Roundup and What to do

FUN-TIME ACTIVITIES of many forms blanket Nebraska as December writes finis to 1968's agenda of work and play in the "where-the-West-begins" state. Amidst this month's 31 days of unceasing action and winter's debut, emerges the season of all seasons. Christmas is the day that everyone awaits —this most splendid of holidays that infuses all with the true spirit of fellowship and joy.

Wishing everyone "A Very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year" is one of Santa's favorite western helpers and NEBRASKAland's Hostess of the Month, Diana Johnson. Against the background of Minden, Nebraska's Christmas City, Miss Johnson depicts the spirit and wholehearted fun of Yuletide and all the surprises awaiting little hands and smiling faces.

Diana is a 1966 graduate of Harrisburg High School and is now a junior majoring in music at Hastings College. Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Carl Johnson of Bushnell, she has a long and detailed interest in music, including flute, dancing, piano, and voice lessons. Diana is president of her sorority, Sigma Tau Sigma, and was recently voted outstanding active member.

This past summer, Miss Johnson participated in the 1968 Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant. During the current school term, the blonde, blue-eyed beauty is college cheerleader and twirler in the touring band and a member of the touring choir.

Nebraskans and their visitors can choose from an array of both indoor and outdoor activities throughout the month. As fresh snow covers the state a whole new perspective of outdoor recreation unfolds. Sled riders and snowman builders swing into action to take full advantage of the winter spectacle while an occasional snowball battle adds excitement to this frosty month. Ice skaters take broom in hand to clear snow from their magic carpet, and ice augers twist holes for bundled-up anglers giving fish a wintry go-around.

Hunters continue drawing a bead on the variety of game in the "nation's mixed-bag capital" throughout December as the king of the walk, the ringnecked pheasant, remains legal fare along with quail, cottontails, and squirrels. Ducks can quack with relief when the sun sets on December 12, as they ease out of the shooting picture along with merganser, coot, and gallinule. Goose hunters are also finished for the season when the sun sinks below the horizon on December 19. Archery-deer hunters have until one-half hour after sunset on the last day of the year to tag up with their envisioned trophy.

Basketball takes over as the king of the spectator sports as thousands of cheering fans will be urging their favorite teams to get another two points. Creighton University Bluejays and the University of Nebraska Cornhuskers host competitive fives throughout the month. On December 6, Creighton welcomes Illinois University and on December 23, Weber State of Utah invades the Bluejays' court. Coach Joe Cipriano's Nebraska roundballers host Wichita on December 10, Augustana College of South Dakota on December 14, and on December 16, Michigan State hits the Nebraska hardwood for plenty of fast court action. However, college and high school action isn't all, for professional basketball also hits Nebraska when the Cincinnati Royals tangle with the Phoenix Suns in Omaha on December 15.

Nebraska's own Christmas City stands in the spotlight as Minden observes the 54th anniversary of its magnificent "Light of The World" Christmas Pageant on December 8. Thousands of brightly colored lights adorn the city and brighten the wintry skies. The pageant staged on the courthouse grounds portrays the birth of Christ with a cast of volunteer workers and players from the surrounding area. Minden's courthouse dome is lighted in a near unbelievable extravaganza of lights. The pageant is staged again on December 15.

Also in keeping with the Christmas mood, the community of Hemingford stages a month-long Christmas diorama, a must on every traveler's list. An annual tradition, the diorama follows the birth of Christ via Nativity scenes.

Music buffs can listen to famed pianist, Byron Janus, in Lincoln on December 3. On December 9, the Music Hall in Omaha presents "The Nutcracker", and on December 15 the spirit of Christmas swings into full blast as University of Nebraska singers present the traditionally thrilling "Messiah".

Lincoln becomes a mecca for wrestlers on December 20 and 21 as the Great Plains Amateur AAU Wrestling Tournament breaks loose. These adept matmen pit muscle, quickness, and knowledge against one another for coveted trophies and honors. Professionals invade Lincoln for an all-star wrestling match on December 28.

The Ralph Mueller Planetarium in Lincoln will thrill visitors with its month-long "Christmas 70 B.C. Show".

There's plenty of fun for everyone as NEBRASKAland winds up its year with a flurry of activity that appeals to every taste.

THE END

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.

ORCHARDIST - "Reading SANDOZland in a recent issue of NEBRASKAland brought to mind a description of the Sandoz ranch given me by a former Nebraska missionary after Mari Sandoz's OLD JULES was first printed.

"This lady said that one of the most beautiful sights she had ever seen while traveling the Sand Hills country was Jules Sandoz's 500 cherry trees in full bloom.

"According to my friend, Old Jules had been an orchardist in his native land, but he must have used some western know-how to be able to graft tame cherry tree slips on both wild chokecherry and sand cherry trees to produce fruit trees hardy enough to withstand most of the late frosts of Nebraska. I'm sure Mr. Sandoz must have produced quantities of cherries which have pleased a great many fruit-loving Nebraskans." —Amy Clopton Carlson, Santa Clara, California.

TERRIFIC RESPONSE-"Sometime ago I wrote asking if anyone was interested in back issues of Outdoor Nebraska and NEBRASKAland. You put the request in Speak Up.

"I received more than 30 letters from as far away as New Jersey, Oregon, and California. One came all the way from Paris, France. Besides the letters, I received several local and long-distance phone calls, and several people came to my home.

"My 100 magazines went to the Superintendent of Schools at Grand Island, the first person who came to the house for them.

"Many of the requests for the magazines came from former Nebraskans, some from schoolteachers, some who wanted to bind the issues for museum use, and one from a lady who wanted to give them to her father who is a shut-in in a nursing home.

"I couldn't answer all the letters, but I did answer those that had stamps and return envelopes with them. I never knew there was so much interest in the NEBRASKAland Magazine."-Mrs. Roy Bernt, Columbus.

THE REASON WHY-"We moved to Florida from Loup City, Nebraska, in 1955, and a cousin of mine in Grand Island has been sending me your interesting magazine. We enjoy it very much and find that many friends are taking an interest in it, too. A group of us, after seeing the September issue, decided to fly out there for the pheasant hunting.

"However, we looked through the magazine from cover to cover and were unable to find when the season opens and how long it runs. After a telephone call out there to make hunting reservations we now have that information. Thought you might like to be reminded of this omission." —John P. Leininger, DeLand, Florida.

The September issue came off the press the early part of August, and inasmuch as the seasons and limits were not determined until August 23, there was no possible way for this information to be included. The season information was not included in the October issue of the magazine either, since the hunting guides were already distributed to hunters throughout NEBRASKAland and the nation. — Editor.

PLEA FOR PEACE —"I received recently this beautiful card from the St. Labre Indian School at Ashland, Montana.

"The replica of the Indian on his horse offering his pipe of peace to the Almighty is a wonderful tribute apropos of the times." —George F. Ruppert, Dumont, New Jersey.

PHOTOGRAPHING NEBRASKA- Let me congratulate you on putting out a very fine state publication. Please give the photography department a pat on the back. Their pictures are excellent.

"I am 21, and became interested in photography a year ago. Someone wrote that they enjoyed taking pictures of Nebraska sunsets which are also my favorite subject. In the past year, I have spent many hours shooting sunsets, flowers — another favorite subject of mine — as well as other Nebraska scenics.

"Some were easy to shoot, while others required walking through water, mud, and sand up to my waist. But every minute of it was enjoyable, because I found beauty which I never thought existed in this state.

"Someone suggested a book of photographs from the magazine. It is a great idea." —Larry L. Pokorny, Schuyler.

BEST YET-"The September issue of NEBRASKAland is superb. The beautiful reproductions of the Curran, Pritchard, and Meisenbach paintings are, to me, the finest thing the magazine has done yet.

"Through the years, the magazine has made great progress, and you deserve a world of praise." —Mrs. Henry Schuff, Kuester's Lake.

FULLY EQUIPPED-"I enjoyed reading Bob Snow's story of his trip through the Sand Hills with a Model "T" coupe. (The Lonesome Reaches, October 1968 NEBRASKAland). Bob need not have worried if it had been a touring car equipped with starter, Ruckstell axle, Close-tite curtains, Red-cat heater, water pump, shock absorbers, fender braces, and probably a few other things which I have forgotten, all of which were available and appended to the Ford with which I began carrying mail in 1925 on R.D. 3, Plainview, Nebraska.

"When the mud got really deep, my biggest worry was that of finding a mudhole blocked by a deserted car of a bigger and heavier breed, especially in the spring of 1927."-Harley O. Smith, Norfolk.

THE FORWARD LOOK-"Today NEBRASKAland arrived, and as always, the pictures and articles reminded my husband and me of our wonderful holiday in Gering and Scottsbluff last year.

"Both of us are looking forward to another visit to Nebraska, one of our favorite states." —T. P. Fogarty, Swanley, Kent, United Kingdom.

Arm for a Coffee Break

PRICES ARE soaring every year, but the highest price I have ever paid was for a cup of coffee and a sandwich that I didn't get to eat way back in 1954.

Duty had been pretty calm on that crisp October night 14 years ago. As law-enforcement officer for the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, I had just finished eight hours of patrolling the Grand Island area. A bite to eat and some hot coffee sounded pretty good, so I pulled into a combination cafe and service station on the outskirts of the Third City.

I had just barely eased my car-weary bones into a booth and gotten my coffee when a young woman burst in, screaming, "My husband is being held up!"

Turning to the parking lot, I saw a ragged-looking man holding a high-powered rifle on another man. The woman, Mrs. James Winn from Oskaloosa, Iowa, quickly explained that the gunman had wanted them to drive him somewhere when she made a break for the cafe. As I watched, Mr. Winn reluctantly entered his car.

At that time Game Commission officers did not carry side arms in town, so I had little choice but to ease out to my car and try to tail the commandeered vehicle. Turning to the cafe owner I told him to notify the sheriff, the city police, and the state patrol there was trouble.

I slipped out to my unmarked car without the gunman noticing and slid my gun out of the glove compartment and onto my lap just in case. But even with the gun I was still helpless. With 25 or 30 people in the cafe, 4 or 5 carloads of travelers at the gas pumps, and Mr. Winn in direct line of fire, a gun battle had to be avoided.

I waited for the gunman to make his next move. A big man, quite shabbily dressed, he looked like he had been bumming around for awhile. I noticed that he was also quite nervous. He started to get into the Winn car, but in doing so he glanced into the cafe, directly at the spot where I had been sitting. Instantly, the transient turned to my car, saw me there, and lit out like a rabbit for some truck trailers parked nearby. I figured he must be heading for the railroad tracks, so I threw my car into reverse and turned to see if anything was behind me.

There wasn't anything back there, but there was plenty to the side of me-a .30/.30 with only a thickness 12 NEBRASKAland of a car window between me and the rifle. And it looked as big as a bazooka from my ringside seat. The gunman, taking no chances that I would interfere with his escape, had come back around the trailers to my car. There wasn't any time for action, heroic or otherwise, as the rifle let loose with a blast that shattered the window. The bullet skimmed my left shoulder, seared over my chest cutting my tie in two, and ripped into my right forearm. My assailant hightailed it back toward the tracks.

I looked down at my arm, or what was left of my arm. It felt as if a thousand hot needles were being jammed into it all at once. The slug had torn away all the flesh and left only bone and cartilage amidst a mass of blood. I was numb with the realization of how close I had come to being knocked off-a quarter of an inch difference and I would have been a goner.

