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

MASTODON TEETH - "I am wondering whom to contact in Nebraska about a 'find' of mastodon teeth? We found them last summer in south-central Nebraska. Confirmation was made by the University of Missouri.

"We have contacted Mr. Marvin F. Kivitt of the Nebraska State Historical Society and Dr. Bertrand C. Schulz of the University of Nebraska, but have not received any replies. Is Nebraska so overstocked with fossils that new finds go unaccounted for?" - Mrs. Lyle Heckenlively, Thompson, Missouri.

Congratulations on your find. Nebraska is a veritable mecca for paleontologists. As for your inquiry about the mastodon teeth, we have contacted University of Nebraska State Museum personnel and they assure us that the failure to register your find was strictly an oversight. A copy of your letter is being sent to the museum, and your find will be recorded. You will probably be hearing from them. — Editor.

HIGH-VOLTAGE JERKY- I learned a few new wrinkles, so thought perhaps I would pass them on.

"I find that an electric knife is the only thing to use when cutting beef for jerky. It sure has anything beat that I have tried. You can keep each strip the same thickness and width. Also an electric knife is the best knife I have found to fillet fish with. It takes a little practice to get on to it, but, man, you can 4 NEBRASKAland walk through them in no time. The nice part of it, you have two types of knives, electric or battery. The battery type is much handier around the lakes than the electric.

"When fishing for bullhead and catfish, I use a slip-through weight, that is a weight with a hole straight through it. I always had trouble with the weight getting down on my hook when casting out, then it would not slide when releasing your line. I found that a small button with four holes in it is the most practical thing to use. Run the line through it then back again and you have the best weight stopper you can find. It can be easily adjusted for different lengths."--Arthur W. Smith, Kearney.

BUFFALO BILL-"I would like to 'Speak Up' and thank my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Robert J. Will of Norfolk, Nebraska, for my gift subscription of NEBRASKAland.

"I can remember when Buffalo Bill (William Cody) was here in my home city with his Wild West Show, possibly in 1910.

"I can see him yet in his buckskins and white Stetson hat. He rode a magnificent white horse and in the finale he would touch the horse lightly with his whip and the animal would kneel. Buffalo Bill would stand in the stirrups and salute the audience, waving his hat." — Mrs. Myrtle LeBaron, Corning, New York.

RESTORED BARREL-"I enjoyed the article by Mike Knepper, New Face for an Old Friend, in the January NEBRASKAland.

"Now I would like to see such a do-it yourself article concerning cleaning up and restoring the barrel of a slightly rusted and worn gun. If any such article is available I would be very much interested in obtaining a copy of it. Any information would be helpful."- Nick Lamme, Fremont.

Glad you enjoyed the stock-refinishing story. As for the barrel of your gun, restoring the bore is a job for a gunsmith. Our experts tell us this would be a nearly impossible task, since the only apparent way to handle it would be to rebore the gun to take a larger caliber cartridge. You can clean up the exterior of the barrel, however, by using fine steel wool and light oil. If it is badly pitted or rusted, the bluing will have to be restored, and that, too, is a job for a gunsmith unless you use one of the commercially available cold blues.

We have no immediate plans for an article on restoring gun barrels. — Editor.

CENTENNIAL MEMENTO-"As an amateur photographer I was especially taken by the breathtaking pictorial display of the university. Of the People, By the People, For the People, that you presented in your February issue. It did much to present a vivid picture of progress on our campus, and it is an issue that we shall treasure with our Centennial mementos."

— Merk Hobson, Acting Chancellor, University of Nebraska, Lincoln.

LITTLE-KNOWN HISTORY-"On behalf of Mrs. Robert Letcher, president of the Lincoln branch of the NAACP and its members, I would like to extend our appreciation for Mrs. Jean Williams' article, Nebraska's Negro Homesteaders, in the February issue. The publication of this article came at a most appropriate time when the nation was observing Negro History Week. Thanks for bringing this little-known page in Nebraska's history to your readers." —Patrick R. Wells, Public Relations Chairman, NAACP, Lincoln.

OLD FLOUR MILL-"I'm going to jot down some early Nebraska history for your information.

"My father, Charles Arter, then a resident of Pennsylvania, was told by his doctor that he must move to a different climate if he hoped to live. So in 1852 he asked his widowed mother to move to Nebraska with some emigrants from Cleveland, Ohio, and take up a homestead on a stream large enough to operate a flour mill.

"My father along with mother, who was then pregnant, stayed behind in 1852. My grandmother joined the Cleveland group and homesteaded on Ash Creek, a beautiful sandy stream in Holt County.

"In February of 1853 my father and mother came West and built the flour mill which they operated on a 24-hour-a-day schedule.

"In 1894, during the big drought, the mill was abandoned along with much of the land surrounding it. It was then that my father started in the cattle business.

"When the rains came again father was asked to reopen the mill, but since repairs would be so expensive and he would then be competing with steel roller mills, my father refused and remained in the cattle business." —W. S. Arter, Bassett.

GOOD SEASON-"Concerning the 1968-69 pheasant season in Dundy County:

"Prior to opening day birds appeared to be scarce compared to past years. Farmers said, 'no birds,' and the ma jority of local hunters didn't buy a hunting license. It was wet on opening day and not many birds were taken that first weekend. Out-of-state hunters became discouraged and soon went elsewhere.

"However, as the season progressed, the birds began to appear. By the second week and throughout the season, there were plenty of them. Not many hunters, but plenty of birds. I have seen an abundance of hens and this is good. As you probably know, Dundy County has a lot of soil-bank land, so there is ample cover the year around.

"I just wanted you to know that pheasant hunting was as good as ever in this particular area. Also, I wanted to tell you that I believe M. O. Steen has done a tremendous job as director of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. I appreciate all of the many improvements he has made possible for all sportsmen in Nebraska. I hope he will keep up the good work and stay on as director as long as possible." — Dale Baur, Benkelman.

SEND HELP —"I would appreciate your readers sending me any recipes for carp and catfish baits.

"Also, if anyone has methods for can ning carp I would like to have them. I've been told it can taste like tuna.

"Please send replies direct." —Mrs. Stanley W. Wezorek, Jr., 5843 Grover, Omaha 68106.

Can't help much on the canning recipe but here's one for pickled carp:

Boil vinegar, water, salt, sugar, and spice. Simmer 20 minutes. Skin the carp, score, and cut in three-inch pieces. Place in brine, bring to a boil, and simmer for 15 minutes. Place in open bowl, prefer ably crockware — do not use aluminum.

Here is a tested recipe for carp bait:

Bring corn to boil, stir in the crushed corn while boiling, and add cornmeal until mass is solid but moist. Remove from heat. Add and knead in flour until the desired consistency is attained. When dough bait is to be used in cold water (below 50° to 55°), it should7 be left fairly soft. It will become harder upon contact with the cold water. Doughballs kept in the refrigerator in the summer become much softer when cast into warm water. A plastic bag of flour should be carried at all times so that lake-side adjustments can be made. Add flour for firmness, water for softness. Avoid long, whippy casts which can snap the doughball off.

Catfish baits are basically mixtures of chicken or beef blood with a binding compound like flour or cornmeal to reach the desired consistency. Catfish will often take doughballs, too. — Editor.

PLAN AHEAD

WHEN THE EARLIEST of the white-sailed prairie schooners began rumbling across Nebraska's rugged plains, the pioneers had basic travel plans. Their plans were simple —go West. And, their discovery of Nebraska's wonders was somewhat haphazard. Today, you can plan a much more sophisticated adventure through NEBRASKAland —not only knowing, but choosing precisely where to go and what to see.

Designing your NEBRASKAland vacation is of vital importance in order to sap the most out of your trip. Fact is, planning ahead is a prerequisite for most any type of excursion, including a lackadaisical Sunday afternoon picnic. Yet, travel plans sometimes fall victim to man's deadly procrastination. The result often reverses a longed-for break from the routine into an unhappy experience.

Some folks actually consider planning their vacation as much fun as the real thing. And, all in all, vacation planning is enjoyable, exciting, and painless. According to recent travel surveys most vacationers plan two to three months in advance.

Your first major step is to obtain general travel material about all of Nebraska. Although it is unlikely that you will travel in a covered wagon, the actual eyewitnessing of pioneer guideposts like Scotts Bluff at Gering or Chimney Rock near Bayard often creates a like atmosphere. See-and-do opportunities abound throughout the state. Maps, brochures, and NEBRASK Aland's official travel guidebook are available free from the state's official tourist agency, the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. The mailing address is NEBRASKAland, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509.

Last year more than 56,000 interested out-of-staters from all 50 states and 14 foreign countries as well as 7,000 residents wrote for information about Nebraska. Each request was promptly filled with revealing facts about the many attractions of this land.

After gathering general information about Nebraska, your next step is to construct a skeleton vacation plan and route, with map spread and pen in hand. Simultaneously, other basic decisions must be made. Method of travel is one of the first. Nine out of every 10 families travel by private automobile. However, other fashions are gaining in popularity. The fly-drive method is becoming well established. Group tours, which can be arranged with most any public transport company, are big, and various travel agencies offer package tours of the state on a regularly scheduled basis. Often, group tours or package deals receive reduced prices for lodgings and other facets of the trip.

A decision must be made as to what type of vacation you are going to pursue. As tourism booms, travel-oriented businesses bloom alongside. Ranch-farm vacations and kids-only camps are be coming more in demand. Nebraska has a wide selection of these get-away-from-it all plants which are listed in the NEBRASKAland travel guidebook. A letter of inquiry could open the door to an all new vacation aspect. Other types of out door vacations include houseboat trips, pack trips, and float trips, to mention but a few.

As your skeleton vacation plan and route grow, the prospective route can drift into a several weeks' extravaganza. This signals the need for detailed family discussion to trim the agenda until it reasonably matches time and allowed expenditures.

Regardless of how you travel or where you go, whether it is camping, visiting relatives, or meandering at a leisurely pace, you need an intinerary. Each day should be drawn out precisely. Most travel planners claim that the itinerary is the most important aspect of your holiday. Everyone knows Charlie, the "load' em-up and go-where-you-feel-like-it guy" who invariably arrives at the stadium a day after homecoming.

The itinerary should cover where to stay, time on the road, times for meals, seeing and doing, and for side trips. The importance of the vacation itinerary cannot be overemphasized.

Experts recommend that the vacationer allow a day or two free time when planning his itinerary. This allows for any unforeseen delay or just spending more time at a special spot. If the extra time isn't used, it gives you a chance to unpack and catch your breath before going back to work. Of course, some vacations like the package tour require little or no intinerary as everything is planned.

At this stage you have planned out where and how you are going to go, time spent, and expenditures allowed. Now, the travel plan can be further polished with supplementary information concerning pinpointed areas. This data is usually obtainable by writing Chambers of Commerce or equivalent organizations in individual cities. The Game Commission often has specific area information. However, few travelers know exactly where they will venture at the very beginning, and such specific information is not included with the general tourist kit unless requested.

Additional information concerning specific areas is also available through NEBRASKAlanders, an organization sponsored by the Game Commission with trained members who can answer travel questions and supply literature describing their areas as well as the entire state. Nearly 100 strong, NEBRASKAlanders own or operate tourist-related businesses. Eye-catching red-and-white signs mark their locations. The diffusion of adequate information is a must as tourism presently means some $125 6 NEBRASKAland million annually to Nebraska's overall economic picture.

Most major oil companies are more than happy to provide travel routes. The companies will generally plan the fastest, most scenic, most remote, most historic, or just about any other type of route you can imagine. Automobile clubs are also experienced travel route planners. A widely used trick is to obtain a particular route from such an agency, then plan side trips from the original blueprint.

Events are important to most travelers and NEBRASKAland vacationers are no exception. Tourists wishing to attend NEBRASKAland DAYS in North Platte, Nebraska's Big Rodeo in Burwell, one of the Indian pow wows, an ethnic celebration, or what have you, obviously would want to know the dates to plan accordingly. Dates are available from individual communities, and the Game Commission publishes an annual state-wide events list which is included in all travel request mailings.

Right now tourism is big business in America, conservatively placed at $22 billion annually. Experts forecast a travel explosion of undreamed-of proportions by 1976, even though that date is a scant seven years distant. These experts say that passenger miles will have increased 100 percent over today, the population by 21 percent, automobiles by 46 percent, and disposable income by 70 percent. With these figures in mind, Nebraska must promote travel and diffuse adequate and immediate information to get its share of the industry.

