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.

TRAVELER-"I share NEBRASKAland with my son and five grandchildren, then pass it on to my son-in-law at Boulder, Colorado, who in turn sends it to his father in Bondville, Vermont.

"We live just east of where the North and Middle Loup rivers come together, and last March while we were going to St. Paul, we saw about 200 deer just one-quarter mile from our home. They were in the fields on both sides and in the road. We had to 'honk' some off the road.

"Pheasants and quail come into our yard. I looked out one morning and saw dots all over our lawn. At first, I thought they were dandelions, but it was a flock of wild canaries.

"What a beautiful state we have." — Mrs. Roy Robbins, RFD, St. Paul.

SUPERB JOB —"Never in all the years that we have taken NEBRASKAland have we seen such a hauntingly beautiful article as Mike Knepper's, This Old Farmhouse. His prose allows us to view his superb photography without succumbing to the maudlin. Please let us have more of his work." —Leslie J. Shellhase, Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

ENVIOUS-"This Old Farmhouse in your April issue is quite a piece with some devilishly good photos.

"I don't think I ever met Mike Knepper, but I wish I had his camera eye. Give him my compliments. Good photos all the way, as usual, but that set of pages really caught my eye." —Dan Saults, Bureau of Sport Fisheries and Wildlife, Washington, D.C.

UN WANTED-"I am horrified over the article, Omaha's Old Market, in the March issue of NEBRASKAland. It is a disgrace to the city and the state of Nebraska. Why the publicity on this 'Sex Culture Center' ? Maybe you can use this 'Culture Center' in Lincoln, but we don't need it in Omaha along with such articles in NEBRASKAland."-Lee Harris, Omaha.

TWO LEFT-"Not all of the Negro home steaders' descendants have left this area as indicated in Nebraska's Negro Homesteaders in the February NEBRASKAland. Two of them, Roy Brown and 'Junior' Riley, live in Valentine. Roy is a widower without any children, while Junior has a family. One of his sons is serving with Uncle Sam." —Americus Liberator, Valentine.

MEANINGFUL-"A few days ago I received my copy of NEBRASKAland and as always I had to watch myself so I wouldn't read it all in one sitting.

"I am now serving in the army in VietNam. My home stomping grounds are at Palisade, Nebraska, about 30 miles west of McCook. You can't realize what NE BRASKAland means to me.

"Each time I pick it up I am a little more mindful and thankful that I am from the great state of Nebraska".— Byron Alberts, Palisade.

POET LAUREATE-'! would like to see a story on John J. Neihardt, Nebraska's Poet Laureate. They have, at his original birthplace in Bancroft, a cabin that my father, William F. Carnarsky, Sr., lived in for several years. He donated it to the town for a small fee. The cabin has been restored and a plaque erected on the edge of town." —William F. Canarsky, West Melbourne, Florida.

NEBRASKAland published an article about Dr. Neihardt in June 1965. Bancroft is not his birthplace, for Dr. Neihardt was born near Sharpsburg, Illinois. However, he did use the Bancroft cabin as a study. — Editor.

HOME BASE - "I read with a great deal of pleasure your article on The Old-Time Chautauqua in the September 1968 NEBRASKAland. The author gave considerable information about the institution that brought so much pleasure to the rural Midwest, but she failed to mention that the Epworth Assembly in Lincoln, Nebraska, was one of the big ones nationwide. Another of the big Chautauqua systems was located here at 328 South 12th Street for many years. The owners of the Standard Chautauqua Sys tem were E. M. Avery and C. O. Bruce. Standard operated in about 10 Midwestern states and had 600 or more towns on its circuits in the early 1920's.

'Yes, the Chautauqua was the 'big week' in many small towns during its heyday." —A. W. Edling, Lincoln. Thank you for the additional information. — Editor.

MOUTHFUL —"I was fishing our farm pond in May 1967, when I saw an unusual object in the water. I strolled over and pulled it out. It was a five-pound largemouth bass with a large bluegill lodged in its mouth. Both fish were dead. Undoubtedly, the incident occurred not long before I had reached the pond as the fish appeared in good condition.

"As close as I can estimate it, the large bass got the bluegill, head first into its mouth, but at the instant of swallowing, the bluegill put its dorsal fin straight up and moved its head sideways. The dorsal fin stuck to the roof of the big fish's mouth and could not be dislodged. Neither fish could breathe and therefore perished.

"It was necessary to cut away a portion of the bass's mouth to get the bluegill out." —Max Dusatka, Brainard.

POOR READER —"Concerning the picture of the Ash Hollow marker on page 59 of the May NEBRASKAland, Ash Hollow is NOT 41 miles west of Ogallala as the caption indicates. That would place it nine miles west of Lewellen.

"Ash Hollow is three miles southeast of Lewellen. We in Lewellen are tired of being left out in references to Ash Hollow." — Clayton Brunt, Jr., Lewellen.

We never were any good at reading maps. Editor.

SPECIAL SEASON-'! have recently purchased an authentic muzzle-loading rifle, and was told by a conservation officer the rifle could be used for deer hunting in Nebraska on a regular rifle-hunting permit.

"When you consider the drawbacks of hunting with a single-shot muzzle-loading rifle you begin to wonder if you should be hunting under the same laws and at the same time as the men with the high-powered rifles.

"Therefore, I would like to suggest that special laws be passed governing hunting with a muzzle-loader.

"I think that seasons for deer, hunted with a muzzle-loader, should be much the same as for archery. This seems reasonable since you must be fairly close to the deer before you can shoot, and are limited to one shot without a lengthy reloading process. I would suggest that a muzzle loading permit cost $10 for residents, and that the (Continued on page 6)

SPEAK UP

seasons run the same as the archery seasons. I would also suggest that it be legal to take either a doe or a buck, and that the hunter not be restricted to any certain management unit." —Dennis Clifton, South Sioux City.

At present, we are permitting the taking of antelope and deer with muzzle-loading rifles under the same regulations as those governing hunters with modern firearms. The sportsmen who initially requested that muzzle-loaders be permitted wanted the additional handicap to make their hunts more difficult and meaningful.— Carl E. Gettmann, Chief*, Law Enforcement Division.

SUGGESTION-"We enjoy fishing in Nebraska lakes, but we have one suggestion. We wish that more places, such as filling stations, would offer block ice instead of ice cubes. When camping out by the lakes, most of which are many miles from town, the ice cubes just don't last very long in our camper's icebox or ice chests. Block ice does fine. We have often had to leave the lake as our ice would be gone, and then have to drive to several towns to find block ice again." —Mrs. C. H. Marlatt, Kearney.

TRADERS-"Didn't Nebraska and Virginia make a deal a few years back, that gave Nebraska striped-bass fry? If so, have they taken hold and what is the outlook on them?" — Charles P. Clous, Middletown, Rhode Island.

Our first trade, northern pike fry for striped bass fry, was with Virginia in 1966. Trades have been made every year since. During 1968, catches of 12 striped bass by anglers were verified. Scale samples were collected and aged from seven of these fish. Four were from the 1967 stocking, two from the 1966 stocking, and one from a 1965 stocking of fingerlings obtained from California. Eleven were caught in Lake McConaughy. One was caught in the canal system east of North Platte. We are optimistic but not ready to predict what the future holds. — Editor.

DISAGREES-"The first week in December my son from Minneapolis, Minne sota, my two nephews from Independence, Missouri, and I convened near Tobias, Nebraska for a pheasant hunt.

"It was the first time my son and I had hunted in Nebraska and we were most impressed, not only with the excellent hunting but also with the friendliness of the people.

"I cannot agree with the gentleman from Dodge City, Kansas who complained (March Speak Up) about the $25 license fee and the lack of mixed-bag hunting. The fee was a very small price to pay for the memorable week we spent in your state.

"We ended up with a fine mixed bag of pheasants, quail, and rabbit garnished with superb Nebraska hospitality." — Larry S. Bue, Grand Forks, North Dakota.

UPWARD TO GOD-"Having lived in the Bayard locality for some 40 years, I have often gazed on Chimney Rock with a great deal of pleasure. It is a real inspiration to me to think of all that it has meant to those who have passed this way." —Mrs. Ruth V. Bassett, Gering.

TASTY LOAF —"Last summer, my son caught three big carp at Oak Lake. I did not wish to waste them, yet I know my family would not eat them if I fried them like bluegill, or other fish.

"I dressed the carp, soaked them in salt water for three hours, then cut them into big pieces and canned them in my pressure cooker in pint jars. I added only salt and enough water to cover the fish, bringing the pressure to 18 pounds for a good half hour. This softens the many bones until they are like canned salmon bones. I kept them in the pressure cooker for nearly an hour and they came out wonderfully well.

"I opened the jars, ran the carp through the food chopper, and added the usual ingredients for salmon loaf—corn flakes, some cooked potatoes, eggs, salt, pepper, onion salt, and lemon juice, and baked it in the oven for 45 minutes. "It makes a very tasty loaf good with or without cheese sauce." —Mrs. Lona Hansen, Lincoln.

JULY ROCKETS across the NEBRASKAland scene with a full month of celebrations, exciting festivals, and relaxing outdoor activities. Nebraskans, no matter where they are, will be only a stone's throw away from a parade, fireworks display, watermelon feed, or barbecue come July 4, as nearly every city and town has some sort of holiday revelry. A host of rollicking celebrations, bone-rattling rodeos, and Old West sporting events also dot the July agenda. Fishing tackle, boats, and water skis will earn their keep when outdoor recreation seekers by the hundreds converge on the state's lakes and rivers.

Welcoming everyone to these generous helpings of summertime fun is NEBR ASK Aland's July Hostess, Susan Herman of Wilber. Susan holds the titles of Nebraska Czech Queen, Wilber Czech Queen, and Miss Teenage Beatrice. She is a graduate of Wilber-Clatonia High School, and plans to enter the University of Nebraska this fall. This queenly miss is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Floyd Herman.

Nebraska is rodeo country, and July is prime rodeo time. Independence Day provides the perfect excuse for riding broncs or roping steers, and cowboys will be doing just that in several communities. Early-in-the-month events are scheduled for Crawford, Dunning, and Johnstown on July 3 and 4, and at Bridgeport and Sutherland on July 4 and 5. Other rodeos include one at Broken Bow, July 26 and 27, and the Phelps Gosper County affair at Bertrand, July 28 through 30.

Teen-age wranglers have a chance to show off their talents, July 12 and 13, during the high school rodeo at Stuart. Pint-size cowpokes will take part in their own brand of western fun at Little Britches rodeos in Chadron, July 18 and 19, and in Osceola, July 27. Other western activities on this month's schedule are the National Steer Roping Contest at Ogallala, July 20, and roping matches at Brady, July 4 and 27.

The good old days will be revived in several Nebraska communities with old settlers' picnics and festivals at Winside, July 17, Western, July 18 and 19, and Crawford, July 27. Country and western music fans will turn their ears toward Hebron, July 12, for the Grand 01 Opry, or toward Crawford, July 26, for Old Fiddlers' contests.

Duffers throughout the state will find their sport a challenge under July's summer skies, whether they take part in tournaments or just shoot a round on their favorite course with old friends.

Golfers will tee up for the Buffalo Bill golf tournament at North Platte, July 12 and 13. York is hosting an open golf tournament on the same dates. Women golfers have their day on July 30 at an invitational in Falls City.

The tattoo of pounding hooves and screams of excited fans will fill the air in Lincoln beginning July 9, when a full month of thoroughbred racing begins at the State Fair Grounds.

NEBRASKAland's lakes, rivers, and streams will be magnets for those seek ing catfish, white bass, largemouth bass, and bluegill. Whether after a prize winning lunker or a stringer of tasty panfish, anglers can find pursuit of their finny prey a relaxing challenge.

Boaters and skiers will also take advantage of the state's abundant water resources as family crafts take to the water in record numbers.

A myriad of other outdoor activities offer themselves for Nebraska's summer time enjoyment. Picnicking, bicycling, and horseback riding are favorite week end pastimes for those who wish to escape the week's tensions. Another favorite activity during July and the rest of the summer is sightseeing, just driving around Nebraska to take in its beauty.

