Speak Up

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

August Speak Up is devoted to replies to a June request for readers' opinions on NEBRASKAland's Hostess of the Month feature. The request stemmed from a subscriber's published objection.

Hostesses of the Month are selected from candidates who ran for the title of Miss NEBRASKAland at the annual NEBRASKAland DAYS beauty pageant. If a candidate cannot be featured, girls who are rrqueens" of another event or organization are selected. Hostesses are costumed to emphasize a major NEBRASKAland activity described in the monthly Round Up. — Editor.

LET'S BRAG —"Regarding our beautiful Nebraska girls featured in each issue, the comments here at the lodge are all good. Everyone we have heard says they enjoy this portion of the magazine. We have a lot of beautiful girls in our state, so why not brag about them?" — Fisher men's comments, Medicine Creek Lodge, Cambridge.

NUDIST CAMP-"You put out a wonder ful magazine, but I agree with 'a subscriber from Cambridge'. The human body is a wonderful piece of work. Your June hostess belongs in a nudist camp." — Pearl W. Goesch, Edgar.

AT A LOSS — "Now they've done it. Some one dares to compare my favorite magazine to some 'cellar publication with a lookout at the doorway'. Just how your magazine rates a ban-the-filth program I'm at a loss to comprehend.

"Just what is a 'decent-looking girl' supposed to look like? Perhaps a sincere smile and the radiance of good health emitting from these gals is just going too far. How dare you derail our thoughts from the daily grind of beat niks, peaceniks, hippies, yippies, and air pollution with girls who are well groomed, attractive, and intelligent. It should be stopped I tell you, no one has a right to be this healthy —disgusting!

"In the meantime, please be careful in choosing the gals you feature in Hostess of the Month section. You just may in fluence the young people of the nation — I hope.-Bob Lewis, Lander, Wyoming.

GIRLIE PICS DON'T BELONG-"We agree with the subscriber from Cambridge. Since NEBRASKAland is a family magazine, we would prefer to see the hostesses more fully clothed.

"There are too many magazines filled with girlie pictures — available to children — without having it in our state magazine, too!

"We all know NEBRASKAland girls are the best."—A subscriber, Papillion.

DON'T LOOK —"In your June issue, a subscriber said that you were putting in decent, semi-dressed girls in your magazine and destroying its worth. Well, I'm sure there are few people who find a girl in a bathing suit 'dirty'. I see nothing wrong with revealing one of the beauties of our great state. If the subscriber wishes to omit the one page in which this girl is shown, he should simply cut the page out.

"I consider your book, our book, because it tells everyone how wonderful and exciting our state is." —Tom Robinson, Crete.

AGREE —"I certainly agree... about the hostess feature — especially the one in the June issue. Why can't they be dressed for a picture in the magazine? ... why not give us a good clean magazine?" — Elmer Nelsen, Berwyn.

LOVES THEM-"I am 74 years old and I just love the monthly hostess beauties. I don't understand how anybody could find them disgusting. The June one is lovely, too, but so are the others. Please do not change."—Sister Theona, Mt. Alverno, Mishawaka, Indiana.

NAUSEATING-"Let us vote with the subscriber who doesn't like naked women. Continue the feature, but have the subject at least decently covered. I for one, am very disgusted with females in the nude. You see them everywhere — television, magazines, and billboards. If you are honest, you will agree all nude bodies look the same —nauseating! Put some clothes on them and maybe people will look at their faces and find them pretty." —Mrs. M. Christoffersen, Powell, Wyoming.

LET OTHERS SEE-"NEBRASKAland is one of the better publications on the newsstands. Keep the Hostess of the Month in the magazine. Let other states see our good-looking girls." —E. H., Lincoln.

LASCIVIOUSNESS 'You asked for readers' ideas on your hostess pictures. I for one believe they are vulgar and get ting worse. If folks are honest there would be no one who would admit that there is anything pretty about a woman's bare abdomen or navel. To a decent individual it is nauseating. We weren't made to show off* before the public...

"It is a sin called Tasciviousness' in the Scriptures. Look up the meaning in the dictionary." —Mrs. Harm Junker, Gothenburg.

REASON PEOPLE LEAVING-"I feel it is reassuring to know that Nebraska produces such attractive young ladies as Miss Alice Marie Weil.

"The person who would deny beauty equal representation with the other produce of the state —be it cattle, horses, or a strikingly beautiful sunset —is guilty of denying nature...

"In my opinion the views of such as your Cambridge subscriber are a leading reason for the youth to leave the state. Keep showing such pictures as in June issue and you may cause the arrival of new residents.." —John E. Finley, Denver, Colorado.

PINUPS DON'T BELONG-"I agree whole heartedly with the subscriber from Cambridge who declared that pictures of near-nude girls do not belong in a family magazine... Why ruin a good magazine with suggestive pinup girl pictures? Please discontinue this practice at once..." —Mrs. Louis D. Lutes, Loup City.

DON'T HIDE-"For Heaven's sake, don't hide Nebraska's No. 1 asset —its pretty girls. I am for the hostess feature," — John Wilcox, Los Angeles, California.

CIVILIZED —"I agree with a 'subscriber from Cambridge' as to the barely-dressed girls' pictures. And the full-page picture in the June issue is a good illustration of the point a subscriber points out...

"Just look in a catalogue where you will find numerous good-looking swimsuits which cover up part of a body. If young ladies wouldn't buy the skimpy bikinis, maybe manufacturers would stop making them. After all, we are supposed to be civilized, not pagans.

"It would be commendable of NEBRASKAland if you would insist on   pictures of hostesses who are partially covered..." —Mrs. Ruth L. Buettner, Grand Island.

SCANTIER—"Please continue the Hostess of the Month. There is certainly nothing indecent about the photographs you publish. Doesn't the Cambridge subscriber or his family ever go swimming? He would see many girls dressed even scantier." —Paul H. Rougeux, Harris burg, Pennsylvania.

MEN'S MAGAZINE?-"Your cover girl, Miss NEBRASKAland, is lovely and exactly the type to grace the front cover of a magazine like yours. We subscribers take the magazine because we love the state of Nebraska and want to learn more about it. A picture of a pretty girl adds something to any publication, but must they be half naked? I don't believe NEBRASKAland is meant to be a men's magazine. Most of the pictures are very lovely and acceptable, but the bikini borders on the edge of being too much." — Mrs. Fan Nelson, South Sioux City.

GOD'S CREATION-"God created the 'Ladies of Loveliness' that you honor in your Hostess of the Month. You present them to your readers as worthy of our admiration. There is not the slightest connotation of venality in your presentation and it is hoped that you continue this very fine feature."-C. T. "Ted" Linden, Birmingham, Alabama.

OUT WITH SEMI-NUDITY-"I would like to join with the other reader who resented the bikini-clad models in NEBRASKAland. It would be refreshing to have at least one periodical that doesn't throw semi-nudity at its readers." — Ruby Heine, Omaha.

OUR FINEST PRODUCTS-"It would seem the objections are unfounded since the purpose of these photos does not fall within the same category as that alluded to in other newsstand magazines. "There can certainly be no harm in displaying some of NEBRASKAland's finest products and in a manner which should find no objection from anyone." — Dick Johnson, Lincoln.

MORE CLOTHES-"I, too, feel just like the lady who signs herself 'a subscriber from Cambridge' about the Hostess of the Month. Your magazine has a lot of good reading, but please put more clothes on your girls. It's getting so one can't open up a magazine without revealing such smut. Please keep our magazine decent, so we won't be afraid to have them around young people." —A subscriber from David City.

LIKE FRESH AIR-"By all means, keep the Hostess of the Month feature. With our polluted society heading toward self destruction, it's like a breath of fresh air to see those lovely, wholesome, intelligent, and talented gals from the Cornhusker state." —Carl H. Brehm, Elm Grove, Wisconsin.

NUDEST YET —"I am in complete agree ment with the subscriber from Cambridge ... about the pictures of semi-nude girls. The June issue contained the 'nudest' one yet. We ran her measure ments through the computer and the answer is 82 percent nude and 18 percent covered. Let's have pictures of good old NEBRASKAland like the June front cover...

"We don't have to look at pictures of semi-nude women, because all we have to do is walk out on any street... and we can see the real thing in vulgarity." — Lloyd M. Campbell, Dallas, Texas.

THUMBS DOWN-"To the subscriber from Cambridge... I say 'thumbs down.'

Each month I look at the hostess first to see just who it is that welcomes me to read your magazine, and I usually find a very beautiful surprise. Your state really has something there, so I say 'keep it up'" —J. Mark Simiox, Underwood, Washington.

BRAINWASHED-"Nebraska is my home state, and... perhaps I have not wanted things to change, and to think there is one state in this wonderful country of ours that has not extended sex as the only way of life...

"We have all been brainwashed for several years to where we accept advertising, books, news media especially, and sex articles. These are not presented in the proper way, and so have contorted the young folks until my heart aches for them.

Yes, I would hope as a subscriber wrote you, that we could be given some hostesses who would mean something to all ages —not just bare skin." — Reba Pedersen, Canoga Park, California.

GREAT-"I think the girls are great, every one of them. Anyone who thinks they are not must be living in the dark ages.

"I am a native Nebraskan who left with my parents when a very small child, returning last fall for the first time in 40 years to visit relatives in Wakefield, and I fell in love with Nebraska. While I was there (for only one week) I was privileged to see quite a lot of the eastern corner of the state. I surely plan to come again and often and perhaps one day to come to live there." —Philip T. Cbinn Jr., San Jose, California.

NO MORE NAKED GIRLS-"Since Nebraska is my native state, I am deeply interested in NEBRASKAland's contents. As the subscriber from Cambridge said in the June issue, it's a clean magazine. I agree with him. But I also agree with his protest against pictures of the Hostesses of the Month. In my opinion the feature is out of place.

"Please, please, please do not show us any more naked girls__I can cite at least 50 names of people, men and women, who disapprove of the Hostess of the Month. As one man said, 'How disgusting a naked woman is.' ' — Mrs. W. W. Hess, Mount Vernon, Iowa.

NICE TO LOOK AT- "I don't find anything displeasing with the hostess feature. I hope you continue with this, as a pretty girl is always nice to look at... We can easily see a lot more legs just going down the street." —Wally Ellyson, Homer.

FED UP —"Referring to your request in the June NEBRASKAland that readers state their reaction to the hostess feature. I say emphatically — discontinue it! It ruins an otherwise wonderful magazine.

"I do not consider myself a prude, but like millions of others in this great country, I am getting fed up and bored with naked female flesh. On the streets, in the stores, on TV, and in every newspaper, magazine, and book we are fed this same diet.

"NEBRASKAland surely brings the clean air of Nebraska's rolling country side, evergreen-clad Pine Ridge, and the pure water of its streams into our homes. Why pollute it all with naked women?"— Another disgusted subscriber, Edgemont, South Dakota.

KEEP IT UP-"Keep the hostess, because it completes a wonderful magazine. Would the Cambridge subscriber want to close the swimming pools, girls basket ball, and others? Also why doesn't he or she use a name? Don't let the girls down." — Mr. and Mrs. Dave Jensen, Omaha.

