but I wasn't sure about myself. If the car quit, I had visions of spending the night camped out under the Ford. Happily, the flivver kept putt-putting along, unconcerned about the time, weather, or bad roads. All she asked was an occasional drink of water. But the last leg of the trip was taking some toll. Lizzie rattled a little more and her right door refused to shut on the first and second slams. A little playing around and some subliminal praying finally did the trick. We made one quick stop at a ranch for directions and then rolled on.
We took a wrong turn at a" fork in the Sand Hills trail and didn't discover it until there was nothing to do but chug on. Eventually, we hit a thin blacktop road that connected with U.S. Highway 83 near Brownlee. From here to Valentine the trip seemed uneventful. At 8:30 p.m., we finally rolled into Valentine with 12 1/2 hours and 190 miles of rigorous travel behind us. The T had gone all day on less than 8 gallons of gas.
Morse ran Lizzie into his museum. Tomorrow he would clean her up, and the car would again take its quiet but stately place as an antique showpiece. Children will be awed by her, oldsters will joke about the car, and some will ask if the antique still runs, which will prove that they know nothing about Model T's.
THE END
PHEASANT COUNTRY
(Continued from page 37)$1 upland-game-bird stamp has helped to supply the cash needed for Nebraska's outstanding game-management program.
It is significant to me that nonresident hunters show about a 500 per cent increase over the past 15 years. Besides picking up the tab for a lot of game management, the nonresident hunter spends an average of $80 during his 5-day stay. Last year, the nonresident upland-game hunters pumped more than $2 million into the state's economy.
Promotion efforts have helped to swell the tide of nonresident hunters, but this 50 NEBRASKAland basic fact remains: Nebraska delivers the goods. Out-of-staters coming into the state are reasonably sure of having a good hunt and are seldom disappointed. They tell their friends and so the NEBRASKAland hunting story spreads. And well it should, for it isn't very often that a sportsman can buy, for the price of a night on the town, a year-long passport to a hunting utopia." THE END
YOUNG LANCERS
(Continued from page 23)ditch," I instructed the eager youngsters who wasted little time in getting set.
Most of the boys were swimmers. Still, I was relieved to see that the water wasn't over their heads.
The boys had but one thing on their determined minds —to spear carp. We soon found, however, that that was easier said than done. Mysteriously, the carp which had reportedly filled the ditch fin-to-fin two days before had vanished.
Even that first hole turned up empty.
"Maybe all the excitement is putting them down," I thought aloud.
"Either that or the run is over and we're too late," one of the dads suggested.
"Could be. Could be, too," I continued, "that it's just so cool they prefer the warmer water of the lake today. But where did those first ones go?"
One look at the boys' beaming faces told me we didn't need excuses. They hadn't even seen a fish, but the anticipation of the chase was enough.
During the first half hour no one scored. The drizzle turned to light rain and things got pretty miserable. Most groups would have headed home, but not us. We dug a hole and built a fire which dried us out in short order. As the Cubs hugged the warming fire, they bragged, joked, and informed others of what they had seen or done.
"Did you see the grouse brood?"
"No, did you see the baby teal?"
A few, obviously future fishermen, reported carp from arm length to "as big as me". Various song and shorebirds, a muskrat, and several defunct fish, the result of predators or winterkill, had been observed along the ditch.
"I caught a frog," offered one lad, and he proudly produced the evidence.
Except for the uncooperative carp, we had all the ingredients for a good time. Lunch had just been gobbled down when a group, working back down the ditch to the fire, raised everyone's interest.
"We got one! We got one! It's a monster," was the general outcry.
"Hey, they got one!" each of the Cubs yelled, sharing the victory.
'Who got him?" several boys asked.
T stuck him first, but he got away."
'My Dad got him," another backed him up.
Grabbing their spears, the whole pack took off again. This time luck picked up. We discovered that the carp, nice ones ranging from three to five pounds, were holding in weedy pockets and under cutbanks. They had to be literally kicked out of their hideaways.
Shouts and screams echoed the progress of the boys as they picked up the knack of carp spearing. Infected by the boys' enthusiasm, I couldn't understand why we hadn't taken advantage of such a great opportunity before this.
Almost without realizing it, I was running full throttle through the water with the boys. At first, a few of the Cubs had been reluctant to get into the cold water, but now everyone jumped in. I joined a couple of groups hot after one of the dour-mouths.