July in NEBRASKAland ushers in some old-time favorites, the county fairs. Country hospitality and carnival fun are part of every county fair in the state. The Nance County Fair at Fullerton gets the jump on others with a July 17-through 19 stand. Other early birds are Platte County at Columbus, July 27 through 31, Phelps-Gosper at Bertrand, July 28 through 30, Polk County at Osceola, July 28 through 31, and Webster County at Bladen, July 31 through August 2.

Rural youth in eastern Nebraska will get a chance to show their skills during the 4-H Fair at Fremont July 29 through August 1. Billed as the biggest fair of its kind in the world, this Nebraska event features more than 4,000 exhibits from 4-H clubs over a 7 county area. It includes livestock shows, dress revues, dog shows, a horse show, and the crown ing of a 4-H king and queen, plus all the fun of a carnival midway.

Nebraska communities will also host rollicking celebrations with their own distinctive local flavor. The first of these is the Alice Blue Cloud Pageant at Red Cloud, an event commemorating the death of an Indian princess. This celebration is tentatively scheduled for July 4. Other blowouts include a Centennial celebration at Hebron, July 12 and 13, a summer festival at Sutton, July 14 and 15, Oregon Trail Days at Gering, July 17 and 18, and Ashland's annual Stir-Up celebration, July 25 through 27.

Rodeos, festivals, and parades promise a fun-filled 31 days for Nebraskans and all their visitors during this month's jam-packed schedule of summertime activities.

HOME SWEET WHEELS

THE RANCH TRAIL wound along a northwest Nebraska creek bottom and then left it to proceed up a steep incline among the ponderosa pines to a ridge. On one bend a turkey feather lay in the track. I pulled the pickup with its piggyback camp coach to a stop and got out to look for more turkey signs. The cab door slammed shut behind me. At the sound, a turkey gobbled over on another ridge. I had driven up from my home in Texas on a spring-combination trip for some early fishing and to bag a turkey gobbler, if I could. Now, it sounded like I might. The jaunt had other aspects, too. I was shaking down a new camping rig.

I squinted up the steep ridge and decided to leave the trail and get up on top where I could look and listen over a wide area. Wherever I found a level spot, that would be camp.

Just a few years ago, I reflected, no sportsman would have dreamed of being able to take a plush cabin right with him, off the road, and into hunting country. Indeed, the pickup coach has literally changed the entire concept of camping for thousands of enthusiasts. In the middle 1950's, there were only a few pickup coaches in use, mostly experimental models. By 1960, however, some 50,000 were cruising the highways and the back trails. This year, sales are up around 165,000 and they are continuing to climb.

I found a spot and camp was made. This was no jackknife camp. My coach was a lOVfe-footer that slides into the bed of a pickup. It contained a bathroom with self-contained septic tank, butane stove with oven and broiler, butane refrigerator, water tank with electric-pressure system for the sink and bath, comfortable beds with foam mattresses that can sleep four, wardrobe, lots of storage space, lights, and a dinette.

I became interested in the pickup coach almost from its very begin nings. As an outdoor writer who travels a great deal, it is necessary for me to do a lot of camping in all sorts of places. I had gone through the routine of setting up tents, tried the tent-camper idea, and had towed small trailers tens of thousands of miles. All of these approaches to camping have their place but when the pickup coach entered the competition, I began to suspect that here was the perfect answer for the average sportsman. My convictions about the various rigs come from experience.

Some of them are slide-ins, and some are built on the frame of the 10 NEBRASKAland pickup, with no box or bed on the truck. I've also shaken down the small special coaches built for short coupled, four-wheel-drive vehicles. Today, you can get practically any thing in a coach that you desire. Their fundamental value lies in the fact that the vehicle — the pickup — is tough, economical transport.

Pickups have become good-looking vehicles. They are comfortable to ride in and to drive, and serve as good second cars. Besides, many a family owns a pickup anyway. Obviously, the pickup will go a lot of places a passenger car can't. It doesn't cost as much to begin with, although you can add on all sorts of extras like power brakes, power steering, air conditioning, and bucket seats to run the cost as high as you can tolerate. Truck resale is generally good and the upkeep is lower than for most passenger cars.

The next couple of days were an excellent illustration of the special kind of usefulness inherent in camp coaches. I couldn't find any turkeys, so I decided to move. I put the coffee pot in the sink, started the motor, and trundled down off the ridge to another spot.

That afternoon I had the great experience of being in exactly the right place at the right time. A big gobbler came down across a small patch of green creek bottom and straight to where I was hidden. He passed close enough to reach with my 20-gauge and a charge of No. 4's. One blast and the gobbler folded. Soon, I was panting back to camp with 20 pounds of turkey over my shoulder.

With one of my objectives accomplished, I had time to think some more about my camper and anticipate some common questions that prospective buyers might ask. Which type was best? Which size would I recommend? What about various trucks? What did the rigs cost? I'll try to answer some of the questions here.

Coaches come in two basic types — slide-in and on-frame. On-frame coaches offer a bit more room, a side entrance, and a much lower center of gravity. They look large, but these big on-frame jobs handle beautifully on the road. In fact, they have an edge on the slide-ins, because the main weight sits lower on the frame.

The on-frame coach, however, is not easily removed from the truck frame. If you do remove it, then you must replace the bed of the pickup. Most owners of frame-mount coaches buy a bedless pickup with the coach mounted at the factory. Thus, for strictly a recreational combination, the on-frame type is a very excellent idea. If a large family uses it, it's just so much more advantageous, for floor plans can be arranged without the problem of wheel wells that cut down room.

Most on-frame models, of course, will cost more than the smaller, bed mounted coaches. They'll run, in 10 foot length, around $1,800 to $2,200, depending on equipment and desired optionals. Some may be cheaper. But cheap coaches are like "cheap" anything else—just cheap. This is a most competitive business. The 12 foot and larger frame-mounted coaches will run from around $2,500 on up to $3,000 and beyond, depending on optional equipment.

The slide-in coach is somewhat less expensive. This does not mean it is necessarily less plush. All sorts of optionals are available in these bed-mounted coaches, too. The 8-foot models, which fit flush in a pickup with an 8-foot box, start at around $1,100 for well-built ones and run to about $1,750. These are prices for models with standard equipment. Models of the 10 and lOVi-foot-length slide-ins start around $1,400 and go up to around $2,500.

The number of users is not always a determining factor in selecting sizes. Both 8's and 10's will often sleep the same number of persons. A choice must be made by what one can afford, by how much room is needed, and the equipment desired. Quite (Continued on page 50)

NIGHT THE CAR FELL

MY FREEZING, fumbling fingers clawed around, found the end of the chains, and started to pull them up onto the inside of the wheel. My two companions had jacked the rig up and were watching as I grappled with the last tire. Then, the bumper jack slipped and the underside of the fender slammed down, pinning my right arm near the shoulder.

Terrible pain shot through me, and I had to fight down an impulse to scream with the agony or to jump up and down in a futile attempt to escape. I shouted to the others to get the four-wheel up, fast, After several agonizing moments which seemed like hours, they fumbled the jack into place and lifted the blocky vehicle, freeing my arm. I knew it was broken. It hurt like the devil, but I knew that merciful numbness would soon set in. There wasn't time to worry about it, for I had to make plans.

It all began about 5 p.m. on January 1, 1969. Three of us from Broken Bow, where I am a dentist, had slipped out to do a little pheasant hunting. With me were Karl, my 12-year-old son, and Clair Carpenter, a Broken Bow businessman. Things had not gone well. We got only one rooster during the hunt and were returning to town when we hit an unplowed, snow-choked road. The going was hard, but stubbornly we pushed on, relying on our four wheel-drive rig to pull us through. We got stuck four times in less than a half-mile and managed to work out three times. In the middle of the fourth, we realized chains were needed. So, up to my neck in snow, I started wrestling with chains. The jack had gotten iced up while we were chaining the other three wheels, and it slipped while I was working on the right rear tire.

Cradling my broken right arm in my left, I surveyed the situation. Even if we got the last wheel done, it didn't look like we could get far in the snow, so walking seemed the only answer. I knew we weren't more than six miles west of Broken Bow, but who would be home and which was the shortest way to help? The glow of the town beckoned us and we decided to head that way. Clair of fered to stay with the car, trying to get the chains on, and then pick us up if he could. Karl and I struck out.

It was mighty tough going. Although my arm was partially numb by now, each step sent jarring pain through my right side. Karl had to steady me as the two of us lurched and stumbled through the drifts while the winter darkness closed in. The cold was getting worse, too, and our light hunting clothes didn't offer much protection. We figured it was close to zero and found out later we weren't far wrong —it was 11°. Still, I was sweating all the time we walked.

After the first excruciating half mile going south, we reached the Callaway road which had been plowed out. We turned east, toward town, and found the going was much easier. On this stretch, four cars passed us but we couldn't get any of them to stop. We even had a flashlight to signal them with, but they passed right by. We were really disheartened by their unconcern.

Everything seemed to be against us. We were tired from hunting, and the trouble, excitement, and suffering since had weakened us still more. I didn't want to worry Karl more than he was, but I didn't know how much farther I could go. I told him that if I couldn't make it, he should drag me off the road and mark the spot by counting telephone poles so he could find me again.

Karl kept me going. Earlier he had complained of his cold feet and I told him to stomp them on the ground, but since the accident he hadn't said a word about them. His concern was for me. Now, he kept urging me on, saying it was only a little farther. Then, we saw lights ahead. It was the Cliff Burnett farm, just three miles west of town. I knew the Burnetts, and for the first time a little hope crept in. From there, we could surely summon help.

Shivering and staggering, we went on with renewed vigor. At last we reached the door, and several minutes of concern and confusion followed our knock. My first idea was to have my wife pick us up, and Karl tried to explain to his mom over the phone what happened and what we needed, but Cliff insisted on taking us to town. I knew where to find Dr. Richard Koefoot, our family physician, for we were both scheduled to attend a party that night. We called him and he was at the Broken Bow Community Hospital when we arrived.

It was about 7:30 p.m. when the M.D. set and put a cast on my arm, and it wasn't long after that Karl and I were home, ready to thaw out with a warm bath. When my son hopped into the tub he told me his foot didn't look right. Three toes on his right foot were nearly black, and if they weren't frozen they were the next thing to it. Later, he lost the nail from his big toe.

Meanwhile, Clair worked with the rig and got some help to pull it out. We were all back safe, if not sound, and all were a little wiser after the ordeal. We learned some valuable lessons from that experience.

Being a dentist, my right arm in a cast caused many troubles. I couldn't do any work, which not only was a financial hardship for me, but also created a lot of difficulty for my patients. And of course, I took a lot of kidding because the mishap occurred on New Year's night. Removal of the cast on March 10 didn't end the problem. My arm was weak from lack of use, and I am still working with weights to get in shape.

Even so, I am thankful I wasn't alone out there that night, or this story might have had a different ending.

PLANES OF HISTORY

STATIONED AT the northern tip of Nebraska's Offutt Air Force Base is a nest where monster birds of the Strategic Aerospace Command have come to final roost. The Strategic Aerospace Museum, near Bellevue, displays several outdated bombers and some support units whose sister craft are still in use. Instruments of man's moods, planes like these have delivered the fire and death of his anger and maintained the protective blanket of his peace. They know firsthand the stories of devastation — Hiroshima and Nagasaki — and the peaceful missions of quiet nights when they guarded a sleeping nation. Now, these grounded giants fascinate thousands of visitors from all over the world. In its 3-year existence, the museum has attracted about 450,000 people. It is one of three such installations in the country.

This "eagle's nest" is open from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. daily, May through September. The open-air museum is open the rest of the year from 1 to 4 p.m. every weekday, and from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. on weekends and holidays. Admission is free and photography is encouraged. Specially guided tours can be arranged by contacting Base Tours (BCXI), Offutt AFB, Nebraska 68113. To reach the museum, follow the Papillion exit from Interstate 80 to State Highway 370 into Bellevue to where the missile at the entrance is visible. Ignore the highway turn and go straight to the gate. It takes about 90 minutes to visit all the displays.