I got out of the car and headed for the restaurant. My main aim was to get a towel to use as a tourniquet. As I walked, my shredded tie flapping in the breeze, I heard sirens approaching. The people in the cafe rushed out to help and said that an ambulance was on its way. Although I was bleeding profusely, I was able to walk to the ambulance.

For the moment my adventure was over.

However, the chase was just beginning for lawmen across the state. A statewide call went out for the fugitive, but the search was concentrated on an express train that left Grand Island about five minutes after my one-sided run-in with the gunman.

A short time later, Columbus, Nebraska authorities sighted the fugitive on a refrigerated car, standing barefoot on chunks of ice. Still fearful of starting a battle in a residential area, however, they noted the car number and sent word on to Fremont to have the engineer stop car No. 20 on a specific crossing outside of Valley.

The police, county sheriff, and state patrolmen were waiting when the express roared by. Slowly, the train chugged to a halt, with car No. 20 coming to a dead stop on the crossing. The gunman came out shooting and scampered along the top of one of the cars. A few shots were exchanged before the fugitive was overpowered by the lawmen. In addition to his rifle, the officers found the transient armed with a five-inch knife strapped to his waist, a three-inch knife, and a hammer with claws that had been honed to razor-sharpness.

Meanwhile, I was peacefully sleeping away the effects of the drugs I had been given for surgery. I don't know how much blood I lost or how long I was on the operating table, but it took plenty of patching to put my arm back together.

Several weeks later, I was out of the hospital and at the gunman's preliminary hearing. I found out then that the 21-year-old gunman had been hospitalized in three sanatoriums before he had taken his shot at me. A native of Virginia, he said he had come to Nebraska to hunt deer. When asked by the judge why he shot me, he just shrugged his shoulders and said he didn't know. Although no reason was given for his assault, the authorities assumed that my law-enforcement uniform had set him off.

The young man, declared insane and unfit to stand trial, was confined to a state hospital. Several years later, he was returned to his home state's mental hospital system in return for a Nebraskan who was a patient there. I haven't heard anything of my assailant since he went to Virginia, but I still get Christmas cards from Mr. and Mrs. Winn.

That cup of coffee and sandwich which I didn't get, cost me about 7 months off my job and a 50 percent loss of use in my right hand. But I suppose if it hadn't been my uniform that set him off, it would have been someone else's, perhaps with more disastrous results.

MONGREL With a Method

FOR THE SPACE of a heartbeat, they hung suspended—dog here, quail there — against the gray screen between earth and sky. Both figures merged, and Queenie Pup was falling, the bird in her mouth.

"How's that for openers?" Chuck Roberts yelled from across the draw.

Beside me, Herb Cooper was muttering something about "d----thing he ever did see," but I was still too enthralled to answer.

Queenie Pup trotted to her master, Harlan Truscott. He bent down, accepted the bird, snapped off its head, and tossed it to the dog. Herb and I walked toward the waiting vehicles, convinced we had seen a one-in-a-million, but Chuck disillusioned us.

"I've seen her do that at least a dozen times," the Lincoln reporter said.

Four of us were on a late-season quail hunt at Harlan's farm near Sterling, Nebraska. Herb is a Lincoln contractor who would rather hunt bobwhites than win the bid for a thousand-unit subdivision. Chuck, NEBRASKAland who's associated with a Lincoln newspaper, and myself are old hands at quailing. Chuck knew Harlan from previous hunts, but Herb and I didn't. However, both of us knew the Sterling area was a bobwhite hot spot, so we didn't say no when Chuck invited us to join him and Harlan on their last hunt of the 1967 season. Sugar, Chuck's golden retriever, went along to help out.

All the way to Sterling, some 30 miles to the south and east of Lincoln, Chuck raved about Queenie Pup. A man of words — thousands of words — the newsman used them all to describe this dog of all dogs.

"She can wind scent a covey half a mile away, hold it until the devil dies of heat prostration, and retrieve birds downed in another county," he rambled.

The newsman went on and on and before long Herb and I were convinced that Queenie Pup could out-dog Rin-Tin-Tin, Lassie, and Underdog, paws down.

"What breed is this greatest of all bird dogs?" I asked, trying to interrupt the steady chatter.

Chuck paid no mind to my query, and before I had time to sharpen it up for another try, we turned off the pavement onto a county road and into a farmstead. A young man came out to greet us.

"Come in! Come in! You people must be crazy. Don't you know how cold it is?"

We knew. The wind-chill index stood at minus 35° and a ground blizzard was lashing the countryside.

I scarcely noticed the nondescript mongrel that investigated our arrival. There was some Brittany in her, but it was well diluted with generations of collie, hound, and a bit of terrier. Tawny edgings around her patchy coat of black and white hinted at Airedale in her distant ancestry. She wasn't friendly, but she wasn't mean, so I dismissed her as just another mutt.

After introductions, Harlan laid out the hunt.

"We'll hit the draws and edgings today. It's awfully cold, and I imagine the birds are sheltered up out of the wind. There's a heavy shelterbelt on the other side of the farm that I want to try, too. We'll use my truck and your wagon and do some leapfrogging," he said.

He struggled into boots, donned a jacket, and clapped on a dilapidated felt (Continued on page 54)

ROAD RANCHES WEST

HISTORY WILL be repeating itself when tomorrow's travelers stop on Interstate 80 at a road ranch. One hundred years ago, their predecessors did the same thing as they trekked across country. Plans are now in the making by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission to establish rest-stop and recreation areas at interchanges along the Interstate. These stops will be called road ranches and will furnish information about attractions and facilities in the vicinity of each. Major emphasis will be on day use and will be more related to recreation and picnicking than the present-day highway rest stops. Fee-camping spots with modern facilities will be additional attractions at some areas.

Yesterday's road ranches played an important part in the development of Nebraska and the West. No matter what their size, each was an oasis of civilization and relaxation on raw prairie and meant security of a sort for wayfarers from the East. When road ranches make a comeback on the Nebraska scene they will of course be more streamlined and better equipped to accommodate travelers using 380-horsepower cars instead of ox-drawn wagons to cross the state.

Six goose quills said to contain the first gold taken from the Cherry Creek placers in the Colorado Territory and displayed in Omaha in 1859 were in large measure responsible for the old road ranches. Before 16 NEBRASKAland their 10-year history ended, these crude but very vital way-stops played an important part in Nebraska's early-day tourism.

The minute bits of gold were enough to energize, organize, and enthuse a cavalcade of argonauts that in two months would reach from Missouri to what is now Colorado's Pike's Peak region. It would cause a commercial rivalry between Omaha and Nebraska City, bring a new road into existence in the state, and create the road ranches — Nebraska's first "motels".

Prior to this time, emigrants leaving ferryboats at Omaha or Nebraska City followed the North Platte River route of the Oregon Trail to Columbus, then south to Fort Kearny. Omaha was supply headquarters for most migrants and travelers. When Nebraska City became the eastern terminus for the army supply route to western posts, the firm of Russell, Majors and Waddell secured the freighting contract and set up headquarters in Nebraska City.

At the end of the two-year Mormon War in Utah in 1857, this firm lost its contract. Alexander Majors felt the company's freighting operation could continue and the economy of Nebraska City could remain stable if a road which would cut some 50 miles from the existing route could be laid out from Nebraska City to Fort Kearny. He hired the city engineer of Nebraska City to take a survey (Continued on page 52)

The Big, the Small, and the Beautiful

CHURCHES ARE outward expressions of man's inner faith in his Creator, whether constructed of mud and wood or ornamented with stained glass and gold leaf. Though exteriors may reflect the economic and sociological aspects of a certain congregation, every church fulfills the spiritual needs of its people.

The Nebraska man reveals himself through his many churches. Hard work, sacrifice, aspiration, and beauty go into his creations, and his completed project becomes part of him. History and architecture combine to tell the story of his faith. This joining of all environmental and spiritual influences is seen in the many different houses of worship, some old, some new, in Nebraska.

The state's oldest religious structure, the Presbyterian Church in Bellevue, was completed in 1855. But before this, Reverend Edward McKinney began work among the Omaha Indians. In 1848, he constructed a mission house where short-lived Francis Burt, the first Territorial Governor, took his oath of office on October 16, 1854, and died two days later. The mission house was sold in 1859 and converted into the first hotel in the Territory, the Bellevue House.

Reverend William Hamilton replaced McKinney in 1853, and began work on the new stucco church. The original 34 x 40-foot structure underwent 4 new additions, the last one in 1927. The church is still intact, except for the 1905-built steeple which was blown off in a 1908 tornado.

The Emanual Lutheran Church of Dakota City claims the distinction of being the oldest Lutheran church in the state. Built in 1860, this little white-frame structure with belfry and green shutters was patterned after New England churches. Once a month, the church would switch from the spiritual to the judicial and become a Territorial courtroom. Today the church is a historical landmark, and the original organ rings out only for special services.

As settlers scattered across the state, so did their religions. "Melting-pot" pioneers realized that a church in itself was only a building. It was what it stood for that was important, so dugouts, barns, or community-raised buildings became houses of worship. Some were simple, others ornate.

A silver chalice of the Christ Episcopal Church at Sidney caused some dispute in 1893 and is still controversial. When a communion chalice came up missing, the congregation accused a nearby Indian regiment of the theft. To insure harmony and clear themselves of the untrue insinuation, Co. 1, 21st Infantry of Fort Sidney, composed of Pawnees, presented another silver chalice with an Indian language inscription to the church.

Members of the congregation accepted the inscription to mean, "Troop 1, 21st Infantry to DECEMBER, 1968 21   Christ Church, Sidney, Nebraska, this Holy Chalice was given on All Saints Day, 1893."

However, some claim the markings translate into derogatory statements about the accusatory congregation, thus allowing the regiment its own form of revenge.

But Indians were not the only ones to leave a mark on Nebraska churches. An artistic remembrance of the Cody family is still present at the Church of Our Savior at North Platte. The daughter of "Buffalo Bill", Arta Cody Boal, dedicated a stained-glass window to the church in 1894. This colorful glasswork depicts her sister and brother who died during childhood — Kit Carson Cody in 1876, and Orra Maude Cody in 1883. About 6 years ago, the old 1892 church burned, destroying all stained glass except the Cody window. This rescued glasswork now covers most of the west side of the new chapel.

The reredos, an ornamental wood wall behind an altar, decorates this church and is beautifully carved from the wood of two North Platte bars. These bars were once part of Whalen's and Riphousens' saloons, such favorites of Buffalo Bill Cody that he would ride his horse right inside and up to the bars.

In some communities more than one religious denomination used the same building. Keystone Church, about 17 miles northeast of Ogallala, is an example of faiths working together. Two altars adorn this place of worship. Its 75 seats are reversible to accommodate members of the particular faith using it. The north end is the Catholic altar and the south end handles the Protestant services. Dedicated 22 NEBRASKAland in 1908, it served the community for more than 50 years before it became a shrine.

A great contrast to the tiny Keystone church is the Bethesda Mennonite Church at Henderson. With a seating capacity of 2,000, this edifice is reportedly the largest Protestant church between Denver and Chicago. Simple but massive, this brick structure was dedicated in 1958, and represents the functional architecture of many of Nebraska's newer churches.

Our Savior Lutheran Church at Norfolk, dedicated in 1964, is another modern architectural creation. This church is round with the altar in the very center. Laminated wood beams sweep over the altar to support the roof which culminates in a cross and crown, symbol of the resurrected Savior. With no balcony or basement in the church, all activities revolve around the altar. Pews are arranged in a semicircle and can seat more than 600 worshipers within 40 feet of the altar.

