Speak Up

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

CANNIBALS-"In the November 1967 NEBRASKAland there was a story, Nebraska's World Fair, in which a tribe of Indians was mentioned as cannibalistic.

"A history teacher here says there were no cannibalistic Indians in North America. Who's right?"-Beth Schmidt Hegeman, Alameda, California.

We are. The Encyclopedia Americana describes the TONKAWAS as follows:

"A nomadic tribe of North American Indians, comprising a distinct linguistic stock. They formerly roamed the plains of Texas. Noted for their cannibalistic practices , they were regarded as outlaws by the surrounding tribes. A few survivors now live with the Poncas in Oklahoma" — Editor.

DANDELIONS - "It won't be long now, be fore the landscape will be covered with a yellow blanket. Since the following happened in NEBRASKAland, I thought you might be interested.

"Speaking of dandelions — and who isn't? The late Dr. Bixby of Nebraska State Journal fame, once directed this sage observation to a dandelion. " Tt isn't that we don't think you're pretty, it's just that familiarity breeds contempt.'

"And one might add, a dandelion in its youth is attractive, but its hoary head is just too much to cope with. If only they wouldn't take to the air and fly from here to Cuba, or if they would stay there when JUNE 1969 they get there. But the real problem is the population explosion.

"Should you ever wonder where they came from, don't blame it on the Rus sians. This may be the answer.

"Away back when a certain little town in Clay County was struggling to get on the map, one of the early settlers planted a few dandelion seeds for greens. There were no dandelions on the prairie.

"Those seeds sprouted, plants flour ished, and for more than 80 years, people with mixed emotions have cussed and discussed the old-timer as they have dug and sprayed in their efforts to harvest that old gardener's crop, or eradicate it, but to no avail.

"I can vouch for this. That greens loving chap was our neighbor." —Mrs. E. W. Price, Holdrege.

NEBRASKA HOSPITALITY-"I have enjoyed the hospitality and dinners of some of the finest restaurants in Nebraska, but I will never forget the warm and friendly atmosphere I found in Ord.

"My father and I did our deer hunting on the Alfred Shoemaker farm about six miles east of Ord. And not only did the family go out of its way to make us feel at home, but Mrs. Shoemaker also pre pared a home-cooked meal that made my mouth water so much I thought I would drown. I know when we got through eat ing I was three seconds slower and four pounds heavier.

"The hunting was as good as the food and by sundown on opening day we all had our deer.

"I would like to thank the Shoemaker family and the many other fine folks that make it worth the time to hunt in Nebraska." —Tom Morrison, Gretna.

EDUCATIONAL PHOTOS-"I would like to express special thanks to NEBRASKAland for the January article, Artistry In Ice.

"As a student teacher in one of Omaha's inner-city schools, I have been trying to help the culturally deprived children in my sixth-grade classroom to appreciate the beauties of nature. Many of them have never been out of the city — let alone to any place of natural beauty. We mounted your Artistry In Ice pictures on a large bulletin board and the entire school thoroughly enjoys them.

"Now, our science unit on conservation of America's natural resources means more as the children see what their own state has to offer." —VaReane Gray, Omaha.

PROTEST —"As an avid reader of NEBRASKAland, I want to protest what I consider a below-the-belt blow in the publication of Year of the Dove in the April issue.

"You know how utterly impossible it is for those of us, and we are rather many, who oppose an open season on the dove, to adequately answer this article before the issue comes before the current meet ing of the Legislature.

"The article is a skillful piece of propaganda, but it fails to recognize that many of the readers of NEBRASKAland should also have a chance to voice their convictions, which, obviously, they will not be able to do through the same medium.

"Don't list me as an anti-sportsman, for I have been a minister in Nebraska since 1912, and of the 57 years of my ministry, 43 years were spent with rural congrega tions, mostly farmers, among them many sportsmen, and all of them my friends." —Rev. Gilbert T. Savery, Lincoln.

The logic of the question is this: There is no management reason why doves should not be harvested. We harvest other game, plus domesticated birds and animals, in great numbers. The moral ques tion involved is the same in all cases. The sentimental factor is different, however, and that is the point of view that Rev. Savery represents. This is the basis of the dove controversy — logic versus sentiment. — M. O. Steen, director.

SO QUIET HERE-"Last February, my wife, two sons, and I traveled from Groton, Connecticut to my old home near Ravenna to attend my folks' golden wedding anniversary.

"My sons were all excited about the new world they had flown into, and I'll never forget what my older son said as we walked along a snow-covered dirt road.

"'Dad, it's so quiet here.'

"We spent the next five days in central Nebraska and all the time the farmers were complaining about the snow and the muddy roads but to us nature was painting her prettiest pictures. "We found beauty, peace, and quiet as we waddled over trails that I had trod as a kid 25 years ago." —Robert K. Basnett, Groton, Connecticut.

GOOD MAN — "Your book is a beaut, fine art and good writing. You are doing a fine job of plugging Nebraska —and by golly, this old cowhand agrees that your state, windy, alfalfa haystacks, and all is a fine place to live, or visit.

'You have a man there named Mel Steen. It is a shame, in a fine publication such as yours, not to have something from Mel in each issue.

"He is one of the finest thinking biologists of this century. While you attract people to Nebraska, and I will buy that, would it be asking too much to have Mel educate your readers just a little bit?

"Mel has forgotten more of what makes the outdoors tick than a hundred PhD-graduate biologists who are today writing the books.

"Your director is tops in my book and with a fine publication, such as you edit,   a word from Mel can help make this a better world and a finer Nebraska." — C. E. Gillham, Associate Editor, Field & Stream, New York, New York.

M. 0. Steen is indeed the dean of conservationists. But he's just too busy running the show to write a monthly article. — Editor.

BIKE HIKE-"I just read your story Hike By Bike in the February NEBRASKAland which a friend forwarded to me. The story was well written, and so true. I have cycled many times through Ne braska."—Keith Kingbay, Schwinn Bicycle Company, Chicago, Illinois.

BOO-BOO — "The story in the February, 1969 NEBR ASK Aland by the Keenes concerning their cycling trip is an excellent one, except the continued emphasis on peddling. Makes a man wonder just what they were selling."

The Cycling Tour Of The Keenes "Wee red the Keenes' grate report on fare too-day peddle. Sew please bare with me, though I brake inn oar medal. Mae I wright in two fine doubt joust watttall they cell? Thesis awl witch eye quarry. Shell I bit ewe fairwell?" — Robert Lenon, Patagonia, Arizona.

Our copy and proofreaders are now P-E-D-A-L-I-N-G their way through Webster's Unabridged. — Editor.

GOOD SAMARITAN-"My late husband, Harold, experienced this incident during a fishing trip to the Graves Ranch, west of Kaycee, Wyoming, in 1936. This is how he described it:

"T heard a noise and looked up, but I couldn't see anything, however, the far ther I went upstream the more frequent the noise. Finally, a barbed-wire fence loomed up, and I looked toward the far bank and up the hill. There stood a deer on the other side of the fence, so out of curiosity I waded across the stream and up the bank. When I finally got close enough, I saw a fawn caught between the second and third wires from the ground. I went to the spot very casually talking softly as I went. The fawn had struggled so much that it was worn out, so I tried my best to get the poor thing out of the tangle, and finally succeeded.

"'I held it down and I put some oil of citronella on its legs where they had been cut by the wire. When I let the fawn up, it stood for awhile and tried to walk away, but it fell down, so I again put it on its feet.

"'About a half an hour afterward, I heard a rustle in the trees and looked up to see the mother deer and the fawn look ing at me. I got my limit of fish and started back to camp, figuring the deer had wandered into the timber. There was a clearing as I approached camp and while crossing it, I looked back, and not 10 feet away, stood the pair. I continued walking and they kept following, stop ping when I stopped. I reached camp and forgot about the incident.

'"We got up early next morning, had breakfast, and started out for the creek to fish some more. I flipped the fly into the water and looked up. There to my left, not more than a few steps away, stood the doe and fawn. They followed all the while I was fishing and did not leave until we broke camp.

'"The old saying that a doe will not have anything to do with a fawn, who has been touched by a human, did not prove true in this case. On a later fishing trip I saw the deer again. Where the cuts had been on the fawn, white hair had grown out."—Mrs. Camilla K. Hansen, Hastings.

EXCEPTIONAL JOB-"I must write to tell you how much I enjoy NEBRASKAland and the fine articles it contains.

"I thought Footloose in the Hills, by Lou Ell in the March issue was an exceptional job. It kept my interest throughout and his summation: T had slept warmly, eaten well, and covered a distance much greater than others had attempted. I had enjoyed peace, isolation, and a communion with the ele mental. I was returning with rejuvenated spirit after rediscovering the strange, lonesome beauty of the rolling hills.'

"It was great." - Rolla Williams, Out door Editor, San Diego Union, San Diego, California.

HARPOONER-"I salute that unregenerated and unrenowned Patron of the Piscatorial Art and author of Boyhood Stamping Grounds, (March Speak Up) Harley O. Smith. It is he who euphemistically calls a small minnow, cruelly impaled on a bent pin, a 'whopper'. And then, recanting, returned him to Badger Creek, a more sophisticated fish.

"Half a century ago, Harley, in his capacity as an editor at Nebraska Wesleyan University, could by using a 'pin' as a figurative 'harpoon', deflate the ego of a student whose importance was more imaginary than real. Harley was as talented then as he is now.

"So much for Harley. I'm in Birming ham, where 'Norfolk' is pronounced 'Naw-fok', and I take my NEBRASKAland to my barber to add to his library. I do this so everyone will know that I'm a Cornhusker. It saves a lot of conversation to have them get their knowledge from your colorful pages.

"Congratulations with a southern accent to you and my (former?) friend, the honorable Harley." —Ted Linden, Birmingham, Alabama.

HOSTESS OF MONTH-"We take NEBRASKAland thinking it would be a nice family magazine. Now, however, we've decided that it certainly doesn't fit that description.

"In every issue we find a semi-dressed girl. If you can't put decent-looking girls in the magazine, you destroy its worth. Why don't you do your part to keep our state magazine clean?

"If we want that kind of thing, there are plenty of revealing magazines on the newsstands." —A subscriber, Cambridge.

We would like to know if our readers find the hostess feature pleasing. Should we continue it as is? —Editor.

HOW ABOUT IT?-"Why don't you use a series of S. D. Butcher's photographs (S. D. Butcher, Pioneer Cameraman, March 1969 NEBRASKAland) to illustrate your articles on pioneer Nebraska?

"I'm sure Nebraska is full of early settler stories, let's have more of them. How about a story on the big 1733 Ranch that was once located near Kearney?" — Earl Arnold, San Francisco, California.

What do our readers think about Mr. Arnold's suggestion? We will research the 1733 Ranch to see if it warrants a story. Readers' suggestions for articles are always welcome. — Editor.

A QUIETER DAY- "We want to thank Mr. and Mrs. Henry Roether of Eustis, Nebraska for the wonderful subscription to NEBRASKAland. Out our way, after having lived 19 years in Nebraska, one feels a common nostalgia with Robert A. Wenke and Kenny Baker (Speak Up, January 1969) after the pace of California life. California has its 'highness' but Nebraska has its 'footstools'.

"Hurrah for the nature pictures and stories of adventure! One draws back to the quieter days of life once again to reminisce and enjoy the little-known history in NEBRASKAland."-Mr. and Mrs. D. E. Stoneburnek, Rohnert Park, California.

HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS - "Since I like to put words down in rhyme, I'm wondering if you can use the following verse?"-Mrs. Gladys L. Wood, DeWitt.

NEBRASKAland Near the center of our nation In the heart of the Midwest There are highways, yes, and byways New and of the very best. NEBRASKAland invites you Come and see what is in store: The first homestead, now so famous And the Capitol with its Sower; Recreation parks and playgrounds Zoos and museums all abound Fishing, hunting, friendly people, Best of eating will be found. Bring your children, bring your camera To Nebraska hie away You'll enjoy each mile and minute of vacation's happy day.

Roundup and What to do

ALL NEBRASKA casts a nostalgic glance into its frontier past and literally brings the wild and woolly West back to life when NEBRASKAland DAYS break loose June 16 through 22. Staged in North Platte, and featuring the Buffalo Bill Rodeo for the second straight year, this is a main event on June's schedule of Old West Nebraska blowouts.

Reigning over this shindig and all of Nebraska's June merrymaking is Alice Marie Weil, NEBRASKAland's Hostess of the Month and Miss NEBRASKAland of 1968. Alice won the title last year at the Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant in North Platte which climaxed the week long celebration. She will be on hand this June to crown her successor.

Alice's interest in horseback riding and her success in beauty contests make her the perfect choice to welcome every one to the state's June slate of rodeos and western-type celebrations. The June hostess has also held the title of Miss North Platte, and was a candidate for several campus titles at North Platte Junior College. Swimming, canoeing, and other summertime water sports also hold Alice's fancy.

A May graduate of North Platte Junior College, Alice plans to continue her education at Kearney State College, with an eye on a career in interior decorating. While attending the junior college, she was a cheerleader, a member of the drama club, and was listed in "Who's Who in American Junior Colleges". Alice is the daughter of Alvin Weil and Mrs. Norma M. Boeh of Thedford, and is a 1967 graduate of Thomas County High School at Thedford.

Our June hostess and the dozens of other Nebraska beauties vying to succeed her as Miss NEBRASKAland will not be the only attractions at NEBRASKAland DAYS. Old West buffs will get an eyeful, too, as bandits and good guys shoot it out at high noon at the old bank building in North Platte. Tom toms and war whoops will add to the frontier flavor, as the Paleface Powwow gets underway with reenactments of Indian dances and ceremonies.

Another highlight of the festivities at North Platte will be the NEBRASKA land DAYS Parade, with floats, sheriffs' posses, cowboys, Indians, and gorgeous girls from all parts of the state participating. A television or movie celebrity will also be on hand to accept the Buffalo Bill Award, presented each year for "out standing contributions to quality family entertainment in the Cody tradition". Past winners of the award include Dale Robertson, Chuck Connors, Charlton Heston, and Leif Erickson.

Rodeo fans from all over the country will converge on North Platte to watch the Buffalo Bill Rodeo. Here, their favorite cowhands will tangle with some of the orneriest critters ever assembled for one event. This Rodeo Cowboy Association approved event will provide riding, roping, bucking, and wrestling action.

Though it hosts the biggest shows in Nebraska during June, North Platte doesn't have a monopoly on the fun and action. Teen-age cowpokes will get into the act in high school rodeos at Thedford on June 7, and at Stapleton on June 8. The best teen-age waddies will then converge on Harrison for the Nebraska Championship High School Rodeo Finals, June 26 through 29.

Old West cowboys, homesteading farmers, and early Czech and Swedish settlers reappear on main streets throughout the state as old settlers' blowouts and Old World festivals draw colorfully garbed Nebraskans to events commemorating their 19th Century predecessors. Pioneer days are spot lighted at Beatrice Homestead Summer Festival, June 13 through 18.

Polka music will play late into the summertime nights as Nebraskans of Czech descent don their colorful native garb and slip on their dancing shoes in Schuyler and Clarkson. Schuyler's festival is scheduled for June 15, while the Clarkson bash will run from June 27 through 29. Nebraska's Swede capital, Stromsburg, will host its annual Swedish Festival, June 20 and 21.

Nationally ranked college baseball teams will put their reputations on the line in Omaha, June 13 through 20, as the College World Series leads off as the premier event on Nebraska's June schedule of sporting events. Other happenings on the sports schedule include the Kimball men's invitational golf tournament, June 15, and the Plain view Country Club open golf tournament on June 29. Shotgunners from all over the state will grab their shooting irons and come to the Lincoln Gun Club's registered trap shoot, June 22.

All during the summer, sightseers travel the length and breadth of the state to take in the scenic beauty of its rolling hills, broad valleys, azure lakes, and lazy streams. But scenery is not the only eye pleaser on display in Nebraska during June, for numerous beauty pageants dot the schedule. In addition to the Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant, other events include the Nebraska State Dairy Princess Contest at Laurel, June 5, and the Miss Nebraska Pageant at York, June 12 through 14.

June in NEBRASKAland is filled with everything from the bone-jarring action of rodeo, to old-time shindigs, to the solitude of a favorite fishing spot.

NINE-HOUR CRAWL

THE HOUNDS WERE baying a nighttime melody that would quicken the pulse of any coon hunter, so my late father, Jim Barn ard, grabbed a flashlight and a .22 caliber rifle and lit out after them. For the next 13 hours, the woods near Princeton, in southeastern Nebraska, would become a temple of pain and terror, and in later years the subject of an outdoor tale that would chill Dad's listeners.

On that November 5, 1955 evening, the temperature was hovering in the lower 20's, but for an old coon hunter like Jim it was a perfect night to run the dogs. With my mother, Valera, visiting me in Lex ington, Dad had lined up a hunt with ' a railroading co-worker. His friend was already a half-hour overdue, so Jim had released the four restless hounds. They had picked up a scent almost immediately.

In the pitch black of the timber, Jim's world stretched only as far and as wide as the beam of his artificial light. The echoing intensity of the deep hollow barks meant the hounds were ready to tree a raccoon, so Jim picked up his already brisk pace. As a coon hunter, he was seeing with his ears instead of his eyes and a small drop-off caught him off guard. Fighting to regain his balance, Jim stepped into a deep, frozen cow track. As the hunter fell forward, he twisted his leg, and the bone snapped five inches above his ankle.

When Jim recovered from the initial shock, he realized the serious ness of his injury and the situation. With no one at home to miss him, Dad's only hope for rescue was his late-arriving friend. If he didn't show up, and it was doubtful that he would, his only alternative would be to crawl to the nearest farmhouse or to the road. Jim had fallen into a slight depression and in the black ness of the cold night he had momentarily lost his directions. He decided to stay put until daylight, then start the long crawl to help.

Jim lay on the damp, cold ground, shivering from the freezing temperatures and wincing from the pain. The accident occurred a little after 9:30 p.m. and dawn was at least nine hours away. Jim needed protection from the cold, so he scraped together a pile of leaves and covered himself. Then, one by one, he called to his four hounds and coaxed them to lie around him. The well-trained dogs must have sensed trouble, for they huddled around him, their body heat keeping him warm.

Although the long, agonizing night was somewhat a blur in his memory, Dad remembered sleeping part of the time and vaguely recalled passing out from pain once or twice. But even in his misery the outdoorsman stayed calm. The hunter periodically fired his .22 to catch someone's at tention, but his futile efforts were 10 NEBRASKAland met only with an echo and the chatter of whisper-legged crickets.

It was nearing 6:30 a.m., when Jim crawled out of the small depression to get his bearings by dawn's first light. Dad had hunted the woods be fore and knew that Leo Clare's farm was one-quarter mile away. It would be his destination, because the road and his car were even farther. The gully-filled terrain would make the going tough. Chances were that he would injure his leg even more by crawling, but it was his only alternative.

Inch by inch, foot by foot, and yard by yard, Jim pulled, squirmed, and wiggled his way toward the farm, us ing his elbows for leverage. Although he was wearing a heavy hunting jacket, his elbows and right hip were soon bleeding from the constant friction of the pulling. With his left leg swollen and broken, he had to scoot along on his right hip. His cumber some left foot frequently got caught in brush and when it did shattering pain surged through every nerve in his body. As Dad inched along, the jagged ends of the broken bone kept rasping together.

Even as Jim crawled through the timber, his four dogs remained at his side. By 9:30 a.m., he was within sight of the Clare farm. As he lay panting on the edge of the woods, Leo came out to feed his cattle. Jim raised up, whistled, and waved at the farmer. Leo knew Dad and thought he was waving a hello as he waited for a squirrel to come with in shooting range. When the waving persisted, the farmer decided to investigate.

One look and Leo scurried back to the house to get his son, Keith, and call for neighboring help. The Clares, along with George DeRyke, Ed Douglas, and Carl Bonebright, placed the injured man on a piece of plywood and lifted him into the pickup for the long ride to a Beatrice hospital. By noon, Jim's torturous ordeal was over. Besides a compound fracture to his left leg, he suffered from a bad cold, cuts and scratches from the brush, and elbows rubbed nearly to the bone.

But Jim's misery didn't end with his trip to the Beatrice hospital. The bone didn't mend quite right, so several months later, his left leg had to be rebroken. Finally in January of 1958, he returned to his job on the railroad after more than a two year absence.

Dad never went coon hunting again, but every time he told this story you could see the pain of the experience in his eyes and hear the love for his faithful dogs in his voice.

CAMP HELPS

FAMILY CAMPING is an expanding activity, and books have been written to guide the neophyte through the basics of as sembling gear, packing, and actually living in the outdoors. Here is a boiled-down version of information contained in most of these how-to volumes to help make your family outing easier and more fun for all concerned.

... The weight of camping gear puts an additional strain on the springs of vehicles designed for soft rides, so have overload springs installed before departure. Carry a spare quart of oil for the motor, and store a two gallon can of gasoline somewhere in the trunk. Some roads in Nebraska stretch 70 miles between service stations, and you can wander even far ther on the back trails of the Sand Hills.

...Canned air, under pressure, is available from many service stations. The can screws onto a tire valve and will inflate a repaired flat sufficiently to drive to where it can be filled to capacity. Some canned air contains a sealant that plugs slow leaks caused by small nails. ... To keep the small-fry occupied on longer drives, pack a number of in expensive puzzles, coloring books, and other new toys they have not seen before. Make a private trip to the variety store just before leaving on the trip. Keep your purchases under wraps until needed, then dole the games out one by one.

...Freeze a plastic jerry can, three quarters full of water, in the home freezer. Used instead of an ice block in a foam food cooler, it will keep the contents cool, but dry, for two or three days, and the melt can be used for emergency drinking water.

...Take along a good, family-size first aid kit and hope you never have to use it.

...When you are ready to leave home, load the family into the car, then do a methodical room-to-room check. Lights out. Water heater and furnace shut off. No extensions plugged into wall sockets. An extra key left with a trusted neighbor. Lock the door as you leave.

... Involve the family in driving. Let them take turns navigating unfamiliar roads with the road map in their laps. Children learn simple map reading easily and they feel important when they can guide you to the day's objective.

... Stop frequently while on the road to rest and stretch. Visit areas off the main road. You'll discover pockets of charm and secluded camp spots missed by most vacationists. ... Take along cheap, paperback bird, animal, tree, and flower guides to identification. The entire family will enjoy using these several times a day, and the knowledge gleaned makes the camping area just that much more interesting.

