WHERE THE WEST BEGINS NEBRASKAland

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

PETROGLYPH HUNTER-"In the December 1968 NEBRASKAland I read about the Indian petroglyphs (Petroglyphs, Nebraska's Primitive Art) located in the Basswood Ridge Special Use Area near Homer, Nebraska.

"I am interested in studying and photographing petroglyphs. Could you give me some information on these special-use areas as to necessary permits required and camping facilities?" — Jacqueline S. Quigley, Omaha.

The Indian petroglyphs at Basswood Ridge are accessible for viewing and photographing. We are forwarding a copy of your letter to Clayton Stallings, land management supervisor at our district office in Norfolk, for more details. While there is no camping permitted at Basswood Ridge, it is allowed at Omadi State Recreation Area, four miles northeast of Homer on U.S. Highway 73-77. No special permit is necessary to visit Basswood. It and all of our state special* use areas are open to the public unless otherwise posted. — Editor.

ARMCHAIR TOUR-"The January NEBRASKAland carries just the article I have been hoping to see, NEBRASKA land U.S.A. by Alice Weil. I made a reservation last summer for that tour then, but due to heat, health, and age I had to cancel. I was in hopes that someone would have a write-up of the trip.

"Miss Weil did a wonderful job of describing the tour. I followed every mile of the way in my armchair and enjoyed it immensely. I have been to 15 of the places where stops were made but there are others I would like to see. I first saw Fort McPherson National Cemetery in 1920.

"I shall keep this issue, and reread the article when I'm in a travel mood. I really am too old to attempt a five-day tour." —Name withheld by request.

TASTY VENISON-"Here are two tasty venison recipes:

"Salt, pepper, and flour the venison. Brown the sides in cooking oil. Add sliced onion, tomatoes, and water.

"Simmer about 45 minutes and serve with rice.

"Serves four."

Pan-fried Venison Steaks

"Pound the steaks thoroughly with a sharp-edged meat pounder. Cut into serving pieces.

"Dip steaks into cream. Dredge in the flour and brown one side in hot butter. Turn and salt and pepper to taste. Continue browning until the second side is well browned. Serve hot.

"Serves four." —Mrs. Henry Koster, Waterbury.

NO BASENJI — "In your story, Mongrel With a Method, in the December 1968 issue; who says 'mongrel'? Haven't you ever heard of the Basenji, the dog of the Pharaohs of ancient Egypt? Get a book and see if your mongrel doesn't look like a Basenji, the smartest of all dogs. Please ask her owner about this." —Mrs. A. B. Clevenger, Shubert.

Queenie Pup's ancestry is pretty clouded, but Basenji she is not. —Editor.

THE HILLS OF HOME - "This New England countryside is beautiful, but each month when NEBRASKAland arrives , we long to return to 'the hills of home'. This we shall be doing four years hence when Mr. Rowe retires. In the meantime, your wonderful magazines keep us informed on the goings-on in our home state.

"The articles are consistently good and the colored pictures are prints of beauty upon which Mr. Rowe gazes in rapture, placing himself under a cottonwood with a fish pole in his hands.

"It matters not that he owns an 18-foot cabin cruiser that takes him out to the

Boston Light where he catches whopper cod and haddock, it is the bluegill and crappie that catch his eye.

"Perhaps, living in this crowded, fast-moving area we appreciate NEBRASKAland more fully, for we can lose ourselves in the depicted peace and tranquillity of the plains states." — Mrs. W. J. Rowe, Norwell, Massachusetts.

PRODUCT OF NECESSITY - "This tall building was a product of necessity, built to accommodate guests of the Arlington Hotel in Merriman. Its only entrance was from the rear porch of the hotel. The Arlington Hotel was built in 1916 to accommodate the influx of people and workers during the Totash Boom' (which later turned out to be a big swindle.) Many of the Merriman natives and ranchers invested their hard-earned cash in the project and were swindled out of their money. The potash plant closed down in two years and every investor lost his money. The hotel went into receivership.

"In 1921, Philip Mensinger bought the hotel and moved his family to Merriman. In 1930, a modern toilet was installed in the hotel and the front and back porches of the building were enclosed. That was the year of the 'passing of the tall backhouse'. It was taken down after freezing weather for 'easy handling', and another old monument had crumbled." —Blondeil Cutcomb, Merriman.

FIRST RINGNECKS-"Are you interested in how those colorful pheasants came to Nebraska?

"The Izaac Walton Club assigned three past presidents, Fred Mockett, Edward Irvin, and Harry Mulliner (all the men have since passed on) to distribute the birds in pairs back in 1924. Each man was to drive in a different direction from Lincoln and release his first pair of pheasants 20 miles from town. They then freed the second pair after another 10 miles-how they could fly! The third pair was set free at the next 10-mile mark, and so on. Each man released five pair, cocks first."-Mrs. Harry Mulliner, Hastings.

Pheasants were introduced here in the late 1800's and early 1900's.-Editor.

FOR EACH HIS LURE

NO ONE KNOWS how long ago the first fishing lure was made, for artifacts of the ages reveal that man has long known how to catch fish on a hook. Perhaps the artificial lure was first discovered in the islands of the south Pacific when a native discarded a piece of shell and saw a fish dart from the depths and strike the flashing shell as it wobbled to the bottom, or maybe an Eskimo, using a bone hook, moved it with a jigging motion and found that a fish would hit it. From these accidental beginnings the art of making and using artificial lures has grown into both an industry and a hobby.

Man's use of tools has increased tremendously in the past 200 years, and industry has largely taken over the making of fishing lures. However, there remains in the heart of every ardent angler the urge to create the one and only fishing lure. This basic urge has brought about a growing interest in homemade tackle.

Perhaps the oldest and most popular do-it-yourself fraternity is that of the fly tiers. In recent years, however, many manufacturers have made component parts readily available for other types of lures, and fishermen are discovering they can create a variety of fish catchers on their own.

One of the popular lures used by the spinning buffs is the French and Swedish-type spinner. These lures can be made at home, for bodies are available in weights from about 1/16 to 1/4 ounce. Prices run from a nickel apiece for the small ones to about 12 cents for the 1/4-ouncers.

In addition to the body, the lure maker needs the spinner blade, wire shafts, spinner bearing, clevises to mount the blade, a split ring, and a treble hook. The cost on these parts will be about 15 cents depending on the size of body and blade. Compare this to the going retail price on these lures of 50 cents to $1, and it's obvious why many fishermen make their own.

Another popular lure that is easily made is the lead-headjig. The angler can buy all the components for these including a mold for the jig. Or, he can buy the molded product with hook and complete them by tying on bucktail or other hair bodies and 8 NEBRASKAland painting the heads. Cost on these run around 6 cents apiece for the molded bodies. If he chooses to mold his own, the fisherman will need a gang mold that sells for about $2, a pouring ladle, lead, and of course, a blowtorch or a plumber's furnace to melt the lead. The kitchen gas stove will also work. A torch or furnace can be obtained from a rental establishment at very small cost.

Along with the various sizes of jig molds there are the sinker molds for making every sinker from the tiny splitshots to the large two-ounce bell types. These molds seldom cost more than a couple of dollars, and if the fisherman is pouring lead, he can make a good supply of various jigs and sinkers in one evening.

A long-time favorite with all anglers is the spoon, and it, too, can be assembled from a selection of different blades and hooks. Most of the blades available come in a choice of three colors —silver, brass, and red and white. All the fisherman needs to do is add a split ring and a treble hook, and he has a completed lure for a cost of 15 cents.

Every angler has his favorite color in lures. To satisfy these demands, the suppliers offer a variety of colors in lacquers and enamels. There are even special finishes such as pearl and scale that can be applied to plugs, spoons, or spinners to give them an iridescent sheen.

The plug caster has not been left out by the component makers. Molded plastic bodies are available in many sizes and models. Many of these are replicas of old-time favorites, and the fisherman can buy everything from glass eyes to wiggling scoops for the front of the lures. Prices on a complete make-it-yourself plug will run from 15 to 25 cents depending on its size and amount of hardware needed. This represents a sizeable saving, for retail plugs run anywhere from 65 cents to several dollars.

If the amateur lure maker wants to start with rougher material than the precast bodies, he can pick up some 1/2 to 3/4-inch doweling material, saw it to desired lengths, and then shape the pieces into the desired plugs.

One of the earliest hobbies to attract the fisherman was the making of flies. These bits of fluff and feathers have been fooling fish for many years. Equipment needed to get started in the fly-tieing game is quite simple. A tieing vise is the first necessity, a roll of tieing thread, an assortment of feathers and hair, and a few different sizes of hooks will do as starters. The vise can also be used to tie tails on jigs. As the tier gains more confidence and attempts the more complicated flies, he will want a variety of floss and chenille for bodies, wire, and wool yarns. He will also need hackle pliers, tieing scissors, tweezers, a bodkin, and a tieing bobbin. Fly making is a fascinating hobby for young and old alike.

In recent years the rubber or plastic crawler has become a very popular and productive lure. Mold makers have even made this product available to the hobbyist. A gang mold for three crawlers costs somewhere around 50 cents. The plastic used to form the crawlers is available in many different colors and can be purchased in quantities from two ounces to a gallon or more. The fake crawler isn't the only plastic lure available. The angler can buy molds that make frogs, mice, minnows, crayfish, and many other baits.

Many sporting goods and hobby shops carry the components for fly tieing and lure making. Molds for jigs and sinkers are available from mail-order specialty shops and the larger tackle stores. Lead can be obtained from plumbing supply sources and hardware stores.

Making your own lures is not only an interesting pastime, it also generates an extra bit of pride in catching a good fish on a lure that you have made yourself.

Roundup and What to do

APRIL promenades into NEBRASKAland with a bevy of beauties and a host of activities. As the countryside emerges from the snows of winter, some of Nebraska's prettiest girls will show off their talents in beauty pageants at Kimball, Arapahoe, and Falls City. Kimball's beauty pageant runs from April 7 through 13, while Arapahoe's will be April 11. Falls City has not set a firm date.

Among Nebraska's other April beauties is this month's hostess, the former Martha Joanne Taylor, now Mrs. Ahlman. Marti, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. David Taylor of Wichita, Kansas, was second runnerup in the 1968 Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant. She and her husband are resident dormitory counselors at Concordia Teacher's College.

Marti recently finished student teaching and is now attending classes at Concordia. She was a cheerleader there for one year, and also did the choreography for an elementary laboratory school production of "The Mikado".

Before attending Concordia, she was a student of St. John's College in Winfield, Kansas. She was vice president and 4 Martha Joanne Ahlman sweetheart of Sigma Phi Mu, a member of the Religious Activities Committee, and a Demosthenian sweetheart attend ant. Her hobbies include drawing, reading, knitting, sewing, sports, and people.