DISGRACEFUL - "Referring to the picture of the hostess in the June NEBRASKAland, I think it is disgusting and disgraceful." -Mary Hettinger, Gordon.

PART OF SCENERY - "I feel that the Host ess of the Month in NEBRASKAland is pleasing. I think that these pretty girls are a part of our Nebraska scenery and should be enjoyed along with the rest of Nebraska..." - Walter Cody, Petersburg.

MORE MEANINGFUL-"I have no objection to the gals, young or old, having their pictures in the magazine. But it seems to me the feature would be more meaningful and interesting to a larger majority of the readers if the ladies pictured were featured for special accomplishments rather than the amount of bare skin they are willing to show." — Grace Baldwin, Newport.

THE LONGEST NIGHT

THE SANDBAR was almost as familiar as home, but that night's holocaust of warring elements made it strange, an enemy to be conquered or outlasted. I had bWn looking forward to that 1968 goose hunt and had persuaded Bert Kunz to go along. It was his first hunt at our Missouri River blind, and the way things were turning out it would probably be his last.

We left early on December 12 from Ord where Bert has a drive-in restaurant and I have a grocery store. We were already packed and prepared. As he clambered into the pickup, I asked Bert if he had any matches. Neither of us did, so he went back for some. That short, extra trip was to prove a lucky break.

All loaded up, with appetites whetted for geese, we started out for the pits near Lynch. We arrived early and went right out on the river to set decoys for the morning flight. I grabbed a sack of food from the pickup and hurried to the boat. Unfortunately, I clutched a sackful of steaks, bacon, and eggs instead of the lunch-meat sandwiches intended for our noon snack.

After putting out the decoys, we concealed ourselves in the pit located on a "wet" sandbar, and began our long wait. At about 4:30 p.m. we decided to go in without having seen or heard a goose. We hadn't eaten all day. The wind had gradually risen to a howling banshee, and though we hadn't noticed it before, now the blowing sand closed us in. We realized then that we couldn't see or hear a goose if a whole flock flew right over our heads.

With a 60 to 70 mile-an-hour wind howling around us, we picked up our decoys and started down river for a higher and drier sandbar, towing the decoy craft. I pulled up to a vertical bank of that sandbar, instead of taking the time to find a beach —my first big mistake. As we pulled the shallow-draft aluminum decoy boat up, our other craft jammed against the bank and was swamped by the waves. We floundered to the sinking vessel and grabbed what we could of the food — a package of bacon. I latched onto a heavy bar thinking that I could pry our boat from the ledge, start the motor, pull the plug in the bottom, and drain the water out. Luck wasn't with me in that venture, however, for the boat was stuck fast. We removed the motor.

As we struggled in, our chest waders and gloves became solid 8 NEBRASKAland sheets of ice, broken only where movement formed a "joint" in the glaze. Instead of adding to our discomfort, however, the frozen cloth ing seemed to provide a windbreak against the zero temperatures. We learned later that the wind-chill in dex reached 35 below that night. Sand and snow were blowing, and though it wasn't quite sunset, it was so dark we couldn't even see our feet.

We knew we needed a fire, for warmth and to signal anyone looking for us. Two other hunters were supposed to meet us and I knew they would be missing us by now. To find fuel, we shuffled our feet along the sandbar. Every time we ran into something hard we stopped and felt it —wood, stone, or dirt?

We dragged our fuel to an old pit and luckily found a piece of canvas for shelter. We lit a fire on the edge of the pit, using the gasoline rescued from the boat and Bert's lucky matches. A spark and then a blaze as the gasoline took hold. The wind was so terrific that the flames could eat up a big log in minutes, so it was a constant effort to feed our fire.

I returned once to the boat, hoping it might have washed off the ledge to where I could drain it. It was frozen in.

Through the long night we huddled around the fire. Bert charcoaled some of the bacon, but I couldn't eat it. The icy chest waders kept us relatively warm, but Bert kept saying that he could sure go for a nice, comfortable bed.

We saw shore lights through breaks in the blowing snow, and we knew someone would come to rescue us, come morning. At about 2 a.m., however, all the lights vanished. About an hour later, we noticed that our eyes were burning. Both of us knew that sand and snow were literally blasting our eyeballs. Every thing turned red and seemed larger than real. As time passed the pain became almost unbearable, yet we had to keep feeding the fire. Earlier, we had found two discarded rolls of snow fence and we kept pulling the laths for firewood, but the supply was running out. About 3 a.m. we decided to pull the fire into the pit it self. The temperature wasn't much warmer, because we had to leave it open to let out the smoke, but the wood did last longer.

Hour after long, cold hour passed without signs of rescue, and even first daylight didn't bring help. It was 11:45 a.m. before LeRoy Angel's form loomed large at the edge of the pit. The news had spread that we were missing and LeRoy, who lives in the area, had joined the searchers, but it had taken most of the morning before the river calmed enough for navigation. LeRoy had two empty seats in his boat and we tumbled in. From 5 p.m. on December 12 to 11:45 a.m. on December 13 we had survived the worst Nebraska could dish out. We had suffered some eye damage but fortunately it wasn't permanent. Neither of us had any frostbitten fingers or toes. However, my boat, split by the ice, was ruined.

We were taken to a doctor in Lynch where our eyes were treated, and from there we returned to Ord where we spent two days in the hospital for further treatment.

As soon as I got out of the hospital and caught up on my work, I was out on the river again, looking for geese, but I learned a lesson. If I had handled the boat the right way, we wouldn't have been dumped. But the worst part of the whole episode is the fact that we didn't get a goose.

Roundup and What to do

SUMMERTIME AND the living is easy. The dog days of August saunter lazily onto the scene, but they bring with them a host of events that promise sizzling activity. Do-it-yourselfers head for cooling water and its offerings, while others find pleasures amid a calendar full of scheduled events.

Capturing all the excitement and warmth of summer days is the August hostess, Margaret (Marti) Thomas, who was voted Miss National Council of American Indians. She was also first runner-up in the Miss Winnebago page ant last summer.

Marti is a 1968 graduate of Archbishop Ryan Memorial High School in Omaha where she was a varsity cheerleader her senior year. Her spirited squad won grand-champion honors at the Illinois Cheerleaders' Contest, a meet which covers the Midwest and Great Lakes regions.

Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Peter J. Thomas of Omaha, Marti hopes to specialize in physical therapy when the fall semester begins at John F. Kennedy College in Wahoo. Her busy schedule now includes part-time employment at Gibson Products, secretarial duties for the Indian Community Center Association in Omaha, and her hobbies, sewing, sports, and modern dancing.

The first special invitation extended by NEBRASKAland's Indian princess is to colorful Pawnee Days in Genoa, the official Pawnee Capital of Nebraska. Historical pageantry, livestock shows, and the Pawnee Warriors Saddle Club Horse Show are highlights of the three day celebration which begins August 1.

On the same weekend, a second community celebration of fame and fun, the Nebraska Czech Festival, whirls into action in Wilber August 2 and 3. The treasured heritage of the Old Country melds into the spirits of 20th Century descendants for two days of the most brilliant, whirling festivities of the summer. Juicy, golden-brown duck, steamy dumplings, and sauerkraut tantalize appetites as happy polkas delight toe tappers. Parades, pageants, carnivals, and displays of native crafts and antiques keep all adventure seekers on the go. The good cheer and hospitality of Czechs, dressed in bright native costumes, reflect a sunny, summer welcome.

Also sharing the same gala weekend is Bancroft's annual celebration honor ing Dr. John G. Neihardt, Nebraska's poet laureate. Even though Dr. Neihardt's Study and Prayer Garden has been open to visitors since May, August 3 has been set aside in his honor for statewide observance. The first Sunday in August was proclaimed by Governor Tiemann in 1968 as Neihardt Day in Nebraska.

Atkinson features its own fun and frolic on August 4 and 5. Better known as Hay Days, the celebration boasts all the excitement, action, and color typical of NEBRASKAland. County fairs share the spotlight, too, as all of NEBRASKAland's 93 counties go all out in celebra ting the bounties of the good earth (For a complete listing of county fairs and their scheduled events see page 46).

Nebraska's Big Rodeo breaks from the chutes in Burwell from August 6 through 9. All performances will begin at 1:30 p.m. at the fairgrounds. The RCA-sanctioned cowboy colossal will feature wild eyed broncs, snorting bulls, slippery steers, and wild-horse racing. A total purse of almost $10,000 makes the action fast and the competition keen.

A second favorite NEBRASKAland sport is football, and August will please gridiron enthusiasts with the Shrine Bowl Game at Lincoln's Memorial Stadium on August 23. The northern Nebraska team meets the southern squad for the charity game, which stars top-notch athletes from winning high school teams across the state.

August carries the ball in more than one instance as the scene changes from the football field to a baseball diamond when Hastings steals the sports scene with the Little World Series beginning on August 28. Eight teams will compete for the national championship of the American Legion Baseball program. This is the fourth year Hastings has been chosen to host the event, which is expected to draw 50 to 75 major-league scouts. A major-league baseball star will be the guest of honor at a pregame banquet on August 27.

"Back in the Saddle Again" provides lyrical transportation to the next August destination. For country-music enthusiasts, Brownville hosts its annual Country Music Contest on August 30 and 31. Western classics as well as the latest "country-politan" hits will echo through the Missouri bluffs.

August's variety show of events also includes the State Rock Show, August 30 through September 1. All rockhounds, whether professional or amateur, are invited to attend the third annual show at Omaha's National Guard Armory.

A bit of pre-pioneer America is on display this month as the Winnebago and Omaha Indians stage their annual powwows at Winnebago and Macy. The two events attract tribesmen from practically every state. Costumes, rich in symbolism, add their colors to the dancing, drum beating, and just plain visiting that are highlights of the Indians' year. Practically all the various dances have either a cultural or religious significance, and help keep old traditions alive among succeeding generations. Although dates have not been firmed up at press time, the Winnebagos will stage their powwow early in the month. The Omahas will meet later.

As this month blends into September, the season's summer spectacular begins. The Nebraska State Fair swings open its gates on August 29 for seven action packed days. Grandstand entertainment for this year's Centennial Fair headlines Frank Sinatra Jr., from September 1 through 4. Bobby Vinton and country western singers Don Gibson, Way Ion Jennings, and the Stonemans will also appear. Other highlights for this year include the 1969 National AAA Shorthorn Sire of the Year Show, Demolition Derby, and auto races.

The State Fair is NEBRASKAland - its people, communities, industries, hobbies, and pastimes. And, like August, it presents a panorama of the state.'s prairie heritage, present achievement, and future dreams.

TOOLBOX TO TACKLE BOX

A GOOD knife is strong, eye pleasing, and above all, sharp. Such a knife can be made in two or three evenings with a minimum amount of work, materials, and tools.

1. A power-hacksaw blade, 12 inches long, VA inches wide, and .062-inch thick, a hardwood dowel big enough to shape into a handle, 20 inches of soft wire, a piece of quarter-inch iron rod, and some epoxy are all the materials needed. Hacksaw blades are obtainable from hardwares and metal-working shops. Although difficult to grind and impossible to cut or to drill by ordinary methods, the blade requires no special heat treating or tempering to insure strength or edge-holding ability.

2. Design is established by outlining on the hacksaw blade and grinding to shape. Grind slowly and quench the blade frequently in water to avoid loss of temper.