... The children will enjoy setting up the tent. If its framework is of disjoinable poles, paint the mating ends with bright paint, but use a different color for each joint. Simply matching color to color puts the frame up correctly every time. Shock absorbers in the guy ropes minimize damage to the shelter should you encounter rain or high wind. Cut heavy rubber bands from an old inner tube and splice them some where between the tent and the stake.

...Have an extra candle or a bar of paraffin handy to rub leaky spots if they develop in the canvas during a downpour. The wax will also lubricate door or mosquito net zippers that refuse to operate freely.

...Plastic coffee can covers under wooden-legged cots and camp chairs prevent punching holes in the floor, and dabs of fluorescent paint on guy ropes and pegs cuts down stumbles in the dark. A good gasoline lantern provides both light and warmth within a tent — something to consider on a chilly day. Be sure there's adequate ventilation.

... If you are station wagon camping, consider a tent that hooks to the back of the vehicle when the tail gate is down. Build a plywood plat form that rests above the fender wells inside the wagon to provide more sleeping space. Store camp gear under the platform, and lay the sleeping pads on top of it. Older boys will get a real kick out of sleeping upstairs under the stars" if you have a roof carrier with guard rails.

...Sleeping bags cost little more than the cleaning bill for good house hold blankets, and are warmer, weight for weight. If you buy those that open fully, request matching zippers so two, when opened flat, will zip together into king size. Some times it is comforting for very young children to double up with adults in strange camp surroundings.

...Foam pads, iy2-inches thick and 41/2-feet long, beat air mattresses all hollow for sleeping comfort. The short length conserves packing space, and support from mid-thigh to feet is unnecessary for all but the elderly.

... Rig a box the size of a footlocker with fold-down legs and arranged so the opened lid becomes a table. Fit the interior to hold all the cooking gear. This portable kitchen will fold up quickly when mealtime is over.

...A two-burner gasoline stove prepares food faster than a campfire, and cooking gear cleans easier. Collapsible five-gallon water jugs as sure adequate water if you camp a distance from a source of supply.

...Take "strike anywhere" wooden matches, packed in a small, glass olive bottle with a screw top, to light stoves and lanterns. Stuff a piece of paper in the jar to keep the matches from rattling around and lighting accidentally.

...Shaking up malts, mixing dried milk, or making pancake batter is a breeze. Use a plastic container with a snap-on lid. Dump in the ingredients, add water, and then drop in a chain choker-type dog collar. Put on 12 NEBRASKAland the lid and shake. You will never pour a smoother product. This chain mixer almost beats the electric one at home.

... Bouillon cubes make a fast before supper drink to help keep the hungry ones quiet until the meal is ready to serve.

... Long-sleeved shirts and long trousers, for evening or early-morning wear, save smearing large areas of skin with smelly mosquito dope. They also prevent windburn and sunburn during midday if you aren't already tanned.

...When boating, hiking, or riding horseback, wear underclothing of good quality cotton. Some synthetic fabrics are abrasive enough to cause painful irritation to sensitive skin when activity is prolonged.

...Sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats protect eyes against brilliant summer sun. Big, colorful bandanna handkerchiefs, of red or blue with white polkadots, serve as head scarves, pot holders, emergency tour niquets, sweatbands, hand towels, and a host of other uses.

... Use a sheet of plastic to line a depression in the sand. Depending on the size of the hole you can use this to stir up a batch of biscuits, wash the dishes, or take a bath.

... Three aluminum, telescoping tent poles and a chunk of black plastic tarpaulin can be set up as a triangular shower house. Fit one of the collapsible water jugs with a short hose and spray head. Hang it from an overhead branch or other support to complete the bath.

...A few emergency campfire "logs" of newspaper, rolled tight and fastened with light wire, can be packed in the car. They come in handy at grounds where firewood is scarce.

... A saw of the bow type outworks an ax for cutting most wood, and is safer. When not using it, protect the blade with a piece of split garden hose.

... Keep your camp area free of food scraps and other trash and you will not need to worry about skunks, mice, or other undesirable nocturnal company.

... A set of citizen band transceivers is great for keeping track when the family divides into two groups. They will help talk a bewildered child back to camp or bring dad off the water when lunch is ready. It is impossible to list enough hints to make every camping expedition a perfect experience, but these will lighten the load. In the long run, you'll collect other tips to make camping as enjoyable as a barbecue in the back yard. Like a child taking his first dive, just hold your nose and take the plunge.

RODEO DOOM TOWN

Bone-jarring action, heart-stopping thrills, supreme suspense —that's the legacy left to all Nebraskans by Colonel William Frederick Cody in the unique sport known as rodeo. It is a one-of-a-kind sport, where a special breed of man pits his skill, brains, and brawn against the sheer brute force of rubber-necked steers and slope-shouldered broncs. For the cowboy, it spells danger, fame, and money. For the animals, it spells a princely life of ease for a few moments tangle with the determined cowpoke. For the crowd, it spells unexcelled excitement and, more often than not, a lost voice from cheering too long and too strong. For the community, it spells hundreds, even thousands, of visitors streaming in. Some of the larger rodeos have special acts to entertain the audiences. Today, even Buffalo Bill would marvel at what has evolved from his 1882 Old Glory Blowout, for all across Nebraska summer means but one thing —RODEO. (An extensive listing of NEBRASKAland rodeos this summer appears on page 50.) Even the smallest village can get in on the action. Rodeo can put it on the traveler's must-visit list, while drawing the townsfolk together in a concentrated effort to build the best, most successful show possible. Witness this endeavor by the little community of Nora in south-central Nebraska. Nora has found recognition across the country as a rodeo town.

TWO YEARS ago, in 1967, most Nebraska communities planned activities to celebrate their state's Centennial. Nora, however, with a population on the downhill side of 35, had made no plans to participate in the celebrations. How could such a small community possibly hope to compete with all the larger surrounding towns? But, P. D. "Bud" Jones and his brother, Frank, felt sure that Nora could draw a bigger crowd than any large town. They formed a plan for one of the biggest celebrations in the area.

Bud, the older of the two brothers, has been riding everything with four legs since he was big enough to shinny up a fence and jump on. He started riding ponies and steers at the family feedlot, but soon graduated to the rougher and more challenging rodeo stock. He's now 21, and has been riding bucking bulls and saddle broncs in the professional rodeo arena for over 5 years.

His younger brother, Frank, just naturally tagged along after his big brother and picked up all the skills of a rodeo cowboy. Frank, 17, entered his first professional rodeo at the ripe old age of 13. He now specializes in riding bulls.

The brothers are engaged in a cattle-feeding operation east of Nora where they also raise and break horses. Bud has further widened his interests by opening a western store in nearby Superior. Although they keep plenty busy handling all this, they still find time to make at least two rodeos a week during the summer months.

Since both boys have had the bug for so many years, they were convinced that the only authentic way to celebrate Nebraska's Centennial was with a rodeo.

Plans began to form. An acreage was chosen for building an arena. A stock contractor, John B. Jacobsen of Delia, Kansas, was contacted and the rodeo dates were set. Things really began to buzz in Nora and the area as the arena took shape.

The townspeople were more than eager to help. They rolled up their sleeves and helped with all the digging and building that goes with a rodeo. They formed the Nora Centennial Booster Club to handle advertising, set up a lunch stand, and park cars.

Work proceeded at a great pace as everyone became more anxious for the June 17 and 18 (Continued on page 49)

Good Times in the Badlands

IN THE LAND of eroded fantasy called Nebraska's Badlands, a 20th Century family can adventure into an ageless epoch where earth's history is trapped in a barren and grotesque landscape. In a progressive age, one generation's interest is another generation's boredom. But this land of wind and water-whittled rocks implants the spirit of exploration in both the young and old. This family adventureland is located 20 miles north of Craw ford, just off Nebraska Highway 2.

Nowhere in Nebraska's 77,000 square miles is there an area as unique as Toadstool Park, the most spectacular and accessible portion of the state's Badlands. This is where every family adventure should start and end. Here, the timeless chisels of wind and water sculpture rocks into fantastic shapes. Slabs of sandstone, some weighing   hundreds of tons, others mere pebbles in comparison, stand precariously balanced by nature on slender pillars of sunbaked soil. These giant earthen toadstools, their somber faces staring from the past into the future, quietly wait for the day when they, too, will topple from erosion to join their already fallen comrades.

However, there is more to the Badlands than just delicately balanced rocks. Patiently, the years have shaped and polished the hills until the entire area takes on the appearance of a movie backdrop for a space-age moon odyssey. But this "lunarscape" with its folded hills erupting from a barren expanse of clay and rock, was four million years in the making and nature isn't through yet. Experts claim that in the last 50 years the Badlands have become less arid and barren.

Towering buttes mark the boundary between the scarred and barren sediment of the Badlands and the lush green of the Pine Ridge. From these pine-scented hills, eroded ridge after eroded ridge break away to form a maze of winding canyons. In close proximity with the Pine Ridge, the Badlands seem almost out of place. It is as if the Devil himself had furrowed the soil in an attempt to mar beauty with ugliness. But if Satan did create this tormented geography, he failed in his objective, because its bizarreness makes it beautiful.

Part of the Badlands' grandeur is their moody personality, for as the sun and prairie blown clouds amble across the summer sky, the terrain changes its characteristics. To view the Badlands in early morning is to catch them in a gay and carefree spirit. The air is crisp and the morning sun and its shadows bring out hidden hues that blend into an ancient-world

mosaic. On a clear midday, reflecting rays off the beige and red bluffs make the hills look hot and menacing, but when giant thunderheads oar across the sky, the colors become softer and quieter. Finally, at sunset, the hills with their harsh and foreboding shadows brood over memories of a greener past.

A remnant of nature's violent touch, the Badlands are a book of "Ten-Thousand Chapters" for families who thumb through its pages. In the bedded strata of eroded rock and sheer-sided canyons lies the story of earth's life. Wind-chiseled cross sections of rock chronicle long-past earthquakes and floods, deserts and lakes, glacial cold and tropical heat.

For artifact and fossil hounds, these gray, rust, and buff layers and the floors of water-washed canyons are prime hunting grounds. Once,

massive pre-historic animals called this corner of Nebraska home. They lived, grazed, and died here, and when the vacuum that is time edged on, their remains were trapped in the flats and canyons forever. Later, the hills recorded the red man's history. The Indian tribes, hunting and living in the area, left behind finely carved arrowheads as mementos that they, too, had explored the rugged terrain. Now, sharp-eyed collectors scour the ground for evidence of past life. Even a lucky amateur can pick up Indian arrowheads and scrapers, or the fossilized remains of a prehistoric animal.

For those moms and dads who prefer to let their eyes and their children do the exploring and hunting, the picnic grounds on the east side of Toadstool Park are a perfect spot. A short walk from the sheltered picnic 24 NEBRASKAland tables leads to a scarred hill that overlooks the most fantastic formations in the Badlands, the toadstools. Other facilities in the park include fire places, drinking water, and rest rooms.

But soaking up scenery, rock collecting, and exploring are only a portion of the real enchantment of the Badlands. In this piece of ugliness, turned beautiful, a family can sense the excitement of just being together. Although we live in an age of speed, time has no meaning here, for it is as if each member of the family is a castaway in an ancient world.

Good times in the Badlands depend upon the individuals who visit the gouged land, for these hills spark mirage-like images that transmit the listener and teller into a world of imagination. A testament of the ages, the Badlands are truly a family adventureland.