Although some of these aircraft look ultramodern, they are obsolete. Their past is but minutes away, but aerial technology is developing so rapidly that today's most advanced plane is tomorrow's relic. Propeller-driven bombardment craft have long since been abandoned by the aerial warriors, and even wings are passing. Speed, altitude, and efficiency have dictated a change to jet and rocket power.

Aircraft displayed at the museum run the gamut from the B-17's, 25's, and 29's of World War II fame to the highly sophisticated B-52 JULY 1969 15   of the early 1960's. The old "B's" won lasting fame in Europe and the Pacific during the last great conflict, while the later "B's", the 47, 36, and 52, helped main tain the uneasy peace that followed. Bulletin boards beside the planes tell visitors about their specifications.

They called the B-17 the Flying Fortress, and in a way it was. It weighed 18 tons and could streak across the sky at 280 miles an hour. Built to take as well as dish out punishment, the B-17 with its 4 prop engines had a range of 3,400 miles and carried almost 8 tons of bombs. It won its combat spurs over Europe and saw some service in the Pacific.

In time the museum will have a B-24, too. After 3 years of searching and negotiating, officials have located one for display. Of the 18,188 B-24's made, only a few are left. The 24's replaced the B-17's because their longer range made them more suitable for European bombing missions. The B-24 coming to the museum was located in India.

Colleague of the B-17 and the B-24 was the B-25, the Mitchell. It was slower —275 miles an hour, and had less range, 1,350 miles. Lighter and smaller than the B-17, the 25 weighed 19,975 pounds empty, but it had plenty of punch. Besides its bomb load, the ship bristled with machine guns, and in some versions, had a 75-mm cannon mounted in the nose. The B-25's, like the one at Offutt, fly high in the history of aerial warfare, but their greatest hour came early in World War II when 16 took off from an aircraft carrier to bomb the Japanese mainland.

These ships were the giants of their day, but they pale to insignificance beside the B-29, the Super-fortress. One B-29, the Enola Gay, changed the world. It dropped the first atomic bomb on Japan to usher in another age. By coincidence, the Enola Gay was modified to carry an atomic payload at the old Martin plant located at the edge of Offutt. A piston from this famous airplane is on display at the museum. "Mr. B", as the Japanese called it, was truly a giant of its day. Capable of a top speed of 367 miles an hour, the B-29 had a range of 3,250 miles. Weighing 70,140 pounds empty, it could carry 20 tons of bombs and fuel and climb to 31,850 feet, almost 6 miles above the earth.

To many observers, the Superfortress is one of the most graceful appearing planes ever built. Certainly, it is the most fateful, for whenever men talk of aerial war, the}7 remember the B-29 and the "bomb" it carried to Hiroshima.

A peacetime giant at rest in the Aerospace Museum is the B-36, the "Peacemaker". Retired now, the 10 engined monster, identified by 6 pusher-type conven tional engines and 4 turbo-jets, is the largest bomber ever put on operational status. Big as it is, this 70-ton behemoth could hit a top speed of 440 miles an hour, operate at 50,000 feet, and carry a payload of 210,000 pounds. Its operational range of 9,000 miles made it the 16 NEBRASKAland first of the truly intercontinental bombers. Fortunately, it never fired a shot in anger. The B-36 is so big that a Flying Fortress can nestle under one of its wings with room to spare.

A later "B" series bomber, the B-47, replaced the B-36. It never saw combat, either. Operational in 1952, it furnished the early muscle for the philosophy of deterrence adopted by our country following the great conflict. It has spanned both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, flown over the North Pole, and participated in many other long-range flights. It was one of the first all-jet bombers and the first to have a global range incorporating aerial refueling.

This sharp-nosed plane with a low-slung jaw looks like a shark. A shark which gobbled up chunks of sky at a rate of 650 miles per hour, 10 times faster than the speed limit on Nebraska highways.

The first aircraft built exclusively for aerial refueling was the KC-97 Stratotanker. It has the same wings, engines, tail, and landing gear as the B-29. Since the KC-135 has taken over as the refueler of SAC, the KC-97 has been modified for transport, courier, and other support missions. This winged service station posed a problem to the B-47's because it was so slow. It took nice flying to throttle down the 47 to the lumbering 400 miles per hour of the KC-97.

Each ship displayed at the museum tells a story of America's constant effort to (Continued on page 52)

PLUM CREEK MASSACRE

AT FIRST, Thomas Frank Morton's sleep-fogged eyes mistook the distant objects for buffalo. He 1 dismissed the sight with a reassurance to his wife, Nancy, and turned back to his couch in the wagon. He had pulled the last half of guard the night before and he was tired. This was 19-year-old Nancy's third trip with her freighter husband and she could handle the team as well as any man. The wagons were loaded with farm machinery, household furnishings, dry goods, and food. Most of the rigs were drawn by mules.

Minutes later, Nancy's, "Tom, they're Indians!" brought Morton to the front again. It was Indians — 100 of them —painted and armed for war; their bloodlust as evident as the dust that swirled beneath their ponies. Inexorably, the gap between attacked and attacker narrowed as the tribesmen thundered in.

A volley of shots, a sibilance of arrows, a bedlam of war whoops, and the wagons were in the center of hideous maelstrom of wild horses and wilder men. Tom and at least 10 other men, riddled by bullets and arrows, died in the first onslaught, never knowing that Nancy and a young boy were now captives of an Oglala Sioux band under Big Crow.

It all happened on a pleasant Sunday morning in August 1864, at a spot 10 miles north and 1 mile east of the present community of Bertrand, in south-central Nebraska. The place was not far from the Plum Creek Station where a telegraph station maintained nebulous communication between Fort Kearny to the east and the smaller military posts to the west. There are two markers at the spot now, one inside the little fence that protects the common grave of the victims. The other is on the outside of the enclosure.

Interstate 80 travelers can find the site by taking the Overton Interchange south on a county road until it forks. Follow the right fork three miles west to where the markers are visible on the right side of the road.

This spot near the mouth of Plum Creek was a favorite campsite of the Over landers. The stream furnished water and wood, and forage was close at hand. It was especially attractive to the Mortons on this trek, for here they rendezvoused with the nine other wagons that made up their train. Tom was a freighter out of Sidney, Iowa hauling to Denver and beyond. He had made the long circuit four times in four years, his wife with him on three trips.

Besides the Mortons, the party included Nancy's brother, William Fletcher, her cousin, John Fletcher, a Mr. Marble, and his young son, Dannie. Names of the other "skinners" are lost, which isn't surprising, for in that day many men preferred to go without a handle. There might be a WANTED by their names.

Years later, Mrs. Morton wrote of her captivity that began on that fateful morning when the Indians came down on the hapless train. She begins with the bolting of her team as the warriors closed in.

"Thinking there might be some faint hope of escape, I sprang from the wagon. My husband called to me, 'Oh, my dear, where are you going?' and those were the last words I heard him say.

"I fell to the ground and before I could recover myself, one of the back teams came dashing by and the wheels passed over my body. I thought I could never make another attempt to rescue myself. But soon I was again so nerved by fear, or dread of death by such demon hands, I again made a desperate effort for life. With all the strength I could procure, I started for the river. When I met my brother and cousin, they said, 'We have no hope of escape.' The Indians had encircled us and the air was full of arrows.

"At that moment, an arrow struck my cousin, which proved (Continued on page 55)

Portrait of Summer

THE SUN is hot. The sky is clear, punctuated by cotton-candy clouds. Cool evenings redeem scorching days, and the morrow's heat is met with the same optimism and determination as was winter's ice. The sun season is home. Summer blushes in NEBRASKAland.

Summer sun floods the city. It swamps swimming pools with berry brown youth and tempts the winter-weary into happy backyards and gardens. Lawn sprinklers shower spongy yards as the droplets refract mini-rainbows. City summers are steamy streets after the rain, clumps of wilted dandelions plucked from grassy beds, cookouts, and kids—kids everywhere you look.

Summer days are busy days. It's the time of year when the hay blooms, the wheat turns, and Independence Day explodes—all at the same time. As wheat stubble yields to the massive plow, worm-watching blackbirds bounce along the warm, damp furrows. The sweet scents of a freshly-mowed hayfield drift over the countryside. The day mellows into twilight and the cool breeze whisps away worry. A whirligig wind- mill stands quiet. Summer sleeps.

Beauty pageants, folk festivals, and county fairs spring from the heart of summer. These seasonal highlights are splashed with the brilliancy of the sun itself. Brushed, fat calves waddle through sawdust show-rings. Juicy red watermelon soothes summer thirst. Bronze beauties reign as queens, sweethearts, and princesses. A nosegay of ribbons flutters on exhibits from aprons and wool suits to seed corn and apple pies.

Rodeo lives in the summer. A cowboy nods, the gate swings open, and action breaks from chutes throughout NEBRASKAland. Broncs, spinning bulls, and leather-necked steers challenge top-notch performers from all over the country. From the Buffalo Bill Rodeo in North Platte to the Ak-Sar-Ben in Omaha, Nebraska prairies throb with the thrills and chills of the contest for cowboys.

After the sizzling action of the Wild West, Nebraska summer sips refreshment from its sparkling lakes and streams. Anglers, rather than   wranglers, cast for success. Rainbow trout, black and white bass, blue gill and catfish churn Nebraska waters. These dandies contest both sea soned and amateur fishermen. Even a carrot-topped, freckle-faced lad with pole in hand and a dog at his side may be seen pondering frogs and fish and cloud pictures under the lofty elm at the old fishing hole.

Lakes and streams teem with fish and fun for all sportsmen. Boat and skier spray silver fountains on one lake, while billowy sailboats skim the whitecaps of another. Even rustic canoes, first crafts to explore the frontier waterways, still glide down rivers and streams in search of relaxation and adventure. Over 225,500 acres of water surface beckon aqua-sports enthusiasts to NEBRASKAland.

Campers answer summer's call. The splendor of nature is redis covered by enthusiastic explorers of the 20th century. Back trails reveal   a world of gurgling streams, cool shade, towering broadleafs, and chattering squirrels. Camping is summer's cousin. Crackling campfires, sweet blossoms, and night's vast canopy revive spirit and body. Campers —young and old—swim, fish, hike, play, and loaf their way to summer's heart and soul.

The Nebraska State Fair crowns the summer's festivities. Explorers armed with yardsticks and candied apples discover the frontiers of the fair. Marching bands set the tempo, and throngs of people follow. The latest and the best are on parade. Massive farm machinery, snack shacks, prize livestock, and homemaking arts stuff exhibit lots. Excitement only increases with the waning day. The spotlight spins to the whirling, screeching midway and the star-decked grandstand shows. With the end of the fair comes a rapid change in the season, and glorious summer falters.

For a fleeting moment, the mind recaptures summer. The suspended stillness shouts of an impending thunderstorm. Hail, like tapioca, pings off sidewalks and rooftops. Then, the rain comes. It sweeps and washes   and melts again in the sunshine. A misty rainbow smiles from the blue-green sky.

Summer is a collage. It's ice cream and evening walks. It's lazy days and busy days. Summer collects things, too—like suntans, funny hats, and skinned-up knees; like rocks, bugs, and butterflies. A meadow lark trills a commentary, and summer rests in a red porch swing.

The heart of Nebraska summer is a wanderer. It beckons the curious and the restless, the young and the old to discover the treasures of the prairie. The trail winds from the crisp dawn to the smoldering sunset igniting Old West legend, bordering picturesque countryside, and intro ducing NEBRASKAland hospitality.

Unannounced, but always expected, summer bounces into Nebraska. Wrapped in orange and yellow, it laughs, thunders, and sings across the prairie. And, finally, passing from view, it wanders into autumn.

KATHIE AND JUBE

A DIRT ARENA in Oklahoma City, three barrels, and a stopwatch stood between Kathie O'Brien and success. For the next nine days, the pert * Denton, Nebraska cowgirl and Jube, her six-year-old quarter horse, would be partners in hope. The "World Series" of rodeo, the 1968 National Rodeo Finals, meant tough competition —where a fraction of a second could mean the difference of hundreds of dollars in prize money, a host of valuable gifts, and the prestige of beating the very best in barrel racing. Here, dreams could become nightmares or Cinderella reality stories.

