OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

FROM WINE TO ONIONS

AS NEBRASKA prepares to uphold its title of Mixed-Bag Capital, sportsmen and their wives are faced with a problem as old as hunting — how to prepare the game. Recipes number in the thousands and include everything from rare wines to common onions in their ingredients, but here are a few recipes which may tickle the imagination as well as the palate of any game chef.

Nebraska's First Lady, Mrs. Norbert Tiemann, recommends this method for preparing that wily bird, the pheasant:

Cut pheasant across the grain into bite-size pieces. Dip each piece into mixture of beaten egg and milk and then into finely crushed cracker crumbs. Fry in butter or margarine until tender and well browned.

Mrs. Howard Wolff, wife of the Omaha World-Herald outdoor writer, prepares quail this way:

Fry quail in grease until they are a delicate golden color. Chop bacon, mushrooms, and vegetables until fine. Mix together and simmer until the mixture sweats — the onion will become almost transparent.

Wash the rice four or five times in hot water. Boil until it fluffs, drain and mix with vegetables. Stuff quail with rice, wrap them individually in foil, and bake in a 300° oven for I 1/2 hours. Serves four.

Mrs. Ernie Dusek, wife of Nebraska's well-known wrestling promoter, prepares rabbit and raccoon with gravy from this recipe:

Chop bacon and onion, then combine the two in a heavy pan and saute. Add raccoon or rabbit, vinegar (for coon only), and salt and pepper to taste. Cover and simmer until tender, adding water if necessary to keep the meat moist. Add milk thickened with flour for gravy. Serves four.

Reinholt Rebensdorf, chef at the Hotel Cornhusker, in Lincoln, recommends this recipe for lovers of fried squirrel:

Roll squirrel in flour and pan fry. Make natural gravy from drippings, remove from heat and add sour cream, mushrooms, and wine. Serve squirrel in gravy. Serves two.

Mrs. Rex Stotts, wife of a former member of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, uses this recipe for making tough grouse tender:

Baked Grouse Grouse cut in Cooking fat serving pieces Cream or half and Flour half Salt and pepper to taste Roll pieces in seasoned flour. Brown slowly in hot fat turning once. Place browned pieces in baking dish or small roaster. Add cream to partially cover and place lid on roaster. Bake in 325° oven until tender —about I 1/2 to 2 hours. Gravy may be made from the drippings or mushroom soup may be substituted for it. Three grouse make six servings. Arthur C. Storz of Storz Brewery in Omaha likes his venison prepared this way:

Venison steak, panbroiled and served rare with Sauce Poivrade. Soaking venison steaks in a marinade makes them more tender and adds a delightful flavor. Ingredients in this marinade include white wine, vinegar, olive oil, bay leaves, and shallots. The meat is marinated for one day.

Place steaks in an enamel, glass, or earthenware bowl. Add remaining ingredients. Let stand in refrigerator 24 hours. Turn meat several times in marinade. Remove steak. Dry. Reserve marinade. Saute steaks in shallow hot fat until brown on both sides. Do not 4 NEBRASKAland AFIELD overcook; steaks should be rare. Serve on a hot platter with Sauce Poivrade. Yields four servings. If desired, four venison sirloin steaks about 7 ounces each and cut 1/2 to 3/4-inches thick, may be substituted. Also, small, white onions may be substituted for the shallots.

Sauce Poivrade or pepper sauce accents the deliciousness of venison steaks. It is used in fine French kitchens.

Brown carrots, onions, garlic, parsley, and bay leaf in olive oil, stirring often. Drain off any excess oil. Add vinegar and marinade. Boil till mixture is reduced about one-third. Add brown sauce and cook, stirring often, about 20 minutes. Add peppercorns, thyme, and salt to taste. Simmer about 10 minutes longer. Strain through a very fine sieve or several thicknesses of cheesecloth. Skim fat from surface if necessary. Before serving, reheat and blend in jelly. Yields 2 1/2 cups.

Mrs. Elmer Ourecky, co-editor of the Czech cookbook, Favorite Recipes of the Nebraska Czechs, endorses this recipe for NEBRASKAland duck.

Clean the duck; soak in cold water for one-half hour. Interlard duck with bacon strips. Place duck, ham, vegetables, and seasonings in heavy saucepan, add one-quarter cup water and stew slowly. Baste occasionally.

Prepare sauce of fresh mushrooms, add strained liquid, pour over duck, and let stand in hot place for 15 minutes. Sauce may be made of strained liquid, thickened with flour and butter browned together and then thinned to proper consistency. Serves two.

These are just a sampling of the many recipes for preparing NEBRASKAland game. Dozens of others are available in various cookbooks. But try some of these and you'll agree that a game dinner is a fitting climax to a successful day afield.

DEER ATTACK

ANYTIME A HUNTER downs a five - point white - tailed buck that is usually reason enough to have the head mounted. But I had my trophy mounted for two reasons: first, because the typical "whitetail" rack is a real beauty, and second, be cause that deer taught me a valuable outdoor lesson. When the head is finally on the wall, a pair of tattered pants will be hanging next to it, for on November 9, 1968 that big Boone County buck almost bagged me in stead of the other way around.

My first encounter with the buck was on a preseason scouting expedition with my hunting partner, Darrell Meyer of Albion. The two of us were looking over several areas in the Calamus deer hunting unit when we spotted two bucks near a grove of trees just west of Akron. I didn't know it then, but the biggest one would make me the hunted instead of the hunter. Plenty of deer sign in the timber and occasional glimpses of several other bucks spurred us to construct two tree stands 200 yards apart in the grove.

The night before the opening of the deer season we drove from our homes in Albion to a predetermined campsite near our stands. Still hunting from a tree stand can be a cold and miserable way to pass the early morning hours if you are not proper ly clothed. After a temperature read ing in the morning, I slipped a pair of Air Force flight pants over my regular clothing, and in the 5:30 a.m. dark, we climbed into our tree stands.

In the cloudy gray just preceding dawn, I spotted 12 does in a patch of pine trees just northwest of my stand. Carefully I scanned the bedded-down deer for a buck, and as I watched the herd, I heard a snap of twigs behind me. Slowly I turned around and watched a doe and fawn walk directly beneath me. The doe and fawn hadn't spotted me and neither had the herd, and that is the way I wanted it. The deer were my decoys, for I was sure they would draw a buck into the clearing. Be sides that, watching the whitetails made the time go faster and I for got about the cold.

As I watched the deer, I had almost forgotten why I was perched up in that uncomfortable tree like a 165 pound bird. But a rustle of leaves brought an end to my musing and made me turn to my right. There, emerging from a stand of timber just 60 yards away, was my reason for sitting in the tree. A white-tailed buck, looking as big as an elk, cautiously made his way into a small clearing. When he was sure he was safe, the deer slowly walked toward the herd, pausing now and then to crop a mouthful of grass. I drew a deep breath and slowly raised my .300 magnum.

"This is no time for buck fever," I told myself. 'Take your time and make the first shot good."