3. Cut a slot in the dowel to accommodate the tang and shape the wood to fit the hand. Cut a shallow groove, one-quarter-inch wide around the handle about one-half inch from the forward edge. Deer antler may be substituted for wood if desired.

4. Drill a one-quarter-inch hole through the handle to match the hole in the blade. Apply a thin coat of epoxy to the tang and slip it into the slot, aligning the holes.

5. Cut a pin from the iron rod and tap it through the holes. Let the assembly dry for an hour or two.

6. When the epoxy is set but not completely dry, drill two small holes through the handle in the groove. Insert one end of the wire in a hole and wrap the wire tightly around the handle. Push the end of the wire through the other hole and draw it tight, running the end along the tang. Fill the groove with epoxy and let dry overnight. All that remains is to sand off the excess epoxy with fine sandpaper.

Polishing and whetting the blade and varnishing the handle if desired complete a knife that will rival any commercially-made product for durability and service.

HOSTILE HILLS

ANTICIPATION OF MY trek into Nebraska's Sand Hills wilderness had made the last few weeks of school snail by. ^But now,, with massive Indian Hill looming ominously against the dark, brooding sky, realization was here. I was meet ing this primitive Snake River country on its own terms. My only links with the 20th Century were the mules pulling a blue and-gold wagon and the horse I was riding.

But these Sand Hills are my home and as a Moreland I was raised with sand in my blood, sweat on my brow, a gleam in my eyes for the wide open spaces, and adventure in my heart. My two cousins, Steve Moreland and John Fairhead, were brought up the same way. That is why we blow off a little steam on a three-or-four-day vacation each summer before the heavy ranch work starts. In past summers we have packed along the Niobrara River, canoed that waterway, and paddled down the Snake River. The jaunts weren't far, and we didn't spend a lot of money, but to us these rugged hills around Merriman spelled adventure.

Earlier, Steve bought an amiable pair of mules called Bonnie and Clyde and that was reason enough to plan a cross-country trip to the Snake River and (Continued on page 51)

THE BAFFLING MUSHROOM

THE WARM NEBRASKA sun glows overhead as the youngster lunges free from the adult's restraining grip.

"Here, Grandma, are these O.K.?"

The questioning child fidgets impatiently and awaits the verdict. Given a nod of approval, the small fingers go to work filling the basket. Object of the quest is the much sought-after and oft-maligned delicacy known as the mushroom. And, an afternoon afield in search of the most delectable of the species often takes on all the most exciting aspects of a full-blown treasure hunt.

NEBRASKAland mushrooms come in a multitude of shapes and sizes and colors, a far cry from the drab commercial types found on a vegetable counter or packed in a can. With over 3,000 varieties found in the United States, this incredible spongy growth has baffled collectors for years. They come in common umbrella shapes associated with fairy tales and mischievous elves and in familiar bench-like growths firmly attached to old logs and trees. But wherever they are found they add color to Nebraska.

In Europe, specially-trained hounds are used to ferret out the delicacy known as truffles. And, weight watchers should be particularly fond of mushrooms, since they have not a single calorie.

Mushrooms and their kin are all around, even in the backyard. And, while spring is mushroom time, they can be found throughout the summer and up until frost. Still, this complicated "plant" remains one of nature's greatest mysteries. In reality a fungus, the mushroom can be a gourmet treat or a deadly poison. Some may be only mildly poisonous or simply disagree able to the taste. Thev will affect individuals differ ently, and what may be one man's favorite could be another's poison, so mushroom pirates must pick their treasures carefully.

All of which adds up to a very confusing state of affairs, and there is no easy way out for would-be mush room hunters. The best bet is to go after such an easily recognized, edible species as the morel and make sure to take along a veteran collector the first time or two out. However, there is one cardinal rule that should never even be bent —look, gather, but do not eat until absolutely sure of the variety. Not even experts can determine the "baddies" from the "goodies" without a sample to examine.

On the other hand, those with a sense of adventure, who enjoy the hunt as much as the treasure, will find mushrooming an agreeably pleasant excuse for prowling the underbrush, soggy marshes, and timber. And, NEBRASKAland offers a vast variety of these tempting fungi to reward the eagle-eyed searcher.

Their multitudinous hues range from a pasty white to pastel pink and from uninspired gray to lavish gold. To make identification an even greater challenge, a single species may changes its colors like the chameleon as it matures.

The lowly mushroom sprouts forth throughout NEBRASKAland to tease the unwary and the initiated alike. It comes to remind man of the inscrutable mysteries that he has not yet found the key of knowledge to unlock.

Whether pursued for plate or for pleasure, the prolific little mushroom will continue to issue its challenge. Watch for it the next time you are afield. You may be amazed at what you may have overlooked in the past. And, if you look closely enough, you might even see a tiny, green-clad pixie perched in its shade. THE END

A PRETTY GOOD DAY

KAREN WOLFE APPRAISED the rain-threatening clouds with an anxious eye. The crappie fishing at Sherman Reservoir near Loup City was looking good, but a sudden cloudburst could ruin her new hairdo, and that hairdo had to hold up for a busy week of activities. As she intently watched the sky, her red-and-white bobber did a circle dance and disappeared into the blue-green water. The tug of the crappie automatically triggered the Ord angler's instinct to set the hook.

Even the electronic marvel of a slow-motion, video-tape replay would be hard put to actually show what happened in the next split second. But it all started when Karen hefted the 8-inch crappie out of the water, and the fish shook free of the No. 6 hook. A dedicated angler, the housewife scampered after the flopping fish, lost her footing, and made a Willie Mays' slide down the bank into waist-deep water. The more she thrashed around, the deeper she slipped.

From her husband, Duane's viewpoint, 30 yards away, it appeared that the crappie had caught his wife instead of the other way around. As he jogged down the shoreline toward her, his look of concern turned into a smile, and the 26 NEBRASKAland smile into laughter. Karen, holding her rod above her head, and watching the crappie that she somehow had managed to throw higher on the bank, was also laughing between yelps that the water was cold.

"At least I saved the fish," she chuckled as her husband, an insurance man, reached down and pulled her up the bank. "My hair isn't wet, either."

"Seems like you stirred the fish into biting," a nearby angler laughed as he put an 11-inch crappie on his stringer.

"You may have caught a crappie, but I just landed the biggest lunker of my fishing career," Duane guffawed. "It's not everyday you can land a catch like this."

"It's not everyday that a dedicated angler will fall in the water to save (Continued on page 48)

PARTNERSHIP FOR PLEASURE

ACRES AND ACRES of cool, green grass stretch out under the prairie sun inviting everyone to * come and play in Kimball County. There's a place for strenuous team games like trapshooting, and quiet, smoke-scented meadows for picnicking. All because Kimball's city-planning board had some ideas.

But green grass wasn't the only green laid out in the development of Kimball's recreation area. A lot of cash was needed to hatch an idea into reality. The story is long and important, full of visions, visions 28 NEBRASKAland in the minds of the planners. These visions were ones of kids and adults playing and even grandma and grandpa quietly enjoying a little welcome leisure time.

The seed of the recreation idea was planted in Kimball back in 1965 when the country club decided to convert its sand-green golf course to grass. But there was no water to irrigate the proposed golf course. It was then the government turned its benevolent face to Kimball, and the seed sprouted. The country-club site was to be part of an Interstate 80 tract.

The City Planning Commission then started look ing for a new location —one with water. Just as they were digging test holes on their proposed spot, the Land and Water Conservation Fund Act was passed by the U.S. Congress.

This federal act was designed to help cover the entire country with adequate recreation facilities. It is set up here on a cost-sharing basis with the federal government paying 50 percent. In Nebraska the state shares the remaining 50 percent, half and half with the local political subdivisions. This 50-25-25 system makes possible programs that a local area could not handle alone.

All levels of government are involved in the Kimball project —federal, state, county, and city. The program is administered on the national level by the Bureau of Recreation, Department of Interior. In Nebraska, the Game and Parks Commission is in charge of the land and water funding program. Only political subdivisions may participate in the program and only outdoor recreation projects are eligible. The completed facilities must be public.

Right now there are about 70 programs worth an estimated $6 million on the Game Commission's list, waiting for funding. It all takes time. Before applying for funds, the subdivision's representatives must decide what they're going to do, where, when, and how much it will cost. These are all essential to application for federal moneys.

Kimball had some ideas, so city planners met with former governor Frank B. Morrison and asked if Nebraska was going to participate in the land and water program. Governor Morrison assured the delegation that the state would. Game Commission members joined the conference group, and after more discussion, the Kimballites returned home to draw up their recreation program.

It soon became evident that the recreation center could be best handled by sharing costs and responsibilities as well as benefits with the county. City planners contacted county officials and city and county agreed to share both construction and maintenance costs on a one-third, two-thirds' basis with the city paying the larger portion. The city-county agreement produced the Kimball City and County Park and Recreation Board of six members, four from the city and two from the county, to administer the proposed project. Authority for this partnership came from the Interlocal Cooperation Act passed by the Nebraska Unicameral in 1967.

Starting with the essential irrigation well, the plan grew like a giant strawberry patch, sending out runners that bore their own fruit. Visions grew and expanded. How about a tennis court? Maybe a baseball diamond? Maybe two or three? Lots of kids play base ball. Better have some good bleachers, too, because lots of parents like to watch their kids play. How about Softball? Of course, we'll have a golf course — that's where this whole thing started. How about an archery range? Trapshooting? We've got to have picnic facilities — everybody loves a picnic.

And so it went. Kimball watched with interest as the proposed recreation spot blossomed with ideas. In October 1965, after months of state-level negotiations, all interested political subdivisions of Nebraska were, invited to a conference in Lincoln. The conference was to provide the means to apply for land and water funds. Kimball representatives submitted its proposal at that meeting.

The proposed project site was purchased under the cost-sharing system of the act. The 259.8 acres cost a total of $40,500. A gathering of local resources brought in the needed 25 percent of the local cost, including a $10,000 donation from the country club.

More months of negotiation, consultation, and planning followed. Finally estimates were made, contracts let, and construction started. It had been two AUGUST 1969 29   years since the Land and Water Conservation Fund Act had passed.

In the spring of 1967, the planning bore its first fruit and vision began to be reality. The archery range was opened, but with the opening, other problems presented themselves. The completed construction had to be maintained. But Kimball was ready. A special mill levy had already been passed to support the proj ect—again two-thirds from the city, one-third from the county.

Gradually, one by one, the various parts of the recreation picture filled themselves in. There are now four ball fields. One for baseball and one for softball, both with concrete bleachers and dugouts, and one Little League baseball diamond and a softball field with aluminum portable bleachers. A rest room-con cession building constructed of concrete block and lights complete the ball playing complex.

There is a 9-hole grass-green golf course with a sprinkler-irrigation system, and 85 adjoining acres which have been seeded for future expansion to 18 holes.

The picnic area includes 12 grills and 12 picnic tables. A double tennis court tests the skills of players while a shufneboard court has less strenuous play. A 30 NEBRASKAland park administration building, a maintenance build ing, and a trap range complete the entertainment facilities.