The roar of the travel explosion prompted the Legislature to designate the Game Commission as the state's official tourist agency in 1959. And, the Commission is working diligently to carry out its assignment. In addition to distributing information via written request, the Commission maintains three Outdoor Recreation and Travel Information Centers on a full-time basis.

These are the Melia Hill Welcome Station near the Gretna Interchange on Interstate 80, the NEBRASKAland Information Center at the Westroads Shopping Center in Omaha, and the State Capitol Information Center in Lincoln. The information centers are staffed by attractive, knowledgeable hostesses who know all when it comes to information about NEBRASKAland. The literature available at the centers is identical as that mailed, but the information centers boast firsthand verbal information from the hostesses. An example of the use these centers receive can be cited with the August 1968 report of the Melia Hill Information Center. A grand total of 16,111 intrigued travelers stopped for information. Tentatively, three temporary information centers will be established this summer at Auburn, Blair, and (Continued on page 53)

NEBRASKAland activities move out of-doors in earnest when May caresses this "where the West be gins" state. On May 2 the thoroughbreds will break from the post at the Ak-Sar-Ben track in Omaha as some of the best racing stock in the country compete for top purses.

High-school track meets also have an important niche in this month's fast paced athletic schedule. The former Connie Sue Lambley is well qualified to represent this exciting sport. Now Mrs. Lee Jacobson, Connie has close contact with athletic excellence through her husband, who opted for a professional football contract with the New York Jets before he received a Marine draft. Last February, Connie joined him in San Diego, California, where he is playing baseball with the Marine team.

A finalist in the 1968 Miss NE BRASKAland pageant at North Platte, Connie is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. M. B. Lambley of Bassett. She was a freshman last year at Kearney State College where she worked as a secretary to the football and baseball coach. She was president of her Alpha Phi pledge class and later, historian of the class. Her major at Kearney was audiology. In 1968, she was chosen Miss Congeniality in the Miss Kearney Pageant. Connie lists hunting, swimming, fishing, and horseback riding as her hobbies. She likes all sports including football, basket ball, track, and baseball.

High points of the track season are the annual invitational track meet at Cambridge early in May and the Mid west Federation Track and Field Meet in Cozad later in the month. Kearney will host the state high school track meet on May 23 and 24. In these events well-trained athletes from throughout the state will try for records in all the various events.

Rodeos reach a fever pitch this month at the Gordon High School Rodeo, which is scheduled for May 17 and 18. Valen tine will be the center of attention on May 30 when its high-school rodeo bursts from the chutes. Broncs and bulls will be equally ornery at the Raceway Rodeo in Norfolk. This three-day thriller begins on May 30 and runs until June 1.

High-school golf meets also add to the May sport schedule. Students will test their skill on Hebron's sand greens on May 10 and on the grass greens at Lincoln and Fremont 13 days later. An in vitational golf tourney is scheduled at Arapahoe on May 18.

For those who would rather watch than do, the roar of high-powered motors will herald the return of stock-car racing to NEBRASKAland. Columbus will host the sport every Sunday evening starting May 5.

Nebraska City plans a two-day Arbor Day observance on May 3 and 4. The tree-planting part of the ceremonies which is the purpose for the celebration, was done ahead of time, but some trees are still available at $1 apiece. Morton Steinhart, a Nebraska City businessman, furnishes about 90 percent of the seedlings and the VFW plants them for Otoe County residents. Nebraska City's utilities company digs the holes.

Although Arbor Day falls in April, the Nebraska City program is postponed until May to insure better weather for the outdoor festivities. The action will center around a Sunday afternoon program at Arbor Lodge. United States Secretary of Agriculture Clifford Hardin has been asked to speak. A fly-in speed way show, a trail ride at Ponda Rosa Ranch, and tours of John Brown's Cave are in the works. The hobby show at the Memorial building will display every thing from coins, rocks, and ceramics to glass blowing and African safari items.

There is nothing in the world like the spring day when the circus comes to town. And from May 5 to 10, Lincoln will host the Shrine Circus. Three-ring ballyhoo will dominate the Lincoln scene as white horses, performing elephants, and be-sequined ladies swing through their routines in the State Fairgrounds Coliseum.

While the circus is preparing to pack up its gear and roll away to other climes, Omaha will be viewing a square-dance festival on May 10. Dancers in colorful western garb will swing through the in tricate steps chosen by a caller. Fiddlers will provide the rhythms.

During its festival day on May 25, Brownville flips the pages of time to the three decades after the Civil War. Residents don the garb of the 1890's and horse-drawn buggies replace automobiles for tours arranged and gaited to the slower tempo of earlier generations. On festival day, Brownville's main street will be the scene of a flea market, demonstrations of candle making, rug weaving, and flax spinning.

Honest-to-fun activities abound under the western sky of NEBRASKAland. When May paints the landscape with its springtime pastels, rodeos, horse shows, racing, track meets, community events, and golf offer plenty of both see and do adventures.

What to do

SHARP LESSON

MY COMPANION and I had hunted the lowlands early in the morning of that memorable day during the rifle-deer season of 1966. We were just north of Harrisburg in Banner County, not far from the western border of Nebraska. It was some distance out of my territory, for I worked the central part of the state as an assistant engineer for the Union Pacific Railroad, and at that time lived in Grand Island. Even farther from home was my hunting partner, John Longsdorf of Omaha. He is division engineer for the Union Pacific, and also my boss.

About 9:30 a.m. we decided to move up into the hills, figuring the deer had preceded us. There, we split up and took off on foot, John heading toward one ridge and I to another about a half mile away.

After still-hunting for less than an hour I was nearing the top of the ridge when I spotted a buck across the ravine. I dropped to the ground and put the scope of my .30/06 on the deer. He looked big through the glass, although he was at least 100 yards away. When I fired, he dropped, and by the time I scrambled across the draw and up the hill he was dead.

Very elated with the way things had gone, I tried to attract John's attention so he could help dress out the deer. I even fired off a few more shots, but with no results. Finally, I gave up and headed back to the pickup to get the equipment to do it alone. I had dressed out game before, so I knew what to do.

After returning with all the paraphernalia, I hauled stones into a pile to prop up the deer. Then I got out the knife I had sharpened so painstakingly a few days before. There was nothing to it. Very businesslike, I cut along the belly, through the rib cage, and through the pelvic bone. By then the knife was getting dull, and as I trimmed around the vent, the hide started rolling under my blade. I turned the knife around to get more pressure on it, put both hands on the hilt, and gave a good pull.

This proved to be a bad mistake. The knife came through the hide easier than I expected, and the blade plunged into my left leg six inches above the knee. Blood gushed from the wound and soaked through my coveralls. The knife had gone nearly straight into the inside of my leg. I jerked the knife out and threw it aside. Then a strange feeling of queasiness came over me. More than anything else I was disgusted with myself because I knew better. Then I started to worry. Quickly stripping off the coveralls, I grabbed up some clean rags meant to wipe blood from the deer and pressed them against the cut. The pain was bad by that time and I was bleeding profusely.

Hobbling over to a tree, I laid down and propped the leg onto a branch. This seemed to slow the bleeding, although it was hard to tell by that time because I had both my own and that of the deer all over me. The cold ground on my back added to my discomfort, but I knew it was important to stop the bleeding if I could. I was staring up at the cold sky, really feeling sorry for myself when John showed up on the point a couple of hundred feet away. A wave of relief went through me when I saw him.

Concerned but efficient, he asked if I could make it back to the pickup. I gave it a try, but as soon as I put weight on my leg, blood started flowing heavily again. There was nothing to do but get a rig up to me. We decided John would have to get Thelbert Matthews, on whose place we were hunting. He had a four-wheel-drive pickup that could cross those ravines.

About an hour passed before I saw help on the way. Thelbert's four-wheeler ground right up beside me, giving the old morale a boost. The two men collected my scattered gear, loaded the deer into the back, and propped me across the front seat. With compress still tight, my wound didn't act up much.

I thought a little home treatment would take care of the gash, so we headed to my parents' place in Gering. It was roughly 3 V2 hours since I stabbed myself, but unaware of the seriousness of the injury, I was confident a good washing and some clean bandages would make a great improvement.

All those theories went out the window when we reached Gering. I couldn't get out of the truck, so we headed out again, this time bound for a clinic in Scottsbluff. There we learned an artery was nicked, so internal and external stitches were necessary. After those repairs I was especially thankful I had not been hunting alone out there in the hills. Things would have been much worse. As it was, I had the satisfaction of having downed my buck and relearned an important lesson. Proper knife handling is now something I practice very diligently and preach quite vociferously. I won't get stuck again.

DOG-DAY LARGEMOUTHS

HE PURPLE WORM slid over the aquatic plants and lazily fell to Medicine CreeliReservoir's muddy bottom. A sleepy largemouth bass easy meal, darted out of hiding and grabbed the piece plastic. At the other end of the 20-pound-test monofilament Roberts received the largemouth's telegraphed message and drove the steel barb deep into the fish's lip.

Harlan Truscott, watching the show in amused delight, felt a light tap and doubled his rod to set the hook. The over powering bass laced the line in and around the water plants before the Sterling, Nebraska farmer could turn him. With two big bass on at the same time Harlan and Chuck had a problem, because both fish were too heavy to be swung into MAY, 1969 13   the boat without a net. With Harlan's fish wrapped in the weeds, they decided to work Chuck's bass first. While Harlan fumbled for the fish scoop, the Lincolnite played his worm gobbler through a series of jumps and runs.

"Give me your rod, while you net my fish," a flushed Chuck Roberts shouted as he coaxed his bass next to the boat.

With a sure sweep of the net, Harlan lifted the 4V2 pound largemouth out of the water.

"Now, it is my turn to net," Chuck yelled.

To pull his fighter out of the arrowheads, Harlan put a maximum amount of pressure on his 18-pound-test monofilament. When the bass rolled to the top, he muscled the fish out of the weeds and into open water. The three-pounder was netted a tail walk later.

"Over a day of slow fishing and suddenly we hook more bass than we can handle at one time," Chuck chuckled, dropping the fish onto a stringer.

Chuck, a Lincoln newspaperman, and I have swapped outdoor tales for a couple of years, but until this mid-July trip to Medicine Creek, located north of Cambridge, we had never fished together. Plans for the trek actually came about earlier in the year during a brag session. The Lincolnite has several Master Angler Awards to back up most of his big-bass tales, but when he said that he could land bass in the dead heat of summer in any largemouth lake in the state, 14 I figured he had lived in Texas too long. I challenged the statement and the five-foot, nine-inch journalist told me to pick the lake and the time, and he would catch the fish.

Largemouths have always taken a backseat to walleye and catfish at Medicine Creek Reservoir. Although bass are regulars in spring creels, summer bigmouth fishing is extremely tough in the lake because irrigation drawdown leaves most of the good bass cover high and dry. What water is left is often too murky for the sight-feeding fish. When a searing July sun had drastically lowered the water in the 19-year-old impoundment, I called Chuck and snickered a bit as we set up the trip. I thought I had finally out-bluffed a Texan.

Even under normal conditions, fishing a strange impoundment is a tough assignment. Chuck had never seen the reservoir before, so he gathered together all available maps of the lake and studied water depths and shorelines. Next he contacted local fishermen and their reports were far from optimistic. The water was muddy, the weather hot, and the fish weren't biting. Chuck took the news like a betting man. He called me six times in one day to complain that the cards were stacked against him but I wasn't going to let him off the hook. We would fish. However I agreed reluctantly when Chuck asked for Harlan's help in figuring out the impoundment. The Sterling NEBRASKAland farmer is an avid outdoorsman and when he isn't hunting, he is fishing.

After the newspaperman met his Saturday afternoon deadline, the three of us headed for Medicine Creek and arrived in time to scout out part of the lake before sunset. Chuck and Harlan are artificial worm advocates. In fact, when Chuck crawls a worm over a lake bottom it is as if he can describe the underwater terrain by the way his rod, line, and worm react on the retrieve.

"It is going to be tough," Chuck said as he flipped on the boat lights. "The bottom is bare and the good bass cover is on dry land. But the fish are somewhere and we will find them."