"Let's stop and let the water clear so we can see him," I suggested. The carp had entered a weedy widening just ahead of us, but he blended in so well we couldn't see him.
There he is!" The two boys saw him simultaneously. They jabbed and poked, but the critter escaped.
"Look out for each other," I reminded some of the boys closing in on the carp. Finally, one lad made a desperation lunge and sank the tines deep into a four-pounder's back.
"Got him! I got him!" Carp, spear, and boy floundered toward the bank.
We had only one problem and that wasn't serious. The spearheads weren't strong enough to withstand the punishment. I had brought along some extras, though, and they came in handy, for several Cubs were down to one tine and a few had lost all of them. Some were broken off in fish, but most were broken on misses.
Warming the air, water, and our spirits, the sun came on strong about 2:30 p.m. Some of the Cubs laid aside their spears and jumped in the ditch fully clothed. Others tried their skill with a bow while still others were fascinated by a phalarope and her nest. The round nests of yellow-headed and red-winged blackbirds in the cattails also caught their attention.
Even before we left, I knew this would be the First Annual Carp-Spearing Day. We had had a fine time, one that could be enjoyed by any Cub pack in the state, for carp are found just about everywhere. We hadn't gotten a lot offish, but that didn't matter. The enjoyment far outweighed the take.
I was tired, but it was a worthy tiredness, for during the height of the action, one boy had come over and said:
"Mr. Lee, this is the most fun I've ever had."
THE ENDDUST TO DUST
(Continued from page 34)residence with improvements to be made on the section to the value of $1.25 per acre. However, even with this increased acreage, Kinkaiders were to find the going rough.
By November 1910, almost 1,600 patents were granted for about 800,000 acres. In Dawes County, the population shot to 8,254. A year before, this north-west country had given birth, perhaps prematurely, to Wayside. The location was primarily influenced by the railroad for a branch of the Chicago and North-western ran northwest from Dakota Junction between Chadron and Crawford to Deadwood and the Black Hills. Other factors also made it desirable as a townsite.
Less than a year had passed when Wayside residents, most of them born
OCTOBER, 1968 51
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in America, issued a card listing the town's accomplishments. It was distributed to entice other businesses to the growing community.
The card was exactly the soft-sell approach for it claimed that: "Wayside is nine months old and has —
Two General Stores. Two Meat Markets. Two Coal Yards. Two Agriculture Houses. Four Real Estate Offices. One Law Office. One Livery Stable, largest in the County. One Hotel. One Restaurant. One Millinery Shop. One Rooming House. One Billiard Hall. One Blacksmith and Wheelwright Shop. One Lumberyard. One Barbershop. Two Church Organizations. Wayside Has Sold Thirty-five cars coal. Forty cars lumber. Sixty emigrant cars have unloaded here. One-hundred-seventy patronize the Post Office. We Want - New Depot and Agent. Bank. Hardware Store. Drugstore. Doctor."Except for the doctor and the drugstore, the town got what it wanted and more, including a second lumberyard.
Mrs. Ira Felz, the oldest former resident of the community, came to Wayside in July 1909 with her mother, Jennie Rivers. Friends from Oelrichs, South Dakota, had convinced them of the need for a hotel in the developing community.
"When we came," says Mrs. Felz, "the railroad was already there, so we lived in the section house while getting the hotel started. I think everyone around had a hand in building it. Of course we had a postmistress. Hattie Bayard was our first, and a dentist came every month for a few days. Besides those businesses listed on the card, I remember a cream station, for the settlers had a lot of dairy cows those days, and an icehouse. It was quite a town, but I imagine quite typical of other settler communities. I remember that things were a bit more lively then, especially on the weekends. Wayside always had dances, first on the side of the hotel, then later in on both floors of the old livery barn. And each Sunday everyone came in to go to church, social functions, and rodeo. The rodeos were the big thing."
Wayside reached its heyday between 1915 and 1920, but all was not golden for long. Even though Nebraska at this time ranked first in per-capita wealth, second in per-capita auto ownership, and had the smallest per cent of illiteracy in the nation, the farmer-rancher Kin-kaiders in the area were finding life nearly as hard as it had been for the pioneers in the 1870's. During the ten 52 NEBRASKAland so-called golden years of the 1920's, decline of crop prices resulted in many farm foreclosures and bank failures. Wayside was on the way out.