Marti exemplifies the spirit of Arbor Day, April 22. Celebrated each year, Arbor Day was proclaimed a Nebraska legal holiday in 1885. It is dedicated to the planting of fruit, forest, or ornamental trees for the beautification of the state, and is observed in nearly every state and in many other countries. The tree-planting day was inspired by J. Sterling Morton, an early Nebraskan whose home, orchard, and wooded lawns at Arbor Lodge in Nebraska City are now a state historical park. A two-day observance will be held there in May.

April in Nebraska may bring showers, but rain or shine, the fishing fever reaches a virulent peak, for this is the month when nothing can equal the ecstasy of seeing a bobber dip. Even if the catch is nothing but a bullhead from an old farm pond, a boy's delight could make it a whale.

But spring brings lots of other action and entertaining surprises. The University of Nebraska Centennial Rodeo leads off the chain of under-the-sky events that become more and more exciting as spring leads into summer. And the zest of spring competition sparkles through high school invitational track meets in Arapahoe on April 12 and in Beaver City on April 17 and 18.

Thoroughbred racing which broke from the post on March 21 really hits its stride throughout April. Fonner Park in Grand Island will be the scene of silks and flashing hooves until the last day of April when the action moves to Omaha.

For those who fancy more mechanized transportation, the Omaha Civic Auditorium will host the Nebraska Motor Sports auto show on April 12 and 13.

The spirit of competition extends, too, to horse enthusiasts grooming their animals for the University of Nebraska Block and Bridle Club Quarter Horse show on April 24 and 25. And beeves will be pushed to achieve that championship sparkle for an April 19 showing at the Blue Valley Beef Revue in Fairbury.

For those rainy April days when outdoor activities lull, there are indoor events to pick up the slack. For color and action on dependable indoor ice the Ice Follies in Omaha, April 8 through 13, rate top billing. Graceful figure eights and smooth waltzes will be the simplest routines in this intricate show of skill with the flashing silver blades.

Bright lights, strange animals, and funny-looking men with painted faces herald the coming of another major attraction to the Nebraska scene —the Shrine Circus. The circus will invade Omaha on April 21 and will reign for six days. Complete with a daring young man on the flying trapeze, the circus will feature high-wire artists and color, color, color.

Human voices and man-made instruments will combine their songs with those of the springtime birds in a variety of concerts. Beginning on April 1 with the University of Nebraska Faculty Chamber Music Concert, the sound of music will continue through the month. The University Varsity Glee Club Concert and the University Choir Easter Concert will present a double portion of delightful sound on April 3. On the same day a community concert in Hastings will be giving forth with great music. High school bands will be in the swing, too, with an All Schools Band Night in Fremont on April 11. Eight nights later, the Jazz Trio will perform in Nebraska City. April's potpourri of melody will reach a climax on April 29 when the University of Nebraska's Madrigal Singers present their concert.

The sound of music, the beauty of sleek animals, and the thrill of a nibbling fish combine with the grace of strong young athletes and the attractiveness of lithesome queens to make April an interesting and exciting month.

MUD NIGHT AT HARLAN

THREE OF US were outboarding across Harlan County Reservoir on Saturday morning in April of 1965. We were bound for Prairie Dog Bay at the opposite end of the lake to meet the rest of the guys for our annual all-night fishing party.

I knew full speed was necessary to get there on time, but the other fellows kept nagging me to slow down so they could troll. Eventually, about 2 p.m., we arrived and were greeted with glares rather than cheers from our other seven companions. While I was busy blaming the other two guys for our being late, three of the "shore birds" clambered into the boat with my companions and left.

The rest of us fished from the bank and kept busy replacing lures lost in the underwater tangles which thrived a few yards out.

Almost by the minute the wind grew stronger and the light weaker, but about 6 p.m. the boys in the boat got a change of luck. We saw the craft traveling the same path time and again, only about a hundred yards each trip, and could see that each pass was producing several big walleye. There was my boat being filled with fish and I wasn't there. After more than an hour the boaters came in and showed us a whole batch of two and three-pound walleye.

By that time every one was starving, but it was agreed to clean the fish before eating. By the time we finished that chore, though, the sky was really grim so we started cramming belongings into the cars. Just as we were about to drag the boat from the water the first drops of cold rain fell. The scurrying about in the next few minutes was right out of the Keystone Cops. Sizzling hot charcoal broilers, half-cooked food, and fishing gear bristling with hooks were stuffed into the vehicles.

Our camp was more than a mile from the road, if the crevice-filled trail up and down the steep hills could be called a road. Anyone familiar with Harlan knows that its clay becomes the slimyest concoction imaginable when wet. Well, the ground was completely soaked long before we got across the field. We had no more chance of getting out of there than driving across the lake itself.

My old beater was first in line and I made it down the first hill and nearly to the top of the second. Then my rig slithered into the ditch. Not far behind, three more cars followed suit. Luckily, the last car in the convoy was able to slide to a stop near the center of the narrow lane. The rain was coming down in layers by then, but we all got outside to survey the situation. It was almost impos sible to stand up, for even standing still we would slide downhill.

There we were, a bunch of shivering wet lumps huddled out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. All we could do for a while was complain and feel sorry for ourselves. Then we figured that doing anything constructive might help. Our only hope was the car still on the road. It was a station wagon and was complete with chains. Someone volunteered to put them on, and his fumbling, slippery fingers finally succeeded. We were all soaked, muddy, and shivering by then and must have looked like a hippie dance group rehearsing.

Whenever the rain got so bad we couldn't stand it, we crawled inside the car. After warming up a bit, it was back outside. With the chains on, our real suffering began. Slowly the station wagon ground up the hill with one guy driving and nine guys pushing, cursing, stumbling, and being dragged along behind. It was just like one of those weird nightmares where you can't catch up. Our efforts seemed endless and pointless.

Even downhill we had to push. Going down we shoved on the sides of the wagon to keep it on the road. Not one or two, but nine steep, torturous hills stood between us and gravel, and they were almost straight up and down. Everyone looked and felt miserable and pathetic-soaking wet, cold, panting, and covered with mud. Gradually, though, we were gaining and saw a possible end to our troubles. A couple fellows dropped from exhaustion and we dumped them in the rig. The others were too winded to gripe. Somehow we reached the corner where the gravel started, and it was the most welcome spot in the world to us. A few more miles and there was Nebraska Highway 183. Joyfully the chains were jerked off and toward Holdrege we went. That station wagon was brimful with our muddy carcasses, but it won high respect after that night's work.

It was well after 2 a.m. when the driver delivered us at our homes. The next day, much as we dreaded to, wfe returned to Harlan to extricate the other cars. That was done without a bit of trouble on the dry clay. Memory of that terrible night has gradually dimmed, but it will never be completely forgotten by any of us. Certainly the experience helped turn me into a fair-weather fisherman who knows enough to get in out of the rain —at least when I am in the clay hills around Harlan Reservoir.

The Palmetto Flag Incident

WHEN RESIDENTS spotted what appeared to be the South Carolina state flag waving from the top of the Nebraska City blockhouse one morning in 1861, they did more than a double take. Dixie influence was not too strong in the river town, especially after news arrived in April 1861 that Fort Sumter had been fired upon to start the Civil War. So when this cloth of Southern glory with a green palmetto emblem was seen snapping in the Nebraska wind, the crowd retaliated. The infuriated people ripped the flag, down, trampled it underfoot, and then tore it to shreds. But even this desecration did not satisfy the aroused citizenry, and shouts to hang the traitor in their midst rang out loudly.

Anyone really familiar with the official flag of South Carolina would have known the banner was a hoax. South Carolina's flag carries a white palmetto and a white crescent on a blue background, a design that was adopted around the time of the Revolutionary War. The Nebraska City version had a green tree and a motto (Continued on page 50)

WHO SAID JACKS ARE EASY?

FOR MOST OUTDOORSMEN the end of pheasant season is the end of hunting until the next fall. But, my brother, Bill, and I recently rediscovered a way to enjoy year-around big-game hunting thrills on a small-game quarry. While most men are whiling away winter and early spring weekends preparing gear for fishing season, we hunt jackrabbits with our .22's.

Hunting jacks with a rifle is as old as the first guns in the West. The jackrabbit, like the coyote, is a native Nebraska varment who has survived not because of but in spite of man. The hefty hares were a ready means of food in hard times and were once so numerous that roundups were held to curb their populations. In fact, Bill tells about an old-time roundup near Benkelman where clubs and shotguns were used to kill over a truckload of rabbits.

Both of us live in Benkelman in southwestern Nebraska, and our rediscovery of this aged sport came about at a mid-January tale-swapping session about past jackrabbit hunts. Our "Do-you-remember?" talk kindled anxious plans for a go at the hares on Bill's next day off as an appliance repairman. I own a service station, but my hired hand could handle the station while I took a day for hunting. Locals claimed that the jackrabbit population was down in our area and checking further into the matter, I learned that jack numbers were low over most of the state. Jackrabbit populations fluctuate in cycles of 5 to 10 years and evidently the state is in a down trend.

Shooting jacks with shotguns would take the sport out of the hunt, so Bill and I selected iron-sighted, autoloading .22's. By listening to talk at the station, I found out about a couple of jackrabbit haunts. Our first stop would be at a farm just north of the Nebraska-Kansas line and the next at a stretch of pasture just west of Benkelman. I had seen jacks at my father-inlaw's place north of Parks, and I wanted to try it.

"There were at least 20 rabbits feeding in the corn next to our lane just a few nights ago," the landowner's wife informed us when I confirmed our permission to hunt. "I don't know the best place to find them during the day, but sagebrush borders the corn."

The sage pasture sounded like a jackrabbit haven. Bill shoved a clip of long-rifle hollow points into his .22 as he surveyed the rolling expanse. Spreading out, we wandered over a series of hills without jumping a rabbit. Coyote tracks and rabbit sign were the only evidence that wildlife even existed in the hills, until a grouse spooked nearby.

"If there were rabbits feeding in the corn, then we should be able to scare up one," I muttered as we headed back to the truck.

Two rooster and three hen pheasants spooked in front of the truck as I drove along the edge of the cut corn. A cottontail, sitting next to a trash dump, skipped into hiding when Bill and I scrambled out of the truck for a shot. We banged and prodded around in the trash but the rabbit stayed in his fortress.

Although we didn't fire a shot, the jack's distant "cousin" had renewed our fast-draining enthusiasm. We decided to hunt a weed and corn patch south of the farmhouse. Dense weeds and muddy ground made the going tough. A covey of quail rocketed out of the corn within easy shotgun range and Bill helplessly watched them disappear over a hill.

"I think we are rabbit jinxed, here," Bill said as he climbed back in the truck. "We might as well head to our second alternative."