The morning sun hadn't even peeked over the far hills when I heard the snorts of an angler who believes in getting up early to catch fish. Usually harder to get up than a hibernating grizzly and just as mean, I growled that it was too early for coffee and fishing.

"So, you still haven't fished with a purple-people eater," Chuck muttered as the boat rumbled away from the dock. "It takes practice, patience, and persistence to learn the worm, but it will catch more bass than any lure on the market if it is used right."

A doubter by profession, I had in the past courteously listened to Chuck's ravings about the worm, but had never given the lure a serious try. Roberts has a 40-pound tackle box filled with every lure imaginable, but when he opened the box he pulled out only a huge sack filled with worms, a small, tin box filled with tiny bell sinkers, a box of hooks, and a black, battle-scarred chugger.

"You can try any lure in that box and I will outfish you with worms and my top water lure," Chuck snorted.

The newsman's display of confidence in the worm had converted me to the role of a learner. Chuck was anxious to toss in a lure, but curbed his desire long enough to show me how to rig the worm so that it was nearly weedless.

Taking an 1/8-ounce bell sinker, he snipped off its eye, removed the wire, and slid it onto the line. After tying a 5/0 hook to the monofilament, he nipped a quarter inch off the head of the worm. The angler inserted and pushed the hook point one-half inch into the center of the lure, then brought it out through the side of the worm. After pulling the hook until the eye disappeared inside the wiggler, he buried the barb in the body of the crawler to make it weedless.

Our first strike didn't come until we had raised and lowered the anchor at least a dozen times. Chuck came back hard, but the bass spit out the worm before he could set the barb. The July sun was stoking up for a real scorcher when we anchored off a rocky point.

"There is an underwater ledge 25 feet out from the boat," Harlan commented (Continued on page 49

THE HAT THE SNAPPER

UNCLE LEWIS worried the toothpick between his teeth. "Hey, where did you resurrect that old snapshot?"

'Your wife showed it to me," I said.

"My wife should burn things," Uncle declared, but he turned the faded photograph toward the light.

"Remembering your pet turtle?"

"Man, he was no pet! I was think- ing about the hat. I'll never forget that hat."

I stood up quickly to reach for the coffee pot. If I could keep my Uncle talking, I knew I would be in for a treat. He leaned back, lifted the spoon from his steaming cup, and told about the hat and the snapper.

"That picture must have been taken 40 years ago when I was just a kid turned 12, maybe 13," Uncle Lewis began. He studied the snapshot again and this time he laughed out loud. "Notice the hat? For awhile, that new black hat made me the cockiest little snotnose this side of the reservation."

"I spent my boyhood on a ranch, you know, near the Nebraska state line in the Pine Ridge country. Most of the region was still raw prairie, blasted by winter blizzards and summer dust.

"Home was a frame shanty banked with sod. It truly was a full house, for there were a dozen of us young

I nodded. My narrator paused to sip his coffee and stare at nothing, probably recalling his mother. Uncle Lewis sighed and went on.

"Well, Pine Ridge was top rangeland. However, our plant varieties were mostly low growing. Buffalo grass and the gramas with only a scattering of bluestem. Dry summers you could spot a ground squirrel a mile off."

It was my turn to laugh, but a weary look crossed my Uncle's face. "It wasn't very funny. Some years were rough. With all those feet under the family table, there was never money to spare. This explains why Dad and the other important men in my youth went around in patched overalls and thrice-soled boots.

"And you should have seen their hats! Those work-aday Stetsons were blotched with grease and sweat and smelled to high heaven. A new Stetson marked a season of no hail, no new baby kicking in the cradle, no drought, and no slump in the beef market. I doubt that my father bought more than a couple of decent hats in his lifetime.

"However, every man I knew owned one hat of quality. Dress hats were treasures wrapped in oilcloth, placed on high shelves safe from moths, mice, crickets, wives, and sticky children. When a respectable man took off for a funeral at the mission or prowled main street down in Gordon on a Saturday night he wore a respectable hat.

"Hats were a status symbol; an identification. You could tell a Baptist from a bartender just by the set of his hat. The men in our neighborhood favored black felts with uncreased crowns. The bowlegged Sand Hillers on south of Gordon preferred silver-bellies with four-inch brims.

"Of course, famous Tom Mix sported a white ten-gallon. Surprised that I knew anything about the theater? I might have been a country boy, but I was no hick. I saw one genuine moving picture!" This time we chuckled together.

"Not, mind you, that we had cash money for shows. You see, one summer, Ma's cousin drove a stacker team for the Star Ranch down in Cherry County. The cousin owed Ma, so to square with her, part of his paycheck took us children to our first silent film. I've forgotten the plot. I'm not sure those silent films had any plot. But it didn't matter. Tom Mix made the show. Daredevil Tom, how he leered and smirked and made sick-eyes till every woman in the audience went weak in the knees. What shook me, though, was old Tom's ten-gallon hat. I perched on the edge of the bench, stiff with envy.

"As if I didn't already have sufficient reason to covet a good hat, my best buddy at that time was a full blood Sioux named Culvert Shoots Twice. Culvert was 16, but shorter than I was and he wore a great big beautiful (Continued on page 54)

HEAD 'EM UP

EARLY MORNING mists shroud the undulating ever sameness of the Sand Hills as the sun's first rays peek over the eastern horizon. The dim light of pre-dawn silhouettes the busy cowboys as they stow their gear in preparation to "head 'em up and move 'em out".

The drive began about noon the preceding day. The drovers bunched the 350 head of white-faced Herefords for the 40-mile, cross-country drive from the home place to summer pasture, some 30 miles southeast of Rushville. The time is the present and the place is the Hunter Ranch, some 10 miles northwest of Rushville. But, the scene might be taken straight from pages of Zane Grey.

While some aspects of today's working ranch still very much resemble the romantic cowboy era of yesterday, few cattlemen now move their herds in such a way or for such a distance. But for the Hunters, the "cattle drive" has become tradition. For over 60 years they have moved their cattle from winter range to summer grass in the spring and back again in the fall. Following the time-honored methods of yesteryear, these modern-day ranchers still drive their herd that 40 miles, and practically the entire clan gathers for the occasion.

Hunters joining this particular drive ranged from young Jack, 7, to Doon, 72. There were brothers, uncles, fathers, sons, and cousins — Dean, Bill, Greg, Ken, and Bernard. Bernard doubled as camp cook and kept the crew stuffed with good, stick-to-the-ribs chow during the 2Vfc days on the trail because he knows a cowboy's stomach is second only to his horse.

While the main task is moving cattle, the leisurely pace leaves time enough to enjoy the tranquillity of the surrounding landscape.

Time seems to stand still as the bawling beeves meander toward their destination. For some, it is a trek made many times before, and they are content to move at their own pace, in no apparent hurry to reach journey's end. Patiently, the cowboys urge them along when they pause to munch the rich prairie grass.

The evergreen hills of the Pine Ridge loom in the distance, a constant reminder of yesterdays when nary a fence reared its wire on the unbroken plains and cattlemen moved their cows when and where they willed.

All at once daydreaming ceases, for there is today's business to do — a river to cross. The bridge groans as tons of beef straggle across. Independent cows will have no part of the manmade contraption and insist on finding their own way across the enticing stream.

The crossing made, the drover settles into his saddle once more. Lulled back into his reverie by the gentle, to-and-fro gait of his sure-footed cow pony, he still keeps a vigilant eye on his charges. One mile and then two. Slowly, the band pushes forward.

Clocks do not exist, for the sun governs the day's movements. When it reaches its apex, a halt is called for chow and a few moments of relaxation.

While Bernard whips up the victuals, younger Hunters engage in lighthearted shenanigans, like "shoeskiing" on the nearby trail. Older members of the clan gather in clusters to discuss the day's events. Aromas from the cook fire tantalize the hungry men, and the call to chow needs no repeating. Soon enough, it is time to move on.

Except for an occasional "hallo" or command, each is once again alone with his thoughts and the mass of red-rumped cows. In spite of the bright sun, the seesaw motion of the horse seems to invite communion with ghosts of cowboys who made the infinitely longer drives from the Rio Grande to the Niobrara. They're much alike and yet very different, the 20th Century cowpuncher and his invisible 19th Century companion. The breed of man remains the same, but today's cowman has added modern technology to the saddlebag of know-how passed on by his predecessor.

Gathering twilight heralds the approaching night. It is time to bed down the beeves. Herded between two fence rows on a section line, where by rights there should be a road, the men and boys string a temporary fence at one end to contain the cows. On the other, they build their camp. No need of night riders here.

The first night out, the punchers slept under the stars. Their second night on the trail, accommodations were reserved in a barn. After chow, the men linger by the fire to swap stories before turning in. But, they do not tarry too late, for it has been a full day and they must rise even before Old Sol announces the new day.

On the trail early, the band will spend its third day much like the others. It is routine for the men and their animals. The landscape is much the same. Only the detour around Smith Lake offers a change of pace.

As the sun drops low into the western sky, the Hunters near the end of the trail. The destination is reached and another drive is completed. The men abandon their charges to the lush range, and the whitefaces, too, sense instinctively that they have arrived. The animals drift off to graze and the men and boys of the Hunter clan regroup for the journey home. The job is done, and all is well.

WHO STOLE THE GOLD?

BACK IN THE 1880's, the bawdy town of Sidney, Nebraska, had an infamous reputation for lawlness where murder and robbery were practically everyday events. The town was a rail shipping center for gold coming down from the Black Hills of South Dakota, and as such, attracted a lot of hard cases, both male and female.

Most of these citizens dreamed of quick riches the easy way and waited for the (Continued on page 50)

ROAD RANCH '69

OVER A CENTURY AGO, travelers depended on "road ranches" along the trail to provide for their needs. These early motels offered rest and repair stops on the long overland trek West. While ticking off the miles at a much greater speed than their pioneer ancestors, 20th Century travelers have much the same need for a place to pause and refresh themselves during a long journey.

A project envisioned by Game and Parks Commission Director M. O. Steen when Interstate 80 was

still in its infant stages will meet this demand. This spring, the first in a series of modern-day road ranches opens to the public. Located in typical Platte River bottomlands at the Grand Island Interchange, the area far surpasses its 19th Century predecessor and the ordinary concept of a rest area as well.

The 80-acre Grand Island road ranch boasts shady picnicking facilities, including three picnic shelters and highly develped but limited public camping. Forty hardstands will accommodate all types of camping rigs, and a large shower house provides a place to scrub away the dust of the trail. A pumped, safe beach should be ready for use by late summer, and there will be a change house for swimmers.

The superintendent's quarters, a service building, and an ornamental entrance round out the structures there. Land scaping projects will further enhance the locale, adding to the natural growth of firs and cotton woods.

Far and away the most expensive parts of the complex are ones the casual visitors would notice only if they weren't there. All internal roads are hard surfaced to withstand the heavy traffic anticipated, and the irrigation and sewage system, including four completely modern rest rooms, is equivalent to that required by a town of 250, roughly the size of Brownville.

This extensive development is not solely at state expense. Half of the cost is snared by the federal government through the Land and Water Conservation Fund. The Grand Island road ranch is more or less a prototype for similar developments slated for the Gibbon, Elm Creek, and Maxwell interchanges. All are now in the planning stages. Land has been acquired for all three areas, and construction will begin soon on the Gibbon area. Elm Creek and Maxwell are scheduled for development as soon as funds become available.

Individual site plans will be adapted to the terrain and character of each locale. However, each will feature about the same facilities as Grand Island, and the lakes will be open to fishing, swim ming, and non-power boating. The accompanying charts list the various outdoor-recreational opportunities available at each Interstate 80 site.

The Interstate "Chain of Lakes" came about more or less as a bonus when the superhighway was built. Because of the high water table along the Platte valley, varying-size lakes were created when the fill material for 1-80 was removed. Here, through nature's good auspices, was an ideal opportunity to provide enticing oases for cross-country travelers and residents alike.

This abundant supply of ground water paralleling 1-80 is one of the keys to the success and public acceptance of the road ranch system. People just plain like water. If they are not swimming in it, fishing in it, or boating in it, they just like to be next to it and look at it. A pure supply of water from this slow moving but steady underground river has given Nebraska this chance for 32 NEBRASKAland highly-developed recreational areas that are unique in the nation.