THE CANE AND I

ALIGHT BREEZE rippled the surface of the small pond, jostling a pair of bobbers into concentric circles. Sitting expectantly on the bank behind the floats were two anglers with apparently not a care in the world, taking their ease in the shade of some overhanging foliage. The setting was straight out of the past, before gadgetry and chrome and monofila ment came on the scene.

Cane poles arrowed out from the bank toward the lines as Enfrid Nelson and his seven-year-old grand son, Danny, of Monroe, Nebraska, watched the gently moving bobbers. Their use of the poles was not an attempt to recapture the "good old days" or create a nostalgic scene. Cane poles happen to be more efficient for the kind of fishing Enfrid and Danny like to do.

No novice when it comes to the gentle art of angling, Enfrid, 74, has about 68 years of fishing experience. He started out when about six, with his grandfather, trolling the cold lakes of Sweden for northern pike. Ever since, fishing has had a prominent 26 NEBRASKAland place in his life. Danny, too, has put in a good many hours sitting at the end of a fishing rig.

NEBRASKAland became interested in Enfrid's fishing prowess when it was discovered he useo1 a cane pole almost exclusively, and very successfully. Among his recent catches was a fine 2V2-pound crappie, well over the minimum requirement for the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission's Master Angler Award. The same day he landed a six-pound northern and several "routine" fish. So, NEBRASKAland photographer, Richard Voges and I, a writer with the Game Commission's Special Publications Section, traveled to Monroe to enjoy a fishing outing with Enfrid.

It was a sunny August day when we joined part of the Nelson clan. Enfrid and his two grandsons, Danny and 12-year-old David, set out shortly after 10 a.m. with a minimum of gear. We watched as two cane poles and an old casting rig were placed in the car. David had his own push-button job because he preferred getting a little more range on his casting, and he also carried a compact tackle box. Not so for Enfrid and Danny. The poles, a pocket-size tobacco can, and a homemade stringer were the sum total of their equipment.

Our destination was a scenic, clear-water sandpit adjacent to the Loup River. The river passes within a mile or so of the Nelson farm home, so it takes only a few minutes to slip over to the many good fishing holes. From previous expeditions the Nelsons knew about some of the hotter pits, and what fish were in them.

Grasshoppers, available on the spot, were the bait. Being quick of hand and pretty efficient with a hat, the boys clambered through the weeds until they cornered an ample supply of the "critters". The hoppers were pushed into the old tobacco can.

Young Danny borrowed a grasshopper from Enfrid and was in the process of hooking him when he exclaimed, "Hey, look, he's chewing tobacco!" We all assumed that Danny had just discovered that grass hoppers look like they (Continued on page 50)

Playground of the Midwest

KING NEPTUNE, the ruler of the seven seas, may not know it, but he's got quite a few subjects in NEBRASK Aland. They may not be typical of the jolly tars who usually roam the oceanic realm, but they are just as salty. They got their briny baptism in Lincoln's Salt Lake and the saltwater swimming pool at Capitol Beach.

For almost 70 years, Nebraskans in general and Lincolnites in particular had opportunities to boat and swim in waters that rivaled the oceans in salinity. Salt Lake became a popular swimming spot in 1893 when Burlington Beach, the forerunner of Capitol Beach, was established as an amusement park. Thirty four years later, in 1927, the pool was built to let Nebraskans splash in what was probably the only salt water swimming pool in the Midlands.

Swimming in Salt Lake was fun, but swimming in the Capitol Beach pool was an event. The pool was a dandy. Fed by a saltwater well, it was 150 feet long, 100 feet wide, and varied in depth from 2V2 to 11 feet. For years it was one of only two protected swimming spots for all of Lincoln. "Muni" pool was in town, but it held freshwater and lacked the appeal of its salty neighbor to the west. Ralph Beechner of Lincoln was in charge of the Beach pool and he tells how it was:

"We used to open at 6 a.m., and we didn't close until 10 at night. You just can't picture the crowds we had. The charge was 25 cents, and those were the days when a quarter spent for fun was big money, but the pool was always packed. People would be standing in line when we opened and there would still be a waiting line when we closed."

Salt Lake and the pool are great memory provokers, but the amusement park's history doesn't end with them, not by a long shot. During its long span, Capitol Beach held two names, hosted a presidential candidate, figured in a lawsuit that went all the way to the state supreme court, and furnished brine for pickles. But above all, Capitol Beach was CAPITOL BEACH, "THE PLAYGROUND OF THE MIDDLE-WEST", self proclaimed in white letters, six feet high, on what was billed as the "longest" board fence in Nebraska.

Long before the whites came to Nebraska, the area which is now Capitol Beach figured largely in JUNE 1969 29   Indian lore. An 1835 account tells of an Indian legend which is similar to the Biblical story of Lot's wife.

"A greatly feared warrior roamed the prairies, scalping everyone he met. A loner, he was almost an outcast with his tribe and a terror to all others. Never theless, he wooed and won the daughter of a chief. Shortly after their marriage, the girl died and the brave went back to his bloody habits.

"One night he was awakened by the sound of a struggle. A horrid old hag was about to tomahawk an other woman. When the intended victim turned, the warrior saw that it was his wife. He brained the old hag, but before he could reach his wife, the ground opened and both females sank from sight. A rock of white salt appeared miraculously at the spot. The Indian chipped off a chunk of the salt and carried it back to his tribe.

"Ever afterward, when the Indians came to the flats for salt, they first belabored the ground with clubs and tomahawks, symbolically beating the old hag and forcing her to give up her treasure."

The Indians were around when the first whites came here to "boil" salt, but none of them ever reported seeing the tribesmen go into the whipping act before they gathered the precious seasoning. There are no reports of any Indian trouble at the flats. It is possible the redskins considered the area sacred ground, a place of no warring.

Attempts to establish a profitable salt industry in what is now Lancaster County failed. However, some salt was taken and was considered "neat", or of good quality. Two deep wells were drilled by the government to tap underground brine sources, but their salinity was too weak. The wells came in as artesians and helped form Salt Lake. However, the salters did establish a settlement that later became the capital city of Lincoln, so their efforts weren't in vain.

Old Salt Lake was sort of a hybrid, part natural and part man-made. Fed by salt springs, the lake occupied a geological basin that some claim was a gigantic buffalo wallow. A sometimes dam across Oak Creek increased its acreage, while the two government wells added to its water volume. In wet years the lake was sizeable, but in dry spells it was more white desert than blue water. The water was too salty for fish, but it was fine for boating and swimming.

The lake was drained in 1958 to allow construction of Interstate 80. This was the start of yet another era for Capitol Beach. In 1961, the amusement park was demolished and the land developed into a fine residen tial area. The new owner, Capitol Beach, Incorporated, reestablished a 326-acre freshwater lake by diking and pumping. The present site has 150 homes, with 850 more on the way. A part of Lincoln, Capitol Beach has paved streets, sewers, and city water. All this is a far cry from the original Capitol Beach of the 1890's.

Capitol Beach, or Burlington Beach as it was then called, began its amusement-park destiny in 1893. The Burlington Railroad built a spur to the site and began developing a family fun spot with picnicking, swim ming, boating, and dancing as the main attractions. A saltwater well was claimed to have medicinal proper ties, and many came "to take the waters".

A small stern-wheeler, reportedly shipped from Beatrice and assembled at the lake, offered excursion rides. Some accounts refer to it as the Queen of the Blue. Other sources identify it as The City of Lincoln. The two-decker steamboat was about 90 feet long and carried 50 passengers. Its final fate is clouded, but some old-timers remember seeing it beached and partially capsized on the south shore of the lake around 1917, not a very glorious ending.

In its heyday, Burlington Beach attracted about 150,000 visitors each summer. Its big moment came in 1896, when presidential aspirant William McKinley made a campaign speech there. Later, hard times and a break in the dam didn't do Burlington Beach any good. Much of the lake drained away and with it went the crowds. Besides, Nebraskans were in financial pain and spent their dimes for food instead of fun. The Beach was down at the heels and ready for the firm hand of John A. Buckstaff when he purchased the site in 1906 and reopened it as Capitol Beach.

There must have been times when Buckstaff wanted to give it back to the Indians. Shortly after he bought it, a group of agriculturists formed the Oak Creek Drainage District and promptly set about deepening and straightening Oak Creek. The dam had to go. Buckstaff went to court and fought the case all the way to the state supreme court where he lost on a legal technicality. Still, Buckstaff stuck with his plan to develop Capitol Beach into a family fun spot.

He was a man of high ideals, and his park reflected his integrity. Anything of the "offensive" was taboo at Capitol Beach. The sale of beer at the park would have been a gold mine, but its owner never entertained the thought. Establishment of an outstanding rose garden, the planting of trees, and the development of "Japanese" gardens were probably Buckstaff's proud est achievements.

After Buckstaff's death in 1913, Capitol Beach went into another decline until it was purchased by the Central Realty and Investment Company of Lincoln in the early 1920's. From then until 1958, Capitol Beach would be a real swinger, the Coney Island of NEBRASKAland. Fortune smiled on the place and it was relatively free of the calamities that often befall such places. A fire on June 27, 1936 destroyed the outdoor theatre, a device called the "scooter", and the penny arcade. The fire (Continued on page 48)

STALK AGAINST THE CLOCK

THE LITTLE BUCK was smarter than his years. He let his womenfolk break, but he lay quiet in the hip-high weeds of the soil bank. I was almost positive he was some where in front of me, but as the minutes ticked by, I had my doubts. The 20-minute delay between first sighting and my arrival at his hide might have been enough for his escape. Still, the three does had stayed until I spooked them, and it wasn't likely that the little fellow had deserted his ladies.

I scanned the CAP land again, watching for a telltale flicker of the weeds or a blotch of brown that shouldn't be, but the patch was inscrutable. Disappointment settled over me like a black shroud. My allotted 2V2 days of hunting had dwindled to a nubbin, and if something didn't happen soon, my 1967 deer tags would never know a pencil.

Reluctantly, I climbed into the pickup and raked it into low. Dead sunflowers beat a staccato against the bumper and rasped the wheels as I crossed the 20-acre plot. Then I saw him, 32 NEBRASKAland or rather I saw his ears. They were cocked, try ing to locate the unfamiliar sound. The buck was flat to the ground, offering no target at all. Before I could stop, he was up and away.

I was out, the safety was off, and the scope was tracking before the deer made 50 yards. The cross hairs confirmed that he was a buck — a two-pointer. Then he was beyond the glass. I swung again, getting the rifle out ahead, and when he reappeared in the objective lens, I touched off the .30/06. A puff exploded from the weeds on his far side. Too high.

My left hand clawed across the receiver to rack in another round. I'm a southpaw, but I was using a right-handed bolt action that had been sporterized from a military arm. The instant I fired, I knew the sight picture was wrong, but there wasn't time to worry about it.

By this time the buck was 150 yards out and gaining at every bound. A third shot and the buck crumpled, down before the "thunk" of the striking slug drifted back. I turned and waved to my (Continued on page 54)

Today VOYAGEURS

ABOUT 250 Nebraskans have their own version of the nautical expression, "Go down to the sea in ships.' Theirs is, "Go down to the river in canoes.' Each summer, members of the Midwest Canoe Association rediscover the fascination of manning a craft that is old as history yet as new as tomorrow's sunrise. Their canoes are basically the same as the sensitive and graceful "birchbarks" that once carried redskin and white, trapper and trader, saint and sinner the length and breadth of this continent when the only highways were waterways.