In her second year on the professional rodeo circuit, Kathie had worked hard to be in this championship run. She and Jube had traveled nearly 50,000 miles to some 32 rodeos to compile 4,686 points during the 1968 Girls Rodeo Association (GRA) season. The women's equivalent to the men's Rodeo Cowboy Association, GRA riders receive a point for every dollar won in sanctioned competition. Only the nation's top 15 money winners qualify for the finals. Kathie was fifth in the point standings, while a one-time Nebraskan from Valentine, Kay Whittaker, was second.

A rookie to the National Finals, Kathie looked to the more experienced Kay for hints on how to ride in this grueling nine go-round, nine-day event. Outside the arena it was Nebraskan help Nebraskan, but inside it was rider against rider. That is the way it has to be in professional rodeoing. To make a living in this competitive sport there can be no sentimentality. Kathie admits Kay is hard to beat when she isn't knocking over barrels. The former Nebraskan, now a Texan, cuts within a cat's whisker of a cask, and in a year's time she tips over several hundred dollars worth of barrels. Knocking over a barrel carries a five-second penalty and usually puts the rider out of go-round and average-time money.

In the first go-round, Kay's time of 17.1 seconds told the other cowgirls that they would have to ride hard to beat her. Her first go-round time tied her for first place. Kathie ran the barrels in 17.4 seconds and placed out of the money. Purses are paid to the top four times in each go-round. At the end of nine go-rounds, the national champion is the one with the lowest total time. In the second go-round on Sunday, both girls cloverleafed the course in 17.1 seconds for a third-place tie, but Kay still held the average-time lead.

Although Kay had a three-tenths of a second lead, Kathie knew one good ride could put her in the glory run. On the other hand, a careless run with a barrel-tipping, five-second penalty would put the title out of reach. Jube exuberantly shook his head as Kathie listened for her third introduction. When it came, the Denton girl pointed the quarter horse toward the first barrel. Running free and easy, Jube wheeled within inches of it and headed for the left cask, 30 yards away. Their minds working as one, horse and rider cut a fraction of a second off their time as they nudged that barrel and streaked 35 yards to the top of the cloverleaf. Confident in each other's ability, they whirled across the finish in a record arena time of 16.7 seconds.

Kay needed a fast, mistake-free run to remain in the lead. Spurring her horse into the arena, she turned the barrels in 16.9 seconds, good enough to keep a total-time lead of one-tenth of a second over second-place Kathie. The National Finals had turned into a Nebraskan versus Nebraskan fight.

Although arch rodeo competitors, the girls are close friends and share several laughable moments. Last year during the Burwell rodeo, the girls decided to hit a one-day blowout in Kansas, then return in time to finish the Nebraska rodeo. That night on the way back, a hard (Continued on page 51)

HAYING TIME

AN ARMY OF tractors inches across the rippling seas of Sand Hills grass, the quiet and secluded Pine Ridge meadows, and the giant alfalfa fields near Columbus and Kearney. In their wake suntanned men sweat out a day's wages, while the machines growl cantankerously as they sweep up hay for the long-toothed monsters called slide stackers. The season is summer and in Nebraska that is synonymous with haying time.

From June to September nature turns Nebraska into a sweet-smelling battleground where man and machine toil from early morning to after dark. This race against time and the elements is hot and dirty work. Yet, even though the work is demanding, there is no agricultural effort that contains as much personal satisfaction and pride of accomplishment. For haying satisfies man's deep-seated need to provide for the future and meet his responsibilities to those who cannot provide for themselves.

A man with stacks to spare faces the future unafraid. His cattle will eat, come what may, and that is consoling, for in the final analysis he views his whitefaces or Angus as more than mere possessions. Subconsciously, he knows they are vital to his family, and a man, if he is a

Almost from the beginning of agriculture, man has bent his back to the scythe and rake. Today, his scythe is a powerful cutting bar that takes 10 or more feet at a swath and his rake is almost unbelievably efficient. But even with mechanization, the pride of accomplishment is still there. Haying for the Sand Hills rancher or the southeastern Nebraska farmer is a way of life, for he looks upon the earth as a giver. For him the rough hewn charm of haying is the assurance that the earth will once again repeat its ancient cycle of planting, sprouting, growing, and ripening.

This reassurance is very evident in Nebraska, for in recent years over 6 million tons of hay, with a value of over $135 million, are harvested. So, the yellowing stacks that dot the green grass and alfalfa pasturelands 34 NEBRASKAland mean big business. Nebraskans work hard to maintain their lead as the top producer of wild hay in the United States.

Like everything else, high production is due to man's ingenuity in mechanization. But even in our complex society with its modern in novations, farmers and ranchers still cannot control the elements. Impatiently they watch the horizons, hoping for a few days of dry weather, because freshly mown hay must cure in the sun before it can be stacked or baled. Rain means a costly waste of field time.

To some extent, mechanization has taken the color out of haying. No longer do well-muscled horses lean into their traces as they pull a mower or rake. Gone, too, are the bare-backed men walking next to a rack and rhythmically pitching hay onto the slowly moving wagon. Although haying is faster-paced now, the standardized rituals haven't changed. Stands of grass still must be mowed, raked, and gathered up.

Even with labor-saving automation, haying is hard work. The summer "pleasure" is still a time of fellowship and of hard man-type raw hiding among the workers. The modern hayer, like his predecessors, works up an elephant appetite and under a hot prairie sun he trades sweat for a cool drink out of a community water jug. Perspiration soaks up the dust and his arms, face, and back are streaked a muddy brown. His skin crawls with a thousand pricklies, so the hayer douses his head and sometimes his whole body in a horse tank for relief. At day's end a man is cleansed of laziness and he feels the satisfaction of total fatigue.

There is a certain nostalgia about haying. Old-timers talk about the way it used to be and teen-age summer help find out how it is. There will always be memories, for in the hayfields a boy first has the chance to prove himself a man. That is the way it is and that is the way it will al ways be when it is haying time in Nebraska. THE END

MAY DAY AT PELICAN

THE RED AND WHITE, two-ounce spoon was fluttering through the water on its return to the boat when an unseen maw full of razor-sharp teeth stopped it with a jolt. My rod tip began to dance and I knew a hungry northern pike was ready to do battle.

"Looks like that six bits is mine," I yelled at my three fishing companions to remind them of our bet on the first fish, and to let them know the action had started.

"You just made it," Aaron Newcome countered as his rod began to jump even more furiously than mine.

I quickly netted my northern and hurriedly began untangling fish and lure to have the net ready for Aaron's obviously larger opponent. More through his own efforts than mine, the pike freed himself in time for me to hand the net to Ron Shaner, who deftly boated Aaron's catch.

"Not bad," Roger Hengen, the fourth member of our party smiled. "Looks like these Pelican Lake northerns are waiting for us."

My catch registered two pounds and Aaron's exactly twice that. That two-pounder was my first fish of the young spring as well as the first of the young day.

I am the outstate representative for the Information and Tourism Division of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission and work out of North Platte My fishing partners, also from North Platte, were Ron Shaner who owns an auto-repair shop, and two junior high teachers, Aaron Newcome and Roger Hengen

This was my first outing with this trio but I knew they had fished, hunted, camped, and varment called 38 NEBRASKAland together for three years. Five minutes conversation convinced me that I had never met more avid and enthusiastic sportsmen.

Part of my job is compiling twice-weekly fishing reports. For two or three weeks prior to our early May outing, those reports included ever-increasing numbers of northerns from Pelican Lake on the Valentine National Wildlife Refuge, 16 miles south of Valentine on U.S. Highway 83.

Pelican Lake, at 819 surface acres, is one of the largest of the more than 15 major lakes open to fishing on the refuge. These lakes vary in size and offer good opportunities for walleye, largemouth, bluegill, bullhead, crappie, and of course, northern.

Fishing on the refuge's open lakes is permitted only during daylight hours. Bait minnows and power boats are not permitted, and all rules and regulations governing fishing in Nebraska apply to the refuge lakes.

I was really anxious to have a go at those northerns, so when Ron mentioned that he and his friends were planning a trip to Pelican, I wrangled an invitation.

Daylight Savings Time meant plenty of darkness left when the trio picked me up at 5 o'clock Saturday morning. I stowed my fishing and camera gear in the back of Ron's panel bus and settled back for the long ride. Conversation at that early hour dealt with the inevitable complaints about staying up too late and getting up too early and then we talked about the weather. It didn't look too promising.

The stars were well hidden behind thick overcast, and the weatherman's prediction of only a 10 percent chance of rain seemed rather optimistic. However, the wind wasn't blowing, yet, and we anticipated some calm-water fishing as we headed for a breakfast stop at Thedford, 65 miles north of North Platte.

"How about two bits from the three losers for the first and 25 cents for the biggest fish?" Roger asked.

"O.K., and for the most fish, too," Aaron added, confident he would win one of the wagers.

"What about these northerns?" I asked Ron. "What's the best way to rig for them?"

"The standard setup seems to be 10 to 12-pound test monofiliment line on an open-face reel. Some anglers use steel leaders to prevent the northern's sharp teeth from cutting the line. Pike will hit almost any thing, but red and white or silver spoons from one to two ounces are always good."

"Hanging red, white, or yellow pork rind on the spoons sometimes helps," Aaron added.

Ron, who was born and reared in North Platte, had fished the refuge area on and off for many years, so we accepted him as our mentor (Continued on page 48)

STICKS AND STONES HERITAGE

THIS PRAIRIE-GRASS empire that is Nebraska has its own variety of castles. Some of the older ones reflect the homespun simplicity of the early settlers. Others are more elegant, representing the accomplishment of affluence and the desire for more comfortable or more ostentatious dwellings. Buildings here are a combination of Old World ethnic influence and New World determination, and most examples represent the best of the two.

Early architecture in Nebraska for the most part represented a rejection of the builders' European past. What differences there were in the very early structures were superficial with only a nuance of individual ity about them. Unconsciously, the immigrant retained some of the Old World style, sometimes in the method of construction or through interior design. Without realizing it, the early builders in NEBRASKAland were following a dictate of famous architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, who described his creed with these words:

"What is a building without intimate relationship to the ground it stands upon and the inhabitants who occupy it? A great unity, every fine building is necessarily expression of the life it is built to serve directly."

Wright designed one of his famous prairie homes for the Harry P. Suttons of McCook, Nebraska. Its Oriental-inspired lines remained functional to the flat prairie terrain. With its completion in 1908, it became an outstanding architectural model.

So, the newcomers to the prairie built homes-reflecting the type of life they expected to lead. Those bent toward farm life usually constructed large and sturdy homes as soon as they could afford them. They expected to stay on the land for a long time, so they built for durability. They intended to have large families, and they built their homes to accommodate the expected additions. Viewers of abandoned farm homes often marvel at their size, for 10-room houses were not unusual.

One of the novelties of Midwest farm architecture was the round barn. This era of folk architecture extended from 1890 to 1920, and many are still standing today. Two classic examples are Percy Rasser's gigantic round barn 5 miles east of Red Cloud and John Remmer's octagonal-shaped barn in Auburn, Nebraska. Roger Welsch, historian of Nebraska folklore, wrote of his encounter with this unique style.

"I began to investigate the round barns as part of my study of Nebraska's rich folklore, but it soon became apparent it was to be a labor of love; the friend ly conversations with farmers, the weathered textures of farm walls, the warm, sweetly fragrant haylofts, the sounds of pigeons fluttering in the cupolas, the stares from the curious, always-chewing cows made every visit to a barn a soul-warming experience."

He also found that although these barns looked odd, they had definite practical features. With the same amount of wall space, a cylinder has over one-fourth as much volume as a rectangular container. On the treeless plains, construction design which required no long, heavy timbers was also an important factor. Round barns are said to resist winds better than rectangular ones, a definite advantage on the breezy plains.

Other early architectural efforts in the state developed in a less-stable manner. Some cow towns and 42 NEBRASKAland rail centers became an overnight hodge-podge of quickly-built shacks. Unlike many tourist attractions, this authentic early-town, false-front construction is still evident at Brewster, Nebraska.

Easterners John Burchard and Albert Bush-Brown describe this form of early construction in their book The Architecture of America-A Social and Cultural History.