On the average, resident use of the road ranches is expected to equal or exceed that by nonresidents. During the peak summer tourist season, of course, one may see a majority of out-of-state license plates, but the operation for the year as a whole should balance nicely between hosts and guests. And, the road ranches will be intensively maintained by resident personnel to insure a clean, pleasant area for the use of all.

The road ranch concept was first presented to the Nebraska Legislature in 1959. It won approval in subsequent sessions and has continued to do so since. Now, with adequate funding from both state and federal sources, it is emerging from the idea stage to concrete reality — a reality that is destined to be not only the pride of Nebraska, but the envy of other states.

Such road ranches are only a part of the development along Interstate 80, however. The Nebraska Department of Roads has its own system of short-stay rest stops which travelers describe as among the best in the country. There is more to the Chain of Lakes endeavor as well. Smaller areas at interchanges, with similar but smaller groundwater lakes, are under development as short-term, day-use and fishing sites by the Game Commission. Construction is already underway on three such areas — Cheyenne at the Wood River Interchange, War Ax at Shelton Interchange, and Union Pacific at Odessa Interchange. Each name has significance. Cheyenne is located near the site where a U.S. government official and his family were massacred by a wandering band of Cheyennes in 1850. War Ax recalls the early weapons used by the Indians, and Union Pacific, in sight of the main line of the first transcontinental railroad, pays tribute to the contribution of the Iron Horse in the opening and develop ment of the frontier.

Hunters and fishermen have been remembered in the planning of these Interstate developments. Many of the sand pits, created in the same way as the larger lakes at the road ranches, have been acquired and will be maintained in pretty much their natural state for hunting and fishing. Generally located next to the Interstate but not readily access ible from it, these pits can usually be reached by county roads. An intensive fish stocking and management program is in progress on pits owned both by the Commission and by the Department of Roads. They are open to angling as posted, offering thousands of Nebraskans fishing opportunities that were non-existent seven years ago.

All things considered, Interstate 80 is "putting Nebraska on the map" in more ways than one. While the superhighway lures more travelers to and through this "where the West begins" state, the adjacent Chain of Lakes is beckoning them to linger longer. And, although the bene fits to visitors are obvious, Nebraskans can also enjoy the added recreational opportunities. The reality is worthy of the dream.

CREELING THE NEBRASKA FISHERMAN

HAVE YOU ever wondered about the average fishing habits of those who fish Nebraska's waters? Have you ever wondered how much fishing occurs in Nebraska? Have you ever wondered if some species in certain waters are overfished because of the tremendous increase in angling pressure over the last 100 years?

Now some of the answers are available, thanks to postal questionnaires that were mailed to one of every eight persons who bought fishing or combination fish ing and hunting permits in the state. The answers were obviously needed by fisheries and administrative personnel of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission to better manage the state's fisheries resource.

The survey's primary purpose was to get a good estimate of the fishing pressure that occurs statewide, in each district, and in most lakes and streams. Second, the questionnaires attempted to determine fishermen's patterns and preferences. Information on the returned questionnaires also provided vitally needed facts necessary for the proper management of fish in existing waters, planning new fishing waters, and setting up sound regulations.

So, let's take all the fishermen in Nebraska, put them in a huge creel, shake them up, pull out an even 34 NEBRASKAland 100 of the outdoor critters, and see what in the world we have.

First of all about 18 of the 100 are under 16. Of the remaining 82, 1 or 2 possess a special (free) permit, issued to some welfare recipients, certain veterans, and the disabled. Around 11 of the 100 are out-of-staters, although these 11 do far less fishing in Ne braska than an equal number of in-staters. Of the 82 who hold licenses, 5 have nonresident 5-day licenses, and 4 have annual nonresident licenses.

Each of the 100 fishermen, bow and arrow and spear fishermen included, fished an average of 12 times during the entire year. Broken down, this could mean that the average fisherman sneaked out of mowing the lawn five times, hoeing the garden four times, washing the car two times, and visiting the relatives once.

About 4 out of the 100 fishermen attempted to "William Tell" a fish on the shaft of his arrow at least once a year. Four others also tried to spear a fish from above the water's surface. It is interesting to speculate on whether more arrows were lost and spearheads bent than fish harvested. From a chance encounter or two with the relatively few incorrigibles among the bow-and-arrow set, there's a possibility that one or two wound up picking a lure out of their ear, said lure be ing "accidentally" thrown by a thoroughly confused hook-and-liner who probably thought he was invaded by Robin Hood and his Merry Men.

Strangely, only 6 of the 100 anglers did any ice fishing during the year. This is doubly strange in view of the fact that ice fishing is often very productive for such species as bluegill, crappie, perch, and northern pike. The fact that many still labor under the fallacy that an ice fisherman has to be some kind of a hybridized polar bear may have something to do with the lack of participation. Modern equipment like ice tents, in sulated clothing, and heaters can keep a man fairly comfortable while attempting to fill his creel from the cold, liquid basement of a lake or stream.

And last but not least, except in numbers, 1 individual out of the 100 participated in underwater spearing. This activity is accomplished both with and without air tanks. Again, the great majority of the divers were very courteous and conscientious, but I have seen a few come so close to fishing lines that the rod-and-reel angler had every right to believe that the big "glop" of air that popped to the surface was a burp from a giant catfish about to take his bait.

About 10 out of every 100 fishing trips taken by the 100 anglers were to private farm ponds. It appears that farm ponds, most of them located in eastern Nebraska, contribute significantly to fishing. Reservoirs supported 43 of the trips, streams 18, state-owned lakes 9, gravel pits 6, city lakes 3, and privately-owned natural lakes 1. Now, let's leave our 100 "average" fishermen and look at some statistics of interest.

Nearly 3,200,000 fishing trips were taken during the year. These include all types of fishermen over the state. Generally speaking, western Nebraska waters received less than 75 hours of fishing per surface acre, probably averaging about 40 hours, while eastern Nebraska waters received from 50 to 1,500 fishing hours per surface acre. The reason is quite clear. Western Nebraska has more water and less people.

For fish and game-management purposes the state is divided into five areas —northwest, north-central, northeast, southwest, and southeast. About 41 percent of the fishing occurs in the southeast, 31 percent in the southwest, 15 percent in the northeast, 8 percent in the northwest, and 5 percent in the north-central. The amount of fishing that occurs in each area probably reflects the population density and the number of available fishing holes.

Unfortunately, these percentages do not reflect the locations of many good fishing spots. For instance, numerous fishing hot spots are located in the north-central area, an area that receives light pressure. Apparently many fishermen still imagine the Sand Hills area (north-central district) to be the filming location for T.V.'s Rat Patrol rather than a unique area dotted with good fishing lakes.

Granted that in this area access roads are sometimes poor and the facilities basic but a fisherman certainly doesn't have to "pack in" by camel —a little local advice and the family flivver are all that's needed. And quite a number of fish that now grace the walls of den or family room attest to the fact that it's worth a little trouble.

It is amazing how much fishing is supported by a very few lakes. For example, McConaughy Reservoir and the Salt reservoirs absorbed about 10 percent of the total fishing done in the state.

One question asked one of every eight fishermen was: "Which three fishes do you fish for most often?" The answers given, rated on a basis of three points for first choice, two for second choice, and one for third, provide the base for the following table:

It is rather surprising that white bass, northern pike, perch, and drum were relegated to the last four places. They are all good eating, all will take natural baits, and all but the drum will take artificials readily. All four of the last placers put up reasonably good scraps, so some speculation on their lack of popularity may be in order.

First, the white bass and northern pike are not extremely common fish in the eastern part of the state, therefore they were probably mentioned less frequently by eastern Nebraska fishermen. The fact that the northern pike has somehow unjustly garnered the reputation of being a cantankerous old cannibal who eats up all the other kinds of fish that people like may have something to do with his lack of popularity. (This is just hogwash —the northern does more good in helping to keep populations in check and thereby lessening stunting than he does harm.)

As for perch, he is often found in an overpopulated and stunted condition which detracts from his value. The drum is a mystery —he must be a wise old codger in order to go around evading most of the fishing public. He may be practicing a proverb in reverse, "out of mind, out of sight". All in all, there's little doubt that preference and availability have a bearing on species popularity in Nebraska.

So, there's the birds-eye view of the fishing public — the eye being furnished by a random sampling of the fishermen themselves. Information gained will be used in helping the Nebraska Game and Parks Com mission set up fish-management programs, planning new waters, and keeping laws and regulations consistent with the times. To all who cooperated — good fishing.

The Bottle Collectors

BOTTLE COLLECTING HAS become one of the most popular hobbies in Nebraska and across the country, outranked in popularity only by stamps and coins. Nebraskans are fortunate to be in an outstanding area for unearthing these valuable bits of hand-blown glass. The many old army posts, pioneer towns, Pony Express stations, and even old city dumps are happy hunting grounds for the collectors.

One of the outstanding collections in Nebraska is owned by Dr. Douglas Parks, an Ogallala veterinarian, who has been collecting for five years. Most of the bottles and glassware pictured on these pages were found in Nebraska by Dr. Parks, and are representative of the types most sought by collectors.

Antique shops are good sources for those who want to start this fascinating hobby. Also, many collectors carry on active trading within the fraternity.

Bottles, hand blown prior to the early 1900's when the first practical bottle-making machine was developed, are the most coveted. Most of these old-timers were produced in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York and fall into the general categories of whiskey, bitters, wine, medicinals, inks, hospital, and condiment containers. Probably the most popular are the bitters bottles. And therein lies a story.

Bitters were originally sold as patent medicines, and people learned their medicinal properties could be traced directly to their rather high alcoholic content (there were no pure food and drug laws then). As their numbers increased, bitters drinkers soon became a class unto themselves. The concoction was sold across the bar with the best whisky, still, it was officially a medicine, so the "tee-totaler" could buy his booze and maintain his respectability.

Due to the taste, bitters took some getting used to, for the name fits perfectly. However, once the taste was acquired, other drinks were forsaken and bitters enjoyed wide-spread popularity for many years.

Bitters came in bottles of various sizes and shapes. The most coveted are the log-cabin designs of which there are probably five or six variations. On one digging foray in an adjoining state, Dr. Parks unearthed a log-cabin bitters bottle of exceptional value. Where most are amber or near black, this find was pale green, and now occupies a prominent place in his collection.

Hospital bottles are avidly sought by collectors and Dr. Parks has some fine representatives. They were exclusively manufactured for, and used by, the army for a 10-year period after the Civil War. Since many historic military posts are closed to private excavations, the limited number of digging sites increases their aesthetic and monetary values. Many have been unearthed around the old military posts in Nebraska where digging is allowed. There are probably many more bottles awaiting excavation.

The inventors of the last century, with all their ingenuity, did not come up with a really efficient and widely used method of refrigeration, so a lot of the food of the time lacked the freshness and taste of today. This explains why pepper-sauce bottles found their way into most 19th Century homes under the assumption that if the taste of a semi-rancid piece of beef is disagreeable, douse it with pepper sauce.

Since competition in the sauce market was great, manufacturers designed containers to catch the customer's eye, and these are now collectors' prizes. The most valuable are the "cathedral" types. Usually flat, but sometimes square, these relics were decorated with an indented design resembling a peaked church window.

Mrs, Parks considers one of her husband's acquisitions a beautiful adjunct to her tastefully decorated home, which boasts many bits of genuine American history. It is a beautiful, four-piece set of army poison bottles manufactured for the military but never used.

A deep, iridescent blue, these bottles are covered with pointed protrusions. A tight-fitting, studded glass stopper resists the opener's fingers with a sharp warning of the contents. Eye-catching as they are, these containers for dangerous medicinal liquids were originally designed for immediate recognition by sight and feel and not for beauty.

Some bottles were designed for a very specific use and their unusual shapes or the materials from which they were made make them both valuable and interesting. In the old days, beer was marketed in brown crockery-type bottles with ingenious wire and cork pressure-tight caps. These were imported from the British Isles as were crock ery inkwells and canning jars.

Soda pop was often packaged in tear-drop shaped containers with plain cork stoppers. Since these containers couldn't stand upright on their round bottoms, thev were stored flat, thereby keeping the cork moist and the carbonation on the inside where it belonged.

Most collectors don't limit their efforts to just one or two types of bottles or even to bottles and Dr. Parks is no exception. Glassware of many types adds variety to his hobby.