So far, this wasn't the sort of hunt we had imag ined. Earlier we were worrying about whether or not we could still hit a jack with a .22. Now, we were wondering if we would even get a chance to miss one. By the time we reached the sagebrushed hills, valleys, and ravines of our next stop, I was more discouraged than encouraged. As I wheeled through the pasture, a jack jumped out of his sagebrush cover and pranced over a hill. Many times a jack will run just over a crest and stop, so I braked to a halt. There was a chance he was peeking at us from behind some brush.

I was still fumbling with my rifle when another hare bounced out of hiding. Bill's .22 came up as the jack made a right-angle turn and I saw him touch the trigger. The gun misfired. The crossing shot looked easier than picking off lead targets at a shooting gallery, but Bill couldn't chamber another shell before the rabbit disappeared. Neither of us had fired, but the jacks renewed our optimism.

As we ambled up a hill a jack showed us why they are called fast, frisky, and elusive targets. A rabbit, with ears resembling two black-tipped feathers on an Indian headdress, busted out. I pulled down on him and fired two missing shots before he vanished over a hill.

"At least the ice is broken," I laughed.

Bill and I parted company, because we had acres of sage to work. In the distance, I heard three shots. When Bill appeared on top of a hill without a rabbit I knew he, too, had missed. Although I am no game biologist, I am more than an outdoor tenderfoot and I knew a little about jackrabbit habits and how to rec ognize clues to their possible whereabouts. Jacks will twist and scratch out shallow nests and I had already spotted two of these forms. Droppings also indicated there had to be several rabbits in the area.

As I watched the ground for rabbit sign, a hidden jack suddenly straightened (Continued on page 51)

THIS OLD FARHOUSE

IT'S EMPTY NOW, void of life, and sound, and warmth, and happiness, but filled to the eaves with memories of all these things. The sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh Nebraska landscape is dotted here and there with mute testimonies of man's intransigence — abandoned farm homes.

At first glance, these old homes elicit a feeling of remorse. They seem to symbolize a struggle with the land and weather that ended in defeat. That may be the history of some, for it has never been easy to wrest a living from the soil. But many of the weathered and perhaps ramshackle old houses were left behind when families moved to bigger and finer homes as their farms and ranches prospered.

There is no reason for sadness about the old places. Instead, the feeling should be one of rejoicing for these were happy homes, left behind for happy reasons.

They're neglected now, and in some cases, forgotten, but they have a beauty of their own. Paint may be gone from the walls, but now the weathered wood beneath reveals its rough textured beauty. A neglected picket fence forms a surrealistic pattern against the winter sky. A lazy sunset wraps a soft, gold flow around a silent and rusting thresher as if to say, "Well done, now rest."

Here and there about the yard are more personal signs of the people that lived, worked, and died on the farm —old shoe, worn path, discarded tobacco tin, untended flower bed.

Step inside. It's empty, it's deserted, and yet a strange uneasiness preys upon the mind. This is some one's home, they aren't there, and to be there now is to intrude.

The feeling begins with the unbidden opening of the door and follows from room to room. But in the silence broken only by the rattle bang of an unseen something nudged by the prairie wind, the uneasiness is subtly replaced by complete empathy for the sur roundings.

The sounds of a once-busy home are felt rather than heard. There is the running water, banging pans, rattle of a newspaper in the front room, slam of a door as little feet burst through onto the porch and into the backyard.

Yesterday tugs at today, and yesterday wins.

A glance through a broken window at the winter turning to spring brings thoughts of the passing parade of seasons that have flitted, dashed, and crawled across the prairie. A line with no beginning and no end.

Step into the yard. Warm summer nights have caressed the old house while the family quietly talked on the porch of things like tomorrow's work, the lack of rain, and should we go to bed now, or enjoy the evening a little longer? To leave is to return to today and tomorrow, but the abandoned farmhouse remains in yesterday, poignant in its wealth of memories, beautiful in its muted shades of yesterday's colors.

Yesterday tugs at today, and reluctantly, today wins.

Nebraska's individually-owned farms and ranches have declined from a 1934 high of 135,000 to 73,000 in 1969. How- ever, the same amount of land is under cultivation due to an increase in average individual acreage. In the last 9 years, individual holdings have climbed from 518 acres to 651. This figure includes the large holdings in western Nebraska where some ranchers total their land in six figures.

The exodus began in 1934 when drought and depression forced many from their land. The decline is averaging about 2,000 units per year. For example, there are now 19,000 fewer farms in Nebraska in 1969 than there were in 1960. — Editor

RAINBOW MASTER

WHEN ONE FISHERMAN catches 8 rainbow trout (6 of them in 30 days) that rate Nebraska's Master Angler awards, most would expect him to be an expert with years of experience in developing a sure-fire method of landing "the big ones". But Ed Gregory, who has recorded more award-winning trout than any other angler in Nebraska, says he is not an expert and that his first concentrated go at big Lake McConaughy trout was during the 1968 season.

Although the Ogallala fisherman hooked two trout over the five-pound Master-Angler minimum on May 9, 1967, Ed claims he was less than an aver age fisherman back then. In fact, the up-to-then confirmed bait fisherman had just taken up spin casting. But those two lunkers were destined to change his life. Ed didn't catch another heavyweight in 1967, but the rainbows made him a compulsive angler with only one objective — bust the big ones.

Ed had no way of knowing it, but a cold, windy March 29, 1968 was the start of a fantastic 30 days of rainbow fishing. From that day to April 27 he landed six Master Angler rainbows. In that fishing (Continued on page 48)

FOOTLOOSE IN THE HILLS

CONSERVATION OFFICER Elvin Zimmerman's car spun away, leaving me standing with a 35 pound pack on my back and 50 miles of Nebraska Sand Hills to work my way through, on foot. Last year, two staff members of NEBRASKAland Magazine, headed by W. Rex Amack, suffered my derision when they failed a similar, shorter mission. (See Walking A Lost Weekend, March 1968, NEBRASKAland.) I consider myself a seasoned hiker and could not understand how anyone could commit all the errors their stories revealed.

So came the day when Editor Dick Schaffer tired of my scornful remarks. He fixed me with a baleful stare and a, "Are you ready to try 50 miles?" Hoof-and mouth disease had done me in.

My pack and I have traversed hundreds of moun tain and forest miles, but the Sand Hills had never appealed as backpacking territory. Now, leaving Arnold Cattle Camp in a remote part of the Nebraska National Forest south of Nenzel, I was committed.

My planned course lay from Arnold Camp westward past Eagle Point Lookout, southward to the forest headquarters, southeast across the Powderhorn and Tombstone valleys to the Snake River, then to Board man Creek. Boardman Valley would lead me to the access road on Merritt Reservoir, and journey's end.

My pack held a five-day supply of dehydrated foods, a tiny alcohol stove, and a water bottle. Extra clothing included a change of underclothes, three pairs of woolen socks, a dacron-insulated undersuit, and a rainsuit. My light, down-filled sleeping bag and a foam-rubber mattress also went in the sack.

Normally, I carry a featherweight air mattress when backpacking, but on a whim at the last minute I APRIL, 1969 31   substituted a foam pad. It would take more space, but it wouldn't become useless if a cactus punctured it. As it turned out, that whim saved my hide. Strapped to the bottom of the pack frame were my mountain tent and a tiny tripod, which besides supporting my cam era, would double as a tent pole. My camera was fitted with a clockwork timer to photograph myself in action. A first aid kit, matches, pencil flashlight, and a pedom eter to measure the distance completed the outfit. At first, the pack rode a bit high, but readjusting the straps placed the weight above my buttocks where it belonged.

Walking in sand causes more foot slippage than firmer soils. In spite of heavy socks and snugged laces, my right boot felt loose. After hours, a tender spot on the ball of my foot prompted a pause. I washed my foot at a convenient windmill and applied a pad from the first aid kit.

I was making better time than I anticipated. Eagle Point Lookout had been picked as the site of my first night's camp, but shortly after 1 p.m. its tower popped up on my right, so I changed my objective to a clump of cedar trees near forest headquarters six miles farther on. I stopped at a windmill near the lookout and ate lunch-jerky, peanuts, and a handful of date nuggets. When I resumed walking, the irritation on my foot was worse. The first aid pad was insufficient to absorb all the friction and the soreness picked up authority. By late afternoon, with camp established in the cedar clump, I was glad to get the weight off my feet. The pedometer registered 17 miles, more than a fourth of my journey.

I drew my gear inside the tent, zipped the flap against a brisk wind that sprang up at sunset, and lit the stove. Supper was a hearty beef stew, finished off with strong tea and a chocolate pudding. Immediately after eating, I crawled into my sleeping bag where I was snug for the night.

All night the wind stalked the hills and prowled the hollows. The cedars' brittle whispers echoed the bunch grass' ghostly sighs. Now and again I came awake when a coyote's howl rode the coattails of the wind. Each time I felt the stiffness from the day's walk settle more firmly in my joints, and an experimental bending of my toes suggested the blister was developing into a problem. Still, I was comfortable.

At dawn, I came fully awake. I realized if I hiked that day it would be in misery. The blister was not only sore, it had company. A smaller one occupied the roll of flesh behind my toes. Fortunately, neither was puffed with fluid, and barring that, I could continue.

But how? I was mulling the question when my foot touched the foam mattress and an idea came. I sliced a corner from the pad and shaped the chunk to the outline of my foot. I gouged away the foam where the blisters touched, and with the downy cushion in place, pulled my heavy sock over it. Inside my boot, the foam compressed to almost nothing. The results reassured me. If necessary, I could walk slowly in relative comfort. Common sense, however, suggested no hiking for a couple of days, and my present camp in the cedar clump was a snug place to wait. Based on the previous day's progress, the time allotted to the hike would not be seriously jeopardized.

I am indolent by nature, so passing time during the first day wasn't hard. A break from the pressures of my daily world was very enjoyable and for the first time in many weeks there was time to laze. I reorga nized my pack to compress its contents, studied the contour map to pick the easiest route to my next camp, and spent many hours sitting and looking at the landscape.

Stiff-stalked clumps of little bluestem grass, colored from the lateness of the season, painted the tumbled hills a rust red. From a blowout on a side slope, a sand plume, lifted by the wind, streamed into a cobalt sky. A string of white-faced cattle serpentined toward a windmill on the shoulder of a slope. With evening, blue shadows collected in the basins between the chop pies, spilled into the deeper hollows, and by sundown filled the valley.

White-fired Venus burned a hole in the evening twilight and was setting behind a hill before the less venturesome stars turned on their light. Later, the big V of Tarus the bull moved above the eastern horizon, and the giant hunter, Orion, lay on his back in the southeast, a bright, blue star clenched in his fist.

By noon of the second day, I was restless. The sore ness of the blistered foot had (Continued on page 54)

YEAR OF THE DOVE?