Motif of name is carried out through architecture in the Cathedral of the Risen Christ in Lincoln. The giant structure is made from precast concrete panels and irregular stained-glass windows, which depict Resurrection scenes. Two mosaics decorate one of the side chapels. One mosaic portrays the Holy Family of Nazareth and the other a typical Nebraska family.

Churches of all denominations are never static, and neither is the Nebraska man who creates them. He lives through his church and is proud of its eye-pleasing architecture. But his building blocks are more than structures — they represent his deep inner feelings and symbolize his faith in the Almighty.

Fishy Happenings

NOTHING INDICATED that this fish was hooked differently from any other. There were the usual jerk on the line and the bow to the rod, so Glen Foster figured it was another channel cat or crappie. But when Glen brought in the fish, a 14-inch cat, he was surprised to see his catch lassoed neatly in the stretch between the two hooks on the line.

"I was just about as surprised at seeing him in that predicament as he was to be in it," the genial chief of fisheries grinned, relating some of the piscatorial high jinks he has witnessed or experienced in his long career with the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission.

Glen lassoed the cat while fishing the diversion dam at North Platte several summers ago. He surmised the "roping" happened this way: There were two crayfish tails on the hooks which were spaced about 14 inches apart. Glen believes that the cat most likely hit the line instead of the bait, and when he tried to set the hook, one of the leaders flipped up and looped around the cat's middle in slipknot fashion. In any case, the impromptu noose held Mr. Whiskers long enough for the fisheries chief to land him.

Glen also outwitted a flathead in unusual fashion at a sandpit east of Central City. He planned to fish for bluegill with a fly rod, but he had an extra rod, line, and a few worms along in case the slabsides didn't cotton to his lures. After getting his fly rod assembled, Glen baited the extra rod with worms and cast out. He placed the butt of the rod in a five-gallon bucket, weighted it with a rock, and went after bluegill.

While waiting for them to co-operate, Glen noticed a jerk on his other rod. He ran to the extra line, pulled out a lVfe-pound cat, then used the entrails as bait on a treble hook. Two hours passed before he got a strike on the set rod. This time, his catch was a 3V2-pound cat. The fisheries chief dug out the biggest treble hook he had in his tackle box, affixed it to the line, and used the innards of his latest catch for bait.

At dusk, Glen decided to call it a day. He was just starting to take his fly rod apart when he noticed another bow to the set rod. For a second, the angler thought the line was snagged, but just as he started a retrieve, the line moved in the opposite direction. Thinking there was a snapping turtle on the hook, the fisheries chief applied some pressure. Just then, Glen caught a glimpse of a huge fish on the end of the line. He gave a hurried jerk and the fish did likewise. The pulling match continued until the line snapped.

Determined to corral this cantankerous fish one way or the other, the angler made a running jump from the bank, landed in the water near the fish, and straddled him. Glen bent and scooped up a 12 1/2-pound cat which he safely lugged to shore. Later, Foster learned that his catch was the largest of its kind taken from a sandpit up to that time.

Sometimes an angler doesn't quite understand the "how" of using a lure. Game Commission Director M. O. Steen still chuckles about the old-timer who was fishing in one of the Salt Valley lakes near Lincoln. The old gentleman sat patiently, waiting for his cork float to bob. Finally, he reeled in and Mr. Steen just about flipped. Dangling at the end of the line was a spoon, a lure that is normally cast out and then retrieved with a reel-in, let-up action.

Then there's the one about the disgruntled angler at Walgren Lake near Hay Springs who was using deep-sea gear. A fisheries technician, unable to contain his curiosity, asked the man why he was using such heavy equipment.

The angler gruffly replied that after catching nothing but small bullhead and crappie the day before, he had tied on to a big one. That fish had not only made off with the terminal rig, he had absconded with a favorite rod and reel as well. This time the fisherman brought "heavy ammunition" in hopes of catching the finny thief. Unfortunately, the technician didn't have time to wait for the final outcome.

"Fishy" happenings are not limited to men anglers, for the girls have had some unusual adventures, too. Marsha Barnum of Brady got the scare of her fishing 24 NEBRASKAland career in 1966 when she and her father were using night crawlers on the Platte River near Maxwell.

The 10-year old felt a nibble on her line and when she pulled in her catch, she let go with a scream. Her father rushed over and found she had hooked a yellowish-brown skinny wiggler that looked more snake than fish. Since Mr. Barnum had never seen its like before, he took both "thing" and Marsha into North Platte to a sporting-goods store. The owner was unable to enlighten the Barnums, so he called for help. Conservation Officer Roger Guenther of the Game Commission's North Platte office came and identified the strange catch.

Marsha had hooked one of the three American eels taken in Nebraska waters since 1958. Although this eel spawns in the Sargasso Sea north of Cuba, he soon travels the coastline of either America or Europe until he finds a freshwater river to his liking, just as Marsha's 10-incher did. If he had not been hooked, he might have stayed in the Platte for several years and then returned to the Sargasso Sea to complete his spawning cycle.

Merle Peters of Ogallala won a boat and trailer in a local contest and took the rig to Merritt Reservoir south of Valentine over a Fourth of July weekend for some fishing. While trolling, Peters hooked on to something pretty hefty. After a scrap, he finally fought his catch to the boat. He was surprised to find a rod and reel complete with lure and a three-pound rainbow.

The old adage of big bait for big fish certainly held true for an Enders Lake angler. He was fishing in the Sand Hills lake, south of Bassett, when he hooked a small bullhead. Before he was able to reel in his catch, a 25-pound northern pike swallowed the bullhead to give the fisherman a double bonus.

Hank Reinheimer of Spencer, who has fished the Missouri River for 40 years, was out casting with a top-water lure. A sea gull hit his lure at the same time it hit the surface. Hank reeled in and found himself hooked to an airborne adversary. A wild tug-of-war between man and bird took place before Hank was able to free his hook. Hank swears that the bird gave him a dirty look and some pretty salty gull talk before he winged off into the blue.

The man who built a boat in his basement and then couldn't get it out and this catfish who lived in a 50-gallon oil drum must be kindred spirits, according to Mrs. Leroy Kurtzer of Lincoln.

Mrs. Kurtzer's daughter and granddaughter were fishing for bluegill from their cabin dock on Cedar Creek, three miles east of Louisville, Nebraska, when the little girl peered into the moss-covered opening of a partially submerged drum beside the dock. The girl noticed something moving in the dark interior and called her mother. Her mother identified the tenant as a fish and sent for the child's grandfather who came, moved the moss, and discovered a huge yellow cat threshing about inside. In turn, he called his grandsons who removed the sand around the drum thinking there was a hole at the bottom and the fish would escape.

They managed to lift the barrel and found the bottom intact. The boys let the water out, smashed the drum, and brought out a 33-inch fish that had an 18-inch girth and weighed 15 pounds.

Earl Kendle, assistant chief of research for the Game Commission, has a logical solution to the mystery. Dark places attract catfish. When this one was small enough to enter the six-inch opening in the drum, he liked it and stayed, feeding on smaller fish whose curiosity lured them inside. Finally, he got so big that he was trapped.

Some of these fishy happenings are exasperating at the time, but in retrospect they become highly humorous. One thing for sure, such memories linger a lot longer than the more mundane experiences with hook and line.

IN THE MIDDLE OF AN ISLAND

JUST IMAGINE THE most depressing, gloomiest, uninhabited, isolated island that you possibly can. Then imagine yourself stranded on that same spider-ridden, water-surrounded hunk of renegade land in a struggle to survive against the hard-core elements of nature. This imagination was a Tuesday-to-Friday reality for me in mid-September 1968, when I took a "survival" test.

My first glimpse of "Sand Island", located in the widest part of Lewis and Clark Lake, east of the Santee area, was plenty depressing when I was taken there before dawn on a dreary morning. It had been raining for several days and fog, mist, and a dense layer of clouds added to the island's inhospitable atmosphere.

Nebraska Conservation Officers John Shuckman and Gary Ralston provided my transportation absolutely free, and NEBR ASK Aland's Chief Photographer, Lou Ell, kept me in stitches with his funereal sense of humor on the boat ride to the island. If we had never arrived it would have been entirely too soon for me, but in less than 30 minutes after leaving the mainland we landed on the gloom-infested island.

Wild waves pounded the shore and the autumn wind roared and moaned like a homeless demon as I unloaded my "wonder equipment", wondering where most of it was. The generous allotment included a sleeping bag, rubberized ground cloth, six fishing hooks, a ball of heavy fishing cord, three lead sinkers, a hunting knife, a hand ax, three-quarters of a quart of water, a 6x5 sheet of plastic, and a cook kit of one large and one small pan, one cup, and a set of stainless tableware. I had the clothes I was wearing, one packet of safety matches in my right shirt pocket, and a portable typewriter and typing paper. The typewriter and paper were indispensible to my future survival, for editors are notoriously savage when stories aren't written.

My shutterbug companion clicked and yakked for a few minutes and then boarded the boat to churn away. I was alone, damp but resolute and psyched for adventure. A fiasco in the Sand Hills (see Walking A Lost Weekend, March 1968 NEBRASKAland) had taught me an unforgettable lesson.

Everything was wet and damp. My island, about a mile off the Nebraska shoreline, ran north and south in the huge reservoir and was a strong mile long. Its width varied from 75 to 200 yards. It was imperative to find a suitable area to set up camp, so mumbling, I ambled off toward the north end. Foliage ran from dense to scattered. Near the far end, wild plum, sumac, Russian olive, and other brush choked the entire area. Fallen trees made walking difficult to downright struggling. Eventually, I reached the north end. There weren't any good camping spots, so I started back. The clouds didn't see any future in not raining, so they rained.

My watch was left behind and I had no conception of time. Preisolation plans had called for a sundial —fat chance with no sun. Approximating that an hour passed on the first scouting trip, I investigated the southern portion of the isle hoping to find a decent clearing. This end was much easier to traverse and held an area that looked suitable enough to call home. By now, I was pretty well saturated and wanted 27   to get on with a shelter-building program before I became more miserable than the weather.

After dragging my gear to the chosen area, I pondered the various shelters that could be constructed with my limited material. Fortunately, wood was ample. There was plenty on the island itself and literally tons of driftwood along the shorelines. My first move was gouging out a hole for a drying fire. I found a rotten cottonwood, extracted its dry, pulpy innards and was soon hovering over a huge fire in an attempt to dry my lonesome bones. In an hour or so, it quit raining enough to begin the shelter. Using the fishing cord for lash, it wasn't long before a conglomeration of astutely placed logs and limbs, along with the ground cloth and the plastic became a shelter with the closed end facing the prevailing westerly winds. I shoved in the sleeping bag and crawled in behind it.

There was no telling time, but it seemed I had been busy for several hours. Breaking out the fishing hooks 28 NEBRASKAland and sinkers I made two setlines. I started kicking around some old stumps in search of larvae or anything else for bait. Luckily there were some grasshoppers. The damp weather had the wiry-legged fellows crouching in the leaves, so capturing them was easy. I baited the hooks and selected a good fishing hole. It was a treacherous walk out on a slippery log to clear the driftwood, but I finally managed. Real loneliness was setting in now and the miserable, gloomy day was having its full effect.

The wind continued to howl and the rain came again. I hustled back to the flimsy shelter. It was depressing. After an eon it started to get dark. It was probably about 8 p.m. when I rolled out the muggy bedroll, stripped off, and crawled in. Above me the plastic magnified the sound of the heavy drops, but sleep came almost immediately. It was raining and blowing when awoke several hours later and the fire was drenched. My shelter leaked, but not profusely. I groaned and fell back and the next thing I recollect, sodden light was coming through the dense cloud cover.