"Many of the homesteaders who helped to make Wayside lived in South Dakota," recalls Mrs. Felz, "and they had it worse than we in Nebraska, since they could only homestead a quarter section. In that country, a quarter wasn't near enough. I think many came just to say they had homesteaded, not intending to prove up."
So the settlers left Wayside by leaps and bounds. Eventually, the railroad became independent of the smaller town and a new highway skirted it to the east, but the livery barn turned dance hall held on for awhile and the post office stayed until just a few years ago. Now, Wayside is gone except for a few memories. Its dusty ruins stand lonely on the prairie, a forlorn but significant memorial to those who gave of themselves, so this country called the West, could be tamed.
THE ENDREQUIEM FOR TEAL
(Continued from page 21)out of Nebraska before the regular waterfowl seasons open."
"The teenager was watching a flock approach from the south and called our attention to it. At first, the birds were only a smoky wisp on the far horizon, but as the seconds ticked by, the smoke hardened into dots, and the dots into the unmistakable delta silhouettes of teal. Greg kept whispering as the ducks closed the gap. The birds were high, but when they reached the edge of the marsh, they spilled air and came down in a wheeling dive. They made one pass, swirled up again, banked, and headed our way.
I couldn't shoot without crowding the Benders, so I waited, hoping that one of the birds would flare my way when they cut loose. Intent on the approaching ducks, I hardly heard the barking guns as Wally and Greg opened up. Two birds folded up and started down. One came straight down, killed in the air, but the other fought gravity all the way and landed swimming.
Greg was after him with a whoop, splashing water for 10 feet in every direction as he tried to run down the fleeing bird. He stumbled once, but regained his feet before sprawling. Then he remembered his shotgun. He stopped, drew a bead on the swimmer, and fired. Water flew around the wounded bluewing, but he didn't stop. The high schooler put on a little extra speed and just managed to grab the duck as he dived into a tangle of smartweed.
The boy came back to the blind, wet as the proverbial rat, but happy as a king. He shook himself like a spaniel and held up the plump little bluewing for our admiration.
We teased him a little about his retrieving abilities, but he didn't care.
"I know this one is mine, I winged him that first shot, but I was dead on him with that second. He's mine, even if I had to run him down," the youngster grinned.
With four birds in the bag, we had to make a decision. Greg and Wally had to leave by noon to attend a wedding, but they wanted to get at least one more bird apiece to make a good family meal.
"Tell you what. Let's give it another 30 minutes," Wally suggested. "If we don't get any more birds by then, we'll cut out and head for town."
Satisfied with the plan, I moved out of the blind and settled down in a patch of bulrushes some 20 yards from the Benders. I was there about five minutes when hunter's sixth sense made me look north. Coming in over the blind was a flock of greenwings, flying so fast, their wings were literally hissing through the air. I just had time to yell before the birds were all around us.
Greg and Wally started shooting for keeps. I saw three birds fall, and a fourth start fluttering down after the fusillade. I threw a shot at the cripple, but the range was a bit too far and the bird went in behind a clump of bulrushes.
The Benders were jubilant. They gathered up their birds and we headed for the car, hoping to pick up the stray on the way. We hunted for 20 minutes, but we never did find him, the only jarring note on an otherwise near-perfect hunt.
We shucked waders at the car and took a minute to admire our take. It was short of the 12-bird limit we were entitled to, but we didn't care. We had seen a lot of birds, got some fine shooting, and had bagged enough birds to make the Bender family a fine meal.
Only one regret marred the whole adventure. Unless the special teal season is reinstated, we may never have the opportunity to repeat it.
THE ENDBATTLE OF BLUE WATER
(Continued from page 17)refuge in holes in the rocks where armed Indians were also sheltered. The braves had fired on the troops, killing two men and wounding another of the artillery company. Two Indian women were killed in one hole and two more as they came out. Seven women were killed in another along with three children, two of which were found in their mothers' arms.
"I found one young woman wounded in the left shoulder, the ball going in and coming out below her arm, another girl I found in a ravine and supposed dead. She was shot between both feet. Still, I had one of the men take her in his arms. I found a little boy shot through the calves of his legs and through his hams. The child had enough strength to put his arms around my neck and hold them there until I and another man proceeded down the hill with our piteous burdens."
Warren constructed a shelter on the bank of the Blue Water to keep the sun off the wounded and used water from the creek to bathe their hurts. Others were busy with the same chores and the expedition surgeon and his assistant gave them the "attention that skill and humanity could bestow".