The pearly-white opaqueness of milk glass which added a touch of elegance to a lady's boudoir of yesterday, also adds its elegance and beauty to his displays.

A handleless cup that once held many a morning's steaming coffee for a member of the Ninth Iowa Volunteers stationed at a western Nebraska post now has a place of honor in the veterinarian's collection. Green perfume bottles that held the fragrances of yesterday rival the cup in Dr. and Mrs. Parks' list of favorites.

Old bottles and history go hand in hand, and NEBRASKAland is rich in both.

MITCHELL PASS

AS ONE views the traces of the Oregon Trail in NEBRASKAland, the ^ mind begins to grasp the tremendous tableau that took place on its vast stage. The epic "exodus" or migration of an adventurous and daring people has few equals in man's history. Following their dreams of homes and lands in far off Oregon, or lured by the golden glitter of Sutter's Mill in California, or led by religious fervor to the Great Salt Lake, the people who trod the trail wrote a glowing chapter in the annals of human courage.

My absorbing interest in the trail and the men and women who followed this natural highway inspired me to translate my impressions to canvas. Entitled, Mitchell Pass, my finished work was displayed at the Nebraska State Historical Society in Lincoln, Nebraska, in 1964 as part of the Joseph LaMay Paints the West exhibit. It now hangs in the main dining room at Fort Robinson.

Eons of time and geological upheaval etched the Oregon Trail's comparative easy gradient across the North American continent. Long, dim trails of the past, deepened by myriad herds of buffalo and other plains animals, converged at a natural waterway, the North Platte River. That nomadic, inveterate hunter, the Plains Indian, followed these annual migrations and discovered the passage. The French trappers (Continued on page 51)

PRAIRIE RATTLESNAKE

AN INTEGRAL PART of the fauna of western Nebraska is the prairie rattlesnake, Crotalus ^ viridis viridis. This is the most common poisonous snake in the state. Once reported as common throughout the Midwest the prairie rattlesnake's range is now reported from western North Dakota, south through western Texas, and westward from here to the Pacific Coast.

This deadly reptile belongs to the family of pit vipers, which includes most of the dangerously poisonous serpents found across the world. He is characterized by a triangular-shape head and a narrow neck. Prairie rattlers wear greenish gray or greenish brown coats and have dark blotches edged in white along their backs. These blotches trail off into crossbands on the tails. These peculiar markings give the snakes an excellent camouflage. Sides of the heads are trimmed with two diagonal white lines and one or two fine white lines over the eyes. The reptiles are commonly three to five feet long.

Of course, the common name, "rattlesnake", suggests the most outstanding characteristic of all. The noise-making device of the prairie rattlesnake consists of a unique structure formed of horny interlocking segments, present only as a button in the newly born young. Contrary to popular belief, rings on the rattle do not indicate age. Each time the rattlesnake sheds his skin, a new ring is added to the rattle and he may shed several times a year. The idea that these snakes "buzz" or rattle before striking is an old wives' tale. They can and will strike without warning.

The prairie rattlesnake prefers rock outcroppings found adjacent to river valleys. However, the species is not restricted to such areas and may be found across the Sand Hills of western Nebraska far removed from any drainage area. In fact, prairie-dog towns are a favorite haunt of the rattler. This has given rise to the theory that the rattlesnake lives in perfect harmony with the prairie dogs and burrowing owls. This is not true, as this snake will dine on young prairie dogs or owls whenever available.

Reproduction occurs in the early summer with the female giving birth to several live young. The young snakes are from 8 to 11 inches at birth and grow rapidly on a diet of insects. As the young grow, mice, gophers and other small mammals become the preferred foods. The fangs of the prairie rattlesnake are definitely poisonous and are used chiefly in the procurement of food. Upon striking, the snake will inject a small amount of venom into his prey which immobilizes it. The victim will then be swallowed whole.

As soon as the daily temperatures start to drop in fall, prairie rattlers will seek protection in a cave or hole. Usually such areas will contain several snakes. Some winter dens have reportedly contained several hundred rattlesnakes, so they evidently enjoy community living during the winter months. At this time the bodily functions are slowed considerably and the reptiles pass through the winter months in a state of semi-hibernation.

The prairie rattlesnake is not a very popular creature and in most areas is killed upon sight. Even though a bite can cause severe discomfort, human deaths due to snakebite are now rare due to the development of antivenin serum. Rattlesnake hunting is practiced by some individuals as a sport. However, it goes without saying this should be left to the experts. Rattlesnake meat is also considered a rare delicacy. However, most individuals would prefer to go through life without having sampled it.

WHERE THE FISH ARE

FISHERMEN AREN'T easily irritated folk, for early in their sport they learn to take the good and the not so good with philosophical calm. But even the best natured fisherman in the world is apt to assume a King Kong personality when the unpredictables turn a long-anticipated angling trip into a dud. Fortunately, NEBRASKAland fishermen can usually find acceptable and nearby alternatives to their favorite fishing waters when things go wrong with their original plans.

Weather is usually the hoodoo. Unpredictable storms come sweeping across the prairie and rnake the big reservoirs too cantankerous for prudent boating. However, there are other jinxes, too. An outboard can get cranky or a trusted boat suddenly spring a leak, or even worse, "friend wife" can put her foot down. There's not much hope of rescuing a fishing trip when that happens, but the other hazards can be overcome.

For example, Lake McConaughy is possibly the best fishing lake in Nebraska, but it can be mean during and immediately after a storm, and the angler can find his trip waved off through no fault of his own. However, he doesn't have to sit around and grouse about his misfortune. East of Big Mac and partially protected by Kingsley Dam is Lake Ogallala, a normally placid little lake that seldom kicks up a fuss. What's more it has some fine fishing.

Even Lake Mac has its sheltered spots when the main water is on the warpath. Knowledgeable fishermen head for the protected bays when it's too rough to tackle the lake proper. Martin Bay on the northeast end of the lake usually is a good spot to weather out a blow and get in some fishing besides. It is fairly well sheltered from the main sweep of the wind that gets up a good long run across the big water. Other spots are Lemoyne Bay on the north-central shore and Otter Creek Bay on the northwest side. The species list in Big Mac reads like the Who's Who of NEBRASKAland fish, but walleye, white bass, smallmouth bass, channel cat, and rainbow trout are the principal offerings. On any given day, these bait grabbers can be found in the bays.

Another popular fishing spot is Lake Maloney, south of North Platte. Like Lake McConaughy, Maloney can kick up its heels pretty well when it feels a lash of wind. When it gets rough, anglers move over to the inlet or the outlet where they can fish from the banks. These areas are usually docile when the main lake is frothing mad. Besides the inlet and outlet, there are several coves along the shoreline that are fairly well protected. Individuals who have staunch boats and a liking for a little rough water can set up shop in the lees of Scout, Duck, Goose, and Two Tree islands.

Champion lake for coves is Sherman Reservoir, five miles northeast of Loup City in central Nebraska. A map of this 2,845-acre reservoir shows no less than 12 coves, and all of them have picturesque names as well as good fishing potentials. Who can resist dropping anchor in Red Raider Cove or wetting a line in Cornstock Pirate Cove?

And so it goes. Most of Nebraska's big impound ments have alternate fishing opportunities close by 46 NEBRASKAland and there's no need to write off a trip because the main waters are in a bad mood.

When Harlan County Reservoir at Alma gets too rough for boating, anglers head for the tail waters of the impoundment or take a crack at the Cambridge Diversion Canal. The same is true of Swanson Reservoir, south of Trenton. The protected bays of Macklin and Spring creeks, located on opposite sides of this lake, are good bets when it comes to salvaging a fishing expedition. Like most of Nebraska's irrigation and power impoundments, the tail waters are usually safe to fish when the big waters are dangerous.

Lewis and Clark Lake in northeast Nebraska is on the Missouri River. The map makers give it 31,000 acres which is roughly the size of 50 sections. It takes a bit of doing to get this giant riled up, but once it is on the prod it is a long time settling down. The prudent angler transfers his gear to the tail waters and fills his stringer.

Other reservoirs scattered around the state include Jeffrey Canyon, west and south of Brady, Hugh Butler or Red Willow, north and slightly west of McCook, Sutherland, south of the town of the same name, Medicine Creek, north of Cambridge, Enders, south and west of Enders, and Johnson, south and west of Lexington. When these lakes are too rough to try, it is always a good idea to check their inlets and outlets. Most of these reservoirs are river fed and fish found in the lakes are often present in the rivers, too.

Jeffrey Canyon Reservoir is rather generous with its alternates. Besides the inlet, it has tail waters below the powerhouse and the Double-Check Canal just to the east of the powerhouse. Another reservoir that has a fair share of side bets is Enders. If its tail waters prove unproductive, an angler can move on to Rock Creek State Lake at Parks, less than 35 miles to the south and west.

Some 28 miles south of Valentine in north-central Nebraska is Merritt Reservoir, an irrigation impoundment that sprawls like a crude question mark under the high plains of the surrounding country. A 2,700-acre man-made lake, Merritt is not prone to tantrums, but if the wind is just right it can get on its ear. When it does, Merritt's Boardman Bay is the place to wait it out. If the luck runs sour at Merritt, the lakes on the Valentine National Wildlife Refuge are not very far away and their fishing can be fantastic.

Maps of the various reservoirs, showing their general outlines, their acreages, accesses, and available accommodations are available from the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska, 68509, for the asking. The Loup City Chamber of Commerce has a beautifully done map and brochure of Sherman Reservoir. A note to the chamber should bring a map by return mail.

Strangers fishing NEBRASKAland's major reservoirs for the first time should contact local experts for the latest dope on the best spots, but here is some general information on the what, when, and where of these lakes. The information is based on research by the Fisheries Division of the Game Commission.

McConaughy's walleye start hitting in April off the face of the dam and then carry their appetites on out into the lake during May and June. Fishing slacks a little during July and August and picks up in September with the west end of the lake and the bays the better bets. October fishermen probe the west, south, and north ends of Mac and the bays for walleye.

McConaughy's smallmouth bass begin their trickery in May in the southern and eastern portions of the lake with pretty good concentrations in the bays. In June the better action usually occurs on the south side with the bays close seconds. July and August are rather quiet for the smallmouth-bass anglers, but September and October see a renewal of activity. During the fall months, smallmouths repeat the east, south, and bay syndrome.

White bass are seven-month targets at Big Mac with the action getting under way in the bays about the first of April and staying there until well into May and then going lake wide in June and July. August, September, and October see the linesides back in the bays and in the west end.

Channel cats are April-to-September possibilities, with the heaviest concentrations found at the west end. Rainbow trout are at their best off the dam and at the east end from June until October. Trolling is the favored method but some good fish are taken by bank anglers.

Merritt Reservoir anglers go after its small and largemouth bass during the spring and fall at Boardman Bay, while the trouters work the entire lake during the same months. Merritt's shallow bays are bullhead hangouts during the summer months.

Crappie fishermen claim May, June, September, and October the prime months at Lewis and Clark Lake. These anglers pound the various creek inlets and the submerged tree areas where the crappie love to school up and wait for passing forage fish. White bass are another spring and fall favorite and the bass experts set great store by the dam and the rocky areas. The bays are always worth a cast, too. Walleye follow the same pattern, while their close cousins, the sauger, frequent the upper reaches of the lake and seem to be at their hungry best in the spring and fall.

Big channel cats lurk in the deeper waters of Lewis and Clark (the old river channel) from May to October. Drum are a summer replacement for the gamier fish and are all over the lake. A distinction they share with carp, especially during the spring months.

NEBRASKAland's Platte, Republican, and Frenchman rivers reservoirs seem to follow Lake McConaughy's lead on walleye and white bass. The fishing starts at the dams, spreads to the bays, and then scatters out. Crappie and channel cats are pretty much April-to-October propositions with the action starting in the shallower waters of the inlets and bays and gradually spreading out through all the lakes. Crappies are the spring biters with April, May, and June the prime months. Other species of fish can be taken from these lakes but as the Fisheries Division puts it, "Present but insignificant to creel". Baits and lures are largely a matter of choice and again local inquiry is the best source of information for fish preferences can change.