In short order I was absorbing warmth from a good fire, but a growling stomach sent me checking my fishlines. I hadn't caught any fish the previous afternoon, but my enthusiasm peaked as I approached and saw one of the lines standing taut. I did my balancing act on the driftwood and soon had a catfish in my hands. Oh boy! A meal! Then disaster struck. The slippery logs combined with my weak sense of balance and in I went, dropping the fish. A boil showed where the finny critter had been, but all I had was a boot full of cold water.

Ambling back to camp, I sat by the fire to dry my boot. After a drink of water, my stomach reminded me it was time to grub something to eat. The island had an abundance of wild rose hips, pretty little red numbers with a taste between a rotten apple and a hot watermelon. After a delightful meal of rose hips and water I rested and looked (Continued on page 56)

MERRY CHRISTMAS PAST

YESTERDAYS Christmases like those of today were joyful occasions for many moderately well-to-do families living in towns and cities in Nebraska during the late 1870s and 80s. With money to spend and fine homes to celebrate in, Nebraskans of 90 years ago kept the Yule tide well.

Typical of the 19th Century celebrations is this one which was photographically recreated with the co-operation of the Nebraska State Historical Society in the restored Kennard house built in Lincoln in 1869, and designated by the 1965 Unicameral as Nebraska's Statehood Memorial.

Holiday preparations began early and reached an almost frantic pace by December 24. Plum pudding would be put in its cheesecloth bag and set inside a covered iron pot to steam. Pies would be popped into the hot oven of the brick-set, wood-burning stove while freshly-cooked chicken or tinned lobster, main ingredients for the next days salad, would be stored in a cold house or on the back porch beside the stuffed, trussed, and cloth-covered turkey ready for the next mornings baking. Parsnips, potatoes, turnips, and pearl-size onions would be prepared for the coming feast. Little people would be given tasks to keep them upstairs or ordered to play outside, for papa could not be disturbed while creating his own special magic in the parlor.

After mamma was satisfied the house was properly sparkling and preparations for next days dinner were well underway, she would become handmaiden to the man of the house as he brought the TREE into the parlor, set it in place, and began the important task of decorating the red pine, juniper, or cedar

The Christmas tree was the living embodiment of family happiness, and the head of the household felt it his responsibility to take personal charge of selecting, bringing it home, and later, overseeing its decoration.

Cherished ornaments would be taken out of boxes stored in the attic, the popcorn and cranberry strings made by the children would be draped over the boughs, and the tin holders for bright red and green candles would be sorted out. Later, the heat from these small candles would vaporize the oils of the evergreen and provide a pungent and unforgettable aroma. Paper Santa Clauses, cherubs, or angels would be scattered among the branches. A large gold or silverfoil star to represent the one over Bethlehem was the final touch. By dusk, the family dressed in second best would have supper in the dining room. When it was over, papa would mysteriously vanish into the parlor. A few minutes later, he would reappear and invite all to view the tree. After the "ooh's and aahV from everyone had subsided, mamma would go to the organ while papa led his family in hymns and then conclude with a festive Christmas song.

With the proper atmosphere established, papa would then go to his study. This was signal for the family to find seats on the horsehair furniture as the head of the family sedately returned, sat down in his chair, opened the Bible, and read the Christmas story from the Book of Luke. Next would come the Christmas Carol. The evening would close with a reading of Clement Moore's, A Visit From St. Nicholas. Excited by the wonderful promise of this classic the children would go upstairs and return with stockings to hang on the mantle in anticipation of Santa Claus s arrival.

After mamma had bedded the youngsters and were certain they were asleep, she and papa would scurry to closets, attic, cellar, or even to the carriage house to get the hidden gifts, while the maid or perhaps a visiting relative would keep sharp lookout for small and curious eyes.

By midnight, a bright blue-and-yellow sled, building blocks, and a toy horse on wheels would be set beneath the tree for the young men of the family. A doll with china head and blue eyes, resplendent in elegant silk or fine lawn, along with a miniature trunk filled with handmade clothes, or a doll buggy would be waiting for the young miss of the family.

Grown-ups, too, would have their fun. Mamma would bring out gifts for papa from herself and the children. These, now wrapped in tissue and tied with red or green ribbons, contained such welcome items as leather-bound copies of his favorite authors, a new smoking jacket, carpet slippers, or a fine cravat. Papa now became her gallant as he brought forth his specially wrapped paisley shawl, an elegant gold clock, a velvet-lined writing case, or perhaps, a fine hit of garnet jewelry, wrapped at the place of purchase and put in a prominent place under the evergreen. Presents for the maid, all hearing individual tags from the family, would join the array as would gifts from distant friends and relatives.

Tree candles were snuffed and new ones put in their place before the grown-ups said "good-night" and made their way to bed.

Christmas dawn saw the little ones up downstairs in a twinkling. Their elders quickly followed so as not to miss their children's delight.

The parlor became sheer happiness as presents were discovered and admired. Stockings received a fair share of exclamations as the little ones explored them from the small toy tucked at the top to the orange that bulged the toe.

After the excitement had died down and breakfast eaten, the family, decked in their very best, would go to Christmas services. Hymns would be sung and the pastor would relate the miracle of the Christ Child and place a benediction on one and all before the joyous strains of the organ bid the congregation Godspeed.

Back home, mistress and maid would work furiously in kitchen and dining room until the moment when all would gather at the table to hear papa say a special grace and then watch impatiently while he carved the Christmas bird.

By nightfall, the youngsters would have their fill of candy and cookies and heavy-lidded by the excitement of this special day, they would reluctantly climb the stairs.

Perhaps, Christmas past lacked the tinsel, the color, and the garish opulence of today, but then as now it was a family's finest hour.

64,631 ACRES OF PONDS

ONCE UPON a time there were three men. Two of them liked to take bass out of farm ponds and one liked to put them in. So, it was inevitable that the three would meet. The place was Knox County in northeastern Nebraska, a county with 1,854 ponds. The day was mid-September and the hour was early.

Max Kopper and Clyde Anderson of Bloomfield were the "takers" and Darrell Feit, a fisheries biologist for the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, was the "putter". Max and Clyde are businessmen and have two reasons for fishing. One, because they like to, second, because "there are no telephones along the banks of a pond." Darrell fishes because he likes to test the results of his handiwork and to see if his finny charges are doing well in their miniature homes.

Ponds in Knox County are typical of the 27,424 farm ponds scattered through every county in Nebraska. If all 64,631 acres of their water were poured into a single impoundment it would be almost twice the size of Lake McConaughy. Like all ponds in the state, the ones in Knox County range from "puddles" to healthy young impoundments of five acres or more. Statewide these "baby" lakes average 1.54 acres. Most of the ponds can support fish, usually bluegill and bass since this is both an ecologically sound and a popular combination. Some ponds have catfish and crappie, too.

About 10 percent of Nebraska's 210,624 licensed fishermen consistently hit these ponds with everything from cane poles and fat grasshoppers to the latest in matched tackle. Bass in these ponds become sophisticated in a hurry, for they see a bewildering array of lures and baits every season. The fish soon learn what can bite back and what can't.

Max and Clyde selected a beautiful pond west of Bloomfield for their first try. It was about 5 acres big and more than 10 feet deep in spots. Oaks, cottonwoods, and a substantial stand of native grasses stabilized its banks. Marshy around the edges, the pond harbored a chorus of frogs and several squadrons of dragonflies. At intervals, overly confident grasshoppers tried a trans-pond flight and plunged into the drink. Green sunfish and small bluegill practically licked their chops as the hoppers splashed in.

Even Darrell who sees more farm ponds in a week than most fishermen see in a lifetime was impressed. "This is a beauty," he acknowledged.

Max sent a yellow surface lure streaking to the far edge where a fringe of reeds poked inquisitive tips above the gin-clear water. Two twitches brought a boil under the plug as a (Continued on page 53)

Nebraska's Primitive Art

WHEN AMERICAN SOLDIERS of World War II scrawled "Kilroy was here" on walls all across Europe, their actions were far from original. Since man began to reason he has had the insatiable desire to scratch symbols on rock or any other handy surface. Oregon Trail pioneers carved their names at Scotts Bluff and before that Kit Carson and John C. Fremont chiseled their names in a sandstone bluff near the present site of Fairbury. But even before the white man crossed the Missouri River, the Indian had already etched crude symbols, known as petroglyphs, on rock outcroppings.

Bit by bit the unwritten story of early man in America is being revealed by these records left on stone. Petroglyphs, reflecting the traditions of the Indian, were the red man's way of recording events that were important to him. The events depicted may not have been momentous to the tribe, but they were a particular Indian's reaction to an occasion that affected him. But petroglyphs have more than historical significance. They are examples of primitive art in the truest sense of the word. Their gallery is the whole world.

Nebraska has its own corridor in this mysterious art museum. The state's canvases of this ancient art are hung along the eastern border with major works near Homer in the northeast and some minor ones in the southeast. Here, gigantic bluffs along the Missouri River provided the tribal artists with easy-to-work outcroppings of Dakota sandstone.

Somewhere in the hills near Homer lies one of the most intriguing mysteries of modern Nebraska. In the 1880's, J. H. Quick discovered and photographed a wall of Indian petroglyphs. But as the years passed, the green-cloaked hills shut the door on the spectacular carvings and the site's exact location is now unknown. But the rugged bluffs and bottomlands that guard the lost writings are being challenged by Carl Wells, a Sioux City, Iowa rock hound and T.V. newsman who has gained a national reputation for his work with petroglyphs. Carl, with the deductive reasoning of a Sherlock Holmes, is tracking down clues that he hopes will lead him to the lost petroglyphs.

Quick's description of the site, printed in the 1888-89 Annual Report of the Bureau of Ethnology, is Carl's best lead in his relentless search. Quick wrote that the petroglyphs were on the face of a sandstone cliff in a deep ravine where two dry watercourses came together at a point about 20 miles south of Sioux City in Dakota County. The cliff, rising 50 to 75 feet, was located in dense underbrush and "in a secluded place that probably saved it from destruction." Quick also wrote that the site was three or four miles from another group of petroglyphs carved on a wall near a spring. These petroglyphs are found on the Basswood Ridge Special Use Area near Homer.

Quick surmised that the almost cave-like nature of the area made it a favorite camping and resting grounds for Indians. In the photograph of the lost sandstone cliff can be seen the carved figures of buffalo, men, small animals, and eagles or thunderbirds. Bear, turkey, and buffalo tracks are also quite evident.

Carl firmly believes that somewhere in the hills around Homer this stone wall of history is waiting to be rediscovered. But man and time often destroy the handiwork of past civilizations. Throughout the years, wind and water may have eroded the etchings, or curious and unknowing visitors may have defaced them.

Although Carl has devoted a great deal of time to the lost wall, he is also studying other petroglyphs in northeast Nebraska. On an early morning expedition, the television newsman took me to Basswood Ridge. There on a Dakota sandstone cliff that towered above a small spring were several 20th Century white man's petroglyphs, but the television personality paused for a second, then ran his index finger along the outline of a crudely drawn horse and rider, barely discernible in the hodgepodge of names and initials.

"There's your first look at an Indian petroglyph," he announced. "Notice that both arms and legs of the DECEMBER, 1968 43   rider are clearly sketched in. The red man believed if all appendages weren't shown in a drawing, they would lose the undrawn arm or leg in a hunt or in battle."