WE SIX were taking stock of the situation as we prepared for our dove hunt.

"Never shot mourning doves before?" the late Lee Hudleson inquired of the thick-set stranger in our midst.

"No," came the prompt answer, "but it can't be any tougher than skeet. And I broke 22 out of 25 last spring."

"Humm," hummed Lee as he leaned against the station wagon, "that'll help. But take plenty of shells. You'll probably need them. I know I do."

The stranger, a visiting guest of Omahan Arthur C. Storz, tucked another box of light loads in the generous game pocket of his khaki coat and turned to Storz.

"Is he pulling my leg? Are they really hard to hit?"

Host Storz chuckled. "Well, they say if you can kill 5 of these little rascals with 25 shells you're mighty close to par."

The stranger still wasn't convinced. "Why," he retorted, "I remember seeing Lee hit five straight pheasants. Fact is, I don't think I've ever seen him miss a pheasant."

Lee backed back into the conversational stream then. His sun and wind-crimsoned face framed that famous grin. He tugged contemplatively at an earlobe and replied.

"You show me a guy who never misses a pheasant and I'll show you a liar. Everyone misses. And doves aren't pheasants. You'll see."

The locale was a country lane near Tarkio, Missouri. It was early September, and Storz had gathered some of his old shooting cronies — plus the stranger from South Dakota —for a try at the dipsy-doodling doves.

The day was crisp and clear with lazy clouds huffing ahead of a brisk south wind; a wind sending the branches of the trees lining the graveled road bending and swaying. Doves were trading overhead, split between those heading for the feed lot high atop the hill and those seeking water at a meandering farm pond across the road and a quarter mile or so from the feed bunkers on the hill. To the repeaters, the Storz-Hudleson dove-shooting procedure was as familiar as the scatterguns tucked under their arms.

But the novice from South Dakota had to be briefed. Lee obliged.

"We'll fan out along this shelterbelt," he told the rookie. "Now the wind's out of the south. So we'll be on the other side of the grove and we'll take them when they come off the water and are heading for the bunkers on the hill. Understand?"

The neighbor nodded, then asked: "Wouldn't it be easier to just shoot off the pond and go up on the hill and get them when they're coming for feed?"

"Well, it would be easier. But this way you give the birds a chance. You'll see," Storz answered.

Prophetic words indeed.

As the five gunners took their places on the blind side of the shelterbelt, Lloyd Vance, chief of the game division of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission and a long-time hunting pal of Lee's, prompted the visitor from South Dakota.

"Lee'll be on the flank," Vance advised. "He'll keep us posted on the birds. So be ready."

The neighbor from the north called back, "I'm ready; all loaded up."

Moments later the first summons to action came.

"A couple of high fliers-at 2 o'clock," Lee yelled.

Since we had agreed beforehand to give the guest the first shot, he had no worries of doubling with any fellows to his left or right. I saw him peek over his shoulder to catch the glint of fast-breaking wings.

Then as the scooting doves cleared the treetops, the gun came up, barked twice —and the targets continued up the hill with only a slight dip, probably a courtesy salute to the novice.

"Boy, were they traveling!" our line mate exploded. "Guess I didn't lead them enough."

Lloyd laughed and replied good naturedly, "Yeah, the lead fools you. But you'll get a chance to correct that. I would say about five or six feet would be about right with this wind."

The chance came in a hurry, a loner just to the left of Lee. The veteran took his time on the pull but at the shot the dove crumpled, falling to the sod in a cloud of trailing, wispy feathers.

"How far did you lead him?" the South Dakotan yelped as Lee left his post for the retrieve.

Icy blue eyes sparkling, Lee replied, "About 10 feet, I would say. Maybe less. You can't tell this early in the season. You just pull up from instinct I guess."

The next 30 minutes were pretty hectic. It was feeding time and doves in pairs and groups kept cresting the still-verdant trees with dead aim on the bunkers to the north. The South Dakotan made a few corrections in his shooting and finally got a hit after a APRIL, 1969 35 dozen misses. That hit brought an explosion. "Finally got one," he cried. "About time, too."

The Air Force colonel on the visitor's right was generous. "Heck," he called back reassuringly, "I've got only three with a dozen shells. These babies are tricky."

Came a lull and the visitor inquired of Lloyd, "Will they all come back this way from the feed lot, or will our shooting keep them spooked?"

Lloyd chuckled, shifted his gun and replied, "No, not all of them. But we'll get a few. And it should be easier because they'll be bucking the wind."

"Good," the South Dakotan confessed. "I can do with a few easy shots."

Easier? Well, just a bit. Stragglers making the return to the water hole were just a trifle slower into the wind. But not slow enough to permit any of the dove patrol to register any imposing strings of five or six straight kills. The South Dakotan was getting his share of game by now and enjoying every minute of it. But, as the saying goes, humble pie comes in big, thick wedges — indigestible wedges.

The humbling of the stranger in our midst came shortly before the noon break for lunch. A well-fed dove came loafing down the hill, appearing to take dead aim at the South Dakotan's stand. The flight was leisurely —no dipping, just a steady dead-ahead route. But, just as the visitor cut loose, the taunting target dived for the ground, as if magnetized. It was just one full swoop and that first shot must have burnt a hole in the sky 10 feet above the descending dove. Halfway to the pasture the second shot was touched off, followed by a third at almost ground level.

No other gun was lifted as the mocking aerial acrobat swooped only inches over the flabbergasted "three-shotter's" khaki cap and flared through the trees and the safety of the water hole.

"We'll, I'll be darned," the frustrated gun handler spouted. "If I hadn't seen it I wouldn't have believed it. Looked like he was just daring me to nail him. And I didn't."

Merry laughter laced the row of gunners but there was more sobering talk at the tail gate of the station wagon as the pilgrims gulped scalding coffee to wash down their thick ham sandwiches.

"Now," Storz asked his guest, "do you think it's inhuman to slaughter the defenseless doves? Think they have a chance?"

The reply came swiftly: "Slaughter! Say, these birds will make a Christian out of you and you were so right about five on a box of shells. I think I got my six with a box and a half."

"About as sporty a target as you can find," Vance chimed in. "And back home in Nebraska we can't shoot them —but they can here in Missouri and over in Kansas."

Storz chewed thoughtfully on the remnant of his sandwich and volunteered, "When I was on the Game Commission we tried and tried to get an open season on doves. We came close a couple of times. But just close. The Legislature turned us down every time."

"And," Vance cut in, "the Legislature is still turning thumbs down to the sportsmen despite all the evidence that an open season in Nebraska wouldn't harm the population."

"Well, I've hunted doves in Alabama, Texas, and other southern states and believe me those folks down there are grateful to you folks up here who raise them so they can shoot them," the Air Force colonel offered.

Then it was Vance's turn, "The United States Fish and Wildlife Service figures about 40 million doves are killed every year. Sounds like a lot of birds, but if the Federals don't think a kill of 40 million is a threat do you suppose they would approve an open season year after year? But biologists tell us hunting just takes a part of the natural mortality. We know that most doves never reach their second birthday. So the gun takes the place of nature. And the dove is prolific, bringing off from three to four nestings a season.

"I don't think there's a member of our Game Commission who is opposed to an open season. And all our biologists tell us we could have a season and help take a crop that is short-lived anyway. But we get turned down time after time," the game man went on.

The South Dakotan applied the capper. "Maybe some of those senators voting no should try their hand down here with a gun and discover what a challenging sport it really is."

He got no argument on that.

Once you try it, frustrated as you may be at missed shots, you fall in line and agree with the game men that Nebraska is closing the door to a truly challenging and exciting shotgun exercise.

Legislative Bill 806 putting the mourning dove on the Nebraska game-bird list was introduced in the Unicameral on February 3, 1969 — Editor.

MAYWOOD TRAIL RIDE

WHEN HARRY CORLETT forks the saddle on Buck, his buckskin mount, lifts his arm and lets it drop, the Maywood Trail Ride, the biggest event of its kind in Nebraska, is underway. Slowly the riders string out over the rolling prairies and through the winding canyons in a colorful serpentine that is five miles long and 1,200 participants strong.

On April 27, Harry will be mounting for the tenth time to lead his troop across southwestern Nebraska to a rendezvous 10 miles away. It can be east, west, north, or south for each year the ride heads to a different spot. Last year it traveled the picturesque canyon country toward Wellfleet. The ride is always staged on the last Sunday in April.

As he rides, Harry, tall, spare, and ramrod straight for his 60-plus years, will reflect on how his 10-year-old brainchild has grown. It began in 1959 when he agreed to guide a bunch of 4-H youngsters and their parents. He had judged a horse show and in answer to requests for a place to ride he arranged a 20-mile round trip for 86 riders. The ride was so popular that demands for a repeat made it an annual affair. Weather has smiled on the event. Of the nine rides only the 1967 one ran into trouble. Snow turned some of the riders back, but others toughed it out.

From the top of the rise Harry will look at fields filled with cars, trucks, and campers from Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri, Colorado, and South Dakota. Some of their owners came the night before and pitched tents or tossed out bedrolls under the stars. Others came that morning before the 10 o'clock start of the ride.

The once-a-year trail boss will look at countless other automobiles beetling along the county roads toward the noon rendezvous. Harry knows that the St. James group, a men's religious organization from nearby Curtis, will be up to its usual efficiency when it comes to feeding the crowd. Last year, they fed more than a thousand people in less than an hour. He hopes the minister will be in good voice during the devotions, for it is Sunday and the Good Word must be heard.

Members of the Maywood Lions Club are now sponsoring the event, but volunteers from the surrounding communities also help APRIL, 1969 39   out with the logistic and control problems of handling a large crowd.

Years of buying and selling horses will automatically draw Harry's eye to the motley of mounts and tac. Some horses are proud chargers with bloodlines that go back and back while others are crowbaits; perhaps there'll even be a mule or two. One year Colorado riders brought a long-haired horse that looked like a bear. They still are teased about it. A millionaire's hand-tocled saddle rubs stirrups with the scarred hull of a working cowboy as the riders exchange the news of a year apart. Participants run the gamut from grizzled old-timers who count their years by the four score to youngsters awaiting birthday No. 1. Some are shapely young misses, others are gray-haired and matronly, but all are having fun.

Harry will think of Melva, his wife, who always shared the lead with him on Smokey, a big white horse who is now retired. Melva didn't ride last year and may not this year, but she'll be at the dinner site waiting for him to bring in the group.

The nooning will be short, the traditional hour of the working ranch country, and then it's back to the saddles and the return to Maywood. In a couple of days the little town of 300 will be back to normal. A stranger passing through would scarcely know that on the last Sunday in April, Maywood, Nebraska, is practically the trail-ride capital of the world. Harry and Melva won't forget, for in their mailbox is a letter beginning:

"Dear friends, I am interested in joining your trail ride. Will you send me the details?"