Rest rooms and fountains add to the area's comfort and convenience. A nursery is filled with trees that are being nurtured in a protected area until they are strong enough for planting in the project space. The roads are graded and some are hard surfaced.

An administrator's residence and a swimming pool were deleted from the original plans because funds ran out. Later, however, these additions may be completed.

All of this cost $247,927.89 plus the $40,500 for the land, altogether $288,427.89. Of that amount, the city of Kimball paid $48,071.32 and Kimball County paid $24,035.66.

Kimball will open its recreation development officially on August 10, 1969, four years after the first idea was born. Everything that could be was contracted. In some instances, however, no bids or unsatisfactory bids had forced the public agencies to do the work.

Today there's lots to do in Kimball — thanks to a few men with ideas and to federal-state cooperation. What's even better, more and more NEBRASKAland communities are following Kimball's lead.

BORN TO HUNT

IT WAS A CRISP, clear November morning, just the kind that pheasant hunters and football fans begin thinking about some time in June. My dad, my wife Ginger, and myself were spread out, walking through a milo field near the little town of Cordova, Nebraska.

We were matching wits and talents with Seward County's pheasant population. Although our being there did not put the species in any grave danger, the beauty of a Nebraska autumn day and the enjoyment of good companions gave the outing that special charm that all pheasant hunters understand.

I was being especially careful not to mar the stock of my newly acquired superposed on a protruding milo 32 NEBRASKAland stalk. I had recently purchased the gun over Ginger's objections and was determined to show her I had "a lifetime investment."

As I walked along, I had begun to daydream, and, of course, this was exactly when a big, gaudy cock pheasant chose to interrupt my reverie by cackling into the air at least 40 yards in front of us. It was the kind of target that you mull over in your mind, decide it's out of range, and then on the shells-are-cheap theory, decide to have a go at it.

Triggering a charge of No. 6's, I nearly fainted in disbelief when the bird tumbled. Although I take a measured amount of ribbing from my regular hunting partners regarding my shooting ability, I didn't stop to gloat over what even the most cynical would have to acknowledge as a great shot. I've hunted John Ringneck long enough to know that this particular bird was down, but a long way from being in the bag.

I accepted congratulations from dad and Ginger while on a dead run to the spot where I had marked the bird down. My confidence was somewhat buoyed by the fact that my prize had gone down in a plowed field adjacent to the one we were hunting, and as I got closer I was thrilled to see tail feathers protruding from behind the only clump of weeds in the entire area.

As I was almost on him, the bird came into sight from behind the weeds, and then disappeared behind a large clod of dirt. I pounced on the clod and came up with a fistful of dirt. To make a long story short, the three of us combed that field for more than 30 minutes and never turned up the rooster. Typically, he had disappeared into thin air. I was crestfallen. No one would believe the story of my long shot, and a bird was crippled and would probably be lost.

On the way back to the car I loudly and flatly proclaimed to my wife and father, as well as a number of assorted cows and other livestock, that, "Next year, I'm going to have a dog!" Now this may not seem like an earthshaking pronouncement until you consider that at the time we were living in an apartment where dogs, cats, birds, children, and anything that might suggest gaiety and disportment were frowned upon by our scowling landlord.

However, fortune, and not the landlord, smiled upon us, and with the new year we purchased our own home in Lincoln. Before the ink was dry on the sale contract, I was casting about for a hunting dog.

At one time or another I settled on every breed from Irish setter to Bassett hound, but most of the time I looked for a field-bred English springer spaniel. I knew they are No. 1 dogs for pheasant and also that they are easily trained and make excellent companions. I had wistfully read numerous classified ads for hunting dogs for over a year, but when I was ready to actually buy a dog, the market seemed to go dry.

My dilemma was solved when Lonnie Ackard, who lives near Emerald, offered a fine litter of springers for sale. Ginger and I drove out to Lonnie's place the same evening the ad appeared in the newspaper, and on a below-zero winter's night went about selecting a dog from a litter of eight beautiful, silky pups. I picked each and every one of the eight pups at some time during the evening, but Ginger kept bringing me back to a big, black-and-white male. Needless to say, that is the dog I finally purchased. Our new house wasn't quite finished, so my wife's parents agreed to keep the pup, whom I named Mike, until we were ready to move in.

The big day finally came and I set right to work with Mike and found that true to their reputation, springers make excellent pupils. The springer, or most any hunting breed, is born knowing how to hunt. What you have to do is teach them some manners. With Mike, I began by teaching him to sit on command. This may seem to be starting at the wrong end, but the fact is that the command to "come" can most easily be taught to a dog who already knows "sit" and "stay". And any hunting dog who won't come when called is better off at home sitting on a silk pillow.

Besides that, "sit" is an easy command to teach. With Mike, I simply pushed down firmly on his rear and said, "sit" in an even, firm voice. In two evenings he was doing it by himself.

"Stay" is a little tougher. You must give the command while holding out your hand, traffic-cop style, and then start walking away from the dog. When Mike tried to follow me, I simply took him back to where we started, gave him a "sit" and a "stay" and started walking away again. With a two-month-old pup this took some patience, but in a couple of more evenings Mike was doing a very creditable job of staying where he was put.

Of course, it bothered him to see me moving away from him. Oh, how he wanted to follow, and I capitalized on this desire in teaching him to come. About the time he just couldn't stand it any longer, I would give the command "come" and blow the training whistle.

I failed to teach Mike to walk at heel when he was a youngster, and I almost lost him to a fast-moving auto as a result. That got my attention, but quick, and I taught him "heel." Now he always walks at my side when we are entering or leaving a hunting area.

Springers are natural retrievers, and Mike was no exception. At first he was very enthusiastic about picking up a thrown object, but then he thought you should chase him for a while. A little work with a check cord put him straight on that score, and we progressed to playing our own special game of hide-and-seek. I would hide a canvas boat bumper doused with pheas ant scent and turn Mike loose to find it with the assistance of a few hand (Continued on page 48)

BIRTH OF A CREEK

WHEN A white-tailed deer's time is upon her, she selects a sequestered spot to birth and nurture her fawn. And so it is with a NEBRASKAland creek carrying the appropriate name of Whitetail. Like its namesake, Whitetail is born in an inconspicuous basin in the central Sand Hills north and west of Keystone.

The creek's birthplace on the George McGinley Ranch is as hard to find as that of a fawn's. Even the most seasoned of observers can walk within 50 yards of the spot and still be unaware of the emerging stream almost below his feet. The narrow basin, some 120 feet below the surround ing terrain, owes its obscurity to some unusual topography. The hills roll southward in a gentle gradient toward the North Platte River, with the basin at the bottom of an abrupt break off in the relatively flat tableland. Sheer-wall bluffs guard the tiny spring that mothers the creek. Unless the observer is directly in front of or behind the break off, his eye follows the extending tablelands and overlooks the narrow gap between.

Just as the newborn fawn faces seemingly insurmountable odds against survival, so does the brand-new creek. For the first few feet of its life, Whitetail must defy the absorbent sand, withstand the drying sun, and either bypass or carve through a series of topographical and geological obstacles before it reaches the bottom of the basin. But the creek, like the fawn, possesses an indomitable will.

Thread narrow and pitifully shallow, the seepage that is the beginnings of Whitetail Creek leaves its mother spring at the base of a bluff and inches its slow course toward the basin. Like an inquisitive fawn, the young creek errs many times. It probes here, recoils there, pools some where else, flows and falters, but driven by the inexorable law of gravity, it wins through to the basin floor and the start of a growing channel.

Like the fawn who lies tight in his bower, the creek hesitates in the basin, gathering strength for its journey to the river several miles away. But just as the wild community discovers the hidden fawn so it discovers Whitetail Creek. Grass is its first companion, for small and feeble as it is, the tiny rivulet has water's inherent magnetism for greenery. At first, only a blade or two trust their destinies to the tiny brook, but as the stream grows, the grass gains confidence, and by the time the creek reaches the basin, a record of the effort is blazed in vibrant green.

Just as the small ones of the wild become accustomed to the fawn, so do they become acquainted with the creek. Attracted by the food and shelter of water and grass, small animals and smaller insects become part of the creek's environment. These furtive, residents sense that the creek itself poses no threat to their well-being just as the gopher, the kangaroo rat, and the nesting meadowlark trust the fawn.

The developing deer soon outgrows his need for mother's milk and thus it is with the creek. As the fawn turns to other foods, the creek turns to other sources for nourishment. Scattered springs, bubbling from the bases of adjacent bluffs, add their strengths to the original brook, preparing it for its journey to the river. Just as the fawn begins to investigate his immediate world, so does the creek. It meanders into a backwater, reverses, and cuts a miniature oxbow. It then leaves that and attempts a new channel, recoils, and returns to its original course. But like the fawn who does not stray too far from the protective doe, the creek stays in the basin until it is well ready to leave.

As the weeks go by, the fawn changes his appearance and so does the creek. The deer sheds his dapples of white and jersey for a coat of somber tan while the creek trades its vivid greens of early life for the darker sheens of bulrush and cattail.

Both stream and deer grow rapidly. The water measures its development by distance, the animal by time, but both mature in relatively short spans. And as they grow, both heed the overpowering urge to mingle with their kind. The fawn becomes a member of the herd, while the creek, once free of the basin, is impatient to meet the river.

The parallels go on. Both entities have voices. The fawn learns to bleat and snort, while the creek talks in trills, gurgles, and chatters. Both discover their weapons of defense. The fawn uses hooves and head; the creek employs quaking bog and pockets of treacherous quicksand to protect itself. Each avoids man —the deer through in stinct and the creek because it is on private land and public access is rigidly controlled. Whitetail Creek depends upon gravity for mobility while the fawn furnishes his own, but stream and animal get to wherever they want to go.

There are striking similarities between the animal and the creek that bear its name, but there is one destiny they cannot share. The fawn is born, develops, lives, and in due time he dies. The creek is immortal, for to paraphrase Alfred, Lord Tennyson's poem, The Brook, "For deer may come and deer may go, but I go on forever."

THEY WORE WINGS

ADVENTURERS ALWAYS seem to crop up when they are needed, and certainly a staunch crop ^ of them was needed in the days when flight was in its infancy. In the toddling days of the air age, a number of men with the urge to soar above earthly troubles, or with the vision to see something big in the future of aviation, were quick to grasp the opportunities offered them.

One such man was the late Raymond Page, a car dealer from Friend, Nebraska. Page knew that flight was here to stay, so he took steps to help the "aeroplane" through the growing pains. He was among the earliest to acquire his pilot's wings, probably in World War I. In 1919, Page purchased a sizable stock of air plane parts when a Lincoln bank disposed of them at a mortgage auction.

Soon, Page put the parts to good use. He began manufacturing airplanes at his auto-mechanics' school at 24th and O streets in Lincoln. While most of the country was still enraptured over the marvelous motorcycle and motorcar, still in early development, Page was turning out excellent flying machines.