No fishing roundup would be complete without mentioning the largemouth bass and northern pike of Red Willow and Sherman reservoirs. Old Bucketmouth seems to be at his fighting best in both lakes during May and June and his favorite haunts seem to be the inlets, but he can be enticed almost anytime, any place.

Northerns are April and May possibilities at Sherman where they cruise the bays looking for a meal. Their colleagues at Red Willow are a bit more cosmopolitan in their dining. They work the bays, but if the chow isn't plentiful enough, they'll forage the whole lake.

If there is such a thing as a slow month in NEBRASKAland's fishing picture, it would have to be August. And it's just possible that fishermen instead of fish are in the dog-day doldrums then.

No fishing expedition in Nebraska need be a failure, for there is always a back-up for most of the "big" waters in the state. And if by chance, these alternates should be slow, there's usually a small lake, a busy stream, a lazy river, or a farm pond just over the hill.

DOG-DAY LARGEMOUTHS

as he felt the bottom through his worm. "Should be a bass along that rock shelf."

A bass spends a great deal of his time hiding. When he isn't hiding, he is planning to latch onto food, and this small rock reef offered both protection and food. I eased my worm up the ledge, but lost the lure in the process. Chuck and Harlan seemed unconcerned about fishing the rocky snag and smugly smiled as I tied on another rig.

As my worm bumped up the ledge I felt a tap, tap, tap. Immediately, I came back on the rod. The lure flew out of the water and skittered past my head.

"Let's see your worm," Chuck laughed as he finished his cast. "You didn't even drive the barb through the worm on that effort and there are a couple of reasons why. First the type of worm you are using isn't pliable enough for this sort of fishing. You would need a hammer to punch a barb through that worm. I buy the softest and most flexible plastic worm I can find. Your eVk-foot, fast-action rod has too much play to set a hook with any authority. I use a SVk-foot rod that has just a little more action than a pool cue and I try to break it every time I set a hook."

Chuck is never at a loss for words except when he feels the tap of a fish. My lesson ended abruptly as he lowered his rod tip to within two inches of the water. When the slack line straightened out, he popped back and started reeling. The bass stayed deep until he was a few feet away from the boat but seconds later he was in the net.

The bass master who used to guide bass fishermen in Texas had finally shown me how to connect. In Texas, where largemouths have more prestige than "The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You", bass fishing is a finely developed art. But according to Chuck, largemouth fishing is relatively new in Nebraska. Most natives don't know how to fish for bass, but those who do are cashing in on an almost untapped resource. I wTanted to be on the winner's side, so I studied Chuck's worm-casting technique.

After making a cast, Chuck lowers his rod which he calls a bass "stick" to within a foot of the water and lets the worm sink to the bottom. After a delay of three minutes, he ever so slowly raises his bass stick until it is in an upright position. As he lowers the rod back near the water he quickly cranks in the excess line and after a short pause he repeats the process. If he feels a bass nudging the worm, he quickly lowers his rod to water level, giving the fish slack so he can mouth the worm and carry it away. As the line straightens out, Chuck jerks back as hard as he can and reels in as much line as possible.

Seldom will a bass jolt the rod out of your hand when he mouths the worm and I had trouble detecting a gentle jerk on my line. When I finally reacted to the situation, I quickly lowered the rod tip, then slammed the barb home. The fight was a quick one and I hefted one-pounder out of the water. Chuck removed the hook and tossed him over the side.

"If we can't do better than that, let's quit," he grinned.

Chuck had several more taps, but Harlan caught the next fish. The two-pound bass tried to stretch every foot of the 18-pound test monofilament on the closed-faced spinning reel, but Harlan boated him with ease. For the next few hours we moved along the east shore-line catching two more throwbacks, feeling several taps, and watching Chuck land another keeper. By one o'clock the temperature had soared to over 100° and with sweat burning our eyes, our throats dry, and our clothes wet with perspiration we called it quits until evening. That evening we explored several bays and backwaters without much luck. Chuck gave our day's catch away with the promise that tomorrow would bring more bass.

The next morning the three of us stumbled down to the dock before dawn. Mike Knepper, Game Commission field representative in North Platte, joined our party as a photographer. Four in a boat makes for trouble, so Mike and I made arrangements to use another craft.

Chuck was discouraged, so to keep up his spirits I barbed him with "Mike, you can leave the camera here. These guys couldn't catch a cold in January."

"Now wait a minute," Harlan interrupted. "Yesterday, we were just learn ing the lake. Today, we catch the fish."

"I've heard that before," I laughed. "Someone said that he could catch bass in the heat of the summer in any lake in the state."

"That is what I said and that is what I meant," Chuck muttered.

Bass are not supposed to be caught during the "dog days" of July and August, according to traditional folklore. Chuck seemed even more determined now to disprove that myth. The wind was blowing out of the northeast, so we decided to drift along the face of the dam. Chuck picked up a small release bass and Harlan did the same.

Chuck muttered that the only bass caught along the dam would be small and suggested a move. Mike and I were slow in reeling in our lines and Chuck's boat had disappeared around a bend before Mike had cranked up our motor. Chuck had pulled into a bay out of sight, so we went shooting by without seeing him to start a half hour search for the two anglers. That 30 minutes prpved to be one of the most costly mistakes of my 1968 fishing career. Later, the two bass experts told me the story.

When Chuck pulled into the bay, his trained eye quickly picked out a couple of likely spots. The water was still cool enough for bass to be up in the shallows, so Harlan and Chuck anchored 25 yards out from a patch of aquatic plants. On their first casts they each hooked a bass to turn the quiet morning into near panic. But the action was just beginning. Two (Continued on page 56)

WHO STOLE THE GOLD?

"right" moment. For some the right moment came on the morning of March 10, 1880 when the Sidney and Black Hills stage rumbled into town with an estimated $130,000 worth of gold bricks, dust, currency, and C.O.D. packages aboard. Gold bricks from the Homestake Mine in Lead City, South Dakota made up about $127,000 of the total shipment.

Messengers Scott and Ross Davis, Boone and Bill May, and William Sample, five of the "bravest men that ever protected a stage in the west", delivered the cargo to the Pacific Express office. The gold bricks were consigned to Loumsberry and Company of New York, and were to go east on the evening train. Express agent C. K. Allen placed the bricks on a baggage truck in the office and put the packaged money in a canvas sack which he hung on the hinge of the safe. The rest of the morning was calm and Allen went about his regular business until he locked the office.

When he returned about 2 p.m., everything was gone. A hole had been sawed through the floor of the office from under neath and enough flooring removed to admit a man. Apparently, the treasure had been removed through the hole to a coal bin beneath the freight room where an escape tunnel led to and under another building. Planning was evident, for it must have taken several days to dig the tunnel.

Things really began to pop with the discovery of the robbery. Witn a descriptive skill, the Omaha Daily Herald reported: "As soon as the deed was detected, gangs of men were dispatched on horseback to scour the country in all directions in the hope that the daring desperadoes had taken to the hills with their booty, and would be captured."

About 5 that afternoon, men digging in the coal under the express office found an estimated $112,000 worth of bullion. Evidently, the 480-pound weight of gold bricks was just too much for the robbers, and they had to conceal their loot at the first available spot —the coal pile. Probably the thieves intended to return at night and make off with the rest of their take, but discovery thwarted their plans. Speculation on the actual take-away haul ranged from 1 to 4 bricks and $13,000 to $80,000 in currency and other valuables.

On the day of the robbery, a special Union Pacific train out of Cheyenne, Wyoming, was rolling toward Sidney with superintendent Robert Law aboard. Two hours after news of the robbery reached him, this diligent investigator began hunting the town for clues. Law put every man available on the search. Later, the legendary James L. "Whispering" Smith, a famous railroad detective, supposedly joined the investigation. Smith is somewhat of a mystery figure. He is mentioned in Sidney legend, but cannot be found in historical sources.

The investigators questioned a telegraph operator, who at the time of the robbery, was in a room adjoining the express office. He hadn't heard or seen anything. In the course of the investigation, it was learned that several men had been hanging around the office on the day before the robbery, but this wasn't unusual.

On May 11, 1880, the Omaha Daily Herald described the atmosphere: "Excitement in Sidney is at fever heat, many being suspected of complicity in the daring deed. If evidence should prove strong against some of those suspected it is thought that Nebraska will be spared the expense of a trial."

After much consideration, the case boiled down to four suspects. Express agent Allen, although one of the most prominent men in Cheyenne County, was arrested and tried in October, 1880. The prosecuting attorney claimed that during Allen's term as county treasurer, Cheyenne County funds were $50,000 short. However, the jury returned a verdict of not guilty.

The other suspects were all connected with the Capitol Saloon and Gambling House owned by a man named C. McCarty whose first name seems to be lost even though he was a former county sheriff. Besides his business and politi cal activities, McCarty was a noted gambler. Patsy Walters, one of McCarty's female bartenders, and another bartender named O'Flannagan completed the suspect list.

J. B. Stevenson, one of the owners of the stage line which carried the gold bricks to Sidney, reported to the Omaha Evening Bee in 1908: "... it was a tough crowd which stayed around Sheriff McCarty's saloon in the early days. Our line was very fortunate, but the old line of Gilmer, Salsbury, and Patrick from Cheyenne to Deadwood did lose heavily. Tons of silver and gold bricks were hauled down from the Hills by different companies and the robbers were as thick as the decent citizens."

It was told that Whispering Smith always suspected the ex-sheriff, but in spite of his urgings to have McCarty hanged, the jury restrained him. Perhaps McCarty was innocent or perhaps he had so much "influence" among the citizens that a jury could not find him guilty. Whatever the case, a series of violent gun fights between Smith and McCarty's crewmen resulted. These scraps seemed to be more noise than anything else for there is no record of anyone being killed in the shoot outs. Under the direction of a vigilance committee, McCarty was arrested and jailed.

On the night of his arrest, vigilantes told the prisoner that he was to be hanged in the morning, but they also mentioned that a saddled horse was standing outside the jail. McCarty persuaded easily and quickly.

McCarty reportedly never came back to Sidney. Many thought that Whispering Smith caught up with and killed him, since the detective supposedly disappeared for two days after McCarty's great escape. In time the furor over the robbery died down and Sidney started struggling toward respectability. However, the fate of the missing bricks was made to order for get-rich-quick characters.

With some of the gold bricks unaccounted for, it was a snap for gamblers and confidence men working out of the Capitol Saloon and Gambling House to sell gold bricks to eastern businessmen and bankers, claiming they were from the great Pacific Express robbery. Two people died in perpetrating the swindle, but these were in the nature of occupational hazards.

These imitation bricks of brass and a little gold were made in Denver. The first one was sold to a Hastings, Nebraska, banker for $13,000. It was not a bad price, since the brick contained only $300 worth of gold. The syndicate of confidence men behind the deals com prised such shady operators as "Doc" Baggs, Pete Lavin, Hughey Bahan, Tom Allen, a man known as Grasshopper Sam, and Patsy Walters. Patsy was subsequently shot by Whispering Smith in the Capitol Saloon and Gambling House, according to the legend.

After successful sale of the gold brick to the Hastings banker, the syndicate had six more made in Denver at $400 each. Four of them were sold; one to a Creston, Iowa, banker, one to the treasurer of the Chicago Street Railway Company, one to a cashier of a bank at Ottumwa, Iowa, and the fourth to a banker in Tampa, Florida.

This fourth brick caused the death of Pete Lavin, the gambler. After he made the deal and before he could leave Tampa, the banker discovered he had been swindled and swore out a warrant for Lavin's arrest. When Lavin heard of this, he chartered a small boat to take him to an island near Key West. During the voyage the boat was wrecked and Lavin drowned.

The two unsold bricks remained hidden in the saloon until it burned down in 1908. They were found in the rubble. Later, investigation cleared up the mystery of the genuine brick that was missing after the robbery. It had been sold to the Denver mint for $6,000 about one year later. Details on this transaction, as all other facets of the robbery, are conveniently dim. This clue might have uncovered the mysterious robbers, but nothing was done about it.

Sidney settled down with the passing of the gold era and after the usual rash of smaller robberies, gunfights, and growing pains, it became the fine community it is today. Identity of the robbers, however, is still as much a mystery today as it was back in the 1880's. Proba bly, the cold-nerved bandits will never be known, for all clues are steadily diminishing with the years.