TO CATCH A CRANE

WILDLIFE TECHNICIANS in the Central Flyway who have tried to trap and band sandhill cranes know that it is a frustrating task. But their efforts are meeting the need for more information on the birds, especially now, when cranes are being hunted in several states. Nebraska is playing a key role in the banding program, for this state is a major stopover for 150,000 of the migrating birds. The project is a joint effort between technicians from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and personnel from the Ne braska Game and Parks Commission. Cranes are under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Department of Interior.

Cranes stream into the central Platte River Valley like rain from the spring sky. They frequent the river from Grand Island westward to Lexington, and take up again from Hershey to Lake McConaughy. Stragglers can be found all the way to the Wyoming border. They begin arriving around late February and hit a peak concentration around mid-March. Exact counts are difficult as the cranes arrive and depart continuously They roost in the shallow river and on vegetation-free sandbars, feed in cornfields, and loaf and dance in the open areas. This migration is one of Nebraska's most impressive wildlife events and lures many nature lovers. County roads around Overton are excellent observation points. The trapping sites are in the fields to the south and east of Overton. After their sojourn here, the drab-gray birds leave for their nesting grounds in northern Canada. They are strong and relatively speedy fliers and have been clocked at 60 miles an hour. One, banded in January 1961 in New Mexico, was recovered in May 1961 in Magodon, Russia. En route south in the fall, only a handful of cranes stop in Nebraska.

Banding is a well-established method of gathering information on hunter harvest, natural mortalities, habits, and migration patterns of wildfowl, so it was only logical that banding be used on cranes. Although there is a lot of scattered information on the birds, there are also lots of gaps, so the program was established here to help fill them. Six hundred three birds have been trapped in Nebraska over a four-year period.

The general term, crane, includes the little brown crane or lesser sandhill crane, the greater sandhill crane, and the famous whoopers. The little brown crane is the primary species here and the one that most concerns the researchers. This term, little brown crane, is somewhat of a misnomer. Lesser sandhill cranes stand three feet tall, have a seven-foot wing spread, and average seven pounds.

On May 20, 1916, the United States put cranes on the protected-species list. This protection lasted until January 1, 1961 when the U.S. Secretary of the Interior authorized a 30-day season on the lesser sandhillers in eastern New Mexico and western Texas. This hunting was based on the premise that few, if any, greater sandhill cranes and no whoopers frequented the hunting areas. Cranes have been gunned for years APRIL, 1969 43   in old Mexico and in 1959, Saskatchewan farmers were permitted to gun the longnecks under general crop-depredation orders. Since the 1961 breakthrough, staggered seasons have been held in Alaska, Colorado, North Dakota, Oklahoma, South Dakota, and the Canadian provinces of Saskatchewan and Manitoba. This renewal of hunting helped spark banding efforts.

Before a bird can be banded, he must be trapped. Normally, bait is used to entice birds within range of the various capturing devices, but baiting would not work on cranes in Nebraska due to an abundance of natural food. The problem could be compared to the trapping of a mouse in a barn full of cheese. Baited traps could be set, but chances are the mouse would ignore them. To complicate the problem assume these "mice" are only in the barn for a short time and are preoccupied with pre-mating rituals. It was obvious that baiting would not work on cranes.

Researchers came up with more sophisticated methods. The first effort in 1965 was basically study and observation, but 25 cranes were captured incidental to the preliminary work. The next year, trapping efforts were concentrated on the daytime loafing sites of the stately birds. Thirty-four birds were taken. The next spring, 1967, the banders came up with styrofoam decoys. This time, 115 cranes were captured. Last year, trappers used stuffed birds as decoys and took and banded 327.

Although decoys helped, refinements in camouflage for the cannon nets contributed to the increasing success. Cranes are among the wariest of all birds and spook for almost less than a reason. They avoid fence-rows, dense shrubbery, unnatural obstacles, and changes in the landscape. The nets were packed flush with the ground and covered with grass clippings. Another contributing improvement was the mowing of "staging grounds" to create ideal dancing and loafing areas.

Cranes are caught by firing a mesh net over them from concealed cannons. These cannons are actually rockets which carry the nets over the birds when they are in range. Problems do not end with the netting, however. Once under the mesh, the cranes explode with excitement and many escape.

The frustrations of netting are set forth in an excerpt from a report by the late Robert H. Wheeler, a federal game-management agent.

"At 7 p.m. five cranes alighted on the field about 30 yards northwest of the nets, and others continued to arrive rapidly until there appeared to be about 700. As each bunch of cranes arrived they accumulated closer to our nets. Even with two observation sites we were uncertain if there were cranes within net range. It looked as though we might catch some on the east end. We were trying to decide if we should gamble catching a few when a good number started flying. We fired the nets at 7:35 and had an excellent projection on all nets but not one crane. No birds under the net is always a bitter experience and we resolved to find better observation sites. We also doubted the wisdom of 44 NEBRASKAland aiming the nets toward each other, as the cranes were very reluctant to walk across the nets to get into the capture area. Many cranes did alight between the nets, but would then move rapidly away after peering nervously about."

Even after a successful banding and release, problems plague the trappers. Banding seems to inflict a "lost face" attitude on some cranes. These birds take the experience hard and mope for days before returning to normal. This self-imposed exile works against the banders, for the down-hearted birds will often group up on an island or a sandbar and lament their misfortune. Cranes are gregarious and incomers are drawn to the sight and sound of these "disgraced" birds, thus building up concentrations in inaccessible areas.

But, sometimes this grouping up works to the banders' advantage, for arriving cranes seem to lose some of their natural suspicion when other birds are on the ground. The previously arrived birds also show enough interest in the newcomers to unconsciously edge into range of the trapping device.

Normally, the sandhiller is pretty sharp. Technicians recall with dismay the case of the hooks. Wire hooks were painted a dull gray and placed on the far edge of the netting-impact area. It was theorized the hooks would hold the mesh down and prevent the birds from escaping. The hooks worked fine — for holding the net. But, the devices spooked the birds.

Travelers on Interstate 80 seeing the cranes loafing or dancing in adjacent fields are apt to discount the birds' instinctive wariness. The flocks appear unconcerned and almost disdainful of any outside threat. They are, as long as the activity is a couple of hundred yards away, but let the unfamiliar approach and it's up, up and away.

Lou Ell, chief photographer for the Game Commission, tried for years to get close-up pictures of cranes with only minimum success. He tried the usual approach of stalking to little avail. Occasionally he got within one hundred yards of the birds but that was about the best.

"It seemed that every bird had a thousand eyes. I could get about so close and 'whoosh' and the flock was gone. It was always the same, spring after spring," Lou recalled.

Finally, he found a spot between Elm Creek and Lexington that appeared ideal. It was a pasture with a cattle-feeding area at one end. A board fence and stacks of baled alfalfa offered concealment from the wily cranes.

"I learned that the birds come in there year after year and I laid my plans accordingly. The cranes were attracted to the scatterings of feed and the little creek that ran through the pasture, so I crawled into one of the stacks and used a hole in the fence for my camera," the photographer explained.

The birds usually came to the area about 10 a.m. and stayed to about 4 p.m., but Lou didn't want to spoil his long-awaited opportunity. He entered his stack hideaway before dawn, (Continued on page 56)

ORNATE BOX TURTLE

THE ORNATE BOX turtle, Terrapene ornata, is one of the few forms of American wildlife that is increasing in numbers rather than being diminished by the grinding progress of civilization. Also known as Western or Plains box turtle, these mild-mannered reptiles are familiar residents of Nebraska and other areas of the central United States from New Mexico to South Dakota. Their even dispositions make them popular as pets although they will bite on occasion. When kept in captivity they should be provided with a cage containing sandy soil, shade and sun, a protective retreat, and a shallow container for water.

Box turtles belong to one of four taxonomic families of turtles in Nebraska. The other three families include the mud and musk turtles, the snapping-turtle family, and the soft-shell turtle family. A unique characteristic that separates the box turtle from other Nebraska turtles is his ability to retract his head, legs, and tail completely within his shell. This is possible because his plastron or bottom shell is hinged across the middle, enabling both the front and back edges to be raised and thus meet the edge of his carapace or upper shell after the turtle's extremities are tucked in.

Other characteristics which help to identify this colorful turtle include a distinctive pattern on the carapace and plastron. The carapace is darkish brown and usually has bright radiating patterns of narrow yellow lines or spots. The colors and patterns are similar on the plastron. Colorful spots on the front legs distinguish males from females. On males, these spots are reddish while on females they are yellowish.

Exceptionally land loving and typically an inhabitant of the short-grass prairies and semiarid regions, the ornate box turtle shuns forests and other heavy cover. Whenever he is inactive or when the sun is very hot, this turtle rests in natural cavities or self-made shallow burrows. Although not usually associated with open water, they will, during periods of drought, congregate about streams and ponds and conceal themselves in mud or sand near shore. Winters are spent in hibernation. The hibernation usually begins in October when the turtle burrows under ground. As the weather gets colder he burrows deeper, and during a severe winter, he may dig down as far as two feet.

Food utilized may include some tender plant material but earthworms and insects are his primary diet. Grasshoppers are special favorites although it is hard to imagine this slow, easygoing creature catching grasshoppers with any regularity.

Box turtles have been known to live for more than 100 years and 50 or 60-year-olds are common. Despite this longevity, they attain only moderate sizes. Average length of the carapace is only five to six inches. Growth to this size is rapid, however, and may be attained in five or six years.

Despite a mild temperament, the box turtle has a rather frantic courtship. When the spring mating season arrives, the male locates and chases a female. After catching her in what must be an interesting race, he rears up on his hind legs and lumbers up on the rear of her carapace. As this occurs, the male sprays a fluid from his nostrils upon her back. After half an hour or so of this strange "coaxing" the female surrenders and mating proceeds.

Being oviparous, the female digs a shallow depression in dry soil in July or August and deposits three to five eggs, then buries them. Each round egg will measure close to IV2 inches in diameter and is encased in a thin, white shell. Hatching occurs in the fall and the young go almost immediately into hibernation. Young box turtles are susceptible to a variety of natural enemies, but as they grow bigger and their shells harden their biggest threats are man and his machines. Thousands are killed annually while making their slow journeys across highways.

The ornate box turtle can be either economically beneficial or destructive. In regions where their popu lation is high, they destroy tremendous numbers of noxious insects. Their feeding habits, however, may also lead them to damage gardens. They appear to be especially fond of cantaloupes and can do considerable damage to melon patches.

These quiet little reptiles have been residents of Nebraska much longer than man. Since the invasion of man and the conversion of forest land to farmland which this species prefers, the population of box turtles has been increasing, so Nebraskans can expect to have the unobtrusive little box turtles as neighbors and pets for many years to come.