There were few manufacturers of planes in those days, although a growing number of young men were clamoring for them. Page found he needed pilots to deliver aircraft to his customers, so it was logical to have his flyers teach like-minded men. Page opened a flying school, and expanded his mechanics' training to include aircraft engines. Word quickly spread that men could learn to fly in Lincoln, and soon a stream of bright-eyed youths and a few business-minded realists gravitated to town. Page never gave lessons. He was too involved with the building of planes to fly them. Among the bevy of daring and proficient instructors that Page had on tap was "Sergeant" Encil Chambers, who now lives just north of Princeton, Nebraska. Chambers was a parachutist of some renown, having established a world record by jumping from an altitude of 27,000 feet. "Sarge", as everyone called him, joined the staff as superintendent of the plant. He knew Page very well and speaks highly of him.

"Ray was a tremendous personality," Sarge replied when asked about the air-age pioneer. "I guess reliability was his most notable trait, but he was an all-around fine fellow."

On April Fools' Day 1922, a tall, lanky kid pulled in from the east on a grubby motorcycle. He was Charles A. Lindbergh, and he didn't look like much. His leather jacket and high boots were covered with the grime from the several hundred miles of dirt and gravel roads between Lincoln and Madison, Wisconsin.

Lessons were expensive - about $300 for 10 hours instruction. Young Lindbergh didn't have that much 40 NEBRASKAland money, but he had enough to get started and he was willing to work. Above all, he had a burning desire to fly. Some of his colleagues recall that "Slim" Lindbergh helped out around the field to pay his way.

"I never knew him real well," explains Sarge, "but I remember when he first pulled in on that motorcycle. He was a very likable fellow...seemed to get along with everyone. I guess the reason I didn't know him better was because he was pretty shy and quiet."

Within a few days after going up the first time on April 9 with pilot Otto Timm, the likable Lindbergh was ready to solo, but he didn't. He was described as being a "natural" pilot. For his own reasons, Lindbergh took his last three lessons in parachute jumping rather than piloting. His first jump was over the old Lincoln field at 1,800 feet with a borrowed chute. The fact that the plane he used was sold to E. G. Bahl may have influenced Lindbergh's decision to switch. Bahl was going to use the Page-built Lincoln Standard "Tour about", worth about $3,500, to barnstorm in southeast Nebraska. Lindbergh, needing money, decided to accompany Bahl on the tour for a share in the profits.

Barnstorming was a sure money-maker. The usual procedure was to feature a wing walker or parachute jumper to give the folks a thrill, simulate a "dogfight", and sell rides in the plane. People would stand in line for hours and pay several dollars for a few minutes' ride.

Things apparently went well on the tour, for young Charles had money in his pockets when he returned to Lincoln. Later, he went on a second tour with "Page's Aerial Pageant." After barnstorming, Lindbergh be came involved in other aspects of flying and never made the required solo flights in Lincoln. Therefore, it was not until some time later that he actually became a bona fide pilot. Before making his epic nonstop flight from New York to Paris in 1927, he took another year of pilot instruction in Texas and flew the mails.

Lindbergh went on to become the most heralded flyer of all time, but giving him his initial push into aviation was only a small part of the overall contributions made by the Lincoln institution. Page's aircraft were becoming world famous. In addition to his Lincoln Standard, he made the PT or primary trainer.

About the time Lindbergh was parachuting in southeast Nebraska, a noted lecturer, E. G. Sias, became interested in the downtown school. His automobile developed mechanical trouble, so he stopped at the shop to see if its mechanics could locate the ailment. While watching the operations he became intrigued with the plans of the Lincoln Auto and Tractor School and decided to buy in. He (Continued on page 46)

The Young Science

LIMNOLOGY IS THE study of the physical, chemical, and biological properties of inland bodies of water. These studies of the processes going on in the aquatic environment are of growing interest to all, for man is dependent on water. Already, there are critical problems of water supply and quality in many parts of the world, and these problems will increase as populations and technologies advance. The limnologist plays a key role in helping provide knowledge leading to effective management of present and future water resources.

Limnology is still young compared to many other sciences. It began in the 1850's in Europe, but it wasn't until 1875 that studies were conducted in the United States. In Nebraska, D. Bruce McCarraher initiated the first intensive surveys of the Sand Hills lakes. From 1954 to 1961, he collected physico-chemical and biological data from 1,640 lakes. In 1965 the Fisheries Division of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission established an office of limnology at Hastings College. This field station has both office and laboratory facilities. The college's Department of Biological Sciences and its staff, Dr. Wendell Showalter, Dennis Aylward, Gilbert Adrian, and Carl Throckmorton, participate in research work and act as consultants.

Thanks to this staff, Nebraska waters have come under intensive study. Efforts were concentrated on the larger reservoirs and many of the interstate lakes.

During the past four years an assortment of sam pling gear has helped collect facts on temperatures, AUGUST 1969 43   dissolved oxygen, algae, the chemical features, zooplankton, benthos, primary productivity, food habits of small fish, and light-penetration data. This data enables the limnologist to piece together reservoir dynamics and learn the relationship of the life in it.

Primary productivity studies, which measure the photosynthetic activity of algae, have been conducted at a small interstate lake. Photosynthesis is the process by which plants absorb carbon dioxide from the water, and by using chlorophyll, transform or manufacture these basic compounds into usable food with sunlight furnishing the energy. A method using radioactive carbon-14 is being used successfully to measure this rate of transformation. Water samples are injected with radioactive carbon-14 and are then suspended in the lake for a 4-hour incubation period. The samples are then filtered and the filters placed in a radioactive counter. The amount of carbon uptake is counted, and the photosynthetic rate is determined.

Thermal characteristics of lakes and reservoirs are of great interest to limnologists. Electric thermometers measure temperature stratification with read ings recorded from surface to bottom at intervals. From fall to spring, the deep lakes in Nebraska are "homothermous" — the temperature is the same from top to bottom —while in summer a thermal stratification occurs. A top layer, or epilimnion, of warm water forms, and from wind agitation, contains an adequate supply of oxygen. The bottom layer, or hypolimnion, which is formed of denser, colder water, contains little or no oxygen due to biological decomposition. These two layers do not mix because of density differences and are separated by a thin layer of water called a thermocline. In this zone the temperature gradient is very sharp and is characterized by a diminishing oxygen supply.

Stratification of lakes is important to fish because they are confined to foraging in the epilimnion due to the lack of oxygen in the hypolimnion. The depth of the upper, well-oxygenated area can range from 5 to 30 feet depending on atmospheric temperatures, depths, and other factors.

Light penetration is very important in the production of plankton and other organisms in the water. The amount of light entering the water is measured with a small round disc lowered beneath the surface. The depth at which it disappears is the "visibility limit" and is an indirect measurement of productivity.

Water samples are analyzed in the laboratory for a complete water-quality report of each lake. The samples are tested for total dissolved solids, sulfates, nitrogen, total alkalinity, hardness, turbidity, iron, and dissolved oxygen. The collection of water-quality data serves as an index of chemical characteristics and helps project fundamental fish-management practices for each lake or reservoir.

The collection of biological data provides an estimate of the variety and volumes of organisms available in each lake. This information is important in determining the relationship involved in the "food chain". This chain is the complicated sequence of food beginning with bacteria and algae which are eaten by small animals, zooplankton, rotifers, water fleas, copepods, and others. Each of these in turn is utilized by such insects as mayflies. Small fish then eat the insects and in turn are eaten by larger fish.

Algae samples are collected with a small, conical, fine-mesh net which is towed vertically from the bottom to surface. A device resembling a torpedo with a metering device to measure the volume of water strained, collects zooplankton samples. Zooplankton identification and counts in the laboratory take many hours of work.

Zooplankton data is expressed in number of zooplankton per liter of water, which is a quantitative measurement allowing comparison between lakes. For example in 1967 the seasonal average number of zooplankton per liter of water for Red Willow Reservoir was 106; Sherman County Reservoir, 75; Medicine Creek Reservoir, 71; Pawnee Lake, 29; Bluestem Lake, 28; and Harlan County Reservoir, 25. Because zooplankton serves as a major food source for small fish, 44 NEBRASKAland its availability has a relationship to survival and growth of fry and fingerlings. This, of course, is of direct interest to a fisheries' biologist.

Other members of the biological community important to the environment are the bottom dwellers or "benthos." Samples dredged from the bottom of each lake are concentrated and the organisms are then identified, counted, and weighed. Benthos productivity is expressed as number of organisms per sample and serves as a comparative measurement for individual lakes. In 1967 the average number of benthic organisms in Bluestem was 336; Wagon Train, 152; Red Willow, 95; Harlan, 50; Enders, 43; Sherman, 35; and Swanson, 7. Benthos organisms are important in the diet of young fish.

One member of the benthos community, the midge larva, comprises 80 to 90 percent of the total food volume of certain species of small fish. Lakes which are low in benthos productivity will probably have poor fish production. Water-level fluctuations and the accompanying wind and wave action on the bottom are responsible for small benthos populations in the larger reservoirs.

Because young carnivorous fish actively consume organisms from the zooplankton and benthos populations, food-habit studies have been initiated at Red Willow to determine which organisms small bluegill, largemouth bass, and crappie prefer. By examining stomach samples, it is also possible to determine what proportion of the total food in the lake is being consumed by fish.

Generally, the limnologist only records and interprets data and seldom has a chance to alter conditions. However, turbidity is one area where research has been conducted to successfully alter the turbidity of small bodies of water. Throughout Nebraska there are many ponds that have large amounts of negatively charged clay particles in suspension. These affect light penetration and ultimately, fish production. Recent experiments have been conducted with various synthetic chemicals known as "polyelectrolytes" that are capable of clarifying muddy ponds without harming aquatic life. These organic, positively-charged compounds attract the negatively-charged clay particles and form floe or lumps which settle to the bottom.

The cost of treatment varies from 32 cents to $5.60 an acre-foot depending on how muddy the water is. However, if excessive colloidal turbidity can be effectively reduced, the cost is not prohibitive for treating small ponds. The increased fish production and other recreational values resulting would offset the expense.

Studying the waters of Nebraska is not only important to recreation seekers, but also for the waters used to produce fish for stocking. An ailment known as "gas-bubble disease" has intermittently plagued a few Nebraska fish hatcheries for many years. Trout, being more susceptible than warmwater species, have suffered the greatest losses. This disease is a direct result of super-saturated nitrogen concentrations in the water supply. Utilizing an intricate device, measure ments have isolated the excessive nitrogen source and corrective measures have been taken where possible. These have resulted in decreased mortality.

The accomplishments of the limnology project have been rewarding. Among them is a better understanding of the various characteristics of many lakes and reservoirs in Nebraska. Water-quality data also gives a record as to a lake's suitability for stocking of new species. There are other benefits, too.

The results of the monthly zooplankton and benthos collections give a better understanding of seasonal dynamics and food sources available to fish fry and fingerlings. Primary-production studies provide important basic understanding of early links involved in the aquatic food web. Using various chemicals to clarify muddy farm-pond water makes it possible to change unproductive, low-quality fisheries into high-quality ones. The isolation and correction of various diseases in fish-hatchery water have increased total production.

In the final analysis, limnology, directly or indirectly, improves fishing by improving the quality and the number offish available to the angler.

WHAT TO DO

THEY WORE WINGS

became one of the directors and later president of the organization. Eventually, he took over the entire school from Page.