The young officer had no way of knowing that the Battle of Blue Water Creek (some called it a massacre) would be the first major engagement between United States troops and the Sioux nation. This battle which involved the largest number of United States troops in one combat action with Indians in Nebraska was fought at a pleasant spot, located four air miles northwest of the present town of Lewellen, and approximately six air miles from the mouth of historic Ash Hollow on U.S. Highway 26.
This slaughter would not have occurred had it not been for an old bag-of-bones cow belonging to a party of Danish-Mormon emigrants bound for Utah. The cow wandered into a huge Sioux camp situated eight miles east of Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory, on August 18, 1854, and was promptly shot by High Forehead, a Miniconjou visitor to the Wasazaha Brule lodges, who brought her to camp where she was devoured by the* tribesmen.
Arriving at Fort Laramie the next day, the Mormon leader complained to the young commandant, Lieutenant Hugh B. Fleming. In the meantime, Conquering Bear, chief of the Wasazaha, had sent Man Afraid Of His Horses as his emissary to Fort Laramie to offer restitution, in this case a horse, as provided for by the intercourse clause of the Horse Creek Treaty of 1851, a treaty that guaranteed the Indians an annual distribution of goods, and the reason for their camp near the fort.
Man Afraid proved to be a poor emissary. Lieutenant Fleming regarded him as just another Indian, likely a spy, and refused Conquering Bear's offer. He curtly dismissed Man Afraid who returned to the Sioux Camp.
The next day, brash, young Brevet Lieutenant John L. Grattan secured Fleming's permission to go to the Brules' camp and bring High Forehead back. With less than 30 men, 2 mounted cannon, and a whiskey-soaked interpreter, Lucian Auguste, Grattan left Laramie for the half day's ride to Conquering Bear's camp.
When Grattan arrived and demanded High Forehead, Conquering Bear tried to reason with, the officer. He explained that the Miniconjou had been only a visitor to his camp and he could not order High Forehead to turn himself in. Also, it was a disgrace for a Sioux to give himself up. Auguste failed to get Bear's explanation over to Grattan, who withdrew, then opened fire on the camp, and killed Conquering Bear. The aroused Indians slaughtered and mutilated the entire Grattan party.
When the news of this "massacre" reached the States, both the public and the military were outraged, especially the military who considered the Sioux retaliation a "challenge to the Government's authority on the part of the savages who roved the country between the Upper Missouri and the Platte, and westward to Wyoming". It was a gesture too insolent to go unpunished.
On October 16, 1854, Commanding General of the Army, Winfield Scott, ordered Brevetted Brigadier General William S. Harney, then in Paris, France, to return immediately and assume command of an expedition against the Sioux.
Tennessee-born Harney, "Hero of Chapultepec" in the Mexican War, was an iron-jawed veteran of many campaigns, and had a well-deserved reputation for Puritanical severity. In Scott's mind, Harney would well fit the role as Avenger of the Military.
Scott gave his general a perfectly free hand in operating against the Indians, and Harney would make full use of it in the ensuing months.
By April 1, 1855, General Harney was at Jefferson Barracks at St. Louis, and doubtless feeling invincible. Congress, to dispel any illusions of American weakness, had legislated special funds for this massive expedition against the Sioux. Thus, Harney had ample means for plenty of troops and was free to plan his strategy without any second-guessing from his superiors.
He conceived a pincer movement to conquer the Northern Plains. Part of his command would go to the old American Fur Company post of Fort Pierre, now Pierre, South Dakota, while the other, which he would lead, would go from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, to Fort Kearny near the present city of Kearney, Nebraska, and then along the Oregon Trail west to Fort Laramie. The combined force would then pinch the Sioux into submission.
A superintendent of Indian Affairs at this time wanted to stop Harney's expedition. He suggested it might be better "to single out the single murderers of Grattan and punish them selectively before an expensive and inglorious war be commenced which must effectually cut off all imigration to Utah and the Pacific unless guarded by bayonets".