Near the horse and rider is an outline of a buffalo with the shaft of an arrow sticking from his back. Buffalo were favorite subjects of the petroglyph makers, because the Indian's very life depended on them. After horses were introduced on the Plains, they were frequently drawn, because the animal was the red man's most prized possession. It is impossible to interpret the exact meaning of any individual petroglyph, because there are so many alternatives. However, Carl had a possible explanation for the sketch of the wounded buffalo. The Indian believed that he gained power over any beast he drew. Perhaps, the artist was assuring himself of a kill on the next hunt by drawing an arrow shaft in the beast's back.

Another humanoid figure, almost obliterated by name carvers, and several turkey or thunderbird tracks are carved on the wall. There are two possible explanations for the three-toed Y-shape tracks. They may represent the tracks of the turkeys that roamed the lush woodlands of the Missouri River, or they may depict the tracks of an Indian rain god, the thunderbird. Legend has it that every time the sky spoke with a streak of lightning and a clap of thunder, the early Indian marked the occasion by drawing the track of the god.

Carl's pet petroglyph, located near Winnebago along the Missouri River, is a strange-looking animal that he has aptly named the Water Dragon. The dragon, with his forked tail and antlers, four and five toes on his appendages, fire coming out of his eyes, and spines on his back, has a turtle-shaped speech scroll coming from his mouth, similar to those used by today's comic strips, that indicates the animal spoke with the voice of a turtle. Some observers say that the dragon is a Winnebago medicine animal and could not have been drawn before 1863 when the tribe moved into the state. They say the monster was drawn with the belief that he would watch over the tribe in their new land. Carl has no interpretation of the petroglyph, but discounts the theory that the dragon could not have been sketched before 1863. The date of any petroglyph is very difficult to fix.

Although Carl's study of Nebraska petroglyphs has centered in northeastern Nebraska, the southeastern corner of the state also has its Indian carvings. One group of petroglyphs are on a lone boulder in a field just east of Syracuse. The turkey tracks or arrows, all pointing the same direction and arranged in nearly a straight line, may have been an Indian road map 44 NEBRASKAland pointing the way to favorite camp or ceremonial grounds. On the other hand, their orderly arrangement may be a coincidence with the tracks representing the footprints of the thunderbird.

Indian artists either pecked, incised, abraded, or scratched figures into stone. Because most of Nebraska's rock outcroppings are Dakota sandstone, petroglyphs were usually incised. But petroglyphs on a 2V2-ton granite boulder on the University of Nebraska campus near Morrill Hall in Lincoln are the exceptions. This huge rock, discovered in 1869 on a bluff in Cedar County and moved to the University in 1892, is covered with marks that were either pecked or abraded into its hard surface. A five-toed foot, turkey tracks, and other undecipherable marks on the rock have been greatly weathered by wind and water and may well be the oldest petroglyphs found in Nebraska.

Nebraska has proudly hung all these pieces of art in its outdoor gallery, but somewhere in the bluff country along the Missouri River or in the rugged Pine Ridge and Wildcat Hills there may well be petroglyphs that have yet to be seen by the white man. To the casual observer these faint scratchings of Indian art and history will go unheeded, but to the trained eye they may well uncover still another chapter in the stone-written story of the red man.

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . MALLARD

ASK A nonhunter to name one wild duck and the answer will be mallard. This dapper dan of the ^ flyways is probably the best known and most important species of duck in the world. Besides his scientific name of Anos platyrhynchos, he has more than 30 other colloquial names including greenhead, "wild" mallard, and French duck.

These colorful ducks are quite cosmopolitan in distribution, but they are most common in the central and western portions of the northern hemisphere. Main breeding areas are in the northern Great Plains states and the Canadian provinces of Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta.

Mallards are found in all parts of NEBRASKAland throughout the year. Concentrations occur wherever there is open water and feed. Large numbers spend the winter on the Platte River in the western part of the state, while tens of thousands of migrating ducks go no farther south than the central Platte Valley and occupy wintering areas as far east as Fremont.

Breeding populations in the Sand Hills are in the 25,000 to 30,000-bird range. Banding data from Nebraska-reared young indicate that many mallards are harvested in the state, but if they escape the shotguns, they disperse from their natal grounds in all directions before choosing a wintering site.

A male mallard in breeding plumage is a very handsome fellow. His green head and neck with its white collar, a greenish-yellow bill, and orange-color feet make him an eye-catcher. But a mallard's attractiveness doesn't end there. A very dark or black "nail" on the tip of his bill, a chestnutty chest giving off to white on the breast, flanks, and belly, and a purplishblue speculum add to his overall appearance. Topside, his brown back progressively darkens toward the middle and deepens to glossy black on the rump.

In mallard society, the hen is drab compared to her gaudy consort. Her head, neck, and entire body are studies in various browns. Brown eyes, pale orange feet, and a speculum of purplish-blue are her concessions to vanity.

A mallard drake has his periods of obscurity, though. During the moult and while in eclipse plumage, he is relatively colorless and resembles his mate in appearance. This plain period in a mallard's year usually lasts from June to July through August or early September.

Mallards are one of the earliest ducks to begin their spring migrations and one of the last to leave the northern areas in the fall. They bid good-bye to southern climes in January and February. For many mallards, courtship begins before leaving the wintering grounds and continues through the northern flight.

A hen will lay 6 to 10 olive-buff to almost-white eggs any time from late April to June in a nest lined with convenient vegetation and down from her breast. Incubation is strictly woman's work in the mallard world and lasts from 23 to 29 days. While the hens are busy with maternal duties, the drakes take off by themselves to moult into eclipse plumage.

Nests are usually located on the ground and are often a surprising distance from water. Mallards, however, may use haystacks, ledges, and other locations for nest sites. Some nests have been found in abandoned hawk nests more than 25 feet above ground.

Primarily vegetarians, mallards will eat snails, small mollusks, insects, and fish. Field grains are often eaten during the winter months, and many a farmer has paled when a wintering concentration moved in on unharvested fields or descended on grain stored in exposed locations.

Mallards are the status targets for waterfowlers in the Central Flyway. A fine table bird, the greenhead is also a sporty challenge. He will decoy to call and blocks when it suits him and ignore them when it doesn't. He's an all-around favorite of pass shooters, decoy men, and jump hunters, and is probably responsible for more "duck" fever among waterfowlers than any other webfoot.

SOMETHING FOR THE KIDS

WITH A FINAL BLOW of his hammer, young Bill Loseke finished stapling the barbed wire that encircled his stand of young trees. The youth glanced over the tree planting before moving on to the next post. It was cold and he was ready to get back to the warm house, but this was his day off from school, and Bill wanted to repair the fence that protected 800 trees and shrubs that he and his dad had planted in 1966 and '67 for wildlife cover. Tracks in the snow indicated that cottontails and pheasants were using the area.

Sweating under his extra clothing, Bill reviewed the origin of his tree planting as he picked his way over the slippery footing toward his home, a few miles north of Fullerton. He had sent a request for help in developing a habitat project to the Norfolk office of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. The district supervisor of the Land Management Division checked the site, laid out a plan, and determined what plants and fencing materials were needed. This planning of wildlife habitat is a Game Commission service available to all Nebraska landowners. Special emphasis is given to youthful co-operators.

Bill Loseke's field project is only one of the many ways that Nebraska youth become involved in conservation education. The Game Commission's Youth Program is guiding many other youngsters through studies and projects that inspire a variety of activities. Some are simple, others are more complicated, but all are educational. The game-management practices are included mainly to teach young people how to get the best results from what they have available.

How did such youngsters as Bill Loseke get involved in habitat work? To begin with, he was studying wildlife conservation as a 4-H project. Though Bill was in a livestock club, he also enrolled in wildlife for one year. He became so interested that he continued this sideline on his own for three years and climaxed his work in 1966 with the tree planting. He got a little shove from a movie he saw at school on the bobwhite quail which stressed importance of habitat. His 4-H wildlife project books originated with the Commission, and the movie was one of many it sends to schools.

Though Bill and some other individuals have shown what they can do on their own, most of the youngsters work in groups under adult leadership. The 4-H clubs, Boy Scout troops, and nearly every other youth group are led by moms, dads, and other adults who give freely of their time. Such volunteer work is the lifeblood of a successful youth program.

Building brush piles for bunnies is one of the simple habitat projects that are well adapted to youth work. Several years ago, Boy Scout Troop 30 of Lincoln collected used Christmas trees to build a brush pile in a pasture where there was little game cover. For the rest of the winter the heavy snow surrounding the site was packed with rabbit tracks, proof that cottontails were making use of the snug cover. Other Boy Scout troops are now involved in building instant habitat with used Christmas trees while troops of the Lincoln area have used natural deadwood to develop brush piles and erosion-control structures at the Pawnee State Recreation Area near Emerald. They also added the longer-term benefit of living trees by planting pine seedlings.

Brush piles go underwater, too. Where a body of water lacks natural vegetation, fish will have very little protective cover, so submerged brush piles sometimes offer the only solution. In 1966, the FFA Chapter of Superior took part in an interstate co-operative project with the Kansas Fish and Game Commission to 48 NEBRASKAland

Many school groups are active, but most of the teachers are volunteers, because conservation is not a required subject in Nebraska schools. The schoolteacher may take up the subject in a way that makes it look like a part of his regular job. However, it is usually his own incentive and personal interest that makes him do it. For example, FFA advisers sometimes guide chapter members to habitat work or to competition in the annual Wildlife Conservation Speaking Contest.

Michael Morton, a teacher at the Crete High School, wanted a wildlife project for his science club. The school's Vo-Ag teacher gave him some booklets on wildlife, and Morton noticed these books were printed by the Game Commission. He called on the agency for help. As a result, the club was briefed on five available projects at its next meeting. Members were soon DECEMBER, 1968 49   ready to embark on their chosen course. A farmer granted permission for the group to develop game habitat in a pasture and the club scheduled a Saturday field trip to check needs of wildlife in that area.

Their main guidance was found in the booklet, Homes for Wildlife. It is designated as Conservation Project C of the Game Commission's Youth Program. This manual discusses several ideas for improving wildlife environment. Included with the manual is a brief report for a record of accomplishments. The Crete Science Club chose an action project. Any of four other projects would have given them more classroom work.

The first two project books are much alike in general purpose. Both introduce many topics that lead to the outdoor world. The first one, designated as Project A, is under the title of Wildlife Conservation and Outdoor Recreation. Units are identified as Wildlife Management, Habitat, Sportsmanship, Camping, and others. There are 11 units in all with a section for each in the workbook. To complete the project the student has to do some classroom paper work, but he also has some other choices such as developing a conservation display, outdoor cooking, hunting, fishing, or camping.

Project B, under the title of Nature Series, has units on soils, trees, and birds. It progresses to include outdoor recreation, wildlife management, and sportsman-farmer relationships. While some units can be completed at the desk, others require fieldwork. For example, the unit on mammals requires setting simple snap traps to discover what mice and other small mammals are found in some favorite outdoor haunt. Project A or Project B serve as introductions to nature, some conservation problems, and the wonderful world of outdoor recreation.

The remaining three books are quite different. Each is highly specialized. Homes for Wildlife, Project C, calls for fieldwork in improving game habitat while D is strictly on laws and regulations which govern hunting and fishing in Nebraska. The fifth, Project E, covers hunting safety and success.

A club member working on Project D finds the title, Hunting and Fishing Laws and Regulations. As he flips through the pages, he finds nothing but questions and more questions. It is strictly bookwork, and provides none of the answers. The student must turn to the latest NEBRASKAland Hunting Guide, the Fishing Guide, and similar publications to find the right answers. The whole object is to acquaint the young sportsman with these annual guides and keep him out of legal trouble while fishing or hunting.