Page was engrossed in the building of planes, so Sias concerned himself with promoting the training aspects. A program of expansion and national advertising began. A slogan, "Train in Lincoln", soon appeared across the country, and shortly thereafter the old building was not large enough to accommodate the demand. New quarters were constructed as the Lincoln school grew in popularity. The two men, Page and Sias, parted company about that time. Page used a field 46 NEBRASKAland south of town adjacent to the Memorial Park Cemetery. Sias, meantime, moved the flying school to a 160-acre tract northwest of Lincoln on land which is now the Municipal Airport. Peter Orr of Lincoln, who was field manager at the time, recalls the setup.

"There were three buildings on the plot. A large hangar was the center of activity, and adjacent to it was the administration building. The two buildings stood until sometime during World War II when they were torn down to make way for expansion of Air Corps facilities. The third structure was a small T-shape hangar belonging to the Mutual Flying Club of Lincoln. The club members owned two planes and leased a third one."

One day in the early 1930's while the club members were in Beatrice to help dedicate its new airport, a tornado ripped their hangar down and scattered it over two miles. The same twister lifted Orr's spanking new cloth-top Model "T" coupe from its parking place near the big hangar and deposited it unharmed on the other side of the locked gate, some 50 feet away. Fortunately for the club members, all three planes were with them when the twister shredded the hangar. Because aviation was new and experimental, many colorful events seemed to happen to those early-day fliers. Two of them stick in Orr's memory.

During an afternoon rainstorm, an out-of-town pilot stopped by. He landed his craft quickly and dashed into the hangar to escape the downpour, then turned just in time to see his plane go up in smoke. Despite the rain, the fire, apparently from an exhaust spark, burned the entire cloth covering away in a matter of minutes.

Another young man purchased his first plane and couldn't wait to show it off to his family. Dashing off to his farm home west of Lincoln, the lad brazenly landed his fancy craft in a nearby field and promptly smashed it into four pieces. The early rigs were fairly uncompli cated and all but the most heavily damaged could be patched up to fly again.

Page's planes sold like the proverbial hot cakes for several years, so fast, in fact, that he could not keep up with or ders. The flying school was turning out well-trained pilots even faster. Graduates soon held posts with 70 leading aviation organizations across the country. Most alumni kept up their interest in aviation and some became almost as famous as Lindbergh.

One student, E. V. Thomas, became the first man to land an airplane in Grand Canyon. Ira Biffle, a school in structor, became a well-known airmail carrier between New York and Chicago. Earl Bahl, with whom Lindbergh barn stormed, went to Honduras to pilot for a fruit company. Some students started their own airports and flying services, while others went on to teach. Such was the case for Peter Orr, who taught aviation mechanics for several years in Maryland before returning to Nebraska after the war. He went to work in Lincoln for a railroad and retired just recently.

A second major Nebraska airplane industry, the (Continued on page 50)

BORN TO HUNT

signals. By the middle of the summer, Mike had learned to sit, stay, come, retrieve, and to "handle" a downed bird. We also visited a local gun club to get him used to the sound of shooting.

Labor Day rolled around and we began to make plans for opening day. We intended to open the pheasant season in the Cordova area, and made arrange ments for a place to hunt. This would be Mike's big debut, and I had no intention of spending the day driving from one farm to another hoping for permission to hunt.

Sunrise on opening morning found Dad, my uncle, Ginger, myself, and Mike standing hopefully on the edge of a large soil bank south and west of Cordova. My uncle had staked this particular location out, and we knew there were birds there. We started into the field. Mike worked back and forth like he had been hunting for years. He bounded in and out of heavy patches of cover with his tail going like a fire engine.

Suddenly the action exploded. Mike flushed a pheasant in front of dad. The bird folded to dad's slide-action and we took off after him. I had been hunting without a dog for so long that I didn't give a thought to Mike, but as I neared the downed bird, a black-and-white streak shot past me and landed on that pheasant with all fours. The big cock wasn't dead and pummeled Mike plenty with his wings, but the little dog hung on and brought home the bacon. I had a hunting dog.

Since that morning I've killed literally hundreds of pheasants, ducks, and quail over Mike. He has been joined by a kennel mate, Pat, a cousin, who looks for all the world like Mike's son.

There is a certain amount of work and expense involved in keeping two hunting dogs, but it pays big dividends. We get more birds up, we lose fewer crip ples, and even when we get skunked it's worth going out just to watch the dogs work.

All in all, I don't ever intend to hunt again without a dog. I suppose I'll have a number of them before I put my gun up for good, but no matter how many dogs I own or how good they may be, I'll always think of Mike — the dog I taught to hunt, and who taught me about hunting dogs.

PRETTY GOOD DAY

a crappie," Karen giggled. "Crappie run or no crappie run we will have to go back to Ord so I can change clothes."

Duane shook his head. Springtime is crappie time, and he had taken a Monday off to get in on the fastest panfishing spree of the year. It was either drive 40 miles to Ord or an expensive 4-mile trip to Loup City to buy his wife a new slack outfit. He decided on Loup City.

A clothes-buying jaunt later, Duane was back at the lake scooping a wrig gling minnow from a bucket. After he hooked it below the dorsal fin, he cast out and leaned back to wait. The day before, fishermen were averaging 15 to 40 crap pie each in this same tiny bay just below the marina on the east side of the lake. A word-of-mouth fishing report had brought seven other Monday fishermen to the bay and a check of their stringers proved that the Ord couple was prob ably a day too late for outstanding fish ing, but it was still promising.

The Wolfes fish mainly from shore as the spring run at Sherman usually brings these schooling fish into bank casting distance. In the spring, crappie schools swim into shallow water as ris ing temperatures force them to seek their traditional spawning areas, mak ing them pushovers for bait fishing. Dur ing a two or three-day heat wave, hordes offish will often move into three and four feet of water near shore.

Dried out and reoutfitted, Karen waited for a bantamweight member of 48 NEBRASKAland this species to come her way. Then her bobber disappeared. The fisher woman leaned back on her rod and a nine-inch crappie finned from side to side and dove for the bottom. Her six foot rod and eight-pound-test monofilament let her apply overbearing pressure and she banked the fish. With a two-fish lead over her husband, Karen slyly rubbed in the fact that she was a better angler. Duane shrugged off the kidding with a laugh. His wife often outfishes him.

As the insurance man eyed his bobber, he thought back to a few weeks earlier when he and his fishing buddies had made several after-work trips to Sherman for walleye. The "marble eyes" were tearing up the lake along the dam and hundreds of fishermen were pulling in limits or near limits. Now, a crappie run with just as much if not more action. What next, the bass or catfish? This 2,800-acre lake is over 5 years old, but it isjust now producing good catches. Why? Duane didn't know, but as long as there were fish in the lake he didn't care.

His dreams of conquering the lake's lunkers were cut short when his bobber disappeared. The fight was short but pleasing on his limber six-foot, spin-cast outfit. After unhooking the fish, he bent over to pull the stringer out of the water. The crappie, with plenty of fight left, squirmed out of his grasp, flopped twice, and streaked for cover like a silver flash.

Duane grimaced off the loss and impaled a minnow on a long-shank, gold hook. The minnow had just barely descended into the water when the plastic float went under. After beaching his fish, he carefully strung the crappie through the lip.

The wind had picked up, blowing the clouds from the sky, and the weather had changed from a comfortable sweater morning to a boiling-hot afternoon. But the heat didn't bother the crappie. The Wolfes were constantly baiting their two-hook crappie rigs with the two-to-three inch minnows. The panfish had turned into bait robbers and were tap ping the minnows lightly, then escaping before the anglers could set the hooks. Karen had lost three fish and Duane a pair. They finally learned to raise the rod tip at the first indication of the bait nudging crappies and that did the trick.

A 20-mile-an-hour wind had pushed Duane's bobber to within 2 feet of shore when a bait robber modestly bobbed the float. Duane was ready for the broad side when the crappie made a second grab at the minnow, and seconds later the fish was on the stringer. Although this crappie, like all his schoolmates, lacked the determination of a bluegill, the brute strength of a catfish, or the heart-pounding aerobatics of a large mouth, he made up for his deficiences with a suicidal willingness to hit a minnow, and once in the frying pan, his flavor would be hard to beat.

The mere thought of panfried crappie had brought a gnawing hunger that could no longer be ignored, so the Wolfes headed for an air-conditioned cafe in Loup City. Conservation Officer Woody Woodgate came in and reported several nice catches in a small finger of water next to Trail 5 on the west side of the lake. The couple decided to head for that bay after the lunch stop.

Trail 5 also had its share of Monday anglers. Baiting up with frisky minnows, Duane dangled his bait four feet below the bobber. Minutes passed without even so much as a nudge, so the angler reeled in and pushed the bobber to the three-foot mark. A cast, a strike, a retrieve, and another crappie was on the stringer. Karen immediately changed her bobber, because crappie schools often swim at one level, and a bait too high or too low will go untouched.

By late afternoon Karen had caught eight crappie and sunburned her left arm. In an action lull, she sauntered up the steep bank to get a jacket to protect her reddened arm. She had no sooner reached the car when Duane's distant shouts told her she shouldn't have left. As she grabbed her jacket, she saw Duane cranking in a fish on her rod.

"Hey, your bobber is under, now," an interested fishing neighbor shouted.

Duane yelled for help and Karen galloped toward her husband's rod. When the crappie felt the rod pressure, he dove for the bottom, then tried to bore for deeper water but Karen beached the flopper. As (Continued on page 51)

THEY WORE WINGS

Arrow Aircraft and Motors Corporation, came into existence sometime in 1925. The Woods Brothers of Lincoln acquired a defunct truck-body factory, and while they continued to make truck bodies in a portion of the plant, the remainder was converted to making airplanes. F. Pace Woods, Sr., now in the real estate business in Lincoln, was sales and production manager for the company. The plane which they turned out, the Arrow-Sport, was a dandy.

"Our first model sold for just under $3,700, in 1929," Pace recalls. "It was a side-by-side, two-seater biplane powered by a 60-horsepower engine. It cruised at 80 miles per hour, and could take off in about 300 feet. In 1936, a lowwing monoplane with a V-8 engine replaced the earlier biplane. A very attractive little ship, the new model sold for only $1,500."

Arrow led the nation in plane sales for a time. It entered the first commercial airplane show in Chicago and outdid all the competition by being the first exhibitor to make a sale. At a similar show in New York in 1929, the company sold more planes than all other companies combined. The largest deal was a contract to 1 buyer for 80 planes — worth about $250,000.

At peak production, Arrow's 570 employees turned out 4 planes a day. A drastic decline in business followed the market crash of 1929, but Arrow continued manufacturing for another 10 years. In the meantime, several other companies grew large and financially healthy with government contracts, but several years of marginal production was too much for Arrow and its production ended. Like the Page Company, which was sold and moved out of Nebraska in 1931, the Arrow plant ended its colorful career as a Nebraska pioneer. That left only the flying school operated by Sias to give Lincoln, and perhaps all of Nebraska, stature in the world of flying.

Up until 1939 the school graduated an impressive total of 10,000 pilots. They hailed from every state and 25 foreign countries. But this was only the begin ning. World War II threatened, and the government became concerned over its lack of aircraft and fliers. The Army, then encompassing the Air Corps, had only one school each for basic and advanced-flight training. So, all private flying schools in the country were screened to give military training at the best of them.