Use the end for an entrance, cover the whole gable with a rectangular false front, and you have the beginning of a western Main Street Farmhouse, barn, elevator, school, church, store, town house town, street all come from this one bolt of indigenous cloth; and you will hardly confuse it with the dwellings of the Came roons, of the Swiss Valais, or the Norwegian fiords."

Midwest architects view this style in a different light. Several hundred years of development characterized eastern cities, while new towns springing up in the West worked with the materials on hand. The false front innovation gave the stores a non-house, merchant oriented appearance. A rectangular front provided excellent space for the store name or for advertising. A porch could be added to the front without much trouble.

Nonetheless, ethnic influences did appear in some instances. A scattering of old-country pride would show up in a floor plan or in the exterior embellishment. Usually, the more a town was comprised of one common ethnic background, the more the Old World influence prevailed.

A two-story sod house north of Broken Bow is representative of ethnic influence adapted to prairie life. Constructed in 1884 by Belgian carpenter, Isdore Haumont, this home is exciting for its two stories of sod, rather than the usual one, and its rounded corners. Isdore tried with the materials at hand to copy the "vertical" architecture of his homeland where linear space was always a premium. Today, Isdore's grandson, Henry Haumont, resides in this unique soddie.

Some newcomers were diehard stylists, copying to exact detail their motherland buildings. An example of this direct influence is the Bethphage Mission in Axtell. This Swedish complex of contrasting colors — creamish-yellow exterior walls set off by red tile roofs — is straight from Scandanavian architectural prefer ences. Stair-stepped roof lines add yet another distinguishing feature to its Swedish aspect.

When the first splendid homes graced the plains, the Victorian look was the vogue. William F. "Buffalo Bill" Cody's home in North Platte, constructed in 1886, is one of the most typical examples of this design still in Nebraska. Fancy scallops and patterned trim are typical ornate features of this romantic era of structural expression.

Early churches provided a means for elegant expression. French Gothic style, with its high arches, pointed spires, and flying buttresses, became popular after the turn of the century in Nebraska's larger cities. Trinity Cathedral in Omaha is a fine representation of this French-inspired construction. The era of the French school also shared popularity with the Italian Romanesque style. This design was patterned after churches, with emphasis on symmetry, round arches and windows, and a central dome. First-Plymouth Congregational Church in Lincoln exemplifies this Italian influence.

Decorative interiors also became an influence on the plains. The original baroque of Germany and Austria of the 18th Century sifted to this country through generations of skilled carpenters and crafts men. Combining sculpture, painting, and architecture into one entity, this style appeared in many decorative woodworks and detail carvings which still excite admiration and envy by those who are surrounded by the geometric functionalism of modern-day buildings.

Many ethnic groups provided strong influence on Nebraska architecture, while the new life paved the way for change. These old structures evoke not only a feeling of nostalgia — they have become standing legacies of former human values.

This article's primary purpose is to acquaint NEBRASKAland readers with the state's rich and varied heritage as evidenced in its architecture. It does not imply in-depth treatment of the subject— Editor

THE PHEASANT'S DESTINY

THESE LINES, from a well-known song, may not apply as well to the future of the ring-necked pheasant in the Great Plains as to other predictions which a prophet might make. It is certain that no one can unerringly predict what the future may bring, but there are factors in the life of the pheasant which make certain probabilities near certainties in the future of this game bird.

To envision these probabilities we must first understand what makes the pheasant click. Many people do not. They think that pheasants increase or decrease because of foxes, or raccoons, or coyotes, severe winters, wet nesting seasons, and last but not least, pheasant seasons and pheasant hunters.

Let us take the last item first. I have said many times before, and I repeat now, that hunting has no measurable effect on the increase or decrease of pheasant populations in the northern Great Plains. The reason is very simple. Hunting here has not modified the total reproduction picture, therefore it could not have modified populations.

For the last quarter century, the hunter has been taking only the male bird. The pheasant is so highly polygamous and so elusive that it is impossible to shoot the cocks down to a level where there are not enough roosters to carry out all male functions of procreation the following spring. No amount of hunting, at any time or place in this nation, has ever reduced cock birds to such a low as to affect the fertility of pheasant eggs and therefore the production of young in the wild.

In the northern Great Plains we are accustomed to such successful hunting that we quit trying when success declines greatly. We hang up our pheasant guns long before our rooster population gets down to that level which prevails when the hunting season opens in some eastern states.

The heaviest kill of cock birds ever recorded occurred on Pelee Island in Lake Erie. This island is an excellent location for pheasant research and experimentation because it has favorable pheasant environment, hence a good population, and is located in a large lake where results cannot be affected by movement of the birds either into or out of the research area.

The maximum harvest of roosters ever taken on Pelee Island was 93 percent, but yet no significant decline in the egg fertility occurred thereafter. At Prairie Farm in Michigan-a research project with which I was directly connected-a harvest approach ing 90 percent of the male birds is quite common. Again, results are the same-no reduction in egg fertility and hence no reduction in the crop of chicks.

We do very well in the northern Great Plains to reach an annual rooster harvest of 60 percent. We are still wasting 30 percent or more of our fall population of cock birds, despite our liberal seasons and bag limits. This is not because we have too many roosters - it's simply because a large share of the roosters are too smart to be taken by the hunter. In fact, the real reason the Pelee Island and Prairie Farm harvests did not reach 100 percent was because the hunters couldnt do it. The bird outwits and outmaneuvers the hunter. When competing with this bird, the "mighty hunter" is mighty only in his own imagination.

The real control for hunter harvest of the pheasant under modern management is the "cocks only" regulation. Length of season and size of the bag are little more 44 NEBRASKAland than a concession to popular-though mistaken public opinion. A bag limit has some value in rationing the more easily taken cocks among hunters, but even here the effect is limited. The truth is, that a majority of the roosters are taken by a relatively small number of skilled and experienced pheasant hunters. Neophytes lose out in contests with this canny and elusive bird.

If you still insist that hunter take is the all important factor in reducing ringneck populations, let me remind you of some significant Nebraska pheasant history. We began hunting this bird in the late 1920's, and pheasants reached their all-time high in the late '30's. From the beginning, hens were included in the legal bag, yet pheasants multiplied and increased until the early 1940's. In 1942, we removed the hen from the legal bag, yet pheasants decreased for many years thereafter.

The simple and irrefutable truth is that pheasants increased while we were shooting hens because the environment improved, and pheasants decreased when JULY 1969 we were shooting only cocks (which has no effect on reproduction) because their environment deteriorated. Pheasant numbers went up and up when environment was good, and down when it was not good, regardless of hunting. The legal harvest by hunters had no bearing on populations in the history of pheasants in Nebraska. The results would have been the same if there had never been an open season on this species.

To better understand this, we must first understand that the hunter harvest is not the only mortality nor even the principal mortality sustained by this species. The average annual turnover (population loss) of Nebraska pheasants is nearly 70 percent. Hunters harvest at the most 30 percent of the total population (60 percent of the cocks). Other mortalities take the balance, or 40 percent, and will take the entire 70 per cent if the hunter fails to get there first.

What are these other mortalities? They are the foxes, raccoons, coyotes, skunks, opossums, cats, dogs, hailstorms, rainstorms, blizzards, mowers and other machinery, and a dozen other factors that affect the reproduction and survival of the ring-necked pheasant. To simplify matters, let us divide mortalities into two categories — hunter harvest and non-hunter harvest. Of the two, the latter is the biggest and the most important total mortality suffered by the species. Hunter harvest we can easily control, but unfortunately the game manager has little or no control over non-hunter harvest.

When the game manager attempts to control non-hunter harvest by killing foxes, for example, other predator and mortality factors take over. If the game manager could eliminate a half dozen of these mortality factors, which would be extremely difficult to do, a dozen other mortality factors still move in to cut the population down to the "carrying capacity" of pheasant environment.

What is carrying capacity? It is the sum total of the protective elements in the range of the pheasants; the point at which non-hunter harvest is checked. Environment (call it habitat if you will) is effective against all non-hunter mortalities, but only up to that level which we call carrying capacity. The better the environment the higher the carrying capacity, and the greater the pheasant populations year in and year out.

We have, then, one simple solution for all nonhunter mortality —better environment. Why don't we use it? We do use it to the very limited extent that we can, but environment is in the hands of the land oper ator. He has to manipulate environment on the land in such a way as to make a better living for himself, rather than for the pheasant.

In the 1930's, environment was good because a great depression had resulted in much idle land. A study conducted at that time in my native state of North Dakota revealed that 20 percent of the land in the better pheasant areas was idle the year around. Essentially the same situation prevailed throughout the northern Great Plains. No wonder we had pheasants in great numbers! With one acre out of each five in habitat, producing pheasants rather than corn, wheat, milo, or alfalfa, we couldn't miss. This is the reason the birds increased to an all-time high despite the fact that we were shooting hens as well as roosters.

World War II and related events sent the price of wheat and corn skyrocketing and cattle to $40 a hundredweight. At those prices, idle acres quickly went back under the plow and the acreage of good pheasant habitat (Continued on page 53)

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . BURROWING OWL

EVERYONE KNOWS that an owl is supposed to be wise and all-knowing about worldly affairs, but the fact that one member of the clan specializes in subterranean matters is not always common knowledge. Nebraska's burrowing owl has this unique characteristic.

The burrowing owl, Speotyto cunicularia, normally relies on other animals to do the digging of his homesites. Prairie dog towns furnish most of the selected burrows, but badger, skunk, and fox excavations may also be used. Although burrowing owls are familiar inhabitants of the western plains, they have not been exhaustively studied. Many of their activities are carried on underground, concealed from the prying eyes of ornithologists and other scientists. However, there has been some research done on them.

Burrowing owls, or ground owls as they are some times called, are relatively small in size, about 8 inches, but they stand erect which gives them the appearance of being larger. Their tails are short with five to six narrow interrupted bands, while upper parts of their bodies are dull brown spotted and barred with white and buff. Wings are barred with white. These owls have a white line over the eyes and their chins and throats are white. Their under surf aces are mainly buffy, barred with brown. The irises of their eyes are yellow.

By habit these ground dwellers are diurnal like the short-eared owl, snowy owl, and hawk owl. They can be seen throughout the daylight hours standing by their burrows or perched on nearby fence posts. When approached, they will bob and weave in a rather comical fashion, all the while sounding their alarm call of "cack-cack-cack-cack". If pressed, they will either duck down a burrow or take to wing. When flight is the chosen method of escape, the burrowing owls will often fly for short distances and alight on posts. There they will stare intently, giving forth with alarm calls and rattling hisses. These hisses have been described as perfect imitations of a rattlesnake's buzz. Such an imitation could be mighty effective for encouraging intruders to move on from around a prairie-dog burrow, since rattlesnakes also frequent these areas.

These owls are quite omniverous in their food habits, but the principal items in their diets are beetles, grasshoppers, and other insects. They are capable of taking prey as large as young prairie dogs. Other foods include small rodents, snakes, lizards, frogs, toads, fish, and small birds.

They are reported as being more or less migratory. Most will depart for a warmer climate in the fall, but some have been known to overwinter.

In the early spring after their return to Nebraska, they go about courting and raising a family. Courtship consists of the pair sitting close together on top of the chosen burrow, conversing in soft low notes, and caressing with head rubbings and billings.

Nesting takes place during May and June. The nest is built in a burrow at about 5 to 10 feet from the entrance. Nesting material includes weed stalks, bits of skin, or any other available material. The pure white eggs are laid in the form of a horseshoe and number from 6 to 11, with 7 to 9 being more common. Incubation takes about three weeks and both parents take their turns on the nest. Only one brood is raised during the year. The young, when hatched, have only a scanty covering of grayish-white down, but by the time they are half grown they are covered with juvenile plumage.

Parents capture and bring the food to the young. A hungry owlet will eat his weight in food during a 24-hour period if given the opportunity. The scramble by the young for the food has been described as resembling a football game. However, once the young owl has a secure hold on the food, the others leave him alone to eat it in peace.

The range of the burrowing owl in Nebraska is primarily in the western two thirds of the state. Their numbers are declining, probably as a result of the elimination of prairie dog towns.