MITCHELL PASS

and the rough-hewn mountain men of the Jim Bridger and Jacques Laramie stripe learned the way from their red brothers.

Returning Astorians, led by Robert Stuart, were the first to mark the general route of what was to be the Oregon Trail when they blazed the way from the Columbia River, Oregon Territory, to St. Louis, Missouri in 1811.

In the late 1830's, Captain Benjamin Bonneville took loaded wagons over the Continental Divide at South Pass in what is now Wyoming. His feat inspired an initial group of pioneers, guided by Thomas Fitzpatrick, to try the overland route to Oregon.

Nebraska's monolithic Wildcat Hills, Chimney, Court and Jail rocks, and Scotts Bluff saw these canvas-hooded caravans creep mile after weary, dusty mile toward the setting sun. At first it was only a trickle, then a torrent as the restless immigrants pushed ever westward.

During the 28 years from 1841 until May 10, 1869, when the Union Pacific and Central Pacific railroads were joined at Promontory, Utah, more than 150,000 people made the journey. The peak year was 1852 when 50,000, mostly California gold seekers, followed the trail. Although no accurate total was recorded, it is estimated that roughly one-fifth of the emigrants filled lonely graves along the way. Asiatic cholera claimed the most victims, but the many and dangerous hazards encountered on the trail took their toll, too.

Bridging more than a century of time, my picture attempts to show a bit of the struggle, some of the tragedy and trepi dations, and some of the faith and courage of those pioneers.

Locale of the painting is Mitchell Pass in western Nebraska where the ruts of trail are still very visible. These wagon ruts are eroded in places to a depth of 15 feet where the trail passes Dome Rock and the outjutting shoulder of Scotts Bluff National Monument.

In my painting the flash hailstorm from the (Continued on page 54)

Any Specials Today? A Tucson, Arizona woman called the Arizona Game Department one day asking if they had hunting licenses for sale. She wanted one for her husband, she explained. Officials told her she could buy one from various permit vendors. She then asked if any court houses or city offices sold licenses. No, the men explained, but they would give her the name of a vendor near her home so she could get one with a minimum of travel. The woman then admitted she had visited several sporting-goods stores, but had found the licenses rather expensive.. .so she thought she would "shop around a little". — Arizona

Good Runner, Poor Shot. During the deer season in Pennsylvania, a farmer was working in the field when a large whitetail doe ran close by, heading for the woods. Not far behind came a hunter, running as hard as he could. Upon seeing the farmer, the hunter yelled out, "Have you got any .30/06 shells around?" The farmer answered no. Then the hunter explained he had fired an entire box of shells at the deer, and had been chasing it since early that morning. During the whole conversation, the gunner never stopped running, and soon was out of sight in the woods, still hot on the trail. If determination pays, that hunter probably ended his hunt successfully. —Pennsylvania

A Nice Cast. On a fishing trip to his favorite bass pond, a Rhode Island man care fully went through his collection of plugs. Finally he gave a battered, discarded plug to his 10-year-old son to use. The lad didn't care, as one lure was as good as another, he thought. He went about rigging up the old lure while his father 52 NEBRASKAland worked ambitiously with his shiny new gear. Finally the boy plopped his old plug into the water, and immediately the fish attacked. When the youngster reeled in his first cast, a 3V2-pound largemouth hung on the front hook, and a 1%-pound smallmouth dangled from the rear. No wonder the father thought that plug was nearly worn out. —Rhode Island

Foiled Again. An Ohio hunter was having little luck on the first day of pheasant season. In fact, the only bird he saw was one that a fox was carrying home. Downing the predator he rushed to claim his prize. But, as he approached, the bird sprang to life and was out of range before he could get off another shot. — Ohio

Bear Facts. A Jamestown, New York hunter stashed his lunch in a tree crotch and set out for the day's hunt. When he returned he found only this note: "Thanks for the coffee and sandwiches. Next time bring some honey." It was signed: 'Your woodland friend, Yogi Bear."-New York

He Likes Loafing. A young Colorado lad attending Sunday School was asked by his teacher if he had studied the Bible. The boy assured the teacher that he had. Then, when asked which of the parables he liked best, the youngster pondered a few minutes, then replied, "I like the one best where everybody loafs and fishes." — Colorado

Saved By Violation. Two big-game hunters had been out in the woods of eastern Oklahoma for several hours and found themselves wandering about aimlessly in circles. One of the gunners grew uneasy, and finally panic overcame hin

"We're lost!" he yelled at his partne "What are we going to do?"

"Take it easy," said his companion calmly. "Just shoot an illegal deer and the game ranger will be here in minutes." — Oklahoma

Burros Like "Stakes". Running short of preferred natural foods, Arizona's wild burros have solved the problem by developing a taste for stakes... the wooden kind. And, consequently, survey stakes being used for highway constructions are going like hot cakes. The ribbons on the marking stakes are made of bright plastic which utilizes a soybean by product, which is a reasonable excuse for the burros to like it. However, even though the burros show a marked preference for the ribbons, they also eat the unpainted wooden stakes. —Arizona

Old Saying Is Wrong. Many anglers persist in believing the old adage that once a fish tastes the point of a hook and regains his freedom, he'll never hit again. However, an Arizona fisherman has proved this theory definitely incorrect, MAY, 1969 when he landed a whopper of a large-mouth bass. The bass was normal in most ways, but told the story of an impressive string of victories. He was carrying a plastic worm, a lure, a "Royal coachman" fly, a doughball-type treble hook, and four worm fishermen's hooks. The fish was 21 inches long and weighed a hefty 10 pounds, including all the fishing hardware.— Arizona

Silent Catch. Speeding up to cross in front of a jumping marlin about 50 yards ahead of his boat, a Honolulu angler spotted a lure hanging from the fish's mouth. He tapped the skipper, and said, "You know, that's your fish. Look at your reel, it's nearly empty." Sure enough, the skipper had forgotten to put on the click, and the marlin had silently smacked the lure and kept on going. In the end, though, the beaming skipper hauled the 114-pound marlin on deck. —Hawaii

Batfish. An Ohio fisherman might be the first angler ever to be happy about the one that got away. While fishing for trout at dusk with dry flies, the angler had several sharp strikes from something he couldn't see. Finally, he changed position to silhouette his line against the fading light. The "something" trying to capture his trout fly was a bat. — Ohio

Damage Control. A California rancher protected his grape vineyard from foraging deer by having a tame ocelot walk through his property to leave a scent. His solution to the problem was much neater than that of an apple grower who used a truckload of bear, lion, and tiger manure for the same purpose. — California

Good Morning, Polly. Following an old custom of aging birds before cleaning them, a New York sportsman stuffed a jacksnipe he'd shot into a paper bag, and put it in his refrigerator. The hunter forgot to tell his wife Polly, about the bird, and the next morning she went to the icebox as usual to start breakfast. Just as she opened the door, the bird's head popped out of the bag. She slammed the door and went screaming for her husband, before the bird had a chance to request a warmer environment. —New York

Some Candy. Two Pennsylvania game wardens were working late one night in an attempt to catch some poachers. While waiting in the dark, one of the wardens asked the other if he had anything to eat. The first reported he had a candy roll in the glove compartment. In a short time, the hungry warden was munching away.

"This candy is awful," he yelled. The candy was a stick of cement used for repairing fishing rods.— Pennsylvania

PLAN AHEAD

either Ogallala or Kimball. These temporary stations will operate from Memorial Day through Labor Day.

The Commission has also provided complete immediate vicinity information displays at each rest area on Interstate 80. These displays accurately pinpoint things to see, campgrounds, historical areas, and other pertinent information in their immediate vicinity.

The Game Commission isn't alone in dispersing Nebraska travel information. Each year the Nebraska Petroleum Council provides Nebraskans with short "Magic Circle Tours". These "shorties" are based on two or three-day excursions which leave certain towns, make a circle about the particular area, and wind up at the starting point. Last year, the tours were carried in 135 Nebraska newspapers. They are also available by writing the Nebraska Petroleum Council at 334 South 13th Street, Lincoln, Nebraska. Once your Nebraska vacation is well outlined, the rest of the planning is a downhill ride.

The type of vacation you're going to take dictates whether or not accommodation reservations are necessary. Package tours do not require individual reservations, but the town-to-town traveler faces a different situation. If you can plan your trip well enough for hotel or motel reser vations in advance, all the better. However, if not, early arrival generally allows a wide choice without sacrificing quality. That is, usually! During popular festivals and celebrations accommo dations are often scarce. Reservations made two or three days in advance of the journey will generally suffice, are easily made, and often save time and perhaps unbargained-for trouble.

Vacationers intending to use the cabin facilities at Nebraska's four state parks, Fort Robinson State Park near Crawford, Chadron State Park, Niobrara State Park, and Ponca State Park, should write or phone the superintendents for reservations well in advance, as cabin facilities are both popular and limited.

For the camping buff, his reservation plans are nearly nil. Hundreds of campgrounds are sprinkled across the state awaiting the pounding of tent pegs and the laugh of vacationing voices. Ranging from backwoods locales to modern, fully-equipped, convenient sites, Nebraska is a camper's dream come true. Reservations at private camping areas across the state are seldom a necessity, while state campgrounds are available on a first-come-first-served basis.

Finally, when everything is arranged and planned there is just one last step — execute your plan — discover the warm western hospitality that awaits all in NEBRASKAland.

MITCHELL PASS

cloud formations above outcropping Dome Rock depicts the faces of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, always the nemeses of those who dare the unknown.

Mitchell Pass was one of the steepest pulls along the trail. After a rain, the sticky Brule clay or "gumbo" made travel so difficult that'wagons had to be double yoked up the incline. This was especially true if the draft animals were in a weakened condition.

The young mother carrying a baby has lost her husband some miles back from Asiatic cholera. Now committed to the point of no return, she must go forward with what little she has. Her small daughter tugs at her skirts as the widow helps her aged mother along the trying way. She clutches her Bible, the staff of strength on which she leans.

These were the people who populated the Oregon Territory and settled, by peaceful means, the long dispute with Great Britain over territorial rights. The Forty Niners, who blazed the trail to the gold-fields, settled the demarcation of border boundaries of California and the southwest. War with Mexico in 1846 determined the line on the south and thus completed our nation from the Atlantic to the Pacific oceans.

Scotts Bluff National Monument adjoins the south bank of the North Platte River, in Scotts Bluff County in western Nebraska and is located three miles west of Gering, via Nebraska Highway 86 or four miles southwest of Scottsbluff on Highway U.S. 26 which crosses Mitchell Pass, where the Oregon Trail parallels the highway. Located here is the Oregon Trail Museum; which contains many fine artifacts and the very fine collection of Oregon Trail sketches and water colors by William H. Jackson, an early day journalist, who lived and traveled the trail during its heyday.

An oiled access road leads to the summit of Scotts Bluff Monument, where the viewer can see a panoramic view of the general terrain along the Platte River, where the caravans once traveled.

THE HAT AND THE SNAPPER

black cowboy hat. He had gotten it, he confided, while on a fast trip to Valen tine in a stolen Model T. I had no notion where Valentine was, but I figured out it must be a pretty sinful place.

"Yes, friend Culvert was world wise and definitely a philosopher. He tried to 54 NEBRASKAland convince me that happiness is a warm puppy. Indeed, a hot puppy, stuffed with wild sage and prairie onions and roasted over a camp fire. I never tasted dog meat. Ma would have had a regular fit, if she ever found out. So I hung around the Shoots Twice tent just to take turns wearing Culvert's magnificent hat. I didn't dream of having one of my own till the day a Sears, Roebuck catalogue found its way into my hands.

"Mr. Sears advertised a brushed felt, very dressy, amazingly serviceable you-know-what. With the passion of youth, I set about amassing $3.98. Details escape me, but the project must have taken months and months. Finally, off went my order, jarring over the dusty trail via top buggy. It was 10 miles to Brennan, South Dakota, our tiny post office. My sisters, Julie and Hazel, made the mail run every two or three weeks.

"An eternal waiting, then magic day! Once more, the top buggy appeared on the western horizon. Actually, the vehicle was tearing homeward at a whirlwind clip, but to me, it seemed forever till it rocked into the yard. I scarcely noticed that the ordinarily steady team had sprung a trace and stood blowing hard. Both passengers were soaked, shivering, and pale. Sister Hazel had lost her ribbon and her bright chestnut hair waved in the wind. But my eyes were for the cardboard box clutched in Julie's arms.