In Project E, Hunting Safety and Success, the youngster finds a balanced variety of activities. He discovers that he can learn hunting safety through artwork, demonstrations, discussion, and fieldwork. One objective here is to help the student prepare for safety and success on his future first hunt, even though he is still too young to shoot or carry a gun. Neither the teacher nor the student have to actually fire a gun. Thus, even the greenest instructor can complete the course without using live ammunition. An instructor with a class of older youth may add shooting to the program through his own initiative.

In Project E, youngsters learn the safety rules and are introduced to the gun and the fundamentals of shooting. They are encouraged to stage demonstrations on gun handling and to review all gun accidents and then discuss the causes. They discover the importance of courtesy, sportsmanship, proper clothing, and other equipment. For more effective training, many field activities are encouraged. These include stalking of game and hunting with camera. All five books are free upon request from the Nebraska Game Commission.

Michael Morton and hundreds of other teachers like him throughout the state have their names on the mailing list for the Nebraska Wildlife Guide For Youth Leaders. This monthly publication is a source of literature and activity suggestions both within and beyond the scope of the five projects.

Other help for teachers comes from youth-program personnel who can introduce the projects to the clubs and classes in person. Follow-up visits keep the action going. Most of the Game Commission personnel visit schools and clubs with programs on wildlife and other activities of the Commission. Teachers and leaders can also call for the many wildlife films that are available from the agency.

Why are such services offered? The answer is quite simple. Young people are an important part of any public, for they are the adults of tomorrow. In the years to come, the present leaders in the conservation field will be replaced by today's youth who must be equipped to meet the issues of the 1980's. How well they are prepared for these important responsibilities depends on the teachers, instructors, advisers, and leaders of the 1960's.

ROAD RANCHES WEST

party to plat the proposed route to Fort Kearny at his own expense.

The engineer and two assistants horsebacked ahead of a man with a four-mule-hitch breaking plow that furrowed a marking 180 miles west to Fort Kearny. Water crossings at Salt Creek in Lancaster County and Blue River in Seward County were filled with rocks to provide passages for both wagons and horses.

After inspection trips by Majors and two Nebraska City commissioners, also freighters, the Great Central Trail Route was publicized by iheNebraska City News as being the shortest and best road from the Missouri River to the Rocky Mountains. The newspaper pointed out that every stream was bridged, there were no fords to cross, stations en route had plenty of food, forage, and supplies, and travelers would save 50 miles.

This broad statement would not go unchallenged by Omaha and the rivalry between the towns began. The newspaper in each town devoted much space to proclaiming the assets of its respective town and route and equally decrying those of the other. In February 1861, the merchants of Nebraska City formed a Board of Trade, similar to to day's Chamber of Commerce, to keep their town in the forefront as a starting point for migration across the state.

When the second edition of the Emigrant Guide to the Rocky Mountain Gold Regions by Charles Collins, later co-owner of a store in Omaha, was published and became available in Nebraska City, the Nebraska City News promptly reprinted the author's comments on the new route to the Rocky Mountains.

Collins encouraged travel from Nebraska City because the town "possesses superior facilities as an outfitting and starting point for Pike's Peak ranches, farms and stations can be found at convenient distances; food, water, and grass can be had in abundance; corn, hay, and oats may be purchased at reasonable prices. A first-class steam ferry is in readiness at all times to carry passengers and teams at reduced rates of ferriage."

The Board of Trade realized that wherever the guide was distributed and sold in Iowa, Missouri, and points east these recommendations would be given serious consideration by prospective migrants. To supplement this guide, the Board of Trade subscribed a fund for publishing a map showing the route's advantage.

In 1862, A New Map of the Principal Routes to the Gold Regions of Colorado Territory, drawn by a civil engineer and printed by a map-publishing house in St. Louis, was ready for distribution. Presumably, the Board of Trade sent these maps east to St. Joseph, as well as giving them out in Nebraska City.

All routes leading to the junctions of the various Oregon trails and cutoff trails at Fort Kearny were marked, but the Great Central Trail Route starting at Nebraska City was listed as having "every stream bridged no fords no ferries" in contrast to the route from Omaha with two fording points and two ferries.

From Nebraska City to Fort Kearny, and on the Oregon Trail to the present-day border of Colorado, only 28 road ranches were listed as being in operation. Those owned by former residents of Nebraska City, or owned by those who once worked for Russell, Majors and Waddell, and ranchers dealing mainly with the Nebraska City bank, mercantile firms, and freighting companies were publicized on the map. Owners who did business with or were connected with Omaha interests were not listed, although they had trail-side ranches.

Road ranches were a natural outgrowth of the enormous traffic along the trail, for the travelers had to have certain accommodations. Many owners of road ranches made quick fortunes.

These trail stops ranged from a lone log cabin with a sparse supply of merchandise, a well, or a stand of timber, to large spreads having a saloon-mercantile store, a blacksmith shop, post office, and stables large enough to hold as many as 200 horses and mules that were used for trade, rented, or sold to emigrant and freighter trains. Some of these stables were located above ground, others below. Many places had "pilgrim" rooms where travelers could bed down.

Wilson's Bridge, nine miles east of Nebraska City and near the present town of Dunbar, had first listing on the new route. Wilson had a small operation, but wagon trains and travelers getting a late start often spent the night at his place. Second stop, near the present town of Syracuse, was Brownell's "where good camp grounds and a blacksmith shop" were available. Some 12 miles west, not far south of the "great salt basin", now the Capitol Beach area of Lincoln, was the little village of Olatha. Its ranch offered salt and forage for sale.

Near the French settlement of Beranger at the east fork of the Blue River and south of Milford was Viliquain's ranch, a former fur-trading post, which offered both good campgrounds and supplies. Davidson and Goodwin's spread was nine miles west and offered only wood and forage.

Some 60 miles would be traveled before Bissell's place came into view. It was located where the trail started to parallel the south bank of the Platte River not far from Grand Island. At 10-mile intervals came 3 ranches, Henchman, St. Louis, and Platte Valley before Kearny City near the fort was reached.

As most of its buildings were built of sod, this town was dubbed both "Adobe Town" and "Dobytown" by the freighters. This town came into being when citizens of a nearby village called Central City learned the new trail would bypass their town, so they deserted the place for a new site on the route. At one time, Kearny City was large enough to have a city government and was well supplied with saloons, dance halls, gambling parlors, and a boarding ranch.

One early traveler recalled that "no small number of difficulties were adjusted with powder and lead in the city 52 NEBRASKAland and the suburbs instead of by the more tedious formality of doubtful law of the territory. The soldiers, quartered at the post, drank their whiskey there, ox and mule drivers stopped to get their fill of Tanglefoot'. Much thieving took place in the vicinity. Often stage drivers, freighters, or travelers spending the night would be drugged, robbed, and many times were unable to continue en route the next morning." Kearny City died with the advent of the Union Pacific Railroad.

Those who didn't like the atmosphere of Dobytown could go three miles west to Thomas Keeler's place. This road ranch provided forage and provisions instead of thrills. If full supplies were needed they were available at George Biddleman's three miles farther on. A 20-mile trek brought trains and travelers to James Parson's ranch where provisions were sold and where John Sharp had a blacksmith shop. Next were two ranches designated as Smith's East and West before Jeremiah and John Gilman's place, located 14 miles east of Cottonwood Springs, was reached.

The Gilman brothers, residents of Nebraska City in 1859, left the town and were on their way to the gold fields when their wagon broke down on the trail. Noticing the heavy traffic, the brothers decided to start a road ranch near the spot. The canny Scot, Charles McDonald, was their neighbor at Cottonwood Springs where everything from pink ribbon, choice rye whiskey, and stock were sold. McDonald later became the post sutler at Fort McPherson, moved to North Platte where he opened a bank, and in later years give financial advice to Colonel William F. Cody.

The next ranch, 12 miles from Cottonwood Springs, was situated at the junction of the north and south forks of the Platte River. This outfit was owned by Jack Morrow, said to be a great trader who stood in well with the Indians and was the shrewdest and best poker player on the Overland Route. He was one of the cattle kings of the great Platte Valley. Morrow made a fortune which he later took to Omaha and lost.

Past Morrow's and 10 miles west was Bishof brothers' spread. The Bishofs were former residents of Nebraska City as were the Williams brothers, Robert and William C, located five miles west at O'Fallon's Bluff, who had as their neighbor five miles west, Jerome Dauchy. A former wagon master for Russell, Majors and Waddell, Dauchy operated this ranch profitably until he sold out and bought a big spread in Frontier County. Charley Walker's, Lone Tree Ranch, and Baker's spreads brought wagon trains and travelers to the boundary of the Colorado territory.

Alexander Majors' faith in the Nebraska City-Fort Kearny route to the gold fields brought great financial reward to him as well as to all the merchants and businessmen of Nebraska City. Until the Union Pacific made the trail obsolete in 1869, 75 percent of the freight and passenger traffic between the Missouri River and the Pacific Coast used this wheel-rutted road. Road ranches met a need and met it well. Victims of progress, they, like many other pioneer institutions, were both good and bad, but in retrospect few can deny that the road ranch had a tremendous influence on this state.

Although only traces of the Nebraska City-Fort Kearny road remain today and less than a handful of the original roadranch buildings remain intact, the new installations along the Interstate will carry on Nebraska's tradition of "welcome", and provide even better facilities for public recreation and brief relaxation than did the rough-and-ready waystops of long ago.

64,631 ACRES OF PONDS

bass came up, inhaled the lure, shook like a shimmy dancer, and dived when he felt the barbs. The Bloomfield man underestimated his adversary. He horsed him and the fish, bigger than he looked, got stubborn. He sliced sideways, jumped, and then reversed toward the center of the pond. Fish and plug soon parted company.

"Rascal was bigger than I thought. Got careless and he took me," he complained.

Darrell and Clyde fished steadily, but the bass weren't buying. Finally, Darrell gave up.

"This pond get much pressure?" he asked.

"Quite a lot."

"That may be the trouble. Under the best of conditions a pond produces about 60 pounds of bass per acre. But let's say this one will run 40 pounds. That's roughly 200 pounds offish. Subtract the poundage of the little ones that make up a third of the fish population and that leaves 130 pounds of keepers. If anglers have taken 50 to 60 bass in the 2 to 2 1/2-pound class, there aren't a whole lot of good fish left in here. Next year, some of today's little fellows will be bigger and the fishing will be pretty good again," the biologist explained.

Clyde chimed in about the abundance of natural food. "There are frogs, dragonflies, grasshoppers, and a batch of little fish in here. The bass aren't what you could call ravenous by any means."

The fisheries man agreed, but he pointed out that bass often strike a lure from anger rather than hunger.

Max and Clyde had two other ponds on their morning list. Neither was very big. The first, larger than its neighbor, didn't pay off, but the smaller one did. Max switched to a bucktail spinner and took three bass in short order, the biggest about 2 1/2 pounds. Darrell had an explanation for this seeming paradox:

"The bigger pond gets more fishing pressure and may be a little shy of good fish right now. The smaller pond is probably overlooked because it is so small and harder to reach. The bigger bass in it are competing for food and are probably a bit hungry as well as less sophisticated. Besides, the water is very low. It's like piling food on a table; there's only so much space available. When the water is low, there isn't a whole lot of room for natural food and when it's up for grabs somebody goes without."