They have few natural enemies except for badgers, skunks, opossums, and weasels. Also, rattlesnakes and bull snakes will take the eggs or young if given the opportunity.

They are entirely beneficial. Most ranchers and farmers realize this and the burrowing owl is seldom persecuted. Nebraska's prairie is more alive and interesting because of the burrowing owl.

MAY DAY AT PELICAN

for this go. Aaron wasn't a complete stranger to pike, either. Originally from North Dakota, he had fished for northern there and had accompanied Ron on his Canadian trip the year before. Roger, from Wallace, Nebraska, has fished and hunted all his life, but walleye and trout at Lake McConaughy are his favorites. I was the neophyte of the party. Pike fish ing was entirely new to me.

It took another hour after breakfast to reach Pelican. The sky was still threatening, but so far it was calm, and after bouncing to a halt, we slid the boat into the water. We were early, but other anglers were already hard at work. Some were using innertube floaters while others were wading the shallows and casting toward the open water that separated patches of reeds.

In my background preparation for this fishing trip, I learned that Pelican was almost perfect pike water. I knew the big fish require a reedy habitat for success ful spawning, which occurs in early March, and do most of their foraging for small fish among the jungle-like tangle of roots and stems. At Pelican the water is from 2 to 4 feet deep in the reeds, dropping off to maybe 6 feet at their far edge some 50 yards out from shore. Maximum depth of Pelican is no more than 12 feet.

The wind was freshening out of the southeast, our planned direction of travel, but Ron, whom we referred to as our one-mechanic-power inboard, put his back into it and soon we were anchored about 20 feet from the edge of the reeds. We were all using the big red and white spoons that Ron had recommended. Five minutes later, I had won the bet for the first catch, nosing out Aaron's four pounder by scant seconds.

"Now there's a cast," I laughed as Roger heaved his heavy lure and steel leader about 40 yards.

"Roger likes to fish in the next county," his fellow teacher joked.

"No comments from the likes of...," Roger's reply was cut short as his rod began a familiar dance. He played the fish up to the landing net, but with a sudden surge, his quarry flipped the spoon into the waiting net and headed for the sanctuary of the bottom.

"You'll never take the prize for the most fish if you can't get them into the boat," Ron quipped as we continued to cast at the edge of the reed bed.

Snags were frequent, but the reeds usually gave up their hold on a lure after a few jerks. However, when I glanced over at Roger, he was sitting morosely, his lure hopelessly snagged about 10 yards off the bow. We decided on a little mental torture and refused to move the boat. The three of us made a few more casts with no results, and since our banter was apparently falling on deaf ears, we up-anchored and drifted over to retrieve Roger's lure. With that accomplished, Ron got back on the oars and moved us to another spot.

With four anxious anglers trying to cast at the same time, a little mutual 48 NEBRASKAland cooperation was required to keep lures, lines, and rods from becoming tangled, but we managed. Roger's third toss from our new location was productive.

"That's more like it," he exalted as he began deftly playing the fish.

The landing net went into action again, and another two-pounder was added to the stringer.

Now our mechanic-turned-boat paddler was the only one without a fish. However, he was quick to point out he was also the only one who hadn't been snagged. Tying on another lure to re place the one I had just lost, I had to admit there was some value in his claim.

Aaron, the science teaching half of our schoolmen, had been silently casting away at the reeds for several minutes. His silence was broken by a loud whoop as his retrieve was halted in mid-trip and the drag on his reel began to sing. He snugged up the drag to slow the mad rush, then began to crank in.

"This one's got my four-pounder beat," he offered.

Just then the fish rolled to the top showing a broad back and wide tail that said conservatively 12 pounds. But his exact weight will never be known, not to us at any rate. Under the protective cover of Pelican Lake he performed one of those tricks with which seemingly hopelessly hooked fish have mystified anglers for years. Aaron's line went limp. "Well, I'll be," was all the disappointed sportsman could say. "Well, I'll be."

Even Ron and Roger were too disappointed to let fly with the usual asper sions on their buddy's angling ability.

The opportunity to land that big northern seemed to be the last Pelican was going to offer for a while. Thirty minutes of steady casting failed to produce anything, so by mutual consent we moved to try our luck with the tub of fried chicken that had been packed by thoughtful wives.

As we beached the boat we noticed a party of anglers hard at work filleting 10 nice pike. While we were out in the boat, they had been wading the shallows, and their luck had bested ours by seven fish. As others arrived at the parking area for their lunch breaks, we discovered that we were the only ones fishing from a boat.

"Wading is a darned good way to take these northern," one friendly angler volunteered. "You just pick one of those open patches of water and fish it."

'You mean stay in the same spot, working the same area, and you catch fish?" I questioned somewhat skeptically.

'You bet," another fellow answered. "Northern cruise in and out of those areas all day long. It's just a matter of time until one comes by your spot."

That was enough for Roger. Donning his waders, he headed for the lake to give the theory a try, then pulled up short as he remembered the fried chicken. "I'll try it later," he said as a drumstick began to disappear.

The wind began to churn the lake pretty well, and a few drops of rain peppered the windshield of the van where we were finishing our meal.

"No sense trying to row against that breeze and get drenched at the same time," Ron concluded. "We may as well sit tight for a few minutes."

A few minutes turned into the better part of two hours as both the wind and rain picked up intensity. But short naps interspersed with conversation made the time pass quickly. The rain was taper ing off and the wind was noticeably less as we piled out and headed for the boat.

"Now we'll get them," Aaron exclaimed as Ron again put his back to the oars.

The logical place to start was where we had boated the fish earlier, and our luck was with us again. Almost as soon as we got the first pike out of the net, two more were ready to come aboard. Those three joined the first three and our slightly rain-dampened spirits soared. All except Ron's. The fish still weren't cooperating with him. I had accounted for two more when finally the mechanic sounded off.

"At last," he said. "Get the net!"

I scooped up the two-pounder, glad that Ron had scored. Within minutes, while the rest of us batted zero, Ron hooked another only to lose him right at the boat. A few minutes later he got another strike and soon boated his second pike.

The wind decided to make a last-ditch effort for the day and chased us to shore again. Boating was out, so Roger decided to try his luck wading. He reported two or three bumps but no good strikes. So, when the wind finally gave up for the day, we headed out again, this time to some nearly submerged reed beds farther out in the lake.

Two more one-pounders were quick to come to Aaron and Ron, I lost another lure to the reeds, and as I was tying on a replacement, Roger gave a shout as his spoon, coming out of the reeds into open water, was taken with a vengeance about 10 feet from the boat. The northern shot straight for open water, rather than for the reeds, and his hastily chosen path took him right under the boat.

"Stand back," Roger shouted, half in jest and half in earnest, as he cautiously halted the northern's rush and started him back toward the boat and the waiting net.

"If he goes over four pounds, I'm throwing him back," Aaron joked.

But the science teacher's "record" remained intact. His pike was good for 3% pounds. A good fish, but not quite good enough, Aaron was happy to note. We didn't get into any big pike after that, but we did haul in several more of the scrappy one and two-pounders that are so plentiful in Pelican Lake. I lost two more lures and caught two more two-pounders trying with no success to coax out one of the big ones.

Our three stringers were heavy with fish, although none of us had our limit of six, as the on-again, off-again clouds parted to reveal a sun ready to set. Fish ing on the refuge ends at sundown, so our day on Pelican was about over. As we beached the boat for the last time we noticed the fishermen of the morning filleting fish again.

"We all filled out," they told us.

"I guess we'll have to forego the boat and try wading next time," Ron decided as we cleaned our own catch.

"Still, this isn't a bad day's work," he added, hoisting our sack filled with 12 pounds of tasty northern fillets.

"I think both methods have merit," Aaron decided. "If it's too windy to boat you can wade, or if it's pretty crowded wading like today, you can boat."

"Maybe the best method would be to combine both," Roger figured out loud. 'You could wade in the early morning and late afternoon, and fish from the boat in between."

"However you decide to go," I concluded as we packed up the van, "boating, wading, or both, it seems Pelican Lake doesn't have to take a back seat to many lakes in northern fishing."

And judging by the number of times the day's activities were relived on the ride home, I'm sure my new-found fishing companions couldn't agree more.

HOME SWEET WHEELS

obviously, not as many luxuries or even conveniences can be packed into 8 feet as can be put into IOV2. Although a toilet can somehow be squeezed into either, many eight-footers do not contain one. If toilet and shower are 'musts' then the longer slide-in is the best choice.

As I reflected on some of my experiences with campers I recalled a special coach for short-coupled four-by-four. Lots of sportsmen have questioned me about these. I used a four-by-four a few years back and took it into some tough places, but I think my feelings about the rig were based pretty much, afterward, on ordinary common sense. You don't have very much room, or very many "goodies", in a very small coach. Floor length is never much over five feet. Mine contained a stove, icebox, water tank and overcab and gaucho beds.

Such coaches are special jobs. They make nice little camps for back-in spots, but for family vacations or long-term trips they leave much to be desired. In some cases, particularly with a small motor in the vehicle, the rig is inclined to feel tail heavy and front-end light. I would never choose a short four-wheeler and coach over a standard pickup and coach for a general purpose vacation rig. After all, you can get into almost as rough country with a pickup as you can with a four-by-four.

Not many coach users really get off the road or trail and into truly rugged situations. It is unfortunate that some builders have advertised their products as able to "go anywhere". They can't, but they can go with great efficiency and comfort into most situations where the average sportsman or vacationer may wish to go.

If you haven't ever looked inside or stayed inside a 10 Vis-foot fully equipped pickup coach, here is how mine looks.

The over-cab bed is ample to sleep two persons. Its mattress is comfortable foam. There is a full-length shelf across the front for clothing, books, or what ever. There are lights for reading in bed or for getting up in the night. A small ladder leads to this bunk.

In the "downstairs" portion, my model is laid out with a side dinette that doubles as a second double bed. Looking from the rear door — slide-in coaches invariably enter from the rear — there is a large full-length wardrobe on the left. On the right is a bathroom enclosed in fiber glass.

On the right, is the refrigerator. A butane refrigerator is an optional, but you can have a 75-pound icebox as stand ard. Across from the refrigerator is the three-burner butane stove with oven and broiler. By the stove is a long counter space, and in the corner a double sink. The water tank is out of sight against the front wall, between the sink and the front part of the dinette. The dinette would easily seat four or more, and the table lets down to form the base for part of the double bed. Bolsters at the back and ends of the dinette fit in with the seats to form a very good foam mattress.

Of course, you can go on from these basic conveniences to add all sorts of items. I like intercoms. They make it possible to drive and converse or pipe music back to those who are lounging in the coach as you drive. You can have a "crawl through" boot that leads from the coach to the pickup cab. Some extra large models have a so-called "walk through" from coach to cab.

There's no need to be timid about driving a pickup and a coach. Coaches don't sway, they don't tip over, and they don't drive with any difficulty whatever. Of course, you need to have a good truck underneath.

All of the pickup manufacturers are now making what they term "camper specials" or some comparable term. This is a pickup outfitted with heavy-duty springs for camper use. I would suggest power steering and power brakes on all pickups used with coaches. Also, I would think in terms of the three-quarter-ton pickup even with eight-foot slide-in coaches. The three-quarter-ton is no larger. It is simply put together with a heavier frame and other more rugged components. By all means, go for the custom cab in any pickup. A standard cab is just too darn uncomfortable on long runs.

Heavy tires, and on the large units, truck-type rims, are best. The new, wide tires for use with coaches are excellent. If you do not like automatic transmissions, by all means consider a four-speed. However, the auto transmission is fine, if you get the proper kind. Two-speed

The weather precluded any fishing until the morning that I had to start back to Texas, but as I stowed my gear and got set to roll the mobile camp south ward, I was not disappointed. It had been a good trip, and I was well satisfied with the new rig. As I headed out I couldn't help but think that camp coaches are a perfect approach to the out-of-doors.

KATHIE AND JUBE

rain mudded a detour and their horse trailer bogged down. After unloading the horses and unhooking the trailer, Kay mounted up and scouted the perilous road ahead while Kathie drove the car. After five miles of tough, slippery going the car, along with several other trucks and autos, became stuck. A seven-hour wait later, help arrived and the girls headed toward Burwell. They pulled in to the rodeo grounds at 1 p.m., just in time to run the barrels.