Both divisions of the Lincoln institution were among the 9 flying schools and 14 mechanic schools that qualified for the government program. For the next few years activity was at record levels. Thousands of Air Corps mechanics were graduated between July 1939 and the end of World War II. Flight-crew training began in October 1940 and by December 1945 several thousand air craft crews were put together with Lincoln-trained men. Three crewmen aboard Lieutenant Colonel James H. Doolittle's 50 NEBRASKAland plane, which raided Tokyo in April 1942, were trained in Lincoln.

After more than five years of peak wartime activity, the school no longer needed to supply men for combat. And, there were so many excess pilots after the war that demand for training dropped to nil. The doors of the school closed quietly and regrettably in 1946 after more than 25 years of service to the air age.

PRETTY GOOD DAY

Karen strung the fish she mentally planned a crappie dinner.

In the meantime, Duane had baited up another two-inch minnow and threw to the spot where he had latched onto the crappie. Before the ripples of the bobber's splash had died away, the float submerged. Seconds later, a broad-sided crappie was on the stringer. Several minutes later, Karen felt the character istic bump bump, gulp of a hungry fish and added steel to the minnow eater's diet.

Evening crappie fishing is usually worth sticking around for, but Duane had a night appointment, so at 6 p.m. he hefted their combined stringers of 23 crappie and headed up the steep bank. When compared to the Sherman crappie catches of the day before, their Monday go had been slow. But anytime you can fall in the lake, let a fish flip away before you can get him on the stringer, miss several strikes, and still come up with a catch like the Wolfes' it is a pretty good day.

HOSTILE HILLS

Indian Hill. Although we had canoed in the area, none of us had explored the rugged terrain around the river. Join ing our expedition was Dave Jones. He was not related to the Morelands, but the Martin, South Dakota teen-ager shared our enthusiasm for exploring.

Washing a car won't bring Sand Hill rains, but a Moreland trek will. A down pour had drenched us on the Snake River float and accompanied us on the pack trip. Now, as we unloaded our four horses and two mules from the horse trailers at our jump-off point, 15 miles south and 4 miles east of Merriman, the prairie skies started brewing up a cauldron of bad weather. With an early Sun day morning start on the agenda, we bedded down in a nearby deserted house.

The next morning brought rain spitting clouds, temperatures in the 40's, and a strong north wind, but the weather didn't dampen our spirits as we loaded the wagon with grub for three days, bed rolls, four tents, hobbles and halters for the horses, cooking gear, a gasoline stove, a reflector oven, tarps, cameras, water jugs, and duffle bags. At 9 a.m. our yellow-slickered party rode south into the trail-barren Sand Hills toward our Snake River destination 15 miles away.

Half the fun of any trip is the challenge of finding the way, so we agreed to stow the map and use it only as a last resort. As we crested a hill and dropped into a long, green valley we left behind telephone poles, billboards, highways, and cars. The raw, wind-swept ground ahead was marred only with blowouts, but distant fencelines and windmills reminded us that we were not the first to cross this infinite sea of grass.

"Why does it take three Bohemians to change a light bulb?" John chuckled as he settled into his saddle for the long ride. The three of us shrugged our shoulders. "Takes one to hold the bulb and two to turn the ladder."

After boos and hisses we rode away three miles to a steady accompaniment of Bohemian jokes. Only a herd of 30 horses hushed our laughter. A nervous stallion watched our approach from a knoll, then disappeared to lead his band into an out-of-sight valley. A few hundred yards farther on two grouse spooked, then set their wings as they glided over a hill. From all indications, we were unwanted strangers in this grassland society.

Dave and John are high schoolers in Martin, South Dakota, while Steve and I go to Gordon. When Steve painted the wagon blue and gold, the school colors of Gordon, Dave and John threatened to carry their school banner on the next trip. Besides a new paint job, the wagon was outfitted in rubber tires. Several old-timers hinted that wooden wheels pulled hard in soft sand and that wide rubber tires would conserve the mules' strength. Bonnie and Clyde had to get our gear there and back so we went along with the suggestion.

Midway to the Snake, John turned mule skinner and handled the wagon while Steve climbed aboard a horse. So far, our only mishaps were wind-tossed cowboy hats, but the Sand Hills are treachery in disguise. As the wagon rolled down (Continued on page 55)

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . SPOTTED GROUND SQUIRREL

SHARP, SHRILL "sip's" and "sip-ip's" often pin-point the location of the small spotted ground squirrel, Spermophilus spilosoma, in the scant vegetation of the Sand Hills. Standing like a little picket pin, the squirrel watched his enemy, the coyote, and then growing nervous, he bolted for his burrow. It was an old, old story for the ground squirrel, for he is prey instead of predator and constant vigilance above ground is his price for survival. Once underground, he's safe from his numerous predators except for a snake or ambitious badger.

Of Nebraska's four different ground squirrels, the spotted ground squirrel is the smallest. He favors a drier habitat than the others and is not as handsome as his closest relative, the thirteen-lined ground squirrel. The spotted's food habits and other characteristics are similar. The Sand Hills provide preferred habitat for the spotted ground squirrel in Nebraska, however, his distributional range extends into the arid portions of the southern and southwestern United States and parts of Mexico.

Less than nine inches long, the spotted ground squirrel is grayish brown or reddish brown with squarish spots of white or buff on his back. Unlike some squirrels, his tail is pencillike instead of bushy. His belly is whitish.

The spotted ground squirrel rouses from hibernation in late March and forages for several weeks before estivating. By mid-July the summer heat usually forces the squirrel underground for his summer sleep. This is prolonged into winter hibernation.

Arousing from his winter sleep, the adult ground squirrel spends the daylight hours feeding and collecting food. Scurrying about, avoiding heavy vegetation, the ground squirrel feeds on greenery, nuts, and seeds. Not a strict vegetarian, he also eats insects and their larvae.

Spotted ground squirrels appear to be quite curious. Often they will stand up on their hind legs for vantage looks around the area before darting to other cover. This curiosity is a protective habit, for predators are numerous. Ground squirrels are targets for owls, hawks, coyotes, badgers, foxes, skunks, weasels, and minks.

Mating apparently occurs soon after emergence from winter hibernation, and the gestation period is about 28 days. Litter size varies from 2 to 12, but the usual number is believed to be 8. At birth, the young are naked and reddish pink. By the 27th day they are fully haired and their eyes are open. Utterance of the "sip-ip" of adults occurs by 34 days. Weaning comes before the 48th day. The developed young start emerging from their burrows in late May and will forage for several weeks before the family disperses.

As summer temperatures soar, the fat ground squirrels take refuge in the cool tunnels of their lower burrows and spend less time above ground. Activities slow down as the animals succumb to a summer drowsiness, and physical processes are reduced. From this sleep the ground squirrels go into hibernation, where all body processes are reduced to very low levels. Slower heartbeats and breathing rates, coupled with a lowering of body temperatures to 37 degrees, characterize this hibernation phenomenon.

The end of hibernation depends upon burrow and soil temperatures. When the ground has thawed sufficiently to allow digging out the entrances, the males emerge. A couple of weeks later the females venture out. Their main activities during this time are general housecleaning and eating up last season's stored food. Burrows are repaired and cleaned out and new tunnel ing initiated to create nest chambers and nurseries. Like most burrowing mammals, the spotted ground squirrel develops sleeping quarters, living rooms, storage chambers, and toilets before he starts a family.

In most instances, the underground burrow is several feet deep with some reported to be six feet below the ground surface. Burrows are complicated and 52 NEBRASKAland some may have over 100 feet of tunneling. These are often divided with numerous side tunnels ending in the various chambers. Usually there is only one main entrance, but numerous escape passageways are present. These openings are plugged with loose soil or vegetation. Ground squirrels use their internal cheek pouches to carry out tunneled material and scatter it above ground some distance from the entrances.

The spotted ground squirrel is more beneficial than harmful since his habitat is in the drier areas away from agricultural activities. They play important parts in the ecological scheme of nature by serving as food for predators as well as influencing local plant associations through their feeding and food-storing activities. Their consumption of destructive grassland insects makes them valuable residents of the rangelands.

The small and inconspicuous spotted ground squirrel is often overlooked but he is quite an important addition to NEBRASKAland's fauna.

Outdoor Elsewhere

Unusual Requests. Game wardens often receive unusual inquiries, and sometimes find that they have to turn down certain requests. Such was the case with a Pennsylvania game warden recently when a lady called and asked a favor.

"I've got poison ivy growing up the side of my house", she said, "and since you're a game warden and immune to it, would you come over and remove it?" The warden decided this was one of those "sorry about that" cases.— Pennsylvania

Me Too, Dad? A Connecticut fisherman decided it was time for his son to learn the joys of fishing when he celebrated his seventh birthday. Everything was going just dandy. They dug worms, gathered up all their tackle, packed a lunch, and in no time flat were off for pop's favorite fishing spot. The ride there was just fine. However, the next step was a steep bank between the parking lot and the water's edge. Cautioning his young, inexperienced son, the father gave instructions for him to wait and watch how he mastered this problem. Dad just got under way, when he slipped, and shot the slope flat on his back. The learning youngster innocently asked, "Daddy, do I have to go down that way, too?" — Connecticut

Calling All Cats. When a Michigan man was assigned the task of caring for the family parrakeet he was not too happy. The little bird was bad-tempered and messy. The fellow endured the bird for some time, however, and even started to teach it to talk. One day the bird disappeared. By coincidence, both the cage door and a nearby window had been left open. "That was really too bad," the man said, "as I had only time to teach it one short phrase." It seems that phrase NEBRASKAland 54 was, "Here, kitty, kitty, here, kitty, kitty." — Michigan

Helpful Farmer. A bunch of rabbits in Pennsylvania have a good thing going for them. The bunnies were nibbling off the young branches from overhanging shrubs, which disturbed the farmer who owned the plants. The farmer, determined to put a stop to the furry munchers, decided to trap them. He placed box traps under the bushes, then sat back to watch the results. But, not to be put off so easily, the rabbits merely hopped on top of the boxes and nibbled off branches which before had been out of reach. —Pennsylvania

Easy Answer. —When foul weather persisted to haunt a hunting party of Americans in Ontario, one of the hunters began to curse. His displeasure brought a wave of laughter from the party's In dian guide. The guide explained that there were no "cuss words" in the language of his tribe, the Ojibwa. Quite amazed, the hunter asked what he did when he hit his thumb with a hammer. The guide smiled and said, "Then I talk English." — Ontario

See, See, Senor. Hawks' eyes have been called nature's most highly-developed organs of vision in existence. They can see at least eight times as well as the most keen human's. — Outdoor Indiana

Confidence Doesn't Hurt. Sportsmen come in all sizes and ages, and have a variety of ideas and notions of how to do something best. However, being confident doesn't seem to hurt. A 73-year-old Arizona sportsman applied for an elk permit recently and drew a late-season bull license. Even though he must hunt from a wheelchair, the Arizonan doesn't let that stop his enjoyment of outdoor life. His whole secret, however, is perhaps his confidence. Immediately after the hunter received notice that he could go gunning for elk, he went out and bought a new freezer. That's confidence! —Arizona

Hungry Trespasser. Muskrats are usual ly rather quiet and harmless creatures, but one made his presence known when his appetite ran wild in a Pennsylvania greenhouse. The little fellow got into the greenhouse and couldn't find his way out, so he decided to have lunch. He munched on a bed of snapdragons and chewed off the stems of over 100 dozen plants before he was caught and removed. At the wholesale price of $4 a dozen, friend muskrat chalked up quite a food bill —about $400.— Pennsylvania

Tuned Out. A modern method of study ing grouse movements was adopted by research technicians of the Minnesota Game Department. Technicians at tach small radio transmitters to the birds, then trace their movements with receivers. The system was working very well, but signals showed one bird remained in one spot for several days. On checking the stationary broadcaster, biologists found only a small pile of feathers. The transmitter was still work ing, but a hungry owl had eaten the carrier. —Minnesota

A Good Looker. The lowly starfish has an eye at the end of each arm so he can see in all directions at once. — Remington Newsletter

HOSTILE HILLS

a very steep, sandy incline, Bonnie and Clyde didn't see the three-foot-drop-off and neither did John until it was too late. The wagon's downhill momentum left the driver with only one recourse. He yanked back on the reins, then bailed out in case the wagon toppled. When the dust settled, the wagon was upright, the mules were standing easy, John was frowning, and Steve, who had witnessed the action, was laughing.