These modern voyagews have a wonderful opportunity to experience "silent boating" at its thrilling best through summer canoe races on four of NEBRASKAland's more interesting rivers, the Niobrara, the Blue, the Platte, and the Missouri. Information on the races and membership in the association is available from Allan Maybee, 3019 South 44th Street, Lincoln, Nebraska, 68510. Young, old, and in-between can enter the races in any combination of skill and experience they wish. Any canoe, 1 4 to 18 feet long and made of any material, is eligible. However, all canoes must carry two paddlers, and Coast Guard and Nebraska Game and Parks Commission boating regulations must be followed to the letter. Experts in communication, rescue, and first aid are always on hand to cope with any emergency.

The contests, which now attract 25 to 45 teams for each event, are an outgrowth of a 1966 proposal by a few canoe buffs for a race on the Missouri River as part of Nebraska's approaching centennial celebration. Expecting a limited turnout, sponsors were surprised at the number of canoeists wanting to try the run from Omaha to Nebraska City. Even more surprising was the number of the nonparticipants who came to watch. To them it was a grand, competitive spectacle.

Encouraged, the newly formed association decided to exp£ id its efforts and sponsor four races in 1967. Since canoeists have definite preferences for various types of water, four rivers were selected as typical of NEBRASKAland's diverse waterways. Each has a distinct personality and offers a special challenge to the racers, but all have a common mystique about them that brings participants back. Racers claim this mystique is almost an extension of their egos—a second soul.

"You can't leave a river without a poignant regret that its enchantment and exhilaration are gone until the next launch," they say.

For those who like white water, the Niobrara River event, scheduled for June 8, 1 969, is the race of races. This 1 0-miler begins at Valentine and runs to the county road bridge near Sears Falls on the Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge. The race course is short enough to accommodate winter-softened muscles, but still tough enough to recall canoe-handling savvy. Winning times run from 45 to 60 minutes, depending upon water conditions. Racers start at pre-selected June 1969 35  

My sternman smashed his paddle in a collision with another canoe at the start, and before I could toss him a spare, the white water caught us. A paddle is to a canoeist what the sword is to the warrior—the power of defense. Without the instant counter of the stern paddle, we were helpless. Hundreds of gallons of water flooded over our bow, robbing the craft of its buoyancy and making it sluggish and unresponsive as we paddled desperately for quieter water.

I could see and hear the rapids only a few hundred yards away, and I knew once we were in them we were done. The bow reared like a startled stallion in an attempt to escape the hungry water, but it was a futile effort. Our craft slammed down in the trough between two waves and this time it could not recover. We went over, our race finished.

The late-June race which climaxes the Beatrice Homestead Summer Festival is on quieter but no less demanding water. A 1 3-mile event, this race begins at the Hoag Bridge and follows the Blue River to Beatrice. This event puts a premium on "reading the river.' In places, contestants have to work their craft over shallows less than two inches deep and must select the right channel from a maze of false ones. Overhanging vegetation often limits forward visibility to just a few yards while a treacherous current waits to ground or capsize the unwary. Portaging is permitted, but it uses up precious minutes and the racers try to avoid it. Entrants consider 1 hour and 45 minutes good time for this event.

Tough as the Blue is, it is only a warm-up for the challenge of the Buffalo Bill Canoe Race at North Platte. Held on the last Sunday of July, this race is an 1 8-mile test of navigation skill. Hershey is the starting point for an obstacle course of deceptive channels, islands, snags, sandbars, shallows, and other boating woes. The finish line is at North Platte and contestants who make the run in 2 hours and 15 minutes have a good chance to win.

Granddaddy of the four contests is the Lewis and Clark Race held on the last Sunday of August. Last year, this race literally separated *he men from the boys since it had two divisions. Women, boys, and mixed crews had to brave a 27-mile stretch from Omaha to Plattsmouth while the men covered 54 miles from Omaha to Nebraska City with only a brief stop at Plattsmouth. This August, the race will be run by all contestants from Nebraska City to Brown ville, a 35-mile stint. Although the Missouri has a 6-mile-an-hour current, a persistent wind sweeps up river at 1 5 to 20 miles an hour to wipe out its help.

A time of 4 hours and 45 minutes is considered excellent for the 54-mile test. This race employs the Le Mans start where competitors line up and dash to their canoes at the signal. Considered the toughest of them all, the Missouri run determines the state champions, and well it should, for it's an ordeal.

Like in any competitive event, participants know the ecstasy of victory and the agony of defeat, but in canoe racing the losers are really victors, too, for they have enjoyed the good air, the heady tang of commanding a fine and spirited craft, and the companion ship of kindred spirits.

WITCH WAY WATER

WHEN IT'S 110° in the shade, and a man's crops are withering away and his livestock is thirsty to the point of death, he'll go to desperate efforts to find water.

All the well drillers and know-how in the world can't produce water where there isn't any. That takes an act of God, but even with the Lord's help, the water is apt to be hard to find. So, the desperate man prays and calls on a water witch or dowser. The water witch can't produce water where there isn't any, but he can try to locate spots where it may be hidden. More importantly, the witch gives his patron hope and a sense of "doing" something.

In the old days, before modern well-digging methods and equipment, the water witch was the rancher or farmer's chief hope for finding water beneath the tough prairie sod. In a way, his gift of witching was helped by study of the terrain and a knowledge of the water table.

Though the ancient "art" of witching is slowly dying, it is still a part of the NEBRASKAland scene. Present-day sorcerers have discarded the old acces sories of magic gestures and mystic trances in favor of more modern aids to their craft.

Tommy N. Houser, III, of Wilber is typical of today's witch. In his denim jeans and jacket, he looks like any other Nebraska farmer. His house may be his castle, but it has no round towers or drawbridges. In fact, Tommy's house is a white frame, common to many Nebraska farms. His father and his grand father are farmers, men with no evident supernatural powers. But, one day, Tommy picked up a willow switch, found he had the power, and became a Nebraska water witch.

He started in the business about 15 years ago when he watched an older witch ply the trade. It seemed like such fun that he tried it, and presto, the supernatural world had a card-carrying member.

The Wilber-area farmer is casual about his power. "I don't know how it works," he explains. "It must have something to do with static electricity."

No matter how it works, though, it seems that Tommy's body fluids have established an inexplicable communion with Nebraska's underground "streams". With a willow wand as a medium, he says he can locate flowing groundwater.

I heard about the witch and his powers, so last Saint Patrick's Day I joined Tommy on a water hunt. The prospective beneficiary of his efforts, Don Nerud, peered anxiously over Tommy's shoulder as the witch sat on the edge of a bouncing manure spreader and probed for enough groundwater to warrant irrigation wells. Don had reason for apprehension. Drillers had put down three test holes on his rented land one mile east and four south of Crete, but the results were disappointing. Now he was depending on the witcher.

Tommy bounced along, holding his willow fork with studied concentration. As the rig crossed Don's bottomland, the dowser's Y-shaped wand made four dips toward the seer. Shouting over the tractor's roar, the witch cautioned, "Remember the spot, because I won't be able to."

Our afternoon jaunt was unusual. Ordinarily, Tommy rides around his client's land in a pickup driven by the host. This original reconnaissance mis sion locates three or four groundwater possibilities for later checking.

On our day, however, the tractor-and-spreader car avan was required because of the mud. After the pre liminary checks, Tommy dismounted for a closer look at likely possibilities. It was a leprechaun's kind of day, for only a mischievous elf could fully appreciate the humor of wading through knee-deep surface water in search of an underground source of the clear, cold stuff. Tommy was unperturbed by the abundance of H2O, however. It doesn't create interference with his equipment's wavelengths, he says, as only "moving liquids" attract his wand. A drive over the Turkey Creek Bridge raised Cain with Tommy's willow switch, but Don's lowland "pond" produced not a quiver.

Tommy had chosen a short branch for his search. The willow was about lVfc feet long overall with each fork taking up about a foot. He held his wand by the prongs, the long leg or butt extending out in front. When it moved, it dipped in a clockwise direction. He recheckedhis first locations for first and second choices. Over each spot the twisted fork tried to straighten, pulling back toward the witch, and down toward the ground. The strongest tug indicated the best location. If that didn't pan out, there was the second choice.

"I think this one should run at least 500 gallons a minute," Tommy remarked as Don drove a stake —an electric fence post —at the spot.

"I can guarantee house wells —unless they're salty—because they only require six to ten gallons a minute, but irrigation is a little more difficult."

On irrigation wells, he's careful to add, he is only 80 percent correct. They demand a minimum of 300 to 500 gallons a minute and his wand doesn't accurately gauge the amount of water "flowing" under the surface.

"There have been occasions when I couldn't locate irrigation water at all," Tommy says. In the Crete-Wilber area where Tommy witches, salt is an important factor (Continued on page 52)

ZANY PATENTS

Most hunters and fishermen are always thinking of easier ways to catch fish or take game. Their brain children usually die well-deserved deaths from neglect. As the saying goes, people stay away from them in droves.

Still, some of the inventions make the grade. After all, someone had to be the first to discover gunpowder, the brass cartridge, and the barbed hook. Perhaps mankind has even survived this long because some people are not content to let sleeping fishermen lie (some will lie no matter what you do.)

A good example of how these inventive characters work can be gained from this collection of M. J. "Mike" Rivise of North Miami Bpach, Florida, who claims the title of "The Zany Patent King". Some of these inventions are workable and logical, but for others, it is perfectly understandable why a quiet death resulted. Read on, and decide for yourself.

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . NORTHERN GRASSHOPPER MOUSE

THE SCIENTIFIC NAME of the northern grass hopper mouse is Onychomys leucogaster. That's quite a tag to hang on a creature weighing barely two ounces. Yet, despite his size, his dietary demands on insects and other rodents make him an in valuable ally of man. Occurring throughout NEBRASKAland, the grasshopper mouse is more common to the western part of the state, where he can be found frequenting upland-grain fields, little-used roadsides, and undisturbed upland prairie.

As a species, this nocturnal rodent can be distinguished from other mice by a stockier body and a short, thick tapering tail having a chopped-off appearance. His soft and silky fur creates a bicolored pat tern with white underparts sharply contrasting with darker areas. Generally, color varies from black-brown to red-brown, or pale-pinkish cinnamon. He stands about 2lU inches high at the shoulder, and measures between 5 V2 to 6V2 inches in total length. This compares favorably in size with other species of mice.

Insects make up nearly 80 percent of his diet. Grasshoppers, hence his name, are a summertime favorite along with beetles. This trait and the fact that another 10 percent of his diet is composed of other rodents endears the tiny carnivore to many farmers and ranchers. Endowed with remarkably keen senses, the grasshopper mouse is a persistent trailer. His short legs and stout body are well designed for stalking prey. Being so built, he can rush in, seize his prey, and bite it to death. Favorite victims are voles, kangaroo rats, and pocket, harvest, deer, white-footed, and meadow mice. When food is readily available, he eats large meals, often consuming half his own weight every night for several weeks. However, when food is scarce this rodent can and will go long periods without eating.

Only a little over 10 percent of the mouse's intake is vegetation, consisting of seeds of grasses and grains. He has to depend on these when preferable food is scarce or dormant in the ground. The harm done by the consumption of grain seeds, however, is negligible when compared to the quantities of destructive insects and detrimental rodents he devours.

A grasshopper mouse is well fitted to dig his own den. Often, though, he prefers to bypass this task by taking over an abandoned gopher tunnel or a ground squirrel's burrow. The corner of an old badger haunt, a prairie dog's hole, or even another mouse's home might also suffice.