RAINBOW MASTER

deluge, the quiet, soft-spoken man captured Nebraska's mythical title of rainbow master of the Master Anglers. In grabbing the crown, the trout champ flaunted tradition. Even though well over a half of the rainbow award winners from Lake Mac were taken by boat fishing, Ed hooked all of his from shore. Ever since Ed took an unexpected swim in the lake a few years back, he has fished from the bank.

A March 29 temperature of 25° had kept most anglers at home, but Ed had decided to brave the cold. During the summer of 1967, Lake Mac's top fishermen had divulged their three secrets of successful angling —time, patience, and persistence — to Ed and the husky six-footer was keeping them in mind as he cast, retrieved, and cast again. Every three or four casts he had to knock the ice off his rod guides.

Silver flashes in the slushy water showed that trout had moved into the Sports Service Bay, so Ed still had a glimmer of hope as he flexed his numb fingers and tied on a No. 2 gold spinner.

Having tried every lure from a flatfish to a red and white spoon, the chilly angler didn't have much confidence in the spinner. But that lure was a golden invitation to a 5-pound, 15-ounce rainbow. When the sulking fish tried to bully the lure, Ed slammed the barbs home. A split second later, the huge fish shattered the surface with a two-foot jump. Gills flaring, the trout shook his head repeatedly in a defiant 10-minute effort to shake his captor, but Ed finally eased him into the net. The big trout was all the incentive Ed needed to spend as much time at the lake as he could. The trouter operates a 24-hour service station and a motel and works the night shift so his mornings are open for fishing.

When Ed finished up at the station on April 9, he headed to the lake for two to three hours of fishing. In the 10-day lapse, Nebraska's weather had gone from miserable to almost livable. As he put on his fishing vest, he had that old prospector's feeling that today he would hit a bonanza, but he had had that same feeling during the past trips, too, and he hadn't lucked out.

As Ed worked along the shoreline he spotted several three and four-pounders, but he almost choked on his heart when he saw a monster rainbow that looked to be over a spawning bed. This lunker was worth some time and effort. Ed's strategy was simple but effective. He had to make the nesting trout so mad the fish would strike at a bottle cap.

The determined trouter gathered together an assortment of lures for a casting barrage and out of sentiment tied on a gold spinner.

After 30 casts he switched to a spoon, 35 casts later to a pearl flatfish, next to a silver flatfish, and then a silver spinner. Although smaller trout snatched at the lures, the big rainbow preferred to brood. With a two-hour investment in that one fish, Ed wasn't about to give up without 48 NEBRASKAland a return. Suddenly, the big fish came out of his corner like a boxer in a grudge match.

The rainbow, who was mad before he felt the barb, was a whirling tempest now. There were 200 yards of 6-pound-test monofilament on the open-face reel, but Ed wondered if it was long and strong enough. The fish rocketed three feet into the air in an attempt to spit out the yellow flatfish and the angler cussed himself for not putting on a heavier line. Then he realized that playing a fish was part of the sport. When the tiring trout was 10 yards out Ed reached for the net. The fish spooked when he saw it and made another brief run, but Ed applied pressure and two minutes later he was weighing the trout on his de-liar. Even though the rainbow's stomach was empty, he scaled seven pounds, six ounces. To the elated fisherman this catch had to be the zenith of his angling career, but the fantastic 30 days were just beginning.

On April 16 the Ogallalan had walked what seemed to be miles of shoreline with only one small trout for his effort. Then he spotted a bigger than usual rainbow and started his teasing campaign. Nearly 30 minutes and 8 lures later, a 5-pounder latched onto a pearl flatfish and did a jig or two across the water before he was netted. Just four days later, Ed was casting a brass and red spoon when another five-pounder slammed into the lure. After 10 minutes of give-and-take the fish was finally subdued. Ed's Master Angler string was at four, but he had yet to meet his most formidable foe.

The smell of spring made April 26 the sort of day when all fish, and fishing are irrelevant. Anyway, that's how Ed first felt when he ambled down to the water's edge. But one fish soon changed that. When Ed spotted the huge rainbow resting in the shallows, he broke out in a cold sweat.

Other fish were working in the area, but as the casting match pushed toward the two-hour mark, Ed was still concentrating on "the big boy". He had tried each of his lures at least once and in a desperate move had even tied on a doll fly. Ed was trying a small spinner for the second time when an eager rainbow grabbed it. The fish was fun, but even at four pounds he seemed scrawny when compared to the lunker below.

Ed's average Lake Mac trip lasts from two to four hours, but to the obsessed angler time was of little consequence now. All that mattered was that monster rainbow. He paused only to light a cigarette, change a lure, or flex his tiring arm and fingers. Maybe the next cast would be the one.

A brass and red spoon brought the un expected. A six-pound, one-ounce rainbow hit and ran for home. The angler forgot his tiredness when the heavyweight broke the surface. Several times the big fish shattered the almost mirror-like surface into glistening shards as Ed pressured him as much as he could with his six-pound-test line. After 15 minutes of give-and-take the fish was into the net. Although the trout more than qualified for an award, he wasn't the lunker Ed hoped for. The Ogallalan spent another hour trying to coax the monster into striking, but after 10 hours of fishing, fatigue finally won out.

Ed spent a restless night at work, for now the monster rainbow had become an

obsession. The fish was every Master-Angler lunker Ed had ever caught all rolled into one. All night long the motel operator ached for an all-or-nothing duel with Mr. Big. When the day shift came in, Ed was on his way.

"Had a big fish on this morning, but I lost him," a friend, Ken Meyers, informed Ed as he reached the lakeshore.

"Maybe it was the big trout," the angler thought as he tied on a silver flatfish. "This is where he was yesterday, so maybe he is here today."

The lure was on its way back from the second cast when Ed's rod was almost jolted from his bear-claw grip. He smashed back. Four times the big trout cracked the surface before he started ripping off line. When the fish cleared the water for the fifth time, there was little doubt that this was the lunker of the day before.

The big boy was hooked, but hooking and landing are two different accomplishments and one doesn't mean much without the other. As the trout bulled his way through the water, Ed held the jumping rod and hoped. An arm-tiring 15 minutes passed, but the rainbow showed little sign of giving up. At the 25-minute mark, Ed had coaxed the lunker into netting range, but the fish spooked when he saw the net and sizzled off several yards of line. Now, Ed knew that to net his prize he had to totally exhaust the fish with the rod.

Netting is often a ticklish operation especially in shallow water. Ed didn't have waders and he knew he was going to get wet if he went into deeper, but safer, netting water. The angler didn't hesitate. He headed for the deeper water and to hang with getting wet. Carefully he worked the fish toward the net, then with a vicious upswing he brought the bucking rainbow out of the water. The trout went eight pounds even. Ed's trout was a mighty fine one, but even at 8 pounds he was 4Vfc pounds below the 12-pound, 8-ounce rainbow that Wayne Rath of Stratton took out of Lake Mac on August 4, 1968.

Ed's fantastic 30 days accounted for 6 Master Angler rainbows weighing a total of 37 pounds, 6 ounces. During that same period he caught several other trout under five pounds. The eight-pounder was Ed's last rainbow award in 1968, but he hooked and lost a couple of other fish that he believes were over the five-pound minimum.

Ed is presently the rainbow master of the Master Anglers in numbers, but other fishermen are pushing him. But this is 1969 and Ed isn't going to give up his crown without trying to defend it.

THE PALMETTO INCIDENT

on it. Still, the design was close enough to be recognizable and that's all that mattered to the angry residents.

The only person who would dare such a deed, they thought, was Augustus F. Harvey, a pro-slavery Democrat. As a newspaperman, Harvey had charged that 50 NEBRASKAland the abolitionists were as much disunionists as the secessionists in the South. He was bitterest toward men who placed the welfare of the Negro above the welfare of their country. Actually his Southern leanings were not as strong as his words indicated. Later, in an editorial, Harvey pledged his support to President Abraham Lincoln and applauded his efforts to preserve the Union.

Still, it was only natural that the crowd suspected Harvey of the deed and it had but one thought. Lynch the rascal who dared to flaunt the flag of the hated state that many felt was responsible for the great conflict. Finally, cooler heads did subdue the angered group, but Harvey's friends had to provide a bodyguard for him that day, and he remained a prime suspect for many years. It was not until 1905, 44 years later, that the Nebraska City News revealed the true culprits and reported that the flag conspiracy was nothing more than a practical joke.

Four men were involved in the devilish prank. One of the participants, James A. Barr, owned a paint shop above the Platte Valley Bank. Thomas Nicholson, Fin Gregg, and Jack Potts roomed above the bank. These men held no Southern sympathies, for three of them later served in the Union Army.

The 1905 newspaper account explains probable reasons for the joke.

"In those days there were no means of communication with the outside world except by telegraph or an occasional mail from the south. All the news sent in told of the victories of the Southerners, and that is what exasperated the boys...and the people had to make their own fun and enjoy it as best they could."

In this frivolous spirit, it was suggested to the four men one night that they make a rebel flag and nail it to the flagstaff that was on top of the block-house located at the corner of Fifth Street and Central Avenue. With this same feeling of gusto, the men accepted the suggestion and immediately began preparations.

O. S. Rider, a county official, offered to donate the muslin. Barr agreed to paint the cloth, while Gregg and Nicholson would nail it to the mast.

Barr transformed the muslin into his version of South Carolina's palmetto flag. A green palmetto tree adorned the white background, and underneath the tree were the words, "Southern Rights".

With the flag completed, the four men agreed upon the night to float it, and then they carried out their plans. But when they met that night, Jasper A. Ware, the banker, interrupted them just as they were about to begin their work. After spotting the quartet, Ware became suspicious , crossed the street to the bank to keep a close watch on them, and then went to the rear of the bank building.

Realizing they were being watched, they waited until Ware could no longer see them. Then they nailed the banner to the mast and hoisted it above the blockhouse.

The best part of the prank came when the first citizens came down town the following morning and spotted the great muslin flag, while the "fearsome foursome" watched the fighting fire fly from those with pro-Northern sentiments. But the crowd was neither sympathetic nor delighted, and it didn't take them long to vote Augustus Harvey the guilty man. The funny caper had turned serious.

Retreating from the maddened crowd, Barr returned quickly to his paint shop because the palmetto flag was also painted on his wall. To paint the flag, Barr had hung the muslin on the wall and the colors had soaked through. When he took it down, the impression was as plain on the wall as it was on the cloth.

After the escapade backfired, he immediately covered up his "fresco flag" by hanging clothes over it. For the next three days, he hardly dared to leave the shop and spent most of the time scraping the paint off the wall.