A head shot would have been a sure kill, but I wanted that rack. I decided to zero in just behind the front leg and try for the heart. Gently I eased in a round, moved the crosshair of my scope onto his side, squeezed the trigger, and my 180 grain bullet slammed home. If I had been on ground level the shot would have been perfect. But, from my elevated position, the bullet angled down just missing the heart. The big buck bounced off through the trees and with him went my hopes for a trophy. Quickly, I jumped down from the stand and legged it toward the timber. A heavy blood trail lead me to a small clearing, then a fence. Hair on the barbed wire told me my buck had jumped over, so I crossed. Then, I saw the huge buck lying motionless in the grass.

I walked up on the deer, laid my rifle in the grass next to the animal, and unsheathed my knife. As I admired my trophy, I reached down with my left hand and grabbed hold of the antlers to lift up the head. My plans were cut short, however, and the next few moments gave me dreams that startled me out of deep slumber for days to come.

With the antlers around the left and right side of my body, that big whitetail sprang to his feet. When he did, the antlers caught in my flight pants and ripped them from knee to waist. To me, it was as if a ghost had come to life. I didn't have much time to think, but as the animal stumbled for footing I plunged the 7-inch knife blade into the left side of his neck, 10 inches below the head. The buck stepped on my rifle as he got (Continued on page 36)

DOG-DAY LARGEMOUTHS

THE PURPLE the aquatic pplants and lazily fell to Medicine muddy hoitorn. A sleepy largemouthing an easy darted out of hiding and grabbed the pioft plastic, At the other end of the 20-pound-U^t monofilament, I "Roberts received the largemouthV, telegraphed m and drove the steel barb deep into the fish's lip.

Harlan Truscott, watching the show in amused delight, felt a light tap and doubled his rod to set the hook. The overpowering bass laced the line in and around the water plants before the Sterling, Nebraska farmer could turn him. With two big bass on at the same time Harlan and Chuck had a problem, because both fish were too heavy to be swun into 8 NEBRASKAland AFIELD the boat without a net. With Harlan's fish wrapped in the weeds, they decided to work Chuck's bass first. While Harlan fumbled for the fish scoop, the Lincolnite played his worm gobbler through a series of jumps and runs.

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

With a sure sweep of the net, Harlan lifted the 4 1/2-pound largemouth out of the water.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking an 1/8-ounce bell sinker, he snipped off its eye, removed the wire, and slid it onto the line. After tying a 5/0 hook to the (Continued on page 45)

TO FOOL A GROUSE

LIKE EVERY HUNTER, I have one pet frustration. That's getting close to prairie grouse. If you have ever ■■ bellied, crawled, sneaked, or run through sandburs and prickly pear trying to get within shooting range of sharptails and prairie chicken, you know what I mean. The birds frequent the hay flats, meadows, and alfalfa fields of the Sand Hills, but they have a rare knack of spotting the hunter and are smart enough to flush well out of range.

'Walking up" grouse in the endless grassland is the big challenge, for the actual hitting them is only a small part of the sport. Knowing this, I hit on the idea of "decoying" the birds in, and possibly taking the sweat out of hunting them.

After years of shooting sharptails and prairie chicken with camera and gun, I have learned some of their traits, and this knowledge influenced my decoy approach. Both species of grouse have an affinity for clover and alfalfa and fly out of the hills into the meadows in early morning and late afternoon to feed. They also feed in cut cane, milo, and cornfields. Being gregarious, grouse gather in large flocks as fall wears into winter. They sometimes scatter in smaller groups during their stay in the hills and then regroup in larger flocks to feed.

Taking this into consideration and knowing that some areas consistently attract the birds, my decoy idea seemed feasible. If they would come into a meadow, why wouldn't decoys attract them? To give the idea a chance I needed a blind and a day or two to observe a particular field and ascertain the birds' patterns. An alfalfa meadow nearly a mile long and about 200 yards wide, on the Wallace Ranch, northwest of Burwell, was selected as the test site. A big bale pile almost in the center seemed a likely spot. My decoys were made from two-inch thick styrofoam and were painted to resemble the barred markings of the prairie chicken. The semi-silhouette blocks were half again as large as an actual grouse.

Twelve full decoys were arranged in a loose flock and two more were placed atop the bales. Decoy heads on wire were set to protrude just above the alfalfa to represent foraging birds. The set made, I checked to see if it resembled birds I have seen in similar cover. After moving two or three, they looked O.K., to me, but how did they look to the grouse?

The late-afternoon sun was warm and pleasant as I leaned back in a blind of bales and awaited developments. My first visitors were meadowlarks that flitted around the field and landed occasionally near the decoys. It cheered me a little that these birds accepted the fake chickens. My next visitor was a soaring marsh hawk that skimmed over the decoys, saw me in the blind, and beat a hasty retreat.

Musing over the scare given the hawk, I almost missed seeing a lone chicken as he came winging directly over the decoys about 30 feet up. The shot would have been fairly easy, but I held off to see if the bird would decoy. I should have fired, for the bird kept flying far into the hills to the south.

Thirty minutes later, 3 birds dropped into the alfalfa about 200 yards west of the blind. Some 10 minutes later they were followed by another pair. It was nearly sunset when a threesome winged in from the hills to the north and headed right for the blind. Seconds ticked by as I hunkered deep into the bales to make sure I was hidden. The birds buzzed directly over my head and kept going. Little by little, I was beginning to pick up facts for future use, but questions were still popping into my mind. Were the birds swingingr over for a look at the spread or did the decoys just happen to be in their line of flight?

With five minutes of shooting time left, I decided to try for the birds in the field. I crouched and headed in their direction with little hope of getting in on them. I hadn't covered half the distance when four birds lifted and winged away to the north. Sure that I had seen five go in, I kept 11   moving toward the immediate area where the birds flushed.

"Must have miscounted, or the bird left, and I didn't see him," I thought to myself.

Two more steps proved my count right, for a chicken flapped into the air about 20 yards away. The modified barrel of my side-by-side boomed and the bird dropped, dead before he hit the ground. The decoys were indirectly responsible for bagging the chicken. But, I still needed more assurance that the system would work, although I felt it had promise.

The next morning, knowing that the grouse came into the fields before sunup, I was back in the blind with the first hint of light. As it turned out, a heavy fog failed to lift until nearly 9 a.m. and my second try revealed nothing. The fog had evidently kept the birds grounded. A late-afternoon return to the blind didn't add anything to my bag of birds, but I did see two doubles cross within 100 yards of my blind and land in the far end of the alfalfa. They were joined by six or eight birds as well as some singles. Apparently, they preferred a particular spot in the field, so I made a note to take advantage of their choice.

Other commitments made me give up my decoy project for almost a week. Then knowing the birds were using the far end of the field, I put up a makeshift blind in a fencerow for an evening try. The new location gave a view of the hills to the south where most of the birds came from. A half hour before sunset, a flock of chickens came for the field and my decoys. The birds winged toward me, and it looked like I would get a break. But, the birds had other ideas and landed in the canefield some 75 to 80 yards away. While watching the birds in the field, I missed a chance at a single that came in from the north and joined them. A half hour later, the flock took wing and sailed back into the south hills. Looking toward the east, I saw more birds dropping into the cane before shoot ing time ended. The birds now seemed to prefer waste grain to the alfalfa.