The sound made by this tiny creature is a shrill, clear "screek", about one second in duration. It is usually repeated several times, and is audible for at least 50 feet. His screek, which sounds like a miniature wolf howl, may be mistaken for an insect, but when angered, the mouse will utter a different series of notes reminiscent of the barking of a small terrier.

The female northern grasshopper mouse breeds when three months old. Young are born in a burrow nest in the spring or early summer following a gestation period of 32 days in non-lactating females and 33 to 47 days in milk-giving mothers. Litter size averages four, but can range from two to six. Several litters annually are the rule. The young are pink, hairless, closed-eyed, and weigh 1/10 ounce or less. Within 12 days they acquire fur, and their eyes open 3 to 8 days later. They are weaned soon afterward. Young mice are gray for five to six months before turning their characteristic adult color.

Being nocturnal, the grasshopper mouse is not endangered by hawks, shrikes, or non-digging mammals. His most feared enemies are snakes, badgers, and coyotes.

The sportsman in the field has the greatest chance of seeing the little night hunter during the very early morning hours or in the evening. Along with other species, Onychomys leucogaster plays a big role in keeping a natural balance in nature. THE END

PLAYGROUND OF THE MIDWEST

slowed, but didn't stop the park. Twenty years later, August 20, 1956, the miniature train tilted and collapsed. About 40 youngsters were hurt. Ironically, the accident occurred during one of the park's Tree' days.

One of the more popular attractions was the Dinty Moore or fun house. A one-time "regular" explains why:

"The fun house had crazy mirrors, the kind that made you fat or thin, a spooky tunnel, a slide with a hump, and all sorts of gimmicks. But the air holes in the floor were the most.

"It didn't take the young fellows very long to pinpoint the location of these holes so they could take up what might be called strategic positions and watch. Every time a girl stepped over one of the holes, the operator hit the air. Skirts went pretty high.

"How did the girls take it? Fine. A few would get a little pink around the ears, but no one was ever offended. Most of the girls were good sports."

The swimming pool and the Dinty Moore were top-drawer attractions, but they had some dandy rivals. For the gay blades around town, nothing was better date bait than the dance hall. At first it was the "nickel grind" where dancers purchased tickets and tripped around for three or four minutes for each ducat. Then came the era of the big bands and King's Ballroom, a bigger and better building.

Cab Calloway, the Dorsey Brothers, and Duke Ellington were great favorites, but even these master music makers are not as well remembered as the Cliquot Club Eskimos. To Capitol Beach visitors, this band, sponsored on radio by a soft-drink company, was the greatest.

Hoyt Hawke, now a Lincoln businessman, worked at Capitol Beach for years. He gets almost misty-eyed talking about the Eskimos.

"To use today's slang for yesterday's memories, the Cliquot Club Eskimos were something else," he claims. Hoyt should know, he heard them all.

Gerald Carpender of Lincoln is an other veteran of Capitol Beach and its great days. His pets were the fireworks and the picnics. Jerry's face glows like the "Destruction of Pompeii" when he talks about the great displays that used to light up the sky over Capitol Beach.

"We didn't need a holiday to put on a fireworks show. Just about anything was enough to set us off. And how the people would come. Of course we outdid our selves on Decoration Day, the Fourth, and Labor Day, but we had other dates, too.

"In those days the State Fair didn't have night activities, so the people would visit it during the day and come out to the Beach in the evening. Crowds streamed in on excursion trains from North Platte, Grand Island, and other outstate communities. They were in a holiday mood and we did our best to put on a good show," he said.

The "good shows" included such free acts as trained lions, vaudeville perform ers, sway-pole artists, musical groups, and the most popular of all, Jack Payne, the high diver. Hoyt Hawke describes his act.

"Jack was a splendid athlete and a daredevil. He would climb a 100-foot ladder to a small platform, wait until the crowd was worked up, and then plunge into a tank with four feet of water in it. The chorus of 'ohs' and 'ahs' that followed him down could be heard in College View."

For the kids there were such joys as the Ferris wheel, dodge 'em, jack rabbit, bug, caterpillar, kiddie train, and a penny arcade with its test-of-strength machines, its peep shows, and its claw, which manipulated right, could grasp a GENUINE watch.

The first merry-go-round was a veteran of the St. Louis Louisiana Purchase Exposition of 1904. Veteran amusement park operators claim it had the greatest organ that ever graced a carousel. Ralph Beechner recalls it with mixed nostalgia.

'It made great music, but when something went wrong with its innards, it was tough to find someone who knew how to repair it," he recalls.

But, the picnics were the real family favorites. Church and school groups came in by the hundreds. There was a 48 NEBRASKAland little grove with picnic tables, grills, and water for the lunch and the whole park to be enjoyed, afterward. Industrial and commercial groups from all over Nebraska came for their "day at Capitol Beach".

The farmers came in August. Capitol Beach was a welcome break from the monotony of cow and cultivator and a great escape from the bitter realities of hungry grasshoppers and searing drought. That's where the pickles came in. Water from a salt well was just right for preserving pickles, so the farmers usually filled a barrel with the natural brine before they headed home.

Capitol Beach knew its finest hour during the war years. Thousands of lone ly men were at the Lincoln Air Base, waiting for the orders that would toss them into the cauldron of conflict. For them, the park was one last fling, one last chance to be young, and they made the most of it. Capitol Beach was lights and gaiety and GIRLS. The park closed a week after Labor Day, but the ball room stayed open the year-round. The airmen rocked the place.

Yet, with all the excitement, there weren't any problems. Jerry Carpender tells why.

"We got along fine with the base. It helped us police the Beach with the big gest, brawniest M.P.'s you ever saw. If a fellow got a bit unruly, the military boys gave him a choice; get lost or take a ride to the brig. He usually got the message. We never had any trouble."

And that's the story of Capitol Beach. It was always too busy making fun to have trouble.

RODEO BOOM TOWN

performances. Finishing touches were added to the arena, chutes were painted, hinges were oiled, lights were checked and rechecked. All was ready!

The day finally came for Nora's first try at a rodeo. By 5 p.m., cars crowded the streets, lines of people formed to get in the gates, and cowboys prepared them selves and their equipment for the coming action. In a short time there was standing room only, and even that was becoming hard to find. In only two performances, over 7,000 people had come to view the struggle of man against beast.

Nora's first rodeo was a success. Everyone was overjoyed by the quality of the rodeo. Why not have another rodeo next year? Would it really be possible to have an annual rodeo at Nora? There was only one way to find out —try!

Plans were immediately started for a second rodeo. The arena was improved to give the cowboys a better chance against the tough bucking stock. Nora's rodeo was accepted and approved by the South west Cowboys' Association, and a free beef barbecue was added to the program.

Tension grew as the dates neared for the 1968 Nora SCA Rodeo. June 15 came and with it came rain. What now? Would the performances have to be cancelled? There was only one thing to do — sit and wait for the downpour to stop. Nature was smiling on Nora, as the sun began to emerge from behind the clouds. The sunshine helped draw the biggest crowd ever to a single performance of the rodeo. The attendance for the next performance was nearly as large. By the end of the two-day rodeo, more than 8,500 people had passed through this town of 35 to attend a rodeo.

The tremendous crowd was all Nora needed to make the affair an annual event. The community hopes to see an increase in attendance each year on the second weekend in June.

John B. Jacobsen will continue to furnish the bucking stock for future rodeos. Jacobsen features such tough stock as "King of the Road", 1966 and 1967 Southwest Cowboys' Association bucking bull of the year. King was narrowly edged out of that title in 1968 by "People Eater", another of Jacobsen's bulls. His string also featured the SCA champion bucking horse for three consecutive years.

The Jones brothers have planned both country and popular dances to follow each performance of upcoming rodeos. A new and unusual event to be featured in 1969 will be a demolition race. This involves the racing and colliding of old cars. Future plans also call for the addition of a carnival, several feature acts, horse races, and, of course, a bigger rodeo.

If a community as small as Nora can gain recognition through the sport of rodeo, other small towns could be equally successful. They may not have the immediate success that this particular rodeo obtained, but the effort is well worthwhile.

Rodeo is the fastest growing sport in the world. It offers something for everyone— thrills, entertainment, and downright good, clean fun.

THE CANE AND I

are "on the weed". But the hopper really was chewing tobacco, having scrounged up a long crumb that was stuck in the corner of the can.

Fishing success came within a few minutes when several small bluegill were taken by the boys. Enfrid also caught a couple of bluegill, and then seemed to attract an old acquaintance. He began losing bait regularly and was sure a gar was responsible. The line would move several feet, jerk a few times, and the hook would be bare.

"I caught a gar about two feet long in here once, but I just got him out of the water before he got off," he explained. "The small hook was just not enough to hold in the gar's hard mouth."

His supply of grasshoppers kept dwindling as the gar kept feeding his ugly face, so Enfrid abandoned that spot. One of the boys, moving from his place, trailed his line in the water as he walked toward a new spot. About halfway along he got a strike and pulled in a 12-ounce white bass. Later, several catfish joined the bass and the bluegill, but it was obvious that angling was going to be slow that day. There was no lack of 50 NEBRASKAland excitement, though, as the boys were having nearly as much fun catching grasshoppers as fishing.

During one of the quiet periods I asked Enfrid about some of his fishing experiences. His stories, told with a strong Swedish accent, were both amusing and interesting. He recalled taking northern pike in Sweden with a wire loop. The pike moved into rocky shallows during the spring and handy fishermen could take them quite easily. A wire loop, on the end of a pole, was slipped into the water and around the pike's head. A quick jerk and the fish was neatly snared and pulled ashore.

Enfrid was only 19 when he and 5 companions left for America. Unable to speak English, he led a pretty lonely existence for awhile. He came directly to Nebraska and worked on a farm in the Genoa area until he was drafted into the army in 1918. World War I ended about three months later, and he was released from the service after serving just nine months.

"I enjoyed the army, I really did," he said. The companionship and friendship were a welcome change after the many months when he was unable to talk to anyone. It was also helpful in learning the language.

Mrs. Nelson is also a native Swede who came over when still a teen-ager. She worked in Iowa part of the year, and part in Omaha. It was during one of her stays in Omaha that she and Enfrid met at a Swedish dance. They were both from the same area in southern Sweden, and got married the following spring.

The couple moved onto a farm about nine miles west of Genoa where they remained until settling in their present farm home just west of Monroe. In 1964, Enfrid retired from farming, and his former leisure-time activity of fishing took on new proportions. "I fished every chance I had through the years," he said, "but I do a lot more now."

Countless fishing memories have been added during the many years since Enfrid's first outings with his father. Many times this quiet Swede had enjoyed a peaceful afternoon with his grandchildren, instilling in them the same love of fishing that has meant so much to him over the years. There are many special days, however, times when he would slip away from chores in the late afternoon and head for one of his private haunts. There he would bask in the sun, forget about the work and worry of the farm for a few hours, and probably land several nice fish to boot. Over the years, his success as a fisher man has become widely known, and some people claim they wouldn't recognize him "unless he had a stringer of fish with him".

Much of his angling is done in the Loup River, where he has established several favorite areas. Numerous sand pits along the river also get worked over pretty regularly and add variety to his successes. Largemouth bass are Enfrid's favorite species, but he doesn't concen trate on them. Catfish and carp are his main customers because they are the most available. A few spots along the Loup are surefire catfish producers and it is a very rare thing for Enfrid to go home empty-stringered.