After three hours of wandering through look-alike hills, we saw a lone evergreen outlined on the distant horizon. We passed the cedar and the vast Snake River Valley sprawled below us. The sight of the green, tumbling waters serpentining through rugged bluffs sent me a galloping toward the pine-scented oasis at the bottom of a steep bank.

"There's Indian Hill," John informed me when I rode back up the hill.

Our earlier paddle trip had taken us by Indian Hill, but negotiating river's tricky current had left little time for sight-seeing. As a result, none of us knew exactly what the hill looked like. An acquaintance, whose health had prevented him from joining us, had described the hill as "towering above all others along that stretch of the Snake." Two miles away, a bluff cut abruptly in to the overcast sky and there was no doubt in my mind that this was our Sand Hills Mount Everest.

Although Indian Hill was on the opposite side of the river, we had hoped to camp near its foot. The country was made for horses, not wagons, but Dave found an old trail leading to a shallow crossing. On the opposite side, a crystal spring bubbled out from a clump of bushes that nestled in the side of a perpendicular bank. Not far from the spring and rising from the river was a sandy, 10-foot-wide path winding up the other side.

But an ancient Indian medicine man must have put a curse on the hill. Ford ing the river was easy, but Bonnie and Clyde had to fight for footing in the sandy soil as they stumbled up the incline. The back wheels of the rig had just cleared the river when the well-muscled mules succumbed to their heavy burden. They couldn't pull the wagon up and they weren't anxious about backing down. The only solution was to help them. Dave tied his rope to the wagon tongue and was wrapping it around the saddle horn when Squaw, his horse, sidestepped, caught her foot in the rope, and spooked. Dave released the rope, but his leg was tangled in the hemp. Kicking heels came close to the teen-ager as the horse drug him five feet through the sand. The wrangler finally shook free and scrambled up the bank as the snorting animal fell at the water's edge. As the horse struggled to get up, the rope pulled free, and Steve swung into the saddle to catch the runaway. Dave's only injury was a case of nerves and a mouthful of dirt, but Squaw had a rope burn.

With a near disaster averted, we decided to camp on the north side of the AUGUST 1969 55   river and explore Indian Hill the next day. We hobbled our horses and raised our tents on a small plateau above the river. Cold and hungry, food was the primary objective. Using the wagon as support and two tarps, John and I built a cook shack that would shield us from the wind. Our first feeble attempts were quickly dismantled by a strong gust, but a more exerted effort created a stable structure that stood until the end of the trip.

Even though our Mount Everest loomed as a distant challenge, I was too cold and too tired to care. The strong wind meant no warming fire, so to stay warm I had to keep busy. After a mile walk to the spring for water, the four of us turned artifact hunters, sifting through the sand along the river bluffs. Our finds of flint, teeth, and small pieces of fossilized bone weren't really very important, but they spurred us on. Near dusk the sky cleared and promised a brighter and warmer tomorrow. After a dinner of canned meat, fruit, and burned-on-the-outside, raw-on-the-inside potatoes, we turned in.

Steve's shout of "The horses are gone" startled me out of a deep slumber the next morning. A long night of grazing had spread the animals over the vast pasture and Bonnie, Clyde, and Squaw were the only ones close to camp. With Squaw injured, Steve had to saddle Clyde for the horse hunt. The mule quickly became the camp hero and he sensed it. Clyde acts more like a dog than a mule, for he follows Steve around and from time to time sticks his nose in our garbage like any pet mutt. But now that he was in the spotlight he was going to make the most of it. He wouldn't let Steve walk up on him, so Dave grabbed a lariat to rope him. One twirl of the hemp and Clyde's evasive trot turned into a run. After nearly tearing down the tents in a pass through the camp, the mule finally gave up. An hour later, Steve returned with the runaway horses.

After saddling the horses for our as sault on Indian Hill, we forded the river, drank from the spring, read the names carved on a sandstone wall near it, and kidded Dave about riding Clyde. As we skirted deep ravines, blowouts, and the spears of a thousand yucca on our upward climb, Indian Hill lost its massive impressiveness. But once on the hill's pinpoint summit, we got the full impact of the magnificence sprawled below us. The surrounding hills looked like molded green-gray clay on a contour map, and from our overlook, the Snake was but a thin line of melted silver ebbing from the west to the east. As its name implies, the area around Indian Hill was once a favorite camping spot for wandering plains tribes. Studying the distant hills, I imagined an Indian standing in the same spot and squinting into the sun as he scanned miles of grass for signs of game. It seemed impossible, but only a hundred years separated his destiny and mine.

On the canoe trip, we had shot Indian Crossing Falls, so John and I wanted to see what the small, treacherous water fall looked like from the bank. Steve and Dave headed back to camp, while we headed downriver. Even before we spotted the picturesque falls the roar of the Whitewater was loud in our ears. Ambling down the bank toward it, I tripped over the sun-bleached skull of a long-dead bull. I left it near the falls as a reminder that this was a wild land where only the strong could survive.

The Moreland cousins are known for eating, not cooking, so Dave was the outfit's "Wishbone". Not only could he fry bacon and flip a flapjack, but he enjoyed doing it. His only weakness as a camp chef was keeping sand out of the food and his fingers away from the knife when he sliced potatoes. After every meal we took an inventory of the supplies and since favorite foods were the first to go, we were facing the prospect of eating the "I don't likes".

"I didn't tell you, but a bug crawled into the stew," Dave said as he dug through the grub box. "I would have taken him out, but he got covered up before I could find him."

John coughed as he came up with the observation that "We better have beans tonight. We've got seven pounds of canned pork and beans in this cardboard box of grub."

"Add the weight of these," I interrupted. "Three, wait, 4V2 pounds more are in this box."

"There's plenty to eat provided we have beans for breakfast," Steve laughed.

My hand brushed an empty bottle as I prowled through the grub box looking for more beans. Although notes in bottles are reserved for stranded sailors, I wanted to record our Snake River presence. I scrawled the date, place, and our names on a piece of paper, stuffed it into the bottle, and tossed it in the water. The river whisked the container away in a twinkling.

The bottle launching was cause for speculation. As we ate in the ember glow of the fire, I suddenly realized that this was our last night. Tomorrow we would return to a long summer of mending fences, haying, and chasing cattle. The days were long and the work hard, but it was all part of growing up in the Sand Hills, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

The next day both the mules and horses knew they were on their way home. Even Clyde, who usually shirks back and lets Bonnie pull, was straining in his harness. As we rode through a blowout, John wheeled his horse around, and got off.

"I spotted an arrowhead," he muttered, picking up the point. "It's a wonder I saw it from horseback."

The arrowhead was the western way to end our trip and as the horses were loaded into the trailer, I couldn't help but think the flint was a Sand Hills peace offering. With the first day's cold, wind, John's near mishap, Dave's accident, and runaway horses, these hostile hills had challenged our right to trod their vastness, but we had met them on their own terms and won. Like all worthy opponents, the hills had accepted their defeat with grace.

NEBRASKAland POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland

Where to go

A CHANCE TO STUDY firsthand the aquatic life of an actual lake is something most people do not expect at a museum, but the Fort Kearney Museum gives its visitors just that opportunity. A battery-operated, glass-bottom, 24-foot vessel glides over the surface of a spring-fed lake behind the museum to give its passengers a look at the underwater world. This craft is believed to be the only one of its kind in Nebraska used as a tourist attraction. Colorful rainbow trout and other fish are among the lake's more interesting residents.

Besides the lake, visitors can see many unusual items from all over the world, including Chinese armor of 17th Century vintage, a sundial from an English castle of the 1600's, and prehistoric elephant teeth dredged from the bottom of the lake behind the museum. Other displays include African ceremonial masks made from such exotic materials as lion bone and warthog hide, an elephant tusk with intricate, hand-carved oriental designs, and a rare vase from Pitcairn Island. The museum specializes in one-of-a-kind items such as the first automobile license plate issued in Nebraska and the first music box manufactured in the United States.

An extensive collection of early Nebraska artifacts is found there, especially early Sioux bead work. One display features all the equipment and the entire wardrobe of an Indian medicine man, complete with decorations of scalp locks. Another features the tools, weapons, and furnishings of Nebraska's pioneers.

The museum's collection, the largest private assortment of artifacts on the Great Plains, was begun in London, England, more than 100 years ago by Dr. Edward Jenner. The collection was a family project for many years, and Jenner's son, Henry, traveled the world adding to the unique assortment. The result was a concentration of items seldom found in any other museum in the world. In 1950, the present owner, Merl Johnson, purchased the Jenner material and combined it with thousands of articles from the old Fort Kearny area. Since it would be almost impossible to view all 10,000 items of the collection and because of space limitations, only the best of them are on display. Located near the Interstate 80 Interchange at Kearney, the museum, which has a nominal admission charge, is open seven days a week from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. until October when its season ends.

The past is the stock-in-trade of the Fort Kearney Museum, but the present and future concern the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Missouri River Division, Reservoir Control Center, in Omaha, nerve center of the entire Missouri River basin. Located in room 7007 of the U.S. Post Office and Court House, this facility gathers data from the Missouri River basin's six mainstream dams, then issues orders on managing the 75.2 million acre-feet of storage space they provide. Decisions made here are vital to flood control, power generation, and navigation along the entire Missouri.

Visitors can see a display showing the entire basin and all dams under Corps of Engineer's control. Another illuminated chart shows the reservoirs and their fluctuations as the Corps impounds the spring flood waters and parcels them out for the most efficient use the rest of the year. Other displays include a chart showing the electrical power grid interconnecting the hydroelectric plants of all the dams. On certain days, visitors may be conducted through the center's computer room, where data from all the dams is processed and stored.

Tours also include a stop in the communication's room, where a weather facsimile machine prints up-to-the minute meteorological maps transmitted from Suitland, Maryland and Kansas City, Missouri. These maps are vital in preparing operational orders for the dams, as they warn of storms that will produce water runoff for the impoundments. Visitors are welcome Monday through Friday between 8 a.m. and 4:30 p.m.