The following morning was a duplicate of the previous evening and I concluded it was time to move the decoys into the cane stubble. Using a small patch of standing cane along the fence, I placed the decoys in a loose flock with a few perched atop the bales and then left until late afternoon. It was nearly 4 p.m., when I was joined by Steven Kohler, a NEBRASKAland photographer. I filled him in on the project as we hiked to the blind.

"I really don't have any evidence that the birds will come in to the decoys," I said. "But I do know that some birds have flown over and looked at them."

"Being a native of Utah," Steve offered, "I've never shot a sharptail or a prairie chicken with or without decoys."

"From the looks of the activity up here yesterday afternoon and again this morning I think we're going to get some action," I replied as we topped a rise.

"They look like grouse from here," Steve said, eyeing the decoys.

I thought something looked odd about the decoys and was going (Continued on page 40)

THE PHEASANT'S DESTINY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The real control for hunter harvest of the pheasant under modern management is the "cocks only" regulation. Length of season and size of the bag are little more 14 NEBRASKAland AFIELD than a concession to popular —though mistaken — public opinion. A bag limit has some value in rationing the more easily taken cocks among hunters, but even here the effect is limited. The truth is, that a majority of the roosters are taken by a relatively small number of skilled and experienced pheasant hunters. Neophytes lose out in contests with this canny and elusive bird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

World War II and related events sent the price of wheat and corn skyrocketing and cattle to $40 a hundredweight. At those prices, idle acres quickly went back under the plow and the acreage of good pheasant habitat (Continued on page 44)

DAY OF THE DEER

A DEER DOESN'T have too bad a time of it in Nebraska compared to some of the lesser mammals. If he can escape the normal hazards during the first few days of fawnhood, he's well on his way to becoming an adult. Of course, he has to watch out for automobiles , deep irrigation ditches, woven wire fences, and men with rifles but these are normal hazards like crossing the street during rush-hour traffic. Unlike smaller animals, the deer doesn't have to worry about becoming a fast meal for every hungry predator that slithers, flies, pounces, or runs.

Nature was in a benign mood when she designed the deer. She gave him long legs to outrun trouble, an extremely sensitive nose to smell out trouble, big ears to hear it coming, and an inborn ability to sense it before it happens. She made him big enough to be conspicuous and then granted him a hide that blends well with practically any surrounding and just to be on the safe side, nature handed the buck a set of antlers that are no mean weapons when it comes to a showdown. Above all, she gave the deer an adapt ability to man and his works.

Nebraska's deer story follows the all-too-familiar pattern. Before the white men came to argue property rights with the Indians, the land that is now Nebraska had sizeable populations of both white tailed and mule deer. There was a gentle man's agreement between the two. The whitetails had the eastern part of the country and the timbered watercourses while the mule deer leaned toward the more open country of the west. Then as now, the two species intermingled a bit but this fraternization didn't seem to cause any international incidents in deerdom.

The first gypsy-feet who passed through this country on their way to the fur-rich mountains probably knew quite a bit about deer and their scheme of life. They knew that fawns are born in the late spring and that their natal coats are a marvelous blend of brown and white that practically melts into the surrounding landscape. They also knew that a fawn has an instinctive discipline that keeps him motionless when the doe is away. Observation told the early travelers that fawns grow rapidly and usually stay with NEBRASKAland AFIELD 19   their mothers for almost a year before going on their own. Men with their eyes on the beaver pelts of the West and the expectations of rip-roaring good times at the annual fur rendezvous probably didn't consider it earth-shaking information that deer wear red coats in the late summer and early fall and then change to a warmer dusky tan when it gets cold but they knew about it.

Deer got into real trouble here and else where when the country started filling up with land-hungry pioneers. Settlers with a soddy full of hungry mouths looked at deer as meat on the table today and to blazes with tomorrow and the future of the herds. Excessive killing and habitat alterations brought about by man's activities almost exterminated the deer.

Fortunately, some far-sighted individuals made noise enough to alarm the powers that be and laws were passed to protect the deer before it was too late. Penalties for killing deer became stiff enough to give the most hardened poacher pause.

Deer populations in NEBRASKAland are relatively stable at the present time and will probably remain so for the forseeable future. But there is a threat to their continued prosperity. Right now, this threat is small and far, far away, but it is there. Again, it is man, who may be the exterminator.

Someday, someone is going to have to ask a mighty leading question: "Which is best, another high-rise apartment here, a super highway there, a shopping center someplace else, or a herd of deer?"

Let us hope there are enough people around with enough guts to answer, loud and clear.

"Deer!"

BOOTSTRAP BOBS

AS SO OFTEN happens, our quail hunt started . out with a rooster pheasant. He got up with ^ startling suddenness, cackling all the way. My partner, Dan Carpentar, and I weren't going out of our way to hunt pheasants, but I wasn't about to let one fly out from under my feet without trying for him. My 12-gauge over-and-under, bored improved and modified, was loaded with No. 7%'s, so I hurried a little to catch up with the rooster as he towered toward the top of the canyon. The first shot failed to do the job, but I followed through, established my lead in front and above, and touched the trigger. The ringneck folded.

"You had me worried," Dan called as I retrieved the bird. "I thought you might let him fly away, seeing we decided on a quail shoot today."

"Shot this one for those dogs we left at home. He'll help ease my old pointer's disappointment in not coming along today if I show him a rooster that sat tight long enough to get a shot," I grinned.

Dan, a supervisor for a surgical supply and manufacturing firm in Broken Bow, is just as enthusiastic about hunting as I am. He owns an English pointer and whenever my farming and his schedule permit we gun for pheasants and quail. My farm, east of Broken Bow, is also a good dog-training ground during the summer and early fall. This hunt, however, was different.

Dan had made the statement that he couldn't remember what it was like to hunt without the aid of his pointer. His thought triggered an idea. Maybe it would be good if we brushed up on hunting techniques without dogs. I wondered if we could find quail and if we downed any, could we find them with any consistency? Dan agreed that such a hunt might be interesting.

We started shortly after sunup at the Pressey State Special Use Area along the South Loup River, a few miles north of Oconto. This public-hunting area has some good bird cover since the Nebraska Game Commission is managing the area for game production as well as servicing the camping and picnicking fraternity.

Our first quail action came when a single buzzed out from the end of a food plot. Dan swung his 12-gauge autoloader and dropped the bob with one shot. He kept his eyes on the spot where the bird fell as he hurried to retrieve his prize. I kept my eye on the spot, too, but Dan found the bird almost immediately.

The incident sparked recall of techniques that we had used before we had dogs to do the retrieving. We used to help each other find birds by marking the fall of each one. Often we would place an empty shell, a hat, or a handkerchief at the spot where we shot from and then repeat the marking system where we thought the game fell. If we didn't find the bird immediately, we would make ever-widening circles until we did. Loose feathers were also a help in locating downed birds, but this could be misleading if the wind was brisk. We knew that feathers drift downwind so the trick was to look upwind for the kill.

That first quail was evidently a loner since further tramping proved fruitless. A side draw with a mixed planting of corn and milo was next on our list and that's where I stirred up my rooster.

"Sure wish I had that pointer along to go up that sidehill and work out that plum brush," I moaned.

"I wonder how many birds we've walked by. We've been hunting almost an hour now and haven't jumped a covey," Dan replied.