The agent pointed out that the Grattan affair was not premeditated by the Indians. His words were not heeded. Unfortunately, hostile Sioux bands had committed other depredations which had received wide and outraged publicity. The United States Mail had been robbed, $20,000 in gold bullion had been taken, and two men (Continued on page 56)
Outdoor Elsewhere
Expensive Bobcat. What looked like a bobcat's eye recently drew a potshot from an Idaho hunter. The eye disappeared, but a red light took its place and chased him down. In court the hunter paid a $100 fine and forfeited his $300 rifle and scope sight. Then he was handed a 30-day jail sentence for ventilating a game warden's car.— Idaho
Working At Top Speed. Every state game department has stocked fish, birds, and game animals, but Arizona tops them all. Biologists there are stocking snails. Not that the snails are to be caught or shot. They are being released in some of the better trout waters as food. Trout growth slows down markedly after they reach about 14 inches in length, unless they have some meat in their diet. The snails will add this. It is expected to take about a year before enough snails inhabit the rivers to make a difference in fish size. But then, everyone knows snails are slow. —Arizona
Outsmart The Fox. Working his turkey call with practiced skill, a Mississippi hunter expected an old gobbler to reply at any moment. He had a fancy blind built out of brush and was putting forth a fine, realistic call. His gun was ready, and all he needed was a turkey. Suddenly, he found himself the quarry when a hungry fox, mistaking the call for the real thing, leaped on him. The fox scratched the man and his clothing before finding a human, rather than a turkey, underneath. The hunter collected his wits and his shotgun, and repaid the fox with buckshot. — Mississippi
Fishing Fool. At least one angler took offense at the familiar definition of a fishing rod as presented by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the famous, early-day maker of a dictionary. Dr. Johnson's definition says a fishing rod is a pole with a fish on one end and a fool on the other. A Philadelphia angler reports that after considerable research on the matter, he can report that most of the time there is no fish on the one end. —Pennsylvania
Uninvited Guest. An uninvited guest at a wedding in Frostburg, Maryland, didn't try to be inconspicuous as she made a loud, crashing entrance. Just as the organist began the wedding march, a doe deer crashed through a window and ambled up the aisle. The wedding resumed, but not until the deer was ushered out by the rector and members of the wedding party. — Maryland
Tough Luck Award. A Florida angler must certainly be a top contender for the Tough Luck Trophy of the Metropolitan Miami Fishing Tournament by catching and then losing a nurse shark that weighed about 300 pounds. The angler whipped the fish on a light boat rod and 20-pound-test line after a grueling IY2 hour battle. But, while receiving congratulations for the obvious new tournament light-tackle record, he saw the nine-footer break the rope lashing it to the boat and swim off. —Florida
She's Convinced. An avid fisherman who has an understanding wife is indeed lucky. A tackle dealer in Ohio thinks he knows of such a combination. Recently a woman came into his shop and purchased 25 silver, wobbling lures to give her husband for their silver wedding anniversary. That fisherman must have a pretty good line to go along with those lures. — Ohio
Wise Old Owl. A local "smart" guy was attracted to a Cheyenne, Wyoming taxidermy shop by a large crowd gathered there. The people were looking at an owl perched in the display window. After observing the owl for a few moments, the smart aleck remarked, "If I couldn't stuff a bird better than that, I would go into a different business." The sidewalk critic must have felt pretty silly when the owl shuffled a couple of steps, turned its head, and blinked. — Wyoming
Naughty, Naughty. While the practice of spanking naughty children has been given up by many parents, a Pennsylvania game warden thinks that such corrective measures may work on animals. Recently the warden had trouble with a beaver which plugged a highway culvert rather than confining his efforts to a fine beaver dam upstream. The officer trapped the beaver, set his cage on the road so he could watch the culvert be unplugged, then turned the beaver loose and spanked his backside with a switch all the way back up to the dam. —Pennsylvania
BATTLE OF BLUE WATER
(Continued from page 54)had been murdered during one incident. Various raids on Fort Kearny had been made. Way stations along the Trail had been sacked and two of them, one at Ash Hollow, were destroyed. All this fed Harney's desire for retribution.
Thomas Twiss, Indian agent of the Upper Platte Agency at Fort Laramie, was trying to get all the Sioux he regarded as friendly and peaceable, into the fort for safekeeping. By August 20, he had accounted for all but one of the five Sioux bands under his jurisdiction, Little Thunder's Wasazahas.
Little Thunder and his people, along with renegade Oglala, Miniconjou, Map courtesy of Nebraska State Historical Society. and Northern Cheyenne, were buffalo hunting north of the Platte River. A short time before Harney's expedition reached Ash Hollow, the Wasazahas and their guests were camped above Ash Hollow at Mee-na-towah-pah, as they called Blue Water Creek.