One Nebraska City citizen did suspect Barr, though, knowing he was one of few in the town capable of such artistic talent. Stephen F. Nuckolls, a leading businessman, managed to obtain a confession from Barr, but only on the grounds that if all concerned were granted full protection. With such excitement about the incident running high, it seemed dangerous for anyone to be known as accessory to such an affair. Since Augustus Harvey received no physical harm, Nuckolls kept the truth of the flag conspiracy in confidence. Forty-four years later, Barr revealed the true account to the Nebraska City News.

Throughout the Civil War and later, each citizen of Nebraska City remembered his own version of the palmetto flag incident. Most believed it to be a rebel conspiracy, but a few knew that it was nothing more than the one-night whim-wham of four young merrymakers. THE END

JACKS ARE EASY?

his ears and bolted. A hare can clip along at nearly 35 miles an hour, but his size makes his speed deceptive. My three shots were way behind. Minutes later, a series of rifle reports told me Bill had run into another rabbit. As I wandered through the hills, a couple of jacks made speedy, and thanks to my just-off-the-mark shooting, very safe exits. Unlike a zig-zagging cottontail, a jack blasts off in a straight line. Sometimes he will sprint 50 yards or so, stop, turn, and look back to see what bothered him. I was waiting for a hare to pull that costly mistake, but these longears hadn't read a book on behavior. When they moved out they didn't look back.

The sit-tight attitude of these jacks also surprised me. Every hare had bolted within easy shotgun range. As I walked through the lonesome hills I wondered how many jacks I had walked over. To spook these sit-tighters, I knew I had to hunt slowly and make frequent stops.

Nebraska is the home of two species of jackrabbit, the blacktail and whitetail. The smaller black-tailed hare inhabits the western corner of the state, but the way things were going I was ready to import the usually chunkier whitetail. At least, he might be a little bigger target. Bill wasn't having any better luck, so we headed into town for lunch.

"These jacks know how to get up and over a hill faster than anything I have ever seen," Bill commented as we headed toward my father-in-law's farm after our lunch.

"When there is only enough time to squeeze off a (Continued on page 54)

Bag With a Surprise. The idea that some thieves just never learn might have been disproved recently in California. Although it was a nasty trick, four young men certainly must have learned from it. Someone managed to stuff a live and kicking bobcat into a suitcase and left it in front of a bus station. Sure enough, along came some thieves. Four men drove up, and one jumped out and grabbed the bag. He then jumped back in the car and sped away. Three blocks later, the four men scrambled from the car bleeding and shrieking. The cat then emerged and vanished into the night. — California

Glad He Wasn't Hunting. A Pennsylvania game warden recently received a telephone call from a vacationer at a mountain resort. The caller's voice was somewhat anxious but disgusted as he asked if it was legal to keep deer in captivity. The officer replied no and the caller proceeded to tell him about a fawn that was being kept on a harness in a yard below the resort. And, to make the find easy the caller said the deer had a bright red ribbon around its neck. The officer proceeded to the resort. And, sure enough there he found a critter, complete with harness and red ribbon. But the little fellow was proudly proclaimed as the "family pet", and it was a brown goat, not a deer. Hope that caller never takes up hunting. —Penn sylvania

Doggy Food. While two Michigan hunters were chewing the fat during a 20 mile drive to a rabbit hunt, the driver's two beagles were also busy chewing. The beagles shredded their master's Ohio and Michigan hunting licenses — holders and all. The licenses were pinned to his coat, and to add insult to injury, the beagle owner had spread the coat in the rear of the car for their comfort. — Michigan

Read...Or Else. A California sportsman recently received a letter with a note stamped on the envelope in bright red letters, which read: "WARNING! If you throw this envelope into your waste-basket unopened, a capsule of water inside will break, spilling onto a dehydrated boa constrictor that will crawl out and crush you." Inside the envelope was the notice of a fishing contest — but no dehydrated boa. — California

Still No Blood. After several years of observing deer hunters near their home in the Adirondack Mountains, a New York couple decided to find out just how extensive the hunting pressure was. They rigged up a stuffed deer head sporting a fine set of antlers. After attaching a body of canvas and wood, they planted the deer in the woods. On the first day of the deer season, no less than 18 hunters unloaded their rifles at the dummy. Some hunters would crawl halfway to the deer before shooting. Each day, the couple marked and counted the holes. At the end of the season, the imitation deer had absorbed no fewer than 5,000 hits. That's considerable pressure! — New York

Gone To The Dogs. A Pennsylvania game warden arrived home after work one day and found his wife away. Being hungry, he decided to make a sandwich. He cut a slice of bologna he found in the refrigerator and placed it between two slices of bread. He took a bite and noticed a funny taste. When his wife arrived home he asked her about the bologna. She burst out laughing and told him it was meat she had removed from a can of food for their dog.—Pennsylvania

Biggest Brown Trout. The largest brown trout ever taken in Canada was a 27 pound 10-ounce fish taken in Witless Bay, Newfoundland, in 1960, by June Squires. The world record is a 39-pound, 8-ounce trout captured in Loch Awe, Scotland, in 1866, by W. Muir.-Alberta

Sticky Situation. A tar-and-feather party on a rural Kansas road fortunately ended without permanent damage, when a 12-year-old boy rescued 13 baby quail, whose feet had become stuck fast in some fresh tar. After the rescue, the boy took the baby quail home, despite the protests of his frustrated mother. He washed their feet clean with vegetable oil and then released them near where he had found them. Needless to say, the young quail stayed far from the road while waiting for their mother's return.— Kansas

JACKS ARE EASY?

couple of shots, there isn't much room for error," I agreed.

Although we spooked three rooster pheasants out of a weedy fencerow and Bill tried a long shot at a prairie dog, we didn't see any jackrabbits. In fact, all rabbit sign in the area was sparse, so we decided to head back to the pasture near Benkelman. The two of us debated about breaking out the shotguns and bagging a jack the easy way, but we discarded the idea. There is only one way to improve marksmanship with a .22 and that is practicing.

There is no limit on the number of jacks that can be taken, but numbers weren't interesting us now. All we wanted to do was bag at least one black tail before sunset. As we pushed into the hills, a blacktail exploded from the sage brush. I fired twice before old longears disappeared over the hill.

"Take your time and get out in front of the rabbit," I told myself.

The rougher the country, the better the prairie hares seem to like it. As I wandered through a sagebrush valley not a house, telephone pole, fence, or road was in sight. Aimlessly I ambled through the hills unconcerned with the time.

Bill's voice shook me into reality. He had banged away at a couple of rabbits, but hadn't scratched one. As we headed back to the truck two blacktails spooked early with one swinging to the left and the other to the right. Bill was a hundred yards to my left and there was a chance that he might get a crack at that one, so I veered to the right. Minutes later I heard Bill's autoloader make one wind-muffled bark, so I scampered up a small knoll. In the distance I saw him pick up a rabbit and knew that the day wasn't going to be a complete loss. The jack had made a break for it across a flat stretch of ground and Bill had the needed time to line up the shot.

My truck was in sight when a longear scooted out of his nest. On his first few bounds his ears were laying back, but when he shifted into high his seven-inch-long appendages came up. As he scam pered away, I notched the rifle's front sight in the back V and squeezed off. The first shot was behind and above him, the second shot was closer, the third crack was within an inch of his hind leg, and on the fourth I dumped him. I couldn't brag about my 20-cartridge-per-hare ratio, but at least I had something to show for a long day's walk.

"We've got the hang of it now," Bill smiled when we met at the truck. "Next time out, we should do better."

There was still some shooting time left, but we called it quits. As we headed into town, I spotted a coyote trotting up a hill 200 yards away. I braked to a jerk ing halt and grabbed my .22/250. The curious animal stopped at the crest of the hill to scrutinize the situation and his pause was all the break I needed. Crosshairing the coyote in my 10-power scope, I triggered a 50-grain slug. The shot crumpled him and I had a coyote pelt.

"Not a bad way to end the day," Bill chuckled. "I am sure glad I taught you how to use that rifle."

I couldn't think of a better way to end the day either. Bill and I are avid big-game hunters and believe that nothing can ever replace the thrill of dropping a big buck, but we agreed that popping jacks with a .22 was worthy substitute. Truly, it is big-bore hunting on a small-caliber scale.

FOOTLOOSE IN THE HILLS

diminished, so I decided to test it with a short walk. I swung the pack to my knee and slipped into the straps. As every backpacker knows, the weight settling into place at the start of each leg of a jaunt is something of a shock. I knew the pack was minus a good four pounds of consumed food, but when the waist webbing pushed down across the top of my buttocks I swore the devil had his foot in the stirrup. The feeling dissipated after a few hundred yards and the weight was part of me again.

Fortunately, the route leading southeast from forest headquarters was easy. It wound across a relatively low range of 54 NEBRASKAland hills and dropped into a long valley. Hay bales dotted the valley floor, and a streak of drained marshland split its center. I had hoped to be in Powderhorn Valley by evening, but a twinge from the blister changed my mind. When a windmill appeared while the sun was still two handbreadths over the horizon I decided to camp.

My supper water was steaming on the smelly stove when a whir of wings brought nine sharp-tailed grouse out of nowhere. One landed precariously on the tank's rim and dipped his head to drink. The others watered in the over-flow. With my camera 10 feet away on a hay bale, 30 yards to the birds, and daylight nearly gone, a photograph was impossible. I simply watched until they flew away.

During a previous visit with the Bill Fischers of Powderhorn Ranch, I was advised to walk straight south of the ranch and cross a narrow hill range that separated the Powderhorn from Tombstone Valley.

Tombstone Valley draws its name from a tiny cemetery containing a single headstone. My compass reading had been accurate enough that I had to detour only a few yards to the enclosure surrounding the stone. The lonely hills stretch away, horizon to horizon, and the circumstance that caused the burial site to be located there seems to be lost. While I studied the epitaph, my stomach growled that it had used up the breakfast of oatmeal, dates, and hot chocolate. I munched a handful of peanuts and some jerky and washed it down with half a bottle of water.

My blister was waking up. It occurred to me that my next water supply, the Snake River, was several miles away. Becoming crippled could force me to establish a Siwash camp. Acquiring the blister had bruised my ego. Of the thousands of miles I have pleasure hiked, the lesion was the first of its kind I had ever experienced, and I felt like an amateur. However, the discomfort was not sufficient to dwell on. The pedometer registered more than twice the mileage of the previous day's walk, and the halfway point of the whole trek had slipped into limbo somewhere in Powderhorn Valley.

My eyes scanned the hills ahead and picked up a sand blow a few yards off. My shoulders welcomed the relief as the pack came off and I searched the blowout for an arrowhead. I didn't really expect to find one. The only artifact I had ever discovered was a stone knife in the tailings of an eastern Nebraska sand and gravel pit.