We hunted for another 30 minutes, but two hens and a rooster that flushed out of range were all we stirred up. A little (Continued on page 43)

RUI AND RINGNECKS

RUI QUADROS walked into the cafe at Mason City looking somewhat frozen and apprehensive about Nebraska's winter weather.

"I'm not sure I'll ever get warm," he remarked to Alex Legge. "Man, this is a far cry from southeast Africa."

I introduced Rui and Alex to Harry Boyles, a Mason City area farmer, who was going to host us for some pheasant hunting. Our hunt had been planned some days earlier when I learned that Rui, a "white hunter" from Africa, was in the United States and wanted to hunt some NEBRASKAland pheasants. Rui and I had met when I was in Africa on safari. I'm a salesman for a well-known archery company and I live in Bassett, Nebraska when I'm not out somewhere hunting. While on that African hunt, I bagged a good leopard and several antelope with my bow.

"Rui has never hunted in the snow and cold, or ever shot in the U.S.A. He would especially like to knock off some of our ringnecks," I explained to my companions.

A call to Harry had set up the hunt, but he had cautioned that it would be tough.

"The birds are bunched up in what little cover is available above the snow and they are mighty hard to approach," he warned.

Alex, who also farms in the Mason City area, agreed to go along. Since the drive-and-block method appeared to be the best way to handle the spooky ring necks, we were glad to have him.

Rui gave us a little background on himself as we lunched. He is Portuguese and works as a professional hunter for an outfitting group called "Safariland". It is headquartered in Lourenco Marques, Mozambique in Portuguese East Africa. Asked about hunting seasons in Africa, my visitor told us that hunting runs from April to November there. We were full of questions, but a look at our watches suggested we get after the pheasants before the day ran out.

It was nearly 3 p.m. before we got in the field, a few miles south of Mason City. Harry was right, the ring necks were wild. Rui and I were the only ones to get shooting. Our bird came streaking downwind above the trees and both of us missed by comfortable margins. We justified the misses by claiming the rooster was jet propelled.

"There's only one way to hunt this patch," Harry commented as we hiked back to the car. "Tomorrow, let's put a couple of blockers on the upwind side and then make the drive."

"I'll say one thing," Rui remarked. "Your birds are smarter than anything we have in Africa. The bustard, one of our large game birds in Mozambique, is wary and a strong flier but these ringnecks put him to shame."

"By the way," he inquired, "I saw a rabbit that looks something like the ones we have in Africa. Is the season open on them?"

"Right," I answered. 'You can shoot quail, rabbit, squirrel, and pheasant. Tomorrow morning we should get a chance at all of them."

That evening we talked more about hunting. While Alex, Harry, and I asked about Africa, our guest was very much interested in Nebraska and its wildlife. I acted as a shortstop for questions on both as my recent trip to the dark continent was my second. When asked about small game in Africa, Rui answered:

"We have quite a variety. I mentioned the bustard — he could be termed the turkey of Africa. Of course, there is the ostrich, but he is protected in our hunting area. By the way," he grinned, "you wouldn't need more than one ostrich for your American Thanksgiving dinner— 200 pounders aren't uncommon."

"Let's talk about something more our size," Alex laughed. "How about quail?"

"We have quail but they are migratory. They are the Pharaoh or Coturnix. When the birds come in the shooting is fantastic," Rui answered.

At mention of the Coturnix I told him that we had stocked some 75,000 of them in parts of Nebraska, but the stocking was not successful.

"As I understand it, Rui," I questioned, "this bird is found in Asia as well as in Africa?"

"Right," he smiled, "I don't know where our birds go. We do not have very extensive information on many of our birds and animals. Let's say the conservation movement in many African countries is just getting a start. Money to conduct surveys, research, and pay law-enforcement officers is just not sufficient to do an adequate job."

"I'm sure anyone interested in wildlife would enjoy our continent. Being prejudiced, I think the best is in East Africa," continued Rui. "It fascinates me to see your American wildlife — perhaps their numbers are indicative of tomorrow's Africa.

"When I read of your American West," he went on, "and the fantastic herds of bison that roamed here just over a century ago, I can't help but think of my country 100 years from now. Your wildlife populations have dropped because of the highly sophisticated industrial and agricultural society."

"Agreed," I said. "Wildlife habitat is becoming critical in many states. It certainly is in Nebraska, especially with this heavy snow. There just isn't enough cover to sustain all of the birds more than a few weeks under these conditions."

"I have hunted about as long as I can remember," Rui resumed, "and I can see the effects of civilization on our game herds as Africa awakens to its rich future. Agriculture has tremendous potential with such things as irrigation, heavy machinery, and advancing knowledge of farming practices."

The talk turned to other game such as the squirrel and rabbit. "Very few people (Continued on page 38)

HELP AFIELD

Carrying a loaded shotgun in a motor vehicle on a public road is a violation of Nebraska law. Here's a tip to avoid arrest and fine: carry your unloaded shot gun cased until you reach the game covers. Remember, too, a loaded shotgun in a vehicle is dangerous. Protect your self and others by leaving that favorite scattergun empty and cased while traveling.

■ Don't forget to sign your permit and upland-bird stamp before you hunt. If license is lost, contact the permit vendor where you purchased it and get a duplicate license form. Fill it out, have the vendor verify it, and send the duplicate with $1 to Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509 for a replacement.

■ The weather is often warm during the early seasons. Field dress your game as soon as it is bagged. Leave the feathers or fur on unless you have a cooler, and don't leave game in the trunk of a car unless it is parked in the shade. Hang and cool big game as soon as possible or get it to a locker plant.

■ Pheasant hunters who occasionally flush bobwhites will have an edge if they carry a few spreader or brush-load shells along with their heavier loads.

■ Cut down losses of downed birds by pinpointing the spot where the bird fell. Mark the approximate spot with an empty shell, a hat, or a handkerchief, then search the area by circling.

■ Sandburs can be a problem in some parts of Nebraska. Start early training your hunting dog to wear dog boots.

■ Remember to leave a fully-feathered leg or the head on your grouse and pheasants for easy identification of species and sex. Waterfowl must have one fully-feathered wing left on.

■ Picking a duck can be rough, but this tip can help. Dry pick the large feathers, then melt a pound of paraffin in two gal lons of hot water. Dunk the duck in the mixture and allow to cool until the wax forms a glaze. A pound of paraffin will take care of four to six ducks. Peel off the covering and then singe off the few hairs remaining on the bird by holding it over a gas burner or a flaming piece of paper. Discard the used paraffin or re melt and skim the feathers off.

■ Hunting weather is often unpredic table. Put a change of clothes in your car; it can be a lifesaver after a sudden drenching.

■ Running straight at a rooster pheas ant will often "freeze" him long enough for a shot.

■ Investigate isolated patches of cov er even if they are small. Often they hold a surprising number of pheasants and/or quail.

■ A quick move over the brow of a choppy will sometimes catch a sharp tailed grouse dead to rights.

■ Don't forget to rack in another shell as soon as a bird goes down. He some times has company. Besides, you may need that second shot for a stopper.

■ Here's one for bob white gunners. When a covey flushes toward a shelter belt or tree claim, look for the birds to be down on its far side, especially if there is heavy grass cover.