By now, Little Thunder knew about reporting to Fort Laramie. It might have been because he was harboring those who had participated in the mail robbery and murders, and those who had been principals in the Grattan murder, that he did not comply. Though warned of Harney's approach, Little Thunder set up a peaceful camp where the women placidly carried out their chores almost to the instant of battle on September 3. Historians say there were 41 Wasazaha Brule lodges and 11 belonging to the Oglala, Miniconjou, and Cheyenne. It is believed there were about 250 Indians all told.
On August 23, when Harney moved his command out of Fort Kearny, troops stationed at Fort Pierre were in readiness to begin their part of the pincer on orders from him. The commander of the Great Sioux Expedition started westward to Fort Laramie with 6 companies of infantry and 2 of mounted artillery, comprising 600 men in all.
On September 2, the expedition crossed the South Platte River, descended into the gorge of Ash Hollow, and arrived at the bank of the North Platte River where they camped for the night. From the heights above, they saw the Sioux camp, and Harney determined to punish Little Thunder the next morning. That night he issued orders to his battalion commanders for an arc-type pincer against the Indians.
At 3 a.m., Lieutenant Colonel Philip St. George Cooke with three companies of mounted artillery and infantry moved out to secure a position which would cut off the retreat of the Indians to the Sand Buttes, the reputed stronghold of the Brules.
Colonel Cooke detoured over the Sand Hills to the east, and soon after sunrise, occupied a very favorable position behind a slight ridge on the bank of Blue Water Creek, half a mile above the villages of the Oglala, Miniconjou, and Cheyenne which were north of the Wasazaha. Cooke held some horsemen in position, dismounted others, and put them in prone positions to cover the valley escape to the north. For two hours he waited in ambush until he heard the rifles of the infantry in the valley, his signal for action.
At 4:30 a.m., General Harney and his staff accompanied Major A. Cady and his five companies of infantry across the North Platte and advanced toward Little Thunder's camp.
Lieutenant Warren who had joined the expedition at Fort Kearny after a 300-mile journey from Fort Pierre wrote that horsebacking Indians were seen in the low round hills to their right. On sighting the Bluecoats, they set out at a gallop for their village. By the time Harney's troops came opposite the village, the Indians had struck nearly all their lodges and were gone.
Since the last of the Indians were a mile distant by this time, the troops did not go through the village, skirting it about a half mile to their left. Lieutenant Warren was with the advance guard under the command of Captain John S. B. Todd.
When it became evident that Todd's men could not catch up with the fleeing Indians, Harney became apprehensive that Little Thunder would escape. Besides, one of the company commanders, sent out to reconnoiter, reported he believed the ground too bad for his mounted infantry to reach their position. Harney, after carefully weighing this information, called a halt.
To gain time and learn the Indians' position, the commander sent an interpreter to find (Continued on page 58)
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BATTLE OF BLUE WATER
(Continued from page 56)Little Thunder and propose a talk. The Chief said he would parley with Harney if the troops were halted so as not to come any nearer his people. The general agreed.
It is said that Little Thunder parleyed to give his women and children time to escape. Harney, being an old Indian fighter, saw through this ruse, and while talking for almost 30 minutes with the Indian, kept his troops moving toward the retreating B rules.
According to an Indian version, when Little Thunder realized this, he panicked, broke off the talk, galloped wildly across the stream, and back to his camp, or what was left of it, as the infantry opened fire upon his retreating figure.
The Sioux campaign was initiated in earnest when Captain Todd's men opened fire. In minutes, both sides of the Blue Water were scenes of carnage as Harney closed the trap. Indians who elected to stand and fight, fought well, but their trade weapons were no match for the better arms of the military.
Little Thunder and his remaining braves made for a sand draw to the east as did the renegades. Some Indians took a defensive position on a hill pitted with caves, and in turn became victims of the soldiers' fire. The survivors found their escape to the north cut off by Cooke's cavalry. Little Thunder, his son Iron Tall, and the remainder of the Miniconjou, Oglala, and Cheyenne who managed to escape the bullets and sabers, scattered to the Sand Hills where many were cut down by the troops who followed them for another six miles .before recall was sounded. A pitiful few escaped to the hills and were not taken. Troops at Fort Pierre were not called in.
According to Harney, 86 Indians were killed, 5 wounded, and about 70 women and children taken captive. Later, the prisoners were taken to Fort Kearny. It is believed they were subsequently released to join their bands. Five troopers were killed. Little Thunder apparently escaped, and the soldiers who had professional admiration for him, were happy that he did.