Rodeoing is a game of strengths and weaknesses, and Kathie and Kay know each other's abilities pretty well. While Kay saves valuable fractions of a second by cat-whiskering the barrels, Kathie depends on Jube's speed. A big arena is to Kathie's advantage because Jube, who is one of the fastest horses on the circuit, has some running room. Both girls have confidence in their mounts and real ize that it is their horses' ability to a great degree and not their own that put them in the finals.

A barrel horse is like a finely tuned athlete. He must be willing to expend that ounce more of energy that makes him a champion. Unlike many professional barrel racers who have a string of horses to pick from, Kathie could only afford one horse and one pick. Luckily, she found, bought, and trained Jube. Many girls have the advantage of an experienced trainer, but Kathie started from scratch, teaching Jube while she taught herself. Although she made mistakes in training him, Jube turned out to be an exceptional horse.

By Tuesday night's go-round Kathie's stomach was tied in a knot. Jube, whom Kathie claims is the wiser partner, was ready to run. Kathie hung on while the horse streaked out a 16.9-second run. To keep in the lead, Kay had to have a good ride and she didn't get it. Her 17.4 seconds was good enough for second place in average time, but Kathie had the lead.

Although rodeo fans enjoy the change of pace offered by barrel racing, the sport appears to be relatively tame. It isn't, because like all rodeo events, anything can and does happen. Kathie's most spectacular accident happened at an amateur rodeo in Wyoming. As she was going around the third barrel, her horse tripped on a rock and fell over the barrel. Kathie went with the horse and the animal rolled on top of her. Fortunately, her only injuries were bad bruises.

But even without chilling spills, rodeoing is tough for a woman. Some rodeo stock contractors and producers consider rodeo strictly a man's game and fans are prone to agree with them. Barrel racing purses are often small compared to the men's events, so a woman has to place consistently to make rodeo ing a paying profession. However, competitors like Kathie and Kay are changing people's opinion and the trend is gradually turning in favor of barrel racing. Even the cowboys admit that it is nice to have gals in the arena. In their own joking way, they accepted the cow girls at one rodeo by tacking up a release that stated that the GRA held its annual beauty contest, and as usual, couldn't find a winner. The women took the joke with a smile, knowing that in a way they had been accepted.

What makes a girl like Kathie want to go on the professional circuit? "Rodeoing is lonely, especially when you are traveling by yourself as I do. But when I drive down the highway at night and see the house lights of people who are forced to work an eight-hour day, I know why I'm on the circuit. I'm as free as I want to be. I have a chance to tour the United States and make friends all over the country. A clock doesn't rule my day. Besides, I'm earning a living at something many people consider a hobby."

So far, Kathie's performance in this rodeo had been flawless, but so had Kay's. The National Finals had turned into a Nebraskan against Nebraskan duel and the fans loved it. By the seventh go round Kathie had increased her lead over Kay by 1.1 seconds. She could slack up a bit now and concentrate more on not tipping over a barrel. Kay, on the other hand, would need some hard riding to catch up.

For the Denton ranch girl, this week had been a blur of memories, a dream that wasn't happening, and seven days of tension. She had the lead, but one mistake could shatter her storybook set ting. The always talkative and friendly Kathie became a loner. She was afraid to talk to others and other performers were afraid to talk to her for fear of denting her psychologically winning at titude. No one had to remind her that one miscue could cost her everything.

Saturday night she watched racer after racer run the barrels, each grabbing for the crown she held tightly in her hands. But it was Kay, her fellow Nebraskan, who added to the tension with a 16.9-second run. The former Valentine rider was forcing Kathie into a faster, more careless run. She didn't take the bait and gave up four-tenths of a second to cut her lead to seven-tenths of a second.

Sunday, in the ninth, last, and deciding go-round, Kathie would run next to last with Kay last. Victory appeared to be hers, but rodeo titles are lost in an instant. Calmly, the Denton girl mounted up. Jube, sensing the pressure, side-stepped and shifted weight. At Kathie's signal, the horse ran smoothly toward the barrels. A fast time didn't matter now, just a safe run. She rounded the barrels in 17.4 seconds.

Earlier, Kathie had indicated that if she didn't win the title she hoped Kay would. Now, because of Kathie's slow run, Kay had a shot at the title. The Valentine rider would need to equal Kathie's 16.7-record run to tie for the crown, and horse and rider had that ability. But, when Kay swung a little too wide on the first barrel, Kathie knew she had the title. Kay, with a last run of 17.4 seconds, finished second in overall time.

As the 1968 National Rodeo Finals barrel racing champion, Kathie won a horse trailer, a championship saddle and buckle, hundreds of dollars in cash, and plenty of prestige. Nebraska's Buffalo Bill started rodeo here in the state, but world champion rodeo stars like Nebraska's own Jim Houston and Kathie O'Brien are keeping Cody's Old West heritage alive.

PLANES OF HISTORY

maintain peace. They also stand as tributes to this nation's technological skills. An example of this technological know-how is found in the drooping wings of a B-52. The wings were designed to be flexible in turbulent weather and thus reduce structural strain. The wings have a "flap" factor of 30 feet. The B-52 on display at the museum is the first of its model delivered to SAC.

Visitors prowling around this plane will notice two tail guns that resemble insect stingers. A story is told around Offutt of a young airman on guard near a B-52 who discovered radar-controlled guns tracking his every move. The tail gunner who had left the radar system on "go" may never realize how much discomfort his oversight caused.

Immensely complicated sections of this aircraft's electrical system are exposed under the plane's belly, around its land ing gear. The Hound Dog air-to-ground missile, lying like a puppy at its mother's side, was part of its armament.

Visitors glancing through the windows of the aircraft can see gray curtains, but they aren't for decoration. Instead, they were to protect the crew from atomic glare. The bomb bay, with its formidable bomb racks, is open to visitors although the inner compartments of this and all other museum aircraft are off limits. An adapted version of the B-52, fitted for conventional weapons, is presently "working" in southeast Asia. Another craft whose counterparts and descendants are busy fighting is the HH-19B or Chickasaw helicopter. The one at the SAC Museum is almost 15 years old but it looks factory new.

The space age, though it belongs to the present and future, is also repre sented in this museum of Air Force his tory. An Atlas missile, resting at the gates of the enclosure, is a prime example of man's ventures into rocketry. Atlas was made primarily of stainless steel thinner than a dime. It had to be press urized internally to keep it from collapsing.

Another is the Snark, the first long range SAC bombardment missile. Men who talk missile language refer to it as a high-altitude, swept-wing, single-engine, jet-propelled, intercontinental strategic bombing missile with self-contained, nonjammable, stellar-monitored guidance equipment. Translated, this means the missile went where it was supposed to. Joining the other display missiles at Offutt is the Titan I.

A new addition to the museum is the mighty Thor. This missile and its counterparts have flown 100 space missions with 93 percent success. Thor was the launch vehicle for the first satellite to achieve polar orbit. The first capsule recovered from earth orbit was launched on a Thor. Tiros I, the weather satellite, also went up on the nose of a Thor.

Inside the museum's display trailer is a replica of the famous "red telephone". Few boys can resist lifting the receiver to whisper, "Red Alert! Red Alert!" It's 52 NEBRASKAland all make believe, but the real thing, in the underground control center at Offutt, is within shouting distance. The trailer's replica of the SAC control panel is as close as the public can come to the real red telephone.

Among the memorabilia in the trailer is a World War II flying helmet, looking strangely like those worn by the World War I aces, Snoopy and the Red Baron. Photographs of planes unavailable for outside display fill the exhibition trailer, along with Air Force uniforms and pic tures of top Air Force "brass", past and present.

A look at the giant metal monsters that controlled the skies of yesterday, brings an awareness of America's past glories and the dedication of her fighting men — an awareness made more acute by the realization that maintaining peace is just as demanding as waging war.

PHEASANT'S DESTINY

dropped to 1 acre or less out of each 100. Pheasant numbers declined accordingly, despite the fact that we were shooting only cock birds.

The moral of this story is that environment makes the difference, and is the only thing that really makes the differ ence. How will this affect the future of the pheasant? Adversely, I regret to say. We cannot logically expect the pheasant environment to improve greatly in the future.

The probabilities are great that pressure on the land will continue to build and that retired acres will come back into agricultural use as human populations increase. We cannot expect, nor can we afford, to go back to the conditions that prevailed in this agricultural region when the pheasant reached his all-time high in the northern Great Plains.

On the other hand, we deal with a hardy and vigorous bird, one well equipped in every imaginable way to make the most of conditions in his range. After some 50 years of full-time experience with the ring-necked pheasant, I still marvel at his ability to survive and prosper under the adverse habitat conditions that prevail in most of his range. His performance is astounding; certainly hunting will never be the cause of his demise.

I cannot predict what agricultural practices may prevail a half century hence, but whatever they are, I'm sure that John Q. Ringneck will still strut across NEBRASKAland acres in gaudy, cocky display during closed seasons, only to disappear from this earth when hunting seasons open. He may not be as numerous as in the past, but he'll still be the most elusive and colorful quarry the hunter seeks, a prize that sportsmen will always cherish.

There is good reason for this opinion. I have followed and worked with the ring-necked pheasant for half a century, both as a hunter and as a game manager, yet with each passing year I have a high er regard and greater respect for this bird —the best all-around game species I have ever known.

Control of hunter take is very simple and very adequate. Control of nonhunter mortality is neither simple nor adequate. During my tenure in Nebraska I have done my best to manage the pheasant on the basis of proven biological facts rather than popular but unbiological fancy. I have tried to tell the pheasant story exactly like it is. The truth is the truth and always will be. If we cannot save pheasant environment, we cannot save the bird. That is why I persist in telling the truth to the best of my ability. That is why you, who read these lines, must persist in telling the truth to those who do not read these lines.

The future of the ring-necked pheasant in Nebraska rests in your hands, not in mine or the hands of any and all game managers who may follow me. Only when all of us understand and accept the truth can we solve the problem; only then will we make the necessary effort to save and improve as many acres of adequate environment as agricultural economics permit. That is the truth and the whole truth. On that truth rests the future of the pheasant in NEBRASKAland.

"Whatever will be, will be" THE END

Pied Piper. A high school band director in Wisconsin recently scolded one of his female saxophone players. It seems her tone quality leaves something to be desired. However, it's not that the feminine musician hasn't been trying to improve. And, whether simply circumstantial or not, while practicing on the pier at the family's vacation cottage, the noise at tracted five ducks, enabling her father to bag his limit quickly. Sometimes it's good to be bad. — Wisconsin

Wildlife Waste. An Oklahoma reservoir manager discovered many dead fish that he found had swallowed metal-can tops thrown into lakes by careless picnickers and fishermen. The small aluminum caps that are pulled off beer and soft-drink cans float and look like shiny, spoon-type bait. They are swallowed by the fish, but cannot be digested or passed and eventually cause death. — Outdoor Oklahoma

Game Management. Game management now includes most all wildlife, but how about butterflies? Extensive studies are now underway in an effort to learn more about the monarch butterfly's migration. The studies even include tagging monarchs. The most popular wintering place for monarchs is Pacific Grove, California. The community has such pride in its population of wintering monarchs that an ordinance protects the butter flies against molesters, with a fine up to $500 and a jail sentence of 6 months. Incidentally, anyone finding a tagged monarch should send it to the Royal On tario Museum, Toronto, Canada.- Canada

Landing A Whopper. Talk about a big catch, a New York angler recently 54 NEBRASKAland landed a 200-pound dandy, but he couldn't have the whopper mounted. Following another boat to sea, he saw one of the boat's three occupants catapulted overboard while taking a large crest. The New Yorker pulled up to the floundering victim and landed him. Moments later, he caught up with the lead boat and returned his catch. —New York

Why Still Small? A Maine angler caught a landlocked salmon that appeared to be in excellent health and a normal fish, but it had two mouths. Each seemed perfectly normal and evidently didn't bother the fish. This was indeed a rarity. However, the "mouthy" salmon was a quarter of an inch short of the legal length so the angler had to return it to the water. In doing so, he was somewhat puzzled wondering why the salmon with two mouths to eat with wasn't up to legalsize? — Maine

Beerography. Ever heard of "beerography?" Scientists are fishing up discarded beer cans from the ocean depths to measure sediment. They call it "beerography". The scientists know the approximate dates the cans were manufac tured, and are able to tell how much sediment has accumulated from that date. — California

Harness Fido. Taking the family dog along on your boating trip? Then outfit him with a body harness rather than a collar. A harness makes it easier to pull Fido out of the water with a boat hook if he falls overboard. —Outdoors

Turtle With A Name. Back in 1933, Grant Lancaster of Addison, Pennsylvania, caught a land turtle and carved his initials and the date on the turtle's shell. He then released the turtle to go on about its business. Some 34 years later, Lancaster's nephew found this same turtle. His uncle's name and the date was still perfectly legible. Also, the turtle was found on the same hill where it had been caught over three decades ago.— Pennsylvania

No Pink Elephant. When Natural Resource Officer Vincent Carraciolo investigated a motion in some brush along the Rhode Island border, he never dreamed an African elephant would emerge. The animal forced the officer to retreat to his car and followed close be hind him for some four miles. The officer called for help, but the radio dispatcher listened in disbelief. Eventually, the officer and his follower stopped near a hayfield and made friends. The police arrived on the scene shortly after discovering that vandals had released "Candy" from a local barn. Candy returned home and the officer returned to work, but the radio dispatcher is still wondering. — Massachusetts Wildlife.