■ Nebraska's ringnecks are pretty cool customers, but a lone hunter can unnerve them into a fatal mistake by the step-step-stop method. The gunner who moves slowly and makes frequent pauses will sometimes have his patience re warded by a rooster who can't take the uncertainty of "Does he see me or does he not?"

■ Don't give up hope if a flock of sharp-tailed grouse flush wild. Move right in to the spot. Often there will be a laggard who hangs back after his com panions have departed.

■ Snuffing the covers can be dry work, so carry enough water along for both you and the dogs.

■ Losing a billfold can ruin any hunt, so when jump hunting Nebraska's marshes for waterfowl, wrap your wallet in a plastic bag and pin it to an inner pocket with a large safety pin.

■ Don't write off a shot at a deer as a miss. Often the animal will show no re action, although solidly hit. Check it out. Tufts of hair, flecks of blood, or an abrupt switch in the animal's direction are all hints of a hit.

■ Game is often wiser than we think and is quick to diagnose our intentions. Sometimes this can be an advantage. A casual, non-direct approach toward an animal or bird will often let you get within shooting range. Avoid looking directly at the potential target and make haste slowly.

■ Dog-pushed rabbits run in circles, so when friend beagle jumps a bunny don't try to run him down. Take a break and wait. Pretty soon, the cottontail will come back to within yards of his starting place. Then it's rabbit in the pan if you do your part.

■ Honking at a pretty girl will prob ably draw either a smile or a frown from the subject, but honking at pheasants may put a ringneck or two in the coat. A blast on the horn in pheasant country will often bring a challenging reply from an old rooster. Pinpoint the location and go to work on him.

■ Five minutes' careful study of terrain will give you the edge on that canny ring-necked pheasant. If you can come at him from the "back door", the element of surprise is in your favor.

■ Slamming a car door near pheasant cover is like yelling, "Hey, bug out, there's trouble coming!" Ease out of the car, shut the door quietly, and move in swiftly but silently.

■ A zigzag approach down main street will give the neighbors the wrong impression, but it's just the ticket in pheasant covers. It confuses the birds, thwarts their attempts to double back, and just generally keeps them guessing.

■ If known quail covers fail to produce on any given day, don't despair. Try it again the next day. Weather conditions play an important role in bobwhite behavior. Also, hot, windy days are tough on dogs and curtail their scenting ability. Cool days with little wind and a hint of moisture in the air are just about perfect.

■ Drawstrings on parka hoods are miserable things to tie, especially when your fingers are cold. A bolo-type slide is a mighty handy gadget for snugging up that hood when ears and cheeks start turning blue.

■ When hunting prairie grouse, check plum-brush patches and wild-rose areas carefully. The birds consider them prime covers.

■ After a fall, check your firearm. A barrel clogged with mud, sand, or snow can be as lethal as a hand grenade.

■ Giving out with a Bronx cheer by pursing the lips and expelling air forcefully will sometimes send pheasant skyrocketing out of dense cover.

■ Don't twang the wires when you are crossing fences. The strands act as telegraphs and birds 300 yards away will get the message.

■ If doe deer seem curious and somewhat hesitant in the open, watch behind them. Sometimes a buck sends out his girl friends before revealing himself.

■ When you're hunting the Sand Hills, park your vehicle on the highest hill you can. It makes it a lot easier to find.

■ Nebraska mule deer are curious creatures. Often they'll break with a rush, run a hundred yards or so, then stop to see what all the commotion is about. Wait them out; a standing shot is always easier than a running try.

WHOM TO CONTACT FOR LOCAL HUNTING INFORMATION

IT'S ALL A MATTER OF CARE

IF YOUR WIFE scowls every time you walk through the door with wild game, chances are there is a reason. My troubles started two hunting seasons ago when my wife, Ellen, invited a few friends over for a game dinner. She spent several hours preparing the meal, cleaned the entire house, and bragged to a neighbor that her pheasant recipe just couldn't be beat. But that night it was. The ringnecks had a "gamy" taste, the grouse was even worse, and the only meal-savers were the quail. When every one had left, my wife had a few well chosen words for the hunter in the family.

I did a little research on the problem of bad-tasting game and came up with a very simple solution. Good taste depends on the treatment of the meat just after the kill, and I wasn't spending enough time in that area. With proper game care, I found I could get wild meat to the table with its meant-to-be flavor still intact, and better yet, my wife didn't have to worry about gaminess ruining an otherwise delicious dinner.

The methods of handling all game after the kill are similar. Whether you shoot a deer or a pheasant, the quarry should be properly bled, dressed, and cooled as soon as possible. Why? Meat contamination from body wastes and juices are the

No. 1 spoilers of gunshot game. Although a shotgun or rifle is an essential, many hunters forget that a sharp knife, wrapping paper, a small bag, and a clean cloth are also important tools of the sport.

Most sportsmen know that immediate cleaning of big game is a must, but few realize that small game should be given the same attention. To field dress a rabbit or squirrel, simply split open the body cavity from the chest to the tail, pull out the entrails, and wipe out the cavity with a cloth or grass. If you are nearly ready to head home, skinning the animal while it is still warm makes the job much easier. Just make a circular cut around the middle of the body, grasp the edges of the severed skin with a hand on either side of the cut, and pull toward the ends. Open the body cavity, bend the legs up over the back, and give the animal a quick downward thrust. The entrails will fall out. Clean the gutted carcass thoroughly, then drop it in a bag for sanitary keeping. If you anticipate a long day in the field, small game should be field dressed but not skinned. The fur protects the meat against contamination and excessive drying.

The best way to spoil a bird hunt is to bring a bird home spoiled. Grouse, especially, will taste gamy if they are not field dressed immediately. Pheasants, quail, and turkey can stand some car trunk hauling, but the best bet is to field dress them right on the spot. To remove the entrails, cut from the back of the breast to the vent and make another cut from the front of the breast to the neck to remove the crop, lungs, and windpipe. Wipe out the cavity with a clean cloth or grass, and if possible, hang the birds from a game strap for quick cooling while you are walking the fields.

Hunters who have had early-morning success but who plan to stick around until their buddies limit out will find it worthwhile to drop their birds off at a game processor for cleaning. Birds shot early should not be carried around all day if it can be helped. If they have to be, avoid stacking them close together. Body heat from a mountain of game will help spoil the meat. A big cooler with room for both ice and birds is always a good bet. When transporting upland birds be sure to leave the heads and feet on for identification, and on water fowl, one full wing.

Dressing a duck or goose in the field is literally a matter of taste, but hunters will find that a freshly killed fowl is much easier to pluck because the feathers have not tightened to the skin. While high flyers are eyeballing your decoys you can take your exasperations out on their already-downed cousins by plucking them. To dry-pick waterfowl, pull down on the feathers to avoid tearing the skin. Cut out the oil gland at the base of the tail, remove the pin feathers with a knife or tweezers, and singe the fine "hair" by burning a lightly twisted piece of wrapping paper. After removing the entrails, keep the birds cool and wrapped in paper or in a bag.