There are many reasons to favor the cane-pole techniques over the more modern, complicated methods. A fisher man can stroll to his favorite fishing hole with a minimum of bother. No lugging a bulky tackle box, waders, nor an arm load of specialized rods and ball-bearing, nickel-plated, plastic-handled reels. Enfrid and Danny merely drape rustic bamboo poles over their shoulders, shove the grasshopper can into a pocket, and head for the water.

From then on the procedure is simple. The hook is baited and flipped out to the length of the line. When a fish grabs hold, he is deftly swung onto the bank and the entire process repeated. This method is nearly ideal for bullhead. Enfrid explained why:

"With a regular rod and reel the bull head will hang onto the bait until you get him just out of the water, then he lets go. With a cane pole he doesn't have a chance to spit out the hook."

Long ago, Enfrid decided a handy source of minnows was going to be a necessity, so a couple of large water tanks were set aside where minnows are kept on tap. It takes only a few minutes of seining in Looking Glass, a small creek flowing through the Nelson farm, to get a good supply of these little fellows for the tanks.

Although Enfrid welcomes company on his fishing excursions, they are often solo affairs. He likes to head for one of his retreats about 4 p.m. and stay until dark. On these occasions, he is the perfect picture of the "good old days" when fishing meant sitting on the bank of a lake or stream waiting for fish to bite, but not getting upset if they didn't. Enfrid's philosophy of modern fishing seems to be that newfangled push button jobs are fine for those who like them, but they can never compare with a cane pole for versatility or tranquillity. He believes there is so much busy work in casting and cranking that you can't sit and think about what the fish are doing, and that you miss the subtle nibblings at your bait and the expectation of events to come as the bobber does its little dance.

Bamboo is not as durable as the glass rods and Enfrid admits having worn out a few poles, but he claims they would last longer if he treated them better. The easygoing angler usually places his pole so the tip end is in the water. This gives him an extra few feet of reach, but it also soaks the bamboo. Canes last him two or three years, which means hundreds of hours at the waterside.

While the traditional cane pole is simply a 10 to 15-foot-long bamboo affair, Enfrid has found the takedown models more practical. He uses the ferrule type for easy storage and transportation. They are his badge indicating, "there goes a fisherman who can catch fish without 40 pounds of fancy plugs, spoons, spinners, and other doodads". Watching Enfrid, you wonder if all the advancements in fishing tackle have improved angling success or not. He doesn't seem to be working under a handicap, and he enjoys himself. What else is fishing?

WITCH WAY WATER

in the water supply. A dowser may locate a strong source, only to find the water too salty for use.

Each well, whether sweet or salty, deep or shallow, is an individual endeavor. Once, the Wilber dowser was asked to witch a well for irrigating the same area covered by a previous under producing well. He located a good source about 10 yards from the original well — a source that produced 1,500 gallons per minute.

Tommy is familiar with groundwater maps published by the University of Nebraska Conservation and Survey Division, although he doesn't use them specifically in finding water. According to those maps, the Wilber witch said, the average yield of wells around his farm is 500 gallons per minute. On his own 280 acre plot well drillers dug test holes, and told Tommy that chances were dim for finding sufficient irrigation water. Supported by his willow fork, Tommy, the sorcerer, took the chance. He claims to have witched in a well that has a capacity of 1,500 gallons per minute.

On another occasion Tommy's neighbor mystified the mystic. He requested 52 NEBRASKAland the dowser to trace the "stream" that provided his house well. Without further explanation, Tom complied. Several yards "upstream" from the well, his host cried, "Stop!" Excitedly, he explained.

The neighbor's family had been ill for weeks and doctors couldn't seem to discover the cause. Finally, they advised that he check his well, and sure enough, tests indicated that the water was contaminated. The spot Tommy had reached was not only above the source for the family's drinking water, but also the location of a sewer drainage.

The next job, which was done in short order, was to locate another, sweetwater well. The witch found such a well on the far side of the farmstead, a good distance from the dangerous drainage.

After years of experience, Tommy's water-witching service has expanded. Today, he can determine the depth of water with some success. It's not magic, he explains, but an educated guess. A glance around the spot reveals such things as a nearby river which will be about the same water level as the groundwater hidden underneath a rise. Knowledge of the territory also gives the Wilber dowser an edge on the ordinary witch. He knows how deep the neighbor's wells are, so he can guess how deep the prospective well has to be. In his area, Tommy said, wells come in at 100 to 125 feet.

The relative strength of an underground water source also vibrates in Tommy's willow switch. He can only interpret a "stream's" strength in relative terms, he cautions, and experience, again, is the key in interpreting the green wood's message.

Underground pipelines reveal their routes to Tommy through a simple crook of No. 9 wire, equipment that was unavailable to witches of ancient fame. But then, past witches had no pipelines to locate.

It seems that the peach tree fork which was the old witcher's stock-in trade is going the way of many other traditions. Not only must it compete with baling wire in the new field of pipe line location, but it also competes with more conventional if less traditional plum, elm, or ash branches. According to Tommy, any green twig can easily take over the peach fork's job.

The peach fork is also in danger of being replaced by modernization as a water diviner. A crook of No. 9 wire is as effective in locating underground water as in locating pipelines. And baling wire works just as well.

Some witches are mechanizing their operations faster than others, and Mrs. Clarence Moore of Wilber often uses pliers instead of wood for her divining. On the Moore farm, the pliers, which be come a magic implement in Mrs. Moore's hands, may replace the common twig any day. When she passes pliers over groundwater, Tom says, the pliers go as wild as a compass over the pole.

On one occasion Mrs. Moore located water on her home place and staked out the spot, then called the well driller. When the driller came he missed the stake and dug at a spot he chose. He located no water, so Mrs. Moore asked him to dig on her spot. Water was there, Tommy said. Mrs. Moore's experiences have made believers of some people in the Wilber area.

Outdoor Elsewhere

Sock Away. A night watchman in a Missouri State Park surprised two men dipping fish from hatchery pools. One of the men left so fast he "ran out" of one of his socks. Feeling a little like Cinder ella's prince, a conservation agent began his search. Finally he found a barefoot man with the matching sock. The sockless poacher was fined $50. — Missouri

Food For Thought. After closing its gates last October, Montreal's "Man and His World" concessionaires compiled a few interesting facts — concerning man! Patrons consumed 717,072 hot dogs, 169,000 hamburgers, and 42,265 gallons of ice cream. That's a bunch of food alright, and for another thought, the 12.5 million visitors left behind some 48 tons of garbage each day. — Canada

Home Sweet Smog. This comment was overheard when two tourists were talk ing in a Nevada cafe.

"Man, am I going to be glad to get back to Los Angeles," one city slicker said. "This vacation has been terrifying. For seven days I've been breathing air that I couldn't even see."—Nevada

Call The Fire Department, Dear. Several hours before dawn, the fire department in an upstate New York community recently answered an emergency call to a private residence. The woman of the house thought she detected a gas leak beneath the house. Investigation proved her partly right. It was a skunk.— New York

Lost Track. Unable to track down a big buck he had wounded, a Minnesota hunter returned to camp where the "best tracker" in the group volunteered to find the venison the next day. And, true to his title, the best tracker found the buck, dressed it out, and returned to camp to get help in retrieving the deer. But, that deer is still there —somewhere!! The reason: The best tracker couldn't find his way back to the field-dressed deer.— Minnesota

Old-Timer. Until someone older comes along, Charles Hindle of Arlington has to be Ohio's oldest hunter. Checked by Game Warden Don Ramge on his favorite squirrel stand, Hindle, hunting with his "young" son, Woody, (who's in his 70's) was 100 years old last year. — Ohio

Inflation. Everyone is aware of rising costs, but how about this? In New Mexico, it costs a nonresident 25 cents more to hunt squirrels than it does to hunt elk. And, at the going rate, the fee is $50.25. Actually, inflation is not to blame. Years ago the legislature classed squirrels with big game because in New Mexico only birds were considered small game. It was plain that a squirrel wasn't a bird just because it lived in a tree. Therefore, it must be big game and so the big price for hunting. —New Mexico

Fish Are Trained. A woman news correspondent for an Arizona newspaper was on a recent family outing in mountain country. The family fished for awhile, then abandoned angling for swimming. The correspondent was amazed at the way the trout stayed right in the area where the children were swimming and splashing. She reported that sometimes the children were within inches of the fish. The female reporter summed up her day's excursion with the statement, Our fish and game department certainly deserves praise for the way they train the fish." — Arizona

Naughty, Naughty. While the practice of spanking naughty children has been given up by many parents, a Pennsylvania game warden thinks that such a measure may work on animals. The warden had trouble with a beaver which plugged a highway culvert rather than confining his efforts to a beaver dam up stream. The officer trapped the beaver, set his cage on the road so he could watch the culvert be unplugged, then turned the beaver loose and spanked his backside with a switch all the way up to the dam.— Pennsylvania

What Is A Yankee? Unquestionably, the English language is sometimes confusing. For example, the word "Yankee" implies different things to different people. To foreigners, a Yankee is an American. To an American, a Yankee is a Northerner. To a Northerner, a Yankee is a New Englander. To a New Englander, a Yankee is a Vermonter. To a Vermonter, a Yankee is a person who eats pie for breakfast. — Vermont

How many wells has Tommy witched? Lots of them, he estimates conservatively. As I rode with him and listened, it seemed he witched a well at every other farmstead.

Which goes to show that magic has not yet lost its hold on Nebraska. To the people who think it worthwhile to employ sorcery, a witch must seem as successful (whether by accident or design) as any water-finding method. He will hold a place in the well business until a foolproof method of locating water anywhere is devised.

Editor's Note — According to Vince Dreezen, director of the University of Nebraska Conservation and Survey Di vision, some of Tommy's theories are not based on scientific fact. Vince said that groundwater doesn't "run' in streams any more than surface water standing on land. However, groundwater does occur in sands and gravels that were deposited by ancient streams. But, he said, witchers who have been in a particular area for years can find water almost as accurately as a hydrologist because they are keen observers of local geology and know the results of test diggings.

As for Tommys 1,500 gallon-per minute well, Dreezen said that many wells in the area have a 1,500-gallon ca pacity but running them that hard would cause too much draw down. Soon the wells would be worthless at that rate, he said. Tommy's own well, which is set to produce 500 gallons a minute, is prob ably an example.

The witch is thoroughly convinced of his own power, Dreezen theorized, but perhaps subconsciously he knows where to find water and, without being aware of it, he draws his wand in the right direc tion at the right time. If Don Nerud drills at the spot Tommy indicated, and finds sufficient water for irrigation, NEBRASKAland will so in form its readers.

STALK BY THE CLOCK

companion, Harold Orr, who had stayed on the road while I "worked" the field.

My only thought was "finally", as I approached my deer for the mercy shot. And finally was the only way to describe one of the most frustrating and exasperating hunts that Harold and I have ever experienced, and we have hunted since we were weanlings.

"Little mule," my companion commented, looking over my prize. "Still, he looks bigger than mine. The beams are a little heavier and the points are longer." "Little or not, I'm satisfied," I replied.

"How did you happen to spot him?" "I was coming back from the canyon, trying to find you, when he and the does trotted into this soil bank. I watched them for awhile and when they didn't come out, I decided to try to contact you. Where were you?"