Harney remained at Ash Hollow for a few days to construct a sod fort which he named for Lieutenant Grattan, then moved westward. "Butcher", he was called by some, "hero" by others, for his action at Blue Water. Still, this ruthless and vindictive man put a fear of Bluecoats in the hearts of the Plains Indians that persisted until the Indian War of 1864.
The Nebraska Game and Parks Commission is establishing a historical park at Ash Hollow, 6 miles east of Blue Water Creek, which will contain some 906 acres when completed. Future plans call for acquiring the ridge overlooking the battlefield. Through interpretive devices visitors will be able to pinpoint the line of a battle that sowed the seeds of hatred between white man and red man —a hatred that flourished for almost two generations.
THE ENDWhere to go
Titan I Missile, Wellfleet Special-Use Area
ON A CLEAR DAY you can see forever in Kimball, the western gateway to NEBR ASK Aland, but your eyes will stop short at the Titan I Missile in Gotte Park. The town claims title as "Missile Center-U.S.A.", and last February, proud citizens erected the Titan I as a monumental tribute to the community's contribution to America's national defense system. Last July, high-ranking Air Force personnel attended its dedication.
Ideally located to protect both coasts, Kimball is the center for the largest installation of intercontinental-ballistic missiles in the nation. Two hundred Minutemen missiles are poised in launchers about 125 feet deep around Kimball. These nested defense weapons are part of the 1,000-unit land-based ICBM force in the United States. Ready to be fired within seconds, they can reach targets nearly halfway around the world. Many of the launching sites and control centers can be seen from the highways in the area, but the projectiles themselves are underground.
In contrast, the Kimball Titan knifes high into the sky and is visible for miles. For a close-up view, follow U.S. Highway 30 to the east edge of Kimball and the one-block-wide Gotte Park. Two and a half blocks long, this pretty park has plenty of facilities for picnickers and campers who stop to admire the missile.
The Air Force gave the Titan I to Kimball when the sleek ICBM was tagged "useless" and mustered out of service in April 1967. The citizens of Kimball raised over $8,000 to defray the cost of shipping this "obsolete" weapon halfway across the country from Edwards Air Force Base in California, and erecting it in Gotte Park. Many donated time and equipment, too. About 30 Kimball workmen swarmed over the 15,000-pound rocket and inched it skyward to tower 98 feet and 10 inches above its base. Four steel support legs were welded to the steel-beam base, and eight braces were then welded into place. The day after the missile was permanently mounted, winds up to 40 miles an hour and gusts that went even higher tested the strength of the missile's supporting base. Standing tall and proud, it is painted red and white, but still sports most of its original metal shell.
The missile is the only Titan I on display in the central United States and adds a monument to the Nebraska skyline that is unique in the Midwest. Families attracted by the towering missile find Gotte Park is the perfect place to stop, relax, have fun, and at the same time learn about this missile's one-time role in our nation's defense.
About 170 miles east and south of Kimball is a Tom Thumb fun spot. Wellfleet Special-Use Area is small, but so is a diamond. What it lacks in size, Wellfleet makes up in pleasure. Fishermen have pulled some real dandies out of the 48-acre lake that lies one-eighth mile south-east of the town of Wellfleet just off U.S. Highway 83. Recent Master Angler Awards taken at the lake include one 16-pound, 14-ounce and one 11-pound, 6-ounce northern pike. Largemouth bass, bluegill, catfish, and bullhead can put extra sparkle in a fisherman's day, too.
Picturesque is an inadequate word to describe the beauty of Wellfleet. Many big stumps and trees sticking out of the water lend a somewhat eerie effect. Cattails lace the banks and 101 acres of native grasses interspersed with trees and shrubs paint a colorful autumn backdrop. Sumac brushes on the scarlet, while American plums take care of the bright purples. Elm, hackberry, and cottonwood splash yellow and brown all over the October scene, and little bluestem grass (ranchers call it bunch or red grass) waves bright red in the prairie wind.
Come October, hunters can start turning their dreams into realities at Wellfleet. Rabbit and squirrel begin the action which leads on to ringnecks and bobwhites. Five rustic cabins scattered along scenic Medicine Creek cater to the gun set. Small and somewhat remote, Wellfleet is a perfect haven for those who want to escape the madding crowd.
THE END 58 NEBRASKAland