Although a hunter may be planning a steak dinner as he walks up on a deer or antelope, the meat is still a long ways away from home. If he wants to enjoy 34 NEBRASKAland AFIELD those steaks, there are two important points to remember in field dressing a big-game animal—bleed the deer or antelope well and cool the carcass as soon as possible. Your working tools in this case are a hefty, sharp knife with at least a 4V2-inch blade, a hand ax, some rope, clean rags, and a piece of cheesecloth.

To assure proper bleeding, turn the deer so that the head is downhill and make a deep cut across the throat through the jugular vein. There are two schools of thought on throat cutting. Some hunters always do it. Others say that field dressing is bleeding enough. While the deer is bleeding, cut the musk glands from the legs but be sure to clean your knife afterwards. The musk can contaminate the meat. Now you are ready to hog dress your animal. First make a shallow cut in the midline of the stomach just to the rear of the breast. Facing the rear of the deer or antelope, put your knife hand inside the cut, angling the knife point back toward you and continue to cut to the crotch, being careful not to puncture the digestive tract. Cut around the anal opening, pull back the skin, and cut through the belly membrane for access to the intestines. If it is a buck, cut the sex organs away and tie off the bladder. Reach inside the body cavity and slice through the diaphragm, then cut the windpipe and gullet high up the throat. This done, turn the carcass on its side and dump out the entrails and lungs. Put the liver and heart in a cloth bag to keep them clean.

Rapid cooling is the secret to bringing home good meat. Split the breast and hipbones with a hand ax. With the carcass completely open, it should be hung in a shady spot either head-up or headdown to finish draining and cooling. If you intend to mount your trophy, avoid getting blood on the head or neck. To remove blood stains, sponge with luke warm water. After wiping the body cavity with a clean cloth, spread it open with a stick. To discourage flies and other insects, sprinkle black pepper on the exposed flesh.

By using these helpful hints when I am in the field, my spoiled meat troubles are over. At our house a game dinner now means good eating.

DEER ATTACK

up, but while he was recovering from the shock of my knife thrust, I lunged for the .300 Magnum, then backed up about 30 feet.

My cries for help brought Darrell on the run, and when he trotted up, I was holding the rifle on the deer and the deer was glaring and snorting at me. The buck's wound had made him stiff, so walking or running was nearly impossible. But, from the look in his eye, I knew he was ready to tear me apart. "Shoot him," Darrell yelled.

As my partner uttered the words, the buck crumpled into the grass. This time I made sure he was dead before putting down my rifle. That whitetail had given me a scare I won't soon forget. As I dressed him out, the full impact of what happened really hit me. Luckily, the antlers had only shredded my pants and bruised my legs. He hadn't drawn any blood, but he could have. His razor-sharp, 4-inch brow tines could easily have caught me in the stomach and that is what bothered me the most. What I couldn't figure out is why I didn't shoot the deer again after I grabbed my rifle. Maybe I was in shock, or maybe I just had too much respect for that deer to end the hunt with a 30-foot shot.

But, that 5-pointer taught me a valuable deer hunting lesson, and that is why those tattered pants will be hanging next to his rack. Never again will I lower my rifle until I am sure my trophy is dead.

RUI AND RINGNECKS

hunt these animals in Africa," Rui said. "The natives trap rabbits, but those who have guns aren't about to shoot a three-pound rabbit when big game is so numerous."

"This priority is prevalent here, too," Alex offered. "Not for the same reason, of course, but the Nebraska hunter is also selective. He primarily likes to shoot pheasants, with very few gunners seriously hunting the cottontail or squirrel. In the more populous states, how ever, the rabbit bears the brunt of the hunting pressure."

The following morning was clear and cold, with the wind at near-gale force as we headed for another try at the ringnecks. Our hunt began in a small weed patch. We were a little better informed on how the birds would react, so we gave the patch a wide berth until we had it covered from three sides. Then Harry and Alex pushed through.

Rui huddled out of the wind behind a haystack about a hundred yards west of me and waited, hut not for long. The minute the drivers walked into the patch, a rooster flushed and climbed at least 100 feet. He was too far out and Rui let him pass.

A few seconds later another bird flushed, climbed with the wind, and head ed toward the Afrikaner.

Rui swung with the highballing bird. The shot was tough, an incomer that was high and passing left to right, but the hunter was up to the task and crumpled the rooster with a load of No. 6's. Once through the patch we gathered around Rui as he admired his first ringneck.

"We have a lot of colorful birds in Mozambique," he commented, "but they aren't game birds. This bird is as hand some as any of ours."

"Don't know what we would do with out him," Alex said. "The ringneck has given our gunners consistently good shooting for many years."

"From the game managers' standpoint, the pheasant has filled a void in many states," I offered. "A void that our native 38 NEBRASKAland AFIELD birds, such as grouse and prairie chicken, could not fill. They failed to adapt to the change from native habitat to agriculture and high human populations."

"Great game bird," Rui commented, facing into the biting wind. "What's next? I would like to pop another rooster, and if I don't move soon I'll freeze stiff."

"I think we should hit that weedy draw to the north," Harry said. "One of you take old deadeye here and swing wide to the east of the draw and then come in and block the end of it."

Ten minutes later we eased into the end of the patch just as the drivers start ed in from the south. Rui was 75 yards to my left as we watched for the birds.

Harry and Alex were still 300 yards away when the birds began flushing. Three or four roosters came up into the teeth of the wind but landed some 75 yards short of us. Other birds began get ting up, but none came close enough for a shot. Then after a couple of minutes, three birds got up fairly close and winged straight toward Rui.

He made the common mistake of a blocker and popped up too soon, causing the birds to veer. Two were out of range but the third was about 40 yards out. My guest connected with his first shot, but he had to follow with a second to down the tough old ringneck.

The shots flushed at least a dozen more birds, but they had spotted the drivers and Rui and went sailing safely out between them. Regrouped, we turned our backs on the wind and hiked for the car, with me saying something about beginner's luck and Rui retorting wryly that leopards didn't often get shot by bowmen, either.

"There's about one-half mile of fairly good cover in this same creek bottom about a mile south of here," Harry suggested as we warmed up in the car. "We should be able to put up a few pheasants. I know there are a couple coveys of quail there."

Action came almost as soon as we hit the first stretch of cover. A covey of "bobs" exploded in front of Harry and he dropped one as the birds whisked away on the wind. Rui was next in line. As he entered a small patch of weeds, a pair of bobs shot into the air, hung for an instant in the wind, turned tail, and went like thistledown on a tornado. Rui dumped one bird, then threw two futile shots at the other.

"Say," Rui said, grinning, "those bobwhites are quick. I think that second one outflew the shot."

"This bird resembles the Coturnix, he continued, examining the quail. "But he's a little bigger and has bolder mark ings. He moves about twice as fast as ours and must be tougher to survive this weather."

We had seen a number of cottontails and called to Rui that one was headed his way. He upended the bunny, then called that it looked just like an African rabbit except for the ears, which were a little shorter.

By the time we walked out of the creek I had bagged one cottontail and Alex had missed a tough shot at a ringneck. Rui added a big fox squirrel to his collection just before we broke for lunch. After chow, we returned to where we had hunted the day before.

Theorizing where the birds would be, Harry split us up into teams of blockers and drivers. He elected to be a driver, so after dropping us off, he drove to the other end, waited 10 minutes for the blockers to get in place, and started in.