PLUM CREEK MASSACRE

fatal, instantly, and he fell dead at my feet. In another instant, three arrows penetrated my brother's body. He, too, fell at my feet."

Nancy tried to kneel beside her brother and discovered two arrows were lodged in her side. She tried to withdraw them and at that moment her captors closed in.

"A horrible old warrior came up to me and demanded me to go with him. I immediately told him, 'No!' Before I could utter another word, he drew a large whip from his belt and began whip ping me severely. But I soon made an effort to escape him and started to run when two warriors came after me and ordered me to stop, or they would kill me. I told them I would rather die than be led into captivity."

The 19-year-old had no illusions about captivity. On an earlier trip to Colorado, she had watched a battle between the Utes and a mixture of Cheyenne, Sioux, and Arapaho. Nancy knew that a prisoner of the Indians seldom had any future.

She tried to get away, but the two Indians overtook her and again demanded she mount an old pony, or they would shoot her. The girl fought, but the braves tossed her on the pony and led her to the wagons. All were plundered and nine were on fire. Indians who weren't looting were busy rounding up or killing the Morton stock.

Done with their work, the Sioux regrouped and prepared to move out. It was then that Nancy was reunited with little Dannie Marble. They were hoisted up behind two old chiefs and riding double made for the Indians' base camp hidden in the canyons. The boy was crying and this irritated his captor. He cuffed the youngster severely, trying to shut him up. By luck, the girl was be hind Chief "Red Cloud". She, too, was screaming and crying and her captor threatened her many times, but he never followed through. It is probable that Nancy erred in identification of her captor as Red Cloud. It is possible that her Red Cloud had the same name but he was not the same man as the Sioux chief who was a friend of the whites.

In her account, Mrs. Morton tells of tearing her apron into small pieces and scattering the swatches on the ground, hoping they would be found and lead to her rescue. The Indians were moving fast and apparently didn't realize what she was trying to do.

The Morton massacre was seen by the operator at Plum Creek Station, and he tapped out a quick message to Fort Kearny, but the cavalry there didn't come dashing to the scene. Colonel Samuel Summers led a troop out, but apparently this officer was in no mood to tangle with any Indians and become a hero. His men were on fresh horses, yet it took them 11 hours to reach the scene of the massacre, some 35 miles away. A two-hour lunch break didn't help. When the territorial newspapers got wind of this dillydallying, they practically de-hided the reluctant colonel with their editorials.

Nancy didn't realize it, but she was the victim of an organized attempt by the Sioux, Southern Cheyenne, and Arapaho to rid the Platte Valley of all whites from Julesburg east to the Little Blue River. The Indians were increas- ingly alarmed by the growing numbers

The tribesmen picked their time well. All of the hard-bitten detachments of the regular army that had guarded the various trails west were off fighting the Civil War. They had been replaced by volunteers who did their best, but they were few and thin for the task.

Emotionally keyed up, Nancy had not paid much attention to the arrows in her side, but when the Indians finally stopped, she was painfully reminded of them. A Frenchman, who had apparently stayed in base camp while the Indians raided, offered her a penknife to remove the barbs. The girl did so and discovered she had two broken ribs.

Dannie was too young to fully understand this nightmare, but he knew that Nancy was his only refuge. Several times the Indians, irritated by his yowling, threatened to kill him. Finally, Nancy indicated that he was her "papoose" and they turned him over to her. She comforted the boy as best she could and probably saved his life. Later on, Dannie was "traded" off. Whites in contact with the Indians made a deal for him and the youngster was freed. His final fate is unknown.

Ransom or trade off was Nancy's hope, but her captors weren't going to give her up without some sharp bargaining. This was a fairly common practice among the Indians. They knew that the whites would do practically anything to rescue one of their women. So, the red men used them as insurance against attack and as trade bait for supplies. The bargaining was usually carried out by half-breeds, or trusted traders who had an "in" with both races.

The attitude of the woman, herself, often decided her fate with the Indians. If she was spunky and defiant, the braves usually left her alone. If she was a weep er, they had their sport with her and then killed her. Nancy was all fire and in her five month's captivity got along fairly well, especially since she enjoyed the protection of the chief and the respect of the warriors. Big Crow hated her, but the others kept him from killing her. Later, Big Crow was hanged for his crimes by the whites. Still, she had some hairy experiences. Her captors were usually on the move and that was an ordeal, but worst of all were the raids.

The Indians delighted in taunting her with the grisly trophies of their exploits. Soon after her capture, one of them tossed the bloody scalp of her brother in her face, while another paraded by, wearing the coat of her husband. She demanded he give it to her and surpris ingly he did.

One of her worst experiences came when Big Crow, her archenemy, killed a woman. He came back to camp and tossed the severed feet and hands of his victim into her face. But none of these equaled the terrible ordeal of watching one of her own sex tortured at the stake. A white girl had been captured and brought into camp. Somehow, she had managed to hide a pistol on herself and when one of the Indians tried to lift her off a horse, she shot and killed him.

The enraged braves tied their victim to a stake, cut numerous gashes in her, filled the cuts with gunpowder, and ignited it with hot irons. Finally an old squaw stopped the sport. She begged the men to tomahawk the girl to save her further suffering. They did.

They were continually testing Nancy's courage. One time the squaws gathered a lot of wood and piled it around a stake. They led their captive out and went through all the preparations of burning her at the stake. The girl faced her tormentors down, saying she preferred death to captivity.

Negotiations for Nancy's release were attempted from time to time, but the Indians kept raising the ante on her at the last minute. They felt that she was the widow of an important man and worth more than the run-of-the-mill prisoners. White authorities dared not try a forceful rescue, for her captors would have killed her out of hand.

Nancy's captors were holed up in the Big Horn Mountains of Wyoming when she was finally ransomed. The Indians got their price. Late in December of 1864, Jules E. Coffey, a French trader, made the deal. Major John S. Wood, commanding Fort Laramie in the Wyoming Territory, authorized Coffey to give the Indians 6 horses, including the Major's pet gray mare, 3 sacks of flour, 40 pounds of coffee, 75 pounds of rice, 4 packages of soda, 1 sack of table salt, 1 sack of powder, 30 pounds of lead, 22 boxes of caps, and 1 saddle. Still that wasn't enough.

Twenty yards of bed ticking, 2 spools of thread, 10 combs, 10 butcher knives, 1 box of tobacco, 30 bundles of beads, all colors of paints, 3 papers of needles, 1 rifle, 3 revolvers, 5 blankets, a belt and saber, and 2 new government coats joined the growing pile of supplies before the Indians were satisfied.

Her captors finally agreed to let her go on condition she come back and visit them in six months. Nancy's promise came easy, for she had no intention of keeping it.

Her return through wintry Wyoming was almost as bad as her captivity. She had to keep moving from fort to fort down the long trail to Fort Laramie. Her rescuers did not want to tarry, for a favorite Indian trick was ransoming prisoners and then recapturing them to start the whole business over.

Finally, Nancy reached Laramie, and after a rest retraced the heart breaking trail of the summer before across Nebraska to arrive at her home in Sidney, Iowa on March 9, 1865. Some months later, Nancy remarried and moved to Monroe County, Iowa, where she and her husband farmed. She had four children, one dying in infancy. Finally, this gallant woman, who had faced death so many times, died on August 24, 1912, 48 years and 17 days after the Plum Creek Massacre.

NEBRASKAland POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

A GRACIOUS reminder of decades past, Brownville serenely surveys the lazy Missouri River from atop rolling hills. Once a bustling community, the town stopped the pages of progress when railroad transport eclipsed its river trade. Today, the little town's Victorian styling offers a "come on in and set a spell" welcome to visitors. And visitors do come, from 2 to 5 p.m. every day through the summer, to the colorful town nine miles east of Auburn on U.S. High way 136.

Brownville was founded in 1854, and in its heyday as a river port, as many as 16 steamboats were in sight of the com munity at one time. Cargo brought up river was transferred to freighting wagons for the trek west, and it was not uncommon to see trains of 26 to 60 wagons moving through town in the middle 1800's.

The town has a lively history, much of it still on display. One of its more inter esting features is the restored land office looking just as it did when Daniel Free man signed the nation's first homestead papers there in 1863.

In 1860, the first telegraph message from Nebraska went out from the village to St. Joseph, Missouri. Later, the first coast-to-coast wire operated through the river town. The first-floor stone walls of that telegraph office may still be seen.

Some of the town's old residences, including the Carson House, are open to the public through the summer months. The charm of these old homes lies in their 19th century atmosphere of courtesy and hospitality. The Brownville Museum, the dentist's shop, print shop, land office, as well as several antique shops, the Stoneground Mill, and a pottery shop are open daily. All-day group tours may be prearranged to include other mansions that are open only by appointment. A call to Jane Smith at 712-625-2791 or to the Brownville House, 402-825-4721 will set up appointments.

Modern equipment and pain-killing drugs will not be in evidence at Dr. Clarence Spurgin's old dental office on Main Street. The chair and all its accessories are straight from 19th century days. For tunately, the office is for show and not for business.

Beginning on July 4, the Nebraska Wesleyan Players, in residence at Brownville, will give weekend perfor mances in the Village Theater on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at 8 p.m. and on Sunday at 3 p.m. Starting August 5, the Players will give Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evening shows and a Saturday matinee.

Far to the west of historic Brownville, another art form, that of nature, expresses itself in a vibrant rush of wings. Nature lovers of all kinds, especially bird watchers, will find a haven at Crescent Lake National Wildlife Refuge in Garden County, Nebraska.

Although the bison has given way to the Hereford, and the soft footfall of the Indian pony has been replaced by the growl of trucks, this area of grass-covered sand dunes and small lakes north of Oshkosh on State Highway 27, is still a refuge for many species of wildlife.

Located almost in the middle of the great Central Flyway, the area provides a safe resting place for thousands of migratory birds. Among the fall and spring visitors to Crescent are mallards, gadwalls, widgeons, pintails, green and blue-winged teal, redheads, canvasbacks, lesser scaup, buffleheads, shovelers, and ruddies. A great variety of marsh and water birds is also attracted.

Fishing is permitted in two of the refuge lakes. Northern pike abound and black bass are taken occasionally. Anglers should stop at the headquarters building for regulations governing Crescent's angling. Fishing is permitted during daylight hours only from January 1 through September 30 on the refuge's posted areas.

Camping is not permitted at Crescent Lake, but there is a public campsite in Oshkosh, 28 miles south of the refuge. Concentrated in a relatively small area, the variety of birds and animals offers a fascinating menu to the nature lover. Those who visit Crescent Lake agree that it is one spot in Nebraska that is literally "for the birds."