"After trying for some deer across my leg of the canyon, I circled back to where you had parked but the vehicle was gone. I figured you had gone in. When you weren't there, I came back to find you," I explained.

My buck ended a hunt that had started early on the opening Saturday of Nebraska's 1967 rifle-deer season. We planned to hunt white-tailed bucks in the bottom lands and ended up with mule deer on the prairies, but that's deer hunting.

I'm a farmer, running cattle, hogs, and sheep on a place north and west of Ainsworth. Besides the livestock I raise corn and milo, and like all farmers in the fall of 1967, I was behind with the harvest. Sour weather had delayed me, but the forecast promised a break by the following Monday and I had to get on that harvester by noon or risk losing some of the crop.

Harold is my neighbor and works for the U.S. Agricultural Conservation and Stabilization Service. He was snowed under with first-of-the-month work, but he was going to take time for hunting, anyway. He's quite a rifleman and uses a slide-action .270 with a 4X scope. I prefer a .30/30 in the timber and a .30/06 for long-range work. The big rifle is equipped with a 4X and it's a bit awkward for a left-hander, but it has a flatter trajectory and more wallop than the smaller rifle.

We live in the Keya Paha Deer Management Unit and usually hunt there because it's home territory. The area is a mixture of creek and river bottoms, canyon country, pastureland, and some crop fields. The bottoms and the canyons are studded with cedar and a few hardwoods. The grazing land is pocked,with choppies and patches of plum brush. Mule deer like the open country while the white tails stick to the bottoms and the feeder breaks off the main canyons.

Opening morning was mean weather wise. It was cloudy, windy, and misty damp. The scudding clouds seemed to be right on the deck, and there was a strange feeling of foreboding and menace in the air. Even the anticipation of the opener couldn't dispel the melancholy that settled over us as we left the vehicles. We planned to hunt the south bank of Plum Creek and if we didn't score, go across the Niobrara River to the north and hunt its timbered bottoms. Both of us hunted hard, but outside of a medium mule-deer buck that gave me the slip, we didn't see anything.

The weather got worse as the morning wore on, so at noon we decided to change plans and hunt the north bottom of Plum Creek rather than go clear to the river. If anything, the afternoon was more frustrating. Even the small game and the trifling birds were holed up. It seemed that the whole wild world was waiting, just waiting for something to happen, and the longer we hunted, the gloomier and more depressed we became. We were glad when quitting time came.

Sunday morning was no improvement. It was colder and windier and even more drab than Saturday. "If this weather is going to change for the better, it better be getting at it," Harold grunted as we headed for the river.

The more I thought about the river, the less enthusiastic I became. It was very windy and very dark. In the river's timber the visibility would be poor and the eddying wind would make still hunting extremely difficult. We wouldn't be able to hear anything, so just before the turn that would take us to the Niobrara, I suggested we give the "north bank of Plum another try. Harold was agreeable.

That morning was just about as dismal as a morning can get. We tried every trick we knew to spook a deer, but it was just no go. As we hunted I kept listening for distant shots, but all I heard was the howl of the wind and the rush of the busy little creek. We sneaked and peeked, glassed under the cedars, climbed the cliffs, tried long-range scanning, and even tried a one-driver, one-watcher squeeze play on a clump of brush that looked mighty promising. There were tracks and signs all over the place, but no deer.

We were taking a breather when my partner suggested we go above the bottoms and hunt the higher ground. "There are quite a few pockets of brush up on that tableland, and some cedar. There's a possibility that a raunchy old buck is hiding out in an isolated spot and we might be lucky enough to surprise him. Besides, the light is much better out in the open. It's practically twilight here in this timber," he argued.

We headed for the higher ground, working carefully against the howling wind. We had just gotten into the scattered trees that fringed the open coun try when a big mule buck crashed out of a clump and streaked for the high slopes. He caught Harold unaware, but my companion made a great effort just the same. He ran upslope to get a good look at the buck and then tried two shots. The wind and his pumping heart were too much and the buck was a long way off, so both shots were only loud zeroes. Our try at trailing petered out when the buck got into the grassland, but the incident cheered us. At least there were deer around. But two hours later our lift was gone, and we settled into the halfhearted hunting that marks discouraged men. Finally, I came up with an idea.

"There aren't too many deer here, but there may be some on the south side of the creek. This weather is enough to drive them into the sheltered breaks. Sooner or later deer have to eat, so let's go back and hunt those little breaks that finger off the farmland to big canyons."

There was less than an hour left when we got back to a little canyon that horse shoed around some combination farm and grazing land. I took one leg of the canyon and Harold the other.

I had just settled down when two does ambled along the far wall of my canyon. They were sidehilling toward a little draw that angled out into a milo field, and weren't in any particular hurry. If wishing could have grown horns, I would have had a chance at a Boone and Crockett trophy, but trying couldn't put ivory on them.

The flat slap of Harold's .270 sounded unnaturally loud in spite of the wind. I scrambled up on the rim and put my glasses on him. He was on the rim of his canyon staring down. Then sensing that I was watching, he turned, held a hand to the side of his head and waggled his fingers. There didn't seem much point in my joining him for the 15 minutes or so that were left of the hunt, so I went back to my stand and shivered it out.

Harold was just clearing the rim with his buck when I got there. His greeting wasn't cordial. "At showing up after the work is done, you're the champ." "The way you acted, I didn't think there was any sweat," I defended. "What happened?"

"This little two-pointer came along that trail just below me, so when I saw that he was a buck, and knowing time was running out, I decided to take him. I figured that those trees along the edge would hold him when he went down, but I'll be darned if he didn't kick himself opposite that little opening and then tumble into the canyon," Harold puffed. "At least, he isn't very heavy."

My partner's glare was enough. "Right now, he weighs five tons and is as big as a bull elephant. Let's get him dressed out and to the car."

Sometime during the night the weather cleared and Monday morning was a beauty. I hesitated about hunting, but the corn was still pretty damp, so I decided to hold off harvesting until after noon. Harold was going to scout for me, and if he saw a deer he planned to run me down and then help me work into range by glassing and watching while I made the stalk. Since time was getting shy we decided to use two vehicles and stick to the same area where Harold had scored.

I still-hunted one canyon and didn't see anything, so I worked up on a table land and started glassing the north slope. Orr was about two miles away, scanning the country on his leg of the horseshoe. He didn't seem to be excited, so I went back to watching. I picked up five deer on the second sweep. They were almost two miles away and four of them were obviously does, but one acted like a big buck. He was behind the others, and while they ambled through the scattered brush into the openings, he was very hesitant about stepping into the clear. The little herd was heading for a draw that broke the slope into two distinct segments. They finally vanished into the brush and didn't come out, so I assumed they had bedded.

A head-on approach didn't seem feasible. There was too much open country between me and the draw, and although the wind was down from Sunday's near gale, it was still brisk. By taking my pickup cross-country I could approach from overland, and it wouldn't take long in the truck.

I looked around for Harold but couldn't see him, so rather than waste any more time, I started out. My plan was a good one, but the deer didn't buy. Their beds were still warm and there were fresh tracks, but they were gone. Later, Harold told me what had happened. A party of hunters had come down to the spot where I had first sighted the deer while I was on my stalk. They didn't realize that deer were anywhere close and spooked them with their noise. My partner just happened to see the animals as they fled across the slope. He then hotfooted back to his vehicle to find me.

Just about then our hunt almost dissolved into a game of motorized ring around-a-rosy. When Harold got to where I had parked my truck, it was gone. In the meantime, I decided to drive a full circle and go to where Harold had started. He wasn't there, so thinking that he had given up and gone in, I started for home. Harold, after failing to find my truck, returned to his original spot, but by that time, I was well on the way in. When I got home, he wasn't there, so I went back to find him.

He made another circle, then gave up and started in. I was going out and he was coming in when we made connections. He was on the way back when he spotted the little buck and his does entering the soil bank. It took Harold only a minute to give me the scoop on the deer that finally filled my tags.

Field dressing and photos took an hour past noon, so I was a little late starting my harvest, but it didn't matter. There wouldn't be any more important interruptions like deer hunting. THE END

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

Where to go

SET IN the fork of Nebraska's Platte and Elkhorn rivers, far from the madding crowd, is Two Rivers State Recreation Area. Located 20 miles west of Omaha and 50 miles north east of Lincoln, the area is close enough to the cities for a few hours' outing, but far enough away to be a welcome change from their bustling pace. To reach Two Rivers, drive one mile south and one mile west from Venice.

Five deep, sandpit lakes, which cut abruptly into the flat terrain, offer a variety of warm water fishing for bass, bluegill, walleye, northern pike, catfish, and crappie. Non-power boats are permitted on all these lakes, but the put and-take fee lake offers bank fishing only to trout enthusiasts. Fishing information is available at the area office.

Anyone strolling along the wooded Platte River shoreline will find it enjoyable — whether he's searching for a big fish or just the sights and sounds of summer. The glistening sand beach of Two River's swimming area is like a topaz set among sapphires. A modern bathhouse and lifeguards make swim ming there both safe and convenient.

Tent and trailer camping facilities afford shelter to those who like the pure night air that breathes in from across the starlit prairie. Tables, fireplaces, and water are provided to cope with 58 those big outdoor appetites. Wood is furnished. The playground equipment in the picnic area provides a gathering place for busy youngsters and a rest for mom and dad. The area is equipped with restrooms, too. Trailer-parking facilities include water, sewer, electricity, and public showers.

Far to the west of Two Rivers, at the end of the Old Texas Trail, is the Ogallala Boot Hill.

To reach Boot Hill, turn west off U.S. Highway 26 at the Keith County His torical Society's "Mansion on the Hill" and drive four blocks. There are no hours at the cemetery. Gas lights have been in stalled for night viewing.

The cemetery came into being in the 1870's when Ogallala was the end of the Texas Trail, final stop for the cowboys trailing cattle herds north to the rail heads. It was an infant town then, on the growing Union Pacific Railroad. It was a wide-open, gambling, shooting community in need of a cemetery where the ill-fated could be buried hastily.

Boot Hill was the end of the line for many early westerners who helped make Ogallala a booming cowtown in the late 1800's. Most were buried with their boots on. The bodies, placed in canvas sacks, were lowered into shallow graves marked with wooden headboards.

Among the first burials in Boot Hill were those of Mrs. Lillie Miller and her infant, both of whom died at childbirth. Years later, in the 1890's, their bodies were exhumed for reburial in the regular Ogallala cemetery. The exact date of Millers' original interment is lost, but it is known that luckless cowboys began populating Boot Hill as early as 1872.

Although the first burials were those of a mother and child, many of the others were the end result of running afoul of the law. Some died for stealing horses, while others were killed in refighting the recently ended Civil War. In 1879, three cowboys fell before the sheriff's guns in a single day. In another incident, two exuberant punchers went down for keeps when they decided to use the town's water tower for target practice. The marshal's guns stopped their fun and their lives.

The body of "Rattlesnake" Ed Worley still lies atop Boot Hill. Worley was killed over a nine-dollar bet in a Monte game in the Cowboy's Rest, a local saloon. His killer was Lank Keyes, whose real name was Turpin. Keyes had escaped from the Texas Rangers after killing a man. He then made his way over the Texas cattle trails into Ogallala where he became a tinhorn gambler.

Although the name, Boot Hill, con jures mental pictures of rawhides who died the hard way, Ogallala's Boot Hill is also the final resting place for some solid and respectable citizens who helped to settle the West in their own unspectacular fashion.