Things could have worked a lot better. He was right on the edge of a weed-filled ditch when the birds began getting up. The first was a hen and she triggered five or six more into the air.

That was all the roosters needed. Suddenly, they were jumping, some 75 yards ahead of Harry. We tried three or four shots but Alex was the only one to down a rooster.

"This pheasant hunting isn't as easy as I thought it would be," Rui observed as we headed for town. "You guys earn every bird you get."

"It's been enjoyable," he grinned, as we said our good-byes. "I would like to come back and hunt when you have better weather. My blood isn't quite as thick as yours."

"Sorry we didn't see more birds," Harry apologized.

"You showed me plenty of birds," our guest replied. "However, they do present a real challenge to the gunner, but then isn't that what hunting is all about?"

TO FOOL A GROUSE

to say something when Steve groaned, "Oh, no," as 8 or 10 chickens rose from the set.

"Yeah," I chuckled, "and neither one of us with shells in the guns."

Pulling two bales into the standing cane, we settled down to see what the late afternoon would produce. It wasn't long before a single came out of the east, sailed past the decoys beyond gun range, and landed in the alfalfa field to the north, a hundred yards from the blind.

"Try a sneak if you want to," I whispered, "but you'll have to crawl on him."

Steve slipped off his heavy hunting jacket. "If I get him, he'll be my first."

The stalk was still in its very early stages when Steve stopped and pulled a few sandburs out of his knees. A few more yards and he repeated the process on his elbows. He acted like he was about to give up the project and looked back at me, but I motioned for him to try a quick dash for the 20 yards needed to get in good gun range of the bird.

No sprinter, Steve made 10 yards before the chicken vaulted into the air. The hunter stopped and got into shoot ing position, but the bird was too far out for his modified 12-gauge. Disconsolately he returned to the blind.

His whisper alerted me that birds were out in front and coming fast. Three chickens came sailing in from the southeast, crossed just outside the decoys, and landed in the field some 100 yards away.

"I don't think you can try a sneak on those," I advised, watching the birds.

"Not from here," Steve agreed, "but what about going through the fence and

down the field until I get behind the hill?"

His plans for a stalk were interrupted by a marsh hawk that dove at the birds and flushed them. It appeared as though the hawk was out more for fun than food as he scattered the chickens.

"Seems as though nothing has worked so far," Steve growled.

"We've still got a half hour. Maybe our luck will change," I said hopefully.

About 5 minutes later, a single came out of the east and landed on a bale some 50 yards south of the decoys. "Another one that likes to look at the decoys," I said, as Steve studied a possible approach.

"He'll make a good decoy, anyway," my partner stated. "But they sure seem to keep their distance."

"I think it's a matter of chance as to where they land. It isn't like duck hunt ing where the birds will circle the spread before landing."

Steve answered, "Looks to me like they spot the decoys and want to drop in, but with a little reservation as to how close."

"This has some similarity to duck hunting. Birds often circle the decoys, but it's not too often they will land right in the blocks. I've seen many ducks land out in a pond or lake away from the blind and the decoys. Maybe we should set up two blinds for tomorrow morning and see if we can cover a little more territory," I suggested.

Steve had a good idea. "How about that other patch of cane to the east? It's about 75 yards away and it will give us good coverage. I could have shot that single that went into the alfalfa if I had been in there."

The plan sounded good, so before we left, we moved some of the decoys to the east, more or less centered between our two hiding spots. The next morning we were in the blinds just as the light began to build in the east. Steve, off to the east of me, was well concealed in the six-foot cane. A meadowlark on a nearby fencepost greeted the new day with a song and a flock of horned larks flitted past the blind and landed in the stubblefield. As we settled down, I could hear the fading yap of a coyote as he retreated from the oncoming light.

A slight haze hung over the stubble as I scanned for birds. First to show was a large flock that came in from the north, sailed along the far western edge of the stubble, and landed out of sight some 200 yards away. It was sunup before we got our first chance and then it was from the flock in the field. It lifted from the field and winged toward the blinds. The birds didn't change course, however, and they passed just out of range. One loner evidently decided it wasn't quite time to leave and sideslipped across the eastern edge of the decoys before bank ing sharply over Steve's blind. My shoot ing partner saw the chicken coming and was ready. He popped out of the cane like a Jack-in-the-box, swung with the bird, and dropped him.

"That bird liked the decoys better than the flock he was flying with, or else he was tired," he grinned.

"Let's hope there are more just like him," I replied.

The sun, hanging like a giant fireball in the east, was blazing across the stubble and making my vigil to the east tough. Some 10 minutes later, Steve saved the day for me when I heard him shoot and swung in time to catch a flash of wings as a pair of birds bored toward me from the east. Swinging with the lead bird, I touched off* the modified barrel and drew a complete miss. The second shot centered the chicken, dropping him on the outside edge of the decoys.

"Should have had the double," Steve called. "I only shot to wake you up."

"Agreed on both points. I don't think I would have seen them until it was too late," I said, accepting his gentle teasing.

Our vigil in the blinds lasted another hour but it had its frustrations. A flock of four birds landed 75 yards out in front of Steve, a single winged over my head from the north and was gone before I saw him, and a big bunch flew over and headed back into the hills to the north.

"Well, at least we each bagged a bird," Steve said as we loaded up our decoys. "Decoys have some potential in areas like this, for it's a cinch there isn't any way to sneak up on them."

"It's a beginning. I think decoying grouse will work, but it will take a couple days to peg down the flight habits in any given field or meadow. Also small port able blinds would be helpful. As a case in point, look what would have happened if we had had a blind in the bales to the south. Practically all the birds flew along the south edge of the decoys," I concluded.

Going in, Steve came up with a question. "Gene, how about sharptails? Do you think they will come in for a look at your fakes?"

"They might and I know a good meadow with stacks near Valentine where I've seen plenty of sharptails. If there is any place that decoying would work, it should be there. If you don't have anything to do next weekend let's give it a try."

"Anything to further the field of wild life research," Steve grinned.

BOOTSTRAP BOBS

discouraged, we went back to the truck and headed for the river around the old Pressy farmstead. The buildings are gone and weeds have overgrown the area. Good woody cover along the stream plus a large grove of cottonwoods in the north west corner looked promising. A rooster flashed out of the weeds without offering a shot as we headed for the promising cottonwoods.

I was working just inside the timber when a large covey exploded. My two shots took the bark of a cottonwood and a limb off a box elder as the bobs winged through the branches. Dan had spotted four or five birds down in the timber and he flushed them out again. He did better; he only missed once.

A 15-minute search failed to produce any birds, so we surmised they had gone through the timber and went down along the river. After half an hour of looking, we gave up and decided to try some cover back east along the river. Again our efforts were unproductive.

"There's a covey along here some where. I flushed them last week. Maybe they are out in the milo. Why don't you get the truck while I hike this cover to the road?" my long-time hunting partner suggested.

Dan had a rooster when I drove up. He explained that his bird was a dead ringer for mine. The pheasant had stayed tight in the milo and then flushed for an easy shot. We took a break for lunch at Calloway and then drove east and north out of town to a farm road that took us to a brushy draw that snaked out of the river bottom into the surrounding hills. I knew of at least two good coveys in the draw and hoped we could find them.