Max released his catch. He takes about 500 good bass every year from 15 or 20 ponds he has on his list, so he wasn't fish hungry. An ardent experimenter with various lures, Max has found that spinners, flatfish, and colorful top-water lures are his most consistent fish getters. He doesn't ignore the plastic worm, but he believes it is more of a specialty lure than a meat-and-potatoes come-on.

Clyde was interested in the Game Commission's stocking program and on the ride back for lunch, he questioned Darrell.

"We have certain requirements. A pond that is less than five acres must be partially or completely fenced to prevent too much muddying up by cattle. A pond must be at least one-half acre in surface size and one quarter of it must be 10 or more feet deep. We usually stock 100 bluegill, 100 bass, and 100 channel catfish to the acre. Sometimes we add 100 minnows for forage," the fisheries man replied.

"These stockers are fingerlings?"

"Not what you call fingerlings. There is a layman's misconception of this term. Our fingerling is a fish who has absorbed his yolk sac and is taking natural food. Your fingerling, three inches long or so, is our sub-adult. Bass released in a farm pond as our fingerlings should reach 10 inches their first year. After that growth slows a little, but a fish never stops growing as long as he has enough food. Take a stunted fish out of his environment and put him where food is abundant and he'll start growing again."

Max was interested in the bass-bluegill combination.

"Theoretically, some of the bass eat the bluegill and some of the bluegill eat the bass and the survivors are supposed to get fat, but it doesn't always work that way. Bluegills are prolific spawners and after a year or so, they begin to dominate a pond. Ideally, fishermen ought to take four pounds of bluegill for every pound of bass to keep a pond in balance, but they don't," Darrell said.

The Bloomfield pair had three ponds lined up for the afternoon. Darrell soon proved that he could rod it with the best of them. He stuck to a double spinner with a trailing bucktail and he fished it fast along the edges of the ponds. Using his knowledge of bass haunts, Darrell took his limit of 10, most of which he released. A small and weedy pond proved the best producer to support his morning statement of little ponds and more competition. Max added four more to his total, but Clyde was having an off day. Finally, he gave up trying to entice bass and hauled out a light fly rod and some popping bugs to work on the bluegill.

"I've been fishing for about seven years, but I still can't consistently out-guess bass. Reckon you have to have the knack," he sighed.

"You've taken some good ones in the past, though. Everybody has a bad day once in awhile," his partner consoled him.

As the trio fished, Darrell continued to expand on his favorite subject, farm pond management. He pointed out that the terrain in northeastern Nebraska is well suited for pond construction.

"These canyons are relatively easy to plug and the surrounding hills provide good run-off sources. Springs and creeks also help to fill the ponds," he explained.

"An active Soil Conservation Service helps, too," Max added. "I'm on the county board and I know farmers are eager to put in ponds. They get some financial help from the federal government, but even if they didn't, a lot of people would do it on their own."

Clyde wanted to clear up a legal point. "If the farmer puts in a pond and your outfit stocks it, is it open to public fishing?"

"No. The owner retains control and can allow or deny public access to his pond. However, most pond owners are very good. If you ask permission and introduce yourself, 9 out of 10 times you get a go-ahead," the biologist answered.

Darrell went on to explain that after a pond is built, the owner can contact the Game Commission about stocking. If after inspection, the pond meets the requirements, the Commission will stock it. In 1966, the agency received 313 requests for stocking and filled 208. A total of 204,355 fingerlings were released in these new homes. Besides stocking, the Commission will help renovate ponds and give technical help to the owner.

The fisheries man had a representative anecdote about one of the more popular misconceptions about fish and water:

"I have a relative who is a fine farmer. He watches his land and he's careful not to overburden it beyond capacity, but he doesn't think that water has a productive limit, too. He continually stocked fish in his pond until they were practically fin to fin. After I talked him into renovating it, we removed carp that were four to five years old and thinner than darts. Fish have to have room to grow, but a lot of people don't realize this important aspect of pond management."

The three men hadn't had a great day, but they had had some fun and relaxation and gained an insight into the work that goes into Nebraska's fisheries-management program. None of their bass were big, but they were scrappy and just persnickety enough to be challenging. Even Clyde, whose day had been sour, was satisfied.

MONGREL WITH

hat. Going to a gun rack, he selected an ancient 20-gauge double and announced that he was ready.

"Just a minute, Harlan," I interjected. "I want to see that bird dog. Chuck has been ranting about her all the way down."

"You already have," was the surprising answer.

"You mean--------?"

"That's the one."

I looked around for Chuck, but he was already in the car. Herb shrugged as if to say, "We have been had."

Harlan whistled and Queenie Pup made the truck bed in one leap. She huddled behind the cab to get out of the wind and I squeezed in with our host. Chuck and Herb followed in the station wagon.

"There's a little draw east of the house that holds a covey. We'll try that first. I heard some shooting there late yesterday afternoon and perhaps the covey didn't reassemble, but it's worth a chance," Harlan explained.

Chuck and our host took the sides of the draw, while Herb and I stood on its near edge to watch. Queenie worked the bottom, but didn't show enthusiasm.

The boys hunted out the little area without moving a bird, and were working back when a bobwhite came out of nowhere, zipped by us and headed toward the approaching hunters. He saw them and banked to the right. I marked him down and shouted to the hunters. They couldn't distinguish my words against the wind, but they heard me and followed my pointing finger.

Holding their shotguns at high port, they moved in with Queenie Pup a few paces in front. Suddenly, the dog dropped her nonchalance and stiff-legged it toward a scattering of goldenrod. The bob lifted with a rush, leaving a miniature whirlwind of snow in his wake. The dog, jaws wide and front legs flailing, launched at the same instant. The bob didn't have a chance as Queenie Pup scooped him up like a star infielder backhanding a line drive.

After assembling at the cars, Harlan decided against more hunting there.

"I don't think the covey reassembled after last night. That one may have been trying to join others, but we could waste a lot of time looking for them. Let's try a hedgerow over north."

As we drove to the new spot, Harlan backgrounded his unusual dog. She came to his farm as a starveling stray about eight years ago. After getting some meat on her bones, she displayed a natural instinct to hunt birds. She never had any training and the only thing Harlan did was break her from working too far ahead. Retrieving was her second nature.

Several years ago, Harlan was field dressing quail and tossing the heads aside as he worked. He didn't notice Queenie gobbling them up and when he did, he was afraid she would start eating birds, but she didn't, so he got in the 54 NEBRASKAland habit of giving her the heads as a reward for her work. Now, she expects them. Before our day ended, the mongrel retrieved a lot of bobs and never crunched one, but she made it mighty plain she wanted the heads.

The hedgerow was a long one, so Herb and Chuck took Sugar and drove to the far end, while Harlan and I came in from the other. We made less than a hundred yards when Queenie Pup started circling a little hummock. Each round was tighter and tighter until she was practically chasing her own tail.

"What's the matter with that dog?" I asked. "Is she having a fit?"

"Watch it!" Harlan replied. "Something's going to pop."

Four bobwhites buzzed out practically under the dog. She leaped for one, but missed as he winged straight away. I found him over the muzzles of my 20-gauge and slapped the trigger. Killed on the wing, the bob cartwheeled into the snow and out of sight. Queenie went over, nosed in the white covering, and came up with the bird, a fine, plump male. We were admiring him when we heard four shots in the distance, an interval, and then two more.

"They spooked the covey. Let's work in and keep the birds between us," Harlan decided. "I see you are using a 20-gauge; that your quail gun or everyday gun?"

"Everyday gun," I replied. "Herb and I use double 20's for everything but geese. Chuck is also a 20 man, but he's beyond the pale. He shoots an auto-loader and shouldn't be allowed to associate with real double-barreled quail hunters."

Harlan picked up a single from the escaped birds as we pinched in toward our companions, and I missed one that Queenie Pup literally unscrewed from a clump of brome.

Chuck and Herb hadn't worked the scattered covey after flushing it. Each had taken two birds on the rise, and wanted to dope out a campaign before going after the survivors.

"There were about 15 birds in that covey," Chuck related. "It flushed pretty far ahead of Sugar, and we had to do a little barrel stretching to scratch them down. I was waiting for the golden to retrieve when a darn bird spurted out to my right. He surprised me so, I missed him, two shots clean."

"Our four must have been a leak off from the main bunch. Let's pick up a single apiece and then go after that covey in the shelterbelt," Harlan suggested.

We followed the plan and when we finished up, each of us had added another bird to our totals.

I got a good chance to study Queenie Pup on that foray, and the more I watched her, the more she impressed me. She was no stylist, but she had rare bird sense. Ranging a few yards ahead, she quartered the area at a fast walk, pausing at intervals to see if we were close. She had an instinctive knowledge of cover. Every clump or tangle that could possibly conceal a bird got a thorough investigation while barren areas were ignored.

When she scented a bob, she would stop, wag her stub tail, and then start a wide circle. She would make one complete revolution, hesitate, and then start another round. Each round was tighter until she was practically over the bob. At the flush, she would snap at the bird and wait for the shot.

Once I tried to fool her. A single had flushed wild, but I had marked his takeoff, and knew the scent would be hanging, so I had Harlan guide his dog to the spot and encourage her to hunt it out. Queenie Pup took a couple of perfunctory sniffs, looked at me, curled her lip, and went back to work.

During our pass Chuck's bird had fallen well out, but at Harlan's command, the mongrel went straight out until she heard her master's, "Whoa." She looked back once, and started quartering at the wave of his arm. It took her a few minutes to scent the dead bird, but she found him, and brought him back without any more help from her boss.

For a dog that had no training, she was remarkably well behaved and obedient. A soft word or a wave were all the controls she needed. Queenie Pup was definitely a loner, but she didn't show any jealousy toward Sugar. You could almost hear her tell the other dog:

"You work your side of the covers, sister, and I'll work mine."

With half our limits in our pockets, we hustled back to the cars, glad to get out of the bone-chilling cold for a few minutes. After coffee and a chance to thaw out, we headed for the shelterbelt.

"That circling bit is sure different," I said, as we drove around the section. "Where did she ever get that habit?"

"She has always done it on quail. Pheasants she runs, but not too fast, and when I see her hit a line, I try to corner in and get the bird into the air. Oddly enough, Queenie will point rabbits, but she does it with a sort of what-have-I-here attitude. She catches 10 to 12 quail a season with that leap of hers," Harlan answered.

The covey in the shelterbelt didn't hold. It flushed out of range and settled into a pocket on a distant slope. As we walked toward the spot, I looked around. It was ideal country for quail. The fields were slightly rolling with a good mixture of grazing and farmland and laced with little erosion draws, weedy hedgerows, and some timbered stream courses. Quail had the food, cover, and water they needed, and I wasn't too surprised when Harlan told me that on good years, he had about 10 coveys to a section.

The shelterbelt covey contained about 12 birds, so we weren't really ready for the cloud of bobs that bailed out of the pocket. Herb nailed one that flared to the right, while Chuck took one for three. Harlan didn't shoot, and I held up until a straggler spurted out. It took the second barrel to wing him, but Queenie Pup nosed out and brought the cripple in.

"Two coveys," Harlan decided. "One was already sheltered up in the pocket and the others dropped in on them. They held together pretty well and landed in that far hedge. Let's go."

I expected the bobs to be in the thick stuff, but Chuck disagreed. He claimed the birds would fly through the trees and settle in the brome grass on the far side. Events proved him right. Both coveys had fanned out into the brome.