"I got the box, tore to the haymow and privacy. You can imagine the rest. A jackknife worked by trembling hands. The secret rustle of tissue paper. An exotic aroma of new hat. All climaxed by the coronation which transformed me into a king with a four-buck crown.

"I came down off my throne after awhile to learn that my sisters had driven through a terrific electrical storm. Passing near Newton Budd's place, they saw lightning strike and destroy three workhorses. I regretted their fright, but I thrilled to the news of the cloudburst. We had only a shower at the house. Heavy rain upcreek meant fine turtle hunting. I unharnessed the dripping team and rubbed the animals down be fore catching my little saddle mare.

"Now I told you earlier that my father had many mouths to fill, but I assure you, we never wanted. Like all true Swedes, Dad was fond of food. He cured bacpn and ham, dried beef, kept grouse, prairie chicken, and other game on the table until we boys were able to pack guns. Ma raised plymouth rocks for fryers, leghorns for eggs and stew hens, kept tame rabbits, and managed a back-breaking garden. Yes, there were victuals aplenty for the kitchen.

"However, Dad longed for fish, probably harking back to the seafood dishes his old-country mother prepared. A person could buy oysters down at Mills Dry Goods Store in Gordon, but the fool things cost 49 cents a tin. I supposed this was because of the pearls. Anyway, I never got a chance at a saltwater oyster till I was of age to vote. On special occasions, Dad bought sardines, but a 10-cent can of sardines didn't do much for 15 people. I guess craving seafood on the parched, empty prairie was about like craving sherbet in Hades. So Dad adjusted his appetite; he developed a taste for turtle.

"Snapping turtles haunted the Stinking Water, that small creek which threaded its way through our east pasture. When melting snows raised the shallow creek, some mysterious alarm clock wakened the snappers from their half-year hibernation deep in the muck.

"Once I watched a snapper dig out of his winter hidey-hole. Pawing a path from below frost line to daylight must have been a tough job, especially on an empty stomach. Mr. Turtle finally erupted like a slow volcano. He spit mud, strangled, shook the mire from his beady eyes. Then he dragged himself up on a muskrat mound, squatted, and sighed like a baby who has cried too long. At last, his grubby face relaxed. When he lifted his homely mouth to the April sun, I almost expected him to howl like a coyote. I hadn't the heart to molest that snapper. He looked gaunt, anyway.

"But the time of the new hat was late summer. Then snappers grow fat and sassy. As I swung up on my sorrel filly that long-gone afternoon, visions of turtle steak danced in my head. I tilted the wondrous hat at a Tom Mix angle and struck off for the Stinking Water, or what remained of the Stinking Water. Most of the creek bed had baked dry in the merciless heat. Rushes choked the low ways. Only a few potholes held water -and snapping turtles. Funny thing about a gully washer, it affects the moss-backs just like the melting snows; it puts them on the crawl. They travel from one sinkhole to the next, lallygagging along on their crazy flippers.

"I had no more than topped the rise overlooking a pothole when I made out my first snapper. His squat figure moved in silhouette against a spray of goldenrod at the water's edge. I must intercept my quarry before he slid into the deep hole.

"Speed was not the proven technique. I pulled the filly down to a walk, noting with satisfaction that her trim hooves were soundless on the damp sod. I noticed, too, that a few head of our whitefaces grazed in a nearby draw, stripping the sweet heads off a patch of gone-to-seed June grass. I got around 8 or 10 cows and pushed them toward the goldenrod.

"As they neared the turtle, I fell back, letting the whitefaces scatter among the rushes or pause in the ooze, the better to stomp flies. When the snapper quit watching the cattle, I advanced rather aimlessly, letting the sorrel wander a bit. Warm sun fell across my shoulders. The acrid odor of green water tickled my nose. A warty frog throbbed his age-old melody. I was getting close now, so close that I could see the snapper wag his ridiculous tail. I eased the lariat off my saddle, slid my feet from the stirrups, and piled off.

"I lit running and dived upon the dimwitted mossback. Grabbing far to the rear of the wide shell, I flipped him upside down, and like Tarzan, put one foot on my victim's chest. I wasted no time with Tarzan yells. Hurriedly, I looped the lariat in a series of half-hitches to MAY, 1969 55   bind the clay-studded flippers close to the shell. How strictly I avoided those awful jaws! Toothless this mouth might be, but it had crushed the life from many a plump mallard. Last step in trussing up the turtle was to pass a rawhide hobble between the eager jaws. This was secured to the half hitches. So far, things had been simple.

"Regaining the saddle was a mite tricky, for the mare was flighty and the snapper weighed almost 30 pounds. But I was underway before long, jogging up the slope, a strange knight with a turtle for a shield. The buildings were in sight when it happened. The hobble slipped, freeing Mr. Snapper's snapper. He ripped into the first thing handy which happened to be the filly's flank. I had a split second to jerk the precious hat low on my ears, then the sorrel blasted off. She squealed. She bellowed. She climbed the sky. Then she settled down to some real bucking."

"Did she throw you?" I wanted to know.

"Nope, by gosh, I rode her out, but I blame near bit my tongue in two in the process," Uncle Lewis was giggling like a schoolboy. "Never did find that hobble. In fact, it took awhile to locate my snapper. It took even longer to coax my horse to within a hundred yards of him. Sort of once bitten, twice cautious.

"Eventually, we all lit out for home. The black hat was none the worse; I was still king of the mountain. To make sure my green-broke nag respected me properly, I got a death grip on the turtle, legged in tight to the saddle, and raked her a couple of times with my rusty old spur."

"Spur? Oh, you lost the other spur when the mare bucked."

The story teller explained, "I had only one spur. Culvert Snoots Twice gave it to me and I never got up nerve to ask him where he got it. Well, when I reached the house, I expected Dad to be sore about the missing hobble, but he looked at the snapper and never said a word."

"I suppose your father had turtle steak for supper that night."

"I suppose he didn't!" Uncle Lewis said emphatically. "Ma made me pen up my snappers for several days prior to butchering . She supervised their diet —table scraps, vegetable peelings, and fresh milk. Those turtles were carnivorous, but they learned."

"What's turtle meat like?" I was curious.

"Why, it's attractive, clean-looking, and odorless. I believe Ma parboiled the meat before she sliced it thin, rolled the pieces in flour, and browned them in ham drippings. Some parts of the snapper tasted like pork, others like veal. The gravy was delicious, too. My sisters would fix new spuds and a fresh salad from the garden. To finish up, there would be sweet custard pie, still warm from the oven, with a glob of yellow cream."

"No coffee?" I teased. "Surely, you Swede-French-Sioux drank coffee."

"Bet your boots," Uncle Lewis said, "plenty of coffee, black and wild." And he rattled his cup.

DOG-DAY LARGEMOUTHS

casts later Roberts abruptly felt the mud-stirring blast of another bass.

"We'll sock it to them, now," the excited angler shouted as he boated the three-pounder. "During the summer if you catch one largemouth from an area, chances are there is a concentration of bass nearby."

It was 9 a.m. before Mike and I found the "lost" anglers. Unaware they had hit a bass bonanza, I shouted, "Any luck?" Their poker faces didn't reveal a thing.

"Not much," Chuck replied, putting down his rod. With both hands he grabbed two stringers and hefted 15 bass out of the water. "Caught them all on purple worms within the last 30 minutes or so."

Mike and I jumped for our rods. At Chuck's direction, we anchored out from a patch of arrowheads. I tossed into the middle of the weeds and complained of a snag. When the snag moved, I set the barb, and reeled in line as fast as I could. The stunned fish came along for the ride at first, but he soon recovered to put up a scrap.

"We caught seven or eight bass out of this patch and the others in some arrowheads right around the bend," Harlan commented as he flipped out a worm. As the crawler slipped from one hangup to the next, a bass grabbed it and headed for home. Harlan slapped it to him and let the fish make a couple of wallowing jumps before boating him. The bass scaled at two pounds.

After landing his ninth bass, Chuck rubbed it in when he indicated that fishing in the bay had become too easy and it was time to move. This time Mike and I stayed right on their wake. No more of this sneaking off. By 10:30 a.m. Chuck had his limit of 10, while Harlan was only 1 short. Mike and I had some taps, but we didn't land a fish. The sun was hot, action was slow, and we had a long drive home ahead of us, so we called it quits.

Back at the marina, several locals told me that my companions' 19-bass catch in one day was a summer record for the lake. In fact, some went even further and said they couldn't remember that many big largemouths being pulled out of the lake in a day. The two had accounted for one 41/2-pound bass, 3 fish over 3V2 pounds, 5 over 3 pounds, and the rest between IV2 and 3 pounds.

Chuck had backed up his boast on one of the most difficult summertime bass lakes in Nebraska and on the way home the flak was heavy. But my defeat was far from crushing. In 2V2 days I had received expert instruction from two of the best bass fishermen in Nebraska. These lessons are still paying dividends for me, so even though I lost a bet, I won. In fact, I now share Chuck and Harlan's bankside philosophy of "Give the purple worm a chance, and it will perform wonders for you."

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

YEARS AGO the pioneer trudged into the heart of Nebraska's prairie country, hacked it into crude strips, and built his shelter from it. He forced the land to accept his plow and then nurtured his sowing until it bore fruit. The saga of his struggle is portrayed in Nebraska's statehouse at Lincoln.

For the visitor to the Capitol, every limestone block, every carved line, every tiny piece of mosaic recreate some aspect of Nebraska life.

Visitors may tour this imposing building on weekdays from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Saturday tours are from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. and Sunday tours from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. Guides explain the major theme of the building —the coming of the pioneer —or visitors may browse and make their own interpretations. The three warm-hued murals portraying that pioneer spirit are among the most popular attractions. But there are others, too, that represent the state's pioneer heritage. Outside the Capitol's north door, a bas relief represents a party of homesteaders striking out across the prairie in an endless quest for "elbow room". In the law library another mural expresses the aching of a prairie mother for a better way of life. But the Capitol's symbolism is not limited to just Nebraska. Some of its art and architecture depict Greek, Roman, and Indian cultures.

Nature, the major interior theme, shimmers in a gold sunburst mosaic that burns down from the vestibule dome, while the seasons, with their appropriate signs of the zodiac, radiate away from it. The second circle, a composite of eight mosaics, represents the giving of thanks for nature's bounty.

The nature theme appears again, through the Thunderbird symbol, on the Indian doors of the old senate chamber. The Thunderbird was the Indians' master god.

The mosaics of the rotunda also carry the same theme. A gigantic portrait of Ceres, goddess of nature, dominates the floor while surrounding mosaics depict the four primitive elements of the Greeks — water, fire, air, and earth. The images in the connecting scrollwork breathe life into the fossils of Nebraska's past.

While the Capitol is the place for reviewing the myths and traditions as well as the history of mankind, the Agate Fossil Beds National Monument far to the west of the statehouse, is the place to view the remains of prehistoric times. Concentrated in this western Nebraska area are the fossilized remains of some of the same animals depicted in the Capi tol scrollwork — animals that lived and died about 20 million years ago.

To reach Agate Fossil Beds drive 20 miles south from Harrison or 34 miles north from Mitchell on Nebraska Highway 29. Then from Agate Springs Ranch drive 2V2 miles east on the county road. Monument headquarters are between the Niobrara River and the county road. During May, the center will be open on weekends only, going into a full, seven-day swing on Memorial Day.

Although there are no exposed bones and collecting is forbidden, visitors may browse through the exhibition trailer at Agate's headquarters. Exhibits there record the history of the Miocene period — the age of mammals. One animal common then was the weird composite of many of today's creatures, the Moropus. A heavily built mammal, the Moropus had a horselike head mounted on a giraffe-like neck. Its torso was a tapir's while its front legs were like those of a rhinoceros. The hind legs were bear like.

A delicate little mammal, the Stenomylus, which roamed the Miocene plains, is also represented in the Agate exhibits. Pictures give visitors an idea of what both mammals looked like.

Outside the exhibition trailer, a pathway to the fossil hills will reveal a breath-taking view. Even those uninterested in prehistoric beasts can appreciate the green-carpeted hills from which prairie flowers flash pinpoints of color. Blooms reach their peak from late May to mid-June.