Dan popped three No. 8 handloads in his autoloader and agreed to take the heavy going in the bottom. He was using a skeet barrel and had a chance with its wide pattern at bobs in the timber. I stayed on the sidehill to mark down any birds that he might put up. My partner had just stepped over the hill when I heard him call. "A covey just flushed wild out of the bottom. They are spooky, but I marked them down."

He led me down the draw for a hundred yards and pointed to a bunch of short brushgrass about 30 yards ahead. "I'm sure they are in there. You take the right and I'll work in from the left," he coached.

The ground cover was fairly clean except for the small bushes and I felt it was a good place to try for a double if the birds cooperated. Marking them down and finding them wouldn't be a problem. My chance came quickly when we closed in. A dozen quail quickly zipped into the air and went straight down the draw under the branches. I picked out a bird on the edge of the covey and dropped him with a quick shot. Marking him down beside a fallen log, I swung quickly on another target, but the bob darted behind a tree and was gone. Dan's autoloader ripped out two quick shots as I stepped in to see if a sleeper was hanging tight. A quail whizzed out behind me, but I picked him up over the barrel and threw a snapshot. The bird dropped a wing and cart wheeled in.

Using an empty shell to mark my shooting position, I kept my eye on the spot where the second bird went down. I was sure my first bird was dead, but the second could be a cripple, so I hurried in for the retrieve. A fluttering in the leaves led me straight to him. The shot was better than I had anticipated and the bob hadn't moved from where I had estimated his fall.

"How many did you down?" Dan called. "I've got two down, but I still haven't found one of them."

A couple of feathers on the leaves led me to the first bird shot and then I moved over to help Dan search. He had left his hat at the spot of shooting to give him a line on his downed birds. Lining up on his hat we started circling the approximate point of fall and after a couple of minutes we found the quail partially hidden in the leaves.

Dan's remark of, "The rest of the covey went up the hill, so let's go after some singles," was enough to take us out of the gully and up the hill. A single buzzed out and we both missed him. My partner was making some remarks about our shooting when a pair of bobs followed by a single lifted from a washout under our feet. My companion went to work on the pair while I swung on the single. My first shot was a miss, but the second was on and he dropped in the bordering pasture. Dan took one bird with his shot and let the other ride. After picking up my bird, I went over and followed Dan's directions to help find his bob* He had stayed put to guide me in and then joined the search. After five minutes of ground scratching we found the bird in some plum brush.

"I would say we're doing real fine finding birds; even dogs couldn't beat our success so far," Dan offered. "Frank ly, I'm enjoying it. I know a lot of hunt ers that take a fleeting shot or two at a covey, but they fail to mark their kills and get discouraged when they can't find their birds."

I agreed with him, but in a way I'm selfish and am just glad that many hunters are not serious quail men. They leave that much more sport for me. We discussed quail-shooting techniques as we worked along. Like all wing shooting, it's a combination of pass and swing shooting with a lot of snap shooting thrown in when the birds are in the timber. We had about a quarter of a mile to go before reaching the spot where I expected another covey.

Dan came up with a bit of interesting information as we plodded along. "Did you know that you can sometimes find quail by listening for them7"

"You mean singles? I've often heard one whistling after a covey has been broken."

"Coveys, too, when the birds are feeding and moving along. They cheep to keep together and if you listen, you can often hear it. It's a steady sound unlike the two-note call of a single," he replied.

The head of the draw was close before we spooked the covey. It flushed out from some plum brush and was out of range, but it swung into the pasture land and settled into some tumbleweeds. It was a go-for-broke opportunity and I agreed when Dan suggested there was a possibility of a triple. I hit the tumble weeds and 25 birds roared out. Two shots netted me one bird, while Dan's three shot effort brought down a pair. We worked the scattered singles and got our limits just before sunset ended our shoot ing. We lost but one bird, one that I just winged.

"I have had worse days with the dogs," Dan remarked as we headed for the truck. I agreed, but I felt we were pretty lucky in retrieving our kills. Still, we had used our heads and made a conscientious effort to find our kills.

Our hunt was an excellent one, but as I eased into the truck, I knew why we used our pointers. They sure save a lot of steps in searching out and retrieving birds. Dan hit my thoughts dead center when he grunted, "I don't know about you but my 'dogs' are sure barking."

PHEASANT'S DESTINY

dropped to 1 acre or less out of each 100. Pheasant numbers declined accordingly, 44 NEBRASKAland AFIELD despite the fact that we were shooting only cock birds.

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

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

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

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

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

Control of hunter take is very simple and very adequate. Control of non hunter mortality is neither simple nor adequate. During my tenure in Nebraska I have done my best to manage the pheasant on the basis of proven biological facts rather than popular but unbiological fancy. I have tried to tell the pheasant story exactly like it is.

The truth is the truth and always will be. If we cannot save pheasant environment, we cannot save the bird. That is why I persist in telling the truth to the best of my ability. That is why you, who read these lines, must persist in telling the truth to those who do not read these lines.

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

'Whatever will be, will be."

DOG-DAY LARGEMOUTHS

monofilament, he nipped a quarter inch off the head of the worm. The angler in serted and pushed the hook point one half inch into the center of the lure, then brought it out through the side of the worm. After pulling the hook until the eye disappeared inside the wiggler, he buried the barb in the body of the crawler to make it weedless.

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

"There is an underwater ledge 25 feet out from the boat," Harlan commented as he felt the bottom through his worm. "Should be a bass along that rock shelf."

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

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

"Let's see your worm," Chuck laughed as he finished his cast. "You didn't even drive the barb through the worm on that effort and there are a couple of reasons why. First the type of worm you are using isn't pliable enough for this sort of fishing. You would need a hammer to punch a barb through that worm. I buy the softest and most flexible plastic worm I can find. Your 6Vfc-foot, fast-action rod has too much play to set a hook with any authority. I use a 5Vfc-foot rod that has just a little more action than a pool cue and I try to break it every time I set a hook."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Chuck pulled into the bay, his trained eye quickly picked out a couple of likely spots. The water was still cool enough for bass to be up in the shallows, so Harlan and Chuck anchored 25 yards out from a patch of aquatic plants. On their first casts they each hooked a bass to turn the quiet morning into near panic. But the action was just beginning. Two casts later Roberts abruptly felt the mud-stirring blast of another bass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back at the marina, several locals told me that my companions' 19-bass catch in one day was a summer record for the lake. In fact, some went even further and said they couldn't remember that many big largemouths being pulled out of the lake in a day. The two had accounted for one 4 1/2-pound bass, 3 fish over 3V2 pounds, 5 over 3 pounds, and the rest between D/2 and 3 pounds.

Chuck had backed up his boast on one of the most difficult summertime bass lakes in Nebraska and on the way home the flak was heavy. But my defeat was far from crushing. In 2 1/2 days I had received expert instruction from two of the best bass fishermen in Nebraska. These lessons are still paying dividends for me, so even though I lost a bet, I won. In fact, I now share Chuck and Harlan's bankside philosophy of "Give the purple worm a chance, and it will per form wonders for you."

STAY MOTEL TONIGHT!