It was a pleasant surprise, then, when its shadow gave the point away. The flint was so nearly the color of the sand I could have missed it otherwise. It wasn't a perfect point, yet the thrill of finding it kept me looking for more. Though I combed the blowout end to end, I didn't even find another chip, so I slipped into the packstraps and stepped back on course.

The arrowhead triggered all sorts of conjecture as to how it had reached its resting place. Such points were highly valued by their owners and whenever APRIL, 1969 possible they were always salvaged to be used again. Had this one been lost during a hunt for game, or in a battle with an enemy?

The area I was hiking had changed little since the day the arrowhead was lost. True, the wind had rearranged the contours here and there, but in my pres ent mood the appearance of a painted warrior on a spotted pony would have been no surprise. This and other fantasies occupied my thoughts until the hills lowered into the Valley of the Snake.

The twisting river runs roughly west to east, the point of my crossing being the first bridge upstream from Merritt Dam. I paused for a drink, kneeling in the same muddy tracks left by antelope and deer at the stream's edge. It was camp time, and a clump of trees downstream dictated its location. The site proved even better than it looked at a distance. Some late-fall yellow still clung to the willows surrounding a pool formed by a barrier across the creek, and a flat, grassy spot above it allowed a picture-window view through the tent flaps.

Camp set, there was daylight enough to shave by, something I habitually do on the trail, because I feel better for it. Then I washed my feet, checked the blister which didn't appear to have worsened appreciably, and washed out all my dirty socks.

Much later, after a supper of ham and beans, hot tea, and Triscuit, reaction from the long walk grabbed my right leg. It began a violent trembling and the calf muscle knotted. The situation was familiar. It occurs at least once in every long hike I take. Quick massage usually relaxes the muscle and stills the quivering. My doctor once said the condition could arise from low salt content after periods of perspiration. I swallowed a couple of salt tablets and an aspirin to quiet the muscles, and so ended the day.

I was back on the trail early for the last day of my hike. Four p.m. was rendezvous time with my pickup man at Merritt Reservoir. My plan was to strike southeast from the Snake, and touch Boardman Creek where it makes a sharp turn to the east, then follow the meandering rivulet to its wedding with the big lake.

For several miles the route would touch many of the same hills my colleagues had crossed the year before. The area between Nenzel headquarters and the Snake River — the portion they were forced to abandon —was already behind me, and the chance to check the accuracy of writer Amack's report lay ahead.

The land to the south was formidable hiking territory. Rex hadn't stretched the truth in describing the wild tangle of soaring crests and plunging slopes. Yet, as I adapted my strides to the climb out of Snake Valley, I chuckled. His journey had been hampered by little knowledge of the area, unseasonably cold nights, an overload of useless gear, and a crippled photographer. My jaunt retained a semi-crippled photographer, but the weather couldn't be more pleasant for November and my trail gear was compacted by years of selection and rejection. I could read the map, choose my route, set my own pace.

The rough hills were expected. No one can anticipate easy going in such wild APRIL, 1969 55   land, and if your personal makeup is such that you begrudge the physical effort involved, the pastime is not for you. One must remain flexible and free to alter his route as whim or necessity demands as long as the final objective is attained. I topped a crest and immediately in front of me 11 antelope, including 2 young bucks, jumped to their feet and streaked toward a draw. They circled a hillock, paused on its far side to stare at this strange, two-legged creature with the lump on its back, and then pounded up the opposite slope and out of sight.

My path crossed the hill at the same point and Boardman Creek glittered below. The anticipation of easy walking changed in a hurry, for the entire width of the flat floor was filled with brush and weeds. Pushing through the brittle stalks was a battle. My feet tangled in the low growth and the taller stems hooked into the pack. In seconds my clothes were a mass of black, clinging seeds sometimes called devil's pitchforks. They grabbed gleefully at my red, wool shirt and climbed under my pants cuffs to make sandpaper of my socks. Battling the jungle for half a mile was far from pleasurable, so I half crawled up the sandslip forming the north side of the valley. Boardman Valley was not the highway the map indicated.

Digging my heels into the sand, I leaned back against the steep pitch. My watch said 10 o'clock, and the distance to Merritt was approximately 5 flat Boardman Valley miles. Cross-country would mean additional distance following the rough, high ground between Boardman and the Snake, more of an unnecessary ordeal than a pleasurable experience. Recourse was to backtrack to the Snake River, and follow it to my rendezvous. It took 15 minutes to scramble to the high ground and cut north.

The ball of my foot began to throb. The stumbling in Boardman Valley and the slipping, gouging, twisting in the sand from climbing out was more than the foam insole could cushion. I paused to change socks and rid my feet of the irritating devil's pitchforks. Straightening the wrinkled insole eased the discomfort again, and I knew there would be little problem for the rest of the journey.

To my left, the Snake widened into the head of Merritt Reservoir. Under the pleasant warmth of the afternoon, the sheet of water caught cloud images and held them captive in its depths. Neither wind ripple nor boat wake marred its glistening stretch, and though man caused, the lake looked as far removed from his clumsy hand as a crater on the moon. As time and distance slipped away, I summarized the events of the past days, and arrived at some conclusions.

I had slept warmly, eaten well, and covered a distance much greater than others had attempted. I had enjoyed peace, isolation, and a communion with the elemental. I was returning with rejuvenated spirit after rediscovering the strange, lonesome beauty of the rolling hills.

Yet, in spite of having traversed them successfully, a little carelessness in wearing a loose-fitting boot had taught me a belated and embarrassingly basic lesson. Had it not been for the foam pad, and a little ingenuity in adapting a portion of it to a new role, the trek would have ended before it was well begun.

The pedometer read 47.9 miles when the trail made a sharp turn and abruptly the parking lot at the end of the recrea tion road was before me. On it was a station wagon, its driver fast asleep, waiting to take me home.

TO CATCH A CRANE

and sweated it out. His patient efforts paid off in some outstanding photos. (See Come Cranes, Come Spring, March 1968 NEBRASKAland.)

Even with all his elaborate concealment, Lou had to use long-focus lens because the birds seemed to sense his presence and did not come quite as close as before.

Cranes are tough to handle and the technicians know their sharp beaks can inflict more than a mere insult. Banders wear heavy gloves and are careful to avoid a riposte from an aroused bird.

At least one bander believes that cranes are members of the one-for-all, all-for-one society. He banded a bird who turned on him, so the technician decided to fence a bit. The man was bent just right facing his indignant adversary, when another crane took dead aim on the technician's rear. The bird set himself and drove his rapier-like bill at the tempting target. Bulls-eye! Surrounding cranes were almost envious of the technician's vertical take-off.

Hunters are sharing some of the problems of the researchers, but their shotguns give them a little more edge in getting a bird. Pass shooting, blind hunting, and decoying are the favored methods. Hunters have found that decoys have to be perfect or the sandhillers will give them the go by. Young cranes are quite palatable, but old ones are pretty dry and tough eating. Texas game officials report that 1,900 cranes were taken by 2,100 hunters in 1961. Limited seasons in Manitoba and Saskatchewan in 1964 saw less than 5,000 birds bagged but the sport provided 10,000 man days of recreation.

It is doubtful if cranes will ever be hunted in Nebraska because of two factors. The fall populations here are very minimal and would not offer many hunting opportunities. More importantly, shooting must necessarily be limited to areas where the greater sandhill cranes and the endangered whoopers will not be imperiled.

It is not known if banding will continue in Nebraska or not, for the ultimate decision is up to the Fish and Wildlife Service. Although only a few hundred cranes have been banded out of the thousands that stop here, biologists feel the project has merit and point out that some bands from Nebraska have already been recovered.

In a day when wildlife of every type is hoeing a hard row, it may be that such projects as crane banding can be the key that unlocks the shackles of discord between man and nature.

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

A RUGGED PLACE for the outdoorsman who likes to get away from it all, but not too rugged for his wife who likes to rough it in comfort is Spring Creek State Recreation Area on Red Willow Reservoir.

This relaxing hideaway is located 11 miles north of McCook and one-half mile west of U.S. Highway 83. Set among the hills of southwestern Nebraska, Spring Creek offers a host of sporting activities to all. To the fisherman its lake offers walleye, small and largemouth bass, bluegill, crappie, and channel cat, all ready if not willing to be caught.

The cool splash on the bow of a boat and the crystal spray of water cut by skiis also attract non-fishing visitors to the summer playground. For those who don't own their own equipment, rental boats and water skis are available from the concessionnaires. A swimming area is marked off.

For those who take their homes with them, there is plenty of trailer parking. A concession area offers some hook-ups for their rigs. There is space enough to satisfy summer tent dwellers and others who enjoy rolling their bedrolls out under the night sky, while an accommodating shelter house is available for picnickers who prefer not to share their dinners with the ants. The area is served by paved access roads, vapor-mercury lights, and plumbing facilities.

Several longhorn cattle roam a 60-acre patch in the lakeshore area, much as they did on the open ranges of old. These representatives of the old West, can be seen during the summer months.

For those who would rather see than do, NEBRASKAland offers another attraction, the Washington County Historical Museum on the main street of Fort Calhoun in extreme eastern Nebraska. Tentative plans call for the museum to be open from 1:30 to 4:30 p.m. on Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday through April and May and every day except Monday during the summer months. Visiting groups and individuals can make appointments at any time by calling the director at 468-5722.

Most of the artifacts in the museum, located about 16 miles north of downtown Omaha on U.S. Highway 73, were found exclusively in Washington County. They help give the visitor a feeling of intimacy with the county's dramatic past. Long before the West was wrested from the red man, the Indian fought natural forces to claim it for his own. Bones of some of the prehistoric beasts that once wandered Nebraska prairies are coupled with primitive weapons.

A view of these ancient weapons conjures images of the strong and enduring red men hunting the giant animals for survival. A collection of grinding stones bring mental pictures of hard working Indian women who ground corn for food when some of the tribes turned to agriculture. Beadwork on display in the museum reminds visitors that even in the midst of his life-and-death struggle, the Indian was not immune to beauty.

A generous sampling of artifacts from Fort Atkinson, too, is revealing. These depict life in that early army post on the banks of the Missouri River. Cannon balls, bayonets, swords, and even a portion of a broken headstone, that of Lieutenant Gabriel Field, denoting the death of that Army surveyor, remind viewers of the struggle to tame the prairies.

Visitors looking at the historical and militarv collections will also see items like a spinning wheel and a butter churn — everyday necessities to early women, but curiosities to today's homemakers. Furniture of the 1880's, and a case of antique china, brass, copper, and glass objects brought from Europe are also on display.

Beside these items of home and culture are the tools of toil that were used by the early settlers. A farm-implement display links the automated world of today to the crude devices used by the men and women of earlier times. From the bones of prehistoric beasts to the ox yokes of the pioneers, the displays of Washington County Museum recreate NEBRASKAland's past as it was.