Sugar and Queenie had a ball working out the birds as we took turns shooting. The golden would lock on a bob and Chuck would step up and down him. Then it would be Herb's turn. My shooting tightened up and I ran three straight to limit out. After I filled, Harlan moved in and took his remaining 3 birds in less than 10 minutes. The shooting was routine with the real thrill coming in watching Queenie circle a hidden bird and finally auger him into the air. When it was over, we were all done except Herb. He had missed his sixth bird, but marked him down in a thicket of volunteer evergreens on the lee side of a little knoll.

It was getting colder by the hour, so we decided to try for the single and call it a day. A discarded tire lay on the fringe of the pines, but we ignored it as we stomped the clump, expecting the bird at any second. The dogs didn't show much, and we were about to give up when Queenie and Sugar converged on the tire. The dogs acted birdy, so Herb got down and looked inside. The bob almost took the hunter's hat off as he exploded from the dark interior. Somehow, Herb pulled himself together, swung on the fleeing bird, and scratched him down to finish out.

It was all but over as we hurried back to the cars and their welcome warmth, but Queenie Pup and Sugar weren't done. They showed an interest in a weedy fencerow as we crosslotted back.

"Pheasant," Chuck surmised, watching the two dogs.

We spread out, our numbness forgotten in anticipation. Two roosters squawked up and took divergent paths. I didn't hear Harlan shoot and he didn't hear me, but one rooster got the message. He hit like a gaudy rock. A second later, Herb and Chuck cut loose at their bird and I saw him tumble, well racked up by a double charge of No. 8's.

We were almost back to Harlan's home when I thought of something.

"Say, Harlan, suppose you limit out on quail, and then Queenie catches one like this morning. What do you do?"

"Never happens," the young man grinned. "Queenie can count to six." I'm not so sure she can't.

MIDDLE OF AN ISLAND

across the lake to the cloud-shrouded bluffs of the mainland.

The sputter of a boat broke the miserable silence. Lou, John, and Gary had come out to probably inter my remains.

"Look! He's alive," John shrieked. Then the trio burst into laughter.

Camera-laden, Lou stumbled about.

"It rained all day yesterday and all last night, too," he puffed.

"I'm plenty glad to hear that, me being a shut-in and all," was my quick reply.

Lou snickered and bent to his picture making. Then he laughed and said I was in luck because the forecast called for partial cloudiness and more rain.

The company didn't last long, and far too soon I was waving my arm off as the three men and their boat disappeared. I checked my lines several times that day, but didn't catch any more fish. In between, I sat in the shelter when it rained hard and slopped out during the lighter drizzles to poke around the vicinity. What a slow day! My favorite project was carving my name and the year into a dead cotton wood tree. Each letter and number required several minutes of work, but it helped eat up the clock. My mind wandered in circles and I was intensely bored and fidgety.

At sundown, the rain stopped and the wind lessened, so I fetched some water and put it in my little pan and then hung it over the fire. After it came to a boil I poured it into my near-empty canteen.

Night came terribly slow, but on its arrival I built up the fire and crawled into the sleeping bag. The previous night I must have slept a minimum of 10 hours, so I knew sleeping would be tough. It finally came, but throughout the night I roused up and lay awake for long intervals on my damp-ground mattress.

The next morning was much like the previous one, only I was even more hungry and was suffering from my cold. I took a long drink of the flat-tasting water and shuffled around to build a fire.

Another meal of rose hips didn't sound so good, so I raced down to check the fishlines. The first line produced nil and the other looked limp. I started dragging it ashore and after a few feet the line went tight. I yelled in delight. My hopes for a catfish went glimmering, however, as a flopping carp came over the ragged driftwood. I sighed, but a fish is a fish, and a fish is food.

It must have been around 10 or 11 a.m. when a near miracle happened. The clouds broke and the sun flushed the area with golden light. After two days of darkness, I could see, I could really see. The bluffs on the Nebraska side of the reservoir were beautiful in their coats of crimson sumac and multi-colored oaks and cotton woods. I sang a little tune and worked on my wood carving. Later, I cut some sumac, sunflowers, and goldenrod and arranged a bouquet. Lou and John showed up an hour or so later.

Lou began his picture taking immediately, but I made long stalls and pauses. However, it didn't take him long to catch on that these were ruses to keep him for company. He bared his fangs, so I admitted the misdemeanors and picked up the pace. Lou clicked a lot of pictures and then he and his pilot were on their way. Once offshore they yelled they would stage a rescue act the next afternoon.

The boat was soon out of sight. Alone again, I checked the lines, then worked on the old tree. Time stood still. After some 60 hours of isolation and confinement, I wondered if perhaps I wasn't cracking up. My thinking always seemed negative, and I couldn't ease my mind.

Finally after what seemed like infinity, dusk came. The wind died completely and the dark clouds hung over my island. I built up the fire, took a long drink of water, and choked down a few rose hips before retiring. My eyes wouldn't close. More negative thinking set in. A plank I had put on the fire was creosoted and the inky substance bubbled and spurted in the flames. I watched the flames jumping and imagined that each was trying to be a rebel among its companions.

Then a brainstorm hit. I can watch television for hours, so why not pretend? Executing this thought, I switched channels and watched a psychedelic commercial, and then viewed the first television showing of Dante's Inferno. The show was good, but the screen was jumpy. Laughing, I bet myself no other castaway ever had color television.

Sometime later I fell asleep. Suddenly, my eyes popped wide open and my ears perked to attention. From the pitch blackness outside my dwelling came the eerie sound of a huge splash, followed by a weird moaning and groaning. Ten years of my life went on their way as I tried to identify the horrific noises. Another scary splash brought me to a sitting position. More lamentations came from the inky darkness. In my imagination I knew someone was being tortured. I fumbled frantically for the hand ax and knife, then sprang from my bed. In seconds, I had a fire blazing, but the dark- ness wasn't penetrable.

Garbed in boots and shorts and holding the ax in one hand and the knife in the other, I stood there ready for anything. The moaning came again, but now it sounded more like the common sounds of nature. Refueling the fire, I squirmed back into the bedroll. Chances of sleeping were slim, but I tried to calm myself by saying it was nothing.

Hiding my head, I started more negative thinking which led to more and more frightful thoughts. My throat screamed for decent water and my stomach clawed its walls for food.

I was dressed and sitting by a crackling fire when the sun rose. It was really a unique sight. However, it didn't last long as a thick-as-pudding fog rolled in. Taking my ax, I went to seek the tortured man of the night before. After several minutes of investigation I came up with the answer to my night of horror. The groaning and moaning were caused by driftwood rubbing together, and the splashes were the caving banks as the water worked to erase Sand Island.

Around noon the sun conquered the fog and the day turned out to be the nicest one of my entire stay. Nice because I was to leave. The lake reacted normally to the day's gentle breeze. I prayed for the weather to hold and the wind to stay down. If the water got too rough my rescue might be delayed.

I dismantled the shelter and readied my gear for the voyage into civilization. Sand Island had plenty of castaway insects, so I collapsed on a grassy slope and counted spiders and ants to pass the time. I started thinking about my stay on this island, its confinement, the hunger and thirst, my grubby body, and the cold I had caught. They were all miserable thoughts. Only a few miles from the most affluent society ever established, I stood helpless and meaningless against nature. All the money, positions, titles, and everything else coveted on the mainland were useless to me. Here, a million dollars wouldn't buy a minute's comfort.

However, the more I thought about all the discomforts Sand Island afforded the more I realized that in reality it was quite comfortable. Here, life was down to an essential struggle between man and nature. I was hungry, but I could sustain life for a long time. Research has shown that man can survive for 11 days without water and 20 to 30 days without food. I had all the water in the world, an ample wood supply, a sleeping bag, and means to provide food. I lacked companionship and medicine for my cold, but I knew I could live for weeks and even months. Despite boredom and the monotony, I had all the ingredients for survival —the knowledge, the equipment, and the will to survive. My thoughts were interrupted by one of the swellest sounds I have ever heard. My three rescuers were in the near distance and Sand Island and I were about finished.

Less than an hour later, we landed in the Santee boat basin. By 11 p.m. I was home in Lincoln, grubby and ill-smelling, hugging my bride of four weeks. The next afternoon I was cheering the Big Red on to victory along with more than 65,000 other football fans. I was glad to be among all these people, but deep down I knew that of all those happy faces I, probably better than anyone else, knew and appreciated the tremendous advantages and the many comforts of modern living.

Where to go

A HOLE, LOCATED 2V4 miles south of Brownville, and big enough to drop the University of Nebraska's Memorial Stadium and its 65,000 screaming fans into was a 1968 feature attraction. Now being filled for construction, the big dig was excavated on the west bank of the Missouri River by Consumers Public Power District (CPPD) for the Cooper Nuclear Station.

Construction is always fascinating to watch, and sidewalk superintendents rate Cooper as one of the most interesting projects in Nebraska right now. When it begins operation in 1972, the 800,000-kilowatt nuclear-power plant will produce electricity for Nebraska and Iowa, as well as connecting with the high-voltage grid systems of seven other states and the Canadian province of Manitoba.

Named for a pioneer Nebraska family that has been active in civic, business, and electrical affairs since 1869, Cooper Nuclear Station scored a touchdown for Nebraska in the Atomic Age Bowl with the state's biggest dig ever. Excavating more than three-quarters of a million cubic yards of earth for this monstrous cavity took more than 200 men and 121 pieces of equipment — everything from giant scrapers, bulldozers, and cranes to trucks and river barges.

By now, the bulk of the dirt is back in the hole. The water table is only 10 feet below ground level, and below that unstable water-soaked soil stretches 60 feet down before reaching bedrock. To avoid any problems with settling, CPPD went all the way to that bedrock. After the dug-out dirt had dried to some extent, about 70 percent of it went back into the hole and giant vibrators compacted it to form a solid foundation that water cannot penetrate.

Excavation actually reached out into the Missouri River channel. To keep seepage and the restless river from flooding them out during construction, the crew built a spectacular sheet-metal dam around the site by driving some 4,000 tons of steel plates down to the bedrock.

The building containing the nuclear furnace with its multitude of safeguards will sit on a 10-fbot-thick slab of concrete and it will extend from 5 stories below the final ground level to a whopping 12 stories above. A smaller building will shelter the turbine and generator, and a pump house on the edge of the Missouri will bring water into the plant for the cooling step in making electricity.

Winter weather will not stop work on the nation's largest nuclear-power generating facility between the Mississippi River and the West Coast. Watching construction progress on this important addition to NEBRASKAland can be a captivating break in your routine.

And so can a visit to the Hoffmann Family Museum. To find this intriguing bit of Nebraskana, drive three miles southeast of Pierce on State Highway 13. Then turn east onto a cedar-lined half-mile road and into a lane marked by a native-granite monument to the Austrian immigrants who homesteaded there in 1871.

The pioneers toil again in your imagination as you examine the laundry stove and the assortment of crockery displayed on the front lawn where two miniature windmills stand guard. One is a model of the famed Dutch worker of the wind, and the other is a familiar replica of mills found on the Great Plains.

Four members of the Hoffmann family maintain a special museum room inside their home. Pioneer kitchen utensils include hand-crank coffee mills, a hand churn with butter patter and mold, a cucumber sheer, iron and copper kettles, a silent butler, wooden-handle knives and forks, beer steins, and a wooden wine bottle. Relics from farm-butchering days include a gambrel to hang the hog, a scraper to remove the animal's hair, a meat grinder, and a sausage stuffer. Items like a trainman's red-chimneyed lantern are exhibited, too.

You are welcome to see the displays at any time. Give the Raymond Hoffmann residence, listed in the Pierce phone directory, a call to arrange a visit to this private museum. It can be entertaining, educational, and a welcome break in the monotony of winter.