WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
NEBRASKAland
November 1969 50 cents
NEBRASKAland invites all readers to submit their comments, suggestions, and gripes to SPEAK UP. Each month the magazine will publish as many letters as space permits. Pictures are welcome. NEBRASKAland reserves the right to edit and condense letters.— Editor.
DISAGREES "I felt I had to write when I read the text and looked at the photos of This Old Farmhouse by Mike Knepper in the April NEBRASKAland.
"The farm homes were not abandoned because the families moved to bigger and finer homes but because their farms and ranches did not prosper. They were forced off the land by low farm prices. In 1942, the Committee for Economic Development was founded and put into print the long-range policy for the liquidation of the family farm. In the past 20 years, it has all but dried up rural America because at this late date for every 7 or 8 farmers who are forced off the land 1 business on main street closes up. Mr. Knepper could have gotten the same kind of photos in any of the small towns in Nebraska. I can't imagine how anyone could think that 19,000 fewer farm families living in the state could be called progress because the 1929 depression was brought on by low-farm prices.
"The farmers of America are an unorganized group all producing the same thing and all trying to sell it to a highly organized group of processors and chain stores. This is the only reason for low farm prices. Unless farmers are organized and put a price on their production, it will not only be the liquidation of rural America, but it will lead to another great depression and possibly the downfall of this great nation." —Bob Alber, Blue Hill.
LIKES CRANES-"As a youngster I watched for the cranes every spring and fall. The ones described in my poem were the big white ones with black-tipped wings (whooping cranes?) I saw the cranes dance once. It was about 65 years ago about 25 miles south and west of Kearney." —Clarence W. Thorwald, Lindsborg, Kansas.
THE NUPTIAL DANCE Humans are not sapient of the sacred try sting place Where the whooping cranes will gather on their journey to the north, There to execute a ritual and inhere an ancient law.
There appears to he an edict that no crane shall miss a mate When their journey is completed and the nesting time begins, Thus they climax their adventure with a mystic nuptial dance.
What a privilege to witness the big birds come sailing down; Beautiful in plumage, and majestic in their flight. They are dignified in conduct, and a glory to the eye.
There is silence on the prairie as if time had called a halt, Every beak is tilted upward, every bird is poised and still Waiting for the spirit's signal of their ancient heritage.
Politely bowing, perfect timing; overtures in rhythmic flow, Pausing, pirouetting, the flounce of wings, the leap, Every act a graceful movement, every turn a minion move.
With the nuptial dance completed, they continue on their journey To their hidden destination far away from gun and man. They have honored their ancestors with this covenant and pledge.
BRINGS BACK MEMORIES-"The article They Wore Wings, August 1969, regarding Lindbergh and his early activities in Nebraska brought nostalgic memories to me. My first airplane ride was with Errol G. Bahl, Lindbergh's former instructor, during Bahl's barn storming days in central Nebraska. My husband had been a pilot in World War I, so Errol spent considerable time in our hardware store during a rainy season, loafing, and swapping experiences. He was also a frequent guest in our home where he was a hero to our sons, Cutter and James.
"Consequently, Mr. Bahl took us for an airplane ride, the first for the boys and me, at the reduced rate of 20 minutes for $5. This was May 20, 1927, the same day that Lindbergh was acclaimed in Paris. Also, on that same day Errol was given recognition for some achievement in architecture at the University of Nebraska. All in all, it was a day to be remembered.
"Ironically, Errol was killed in 1931 in a traffic accident in St. Louis, where he was a pilot for the United Electric Company. Returning from the landing field, he reportedly failed to heed a red light. Had he restricted himself to the air lanes, he might have survived."—Mrs. Charles A. Palmer, Kearney.
SOME ZIP —"I enjoyed the pictures of some months ago by the NEBRASKA land artists and I believe it would enhance your magazine to include some of the other good art done by Nebraskans of Nebraska scenes.
"For instance, Ed Sykes, editor of Western Outlook Magazine, wrote a very informative article about Tom Talbot of Broken Bow who has painted the Sand Hills and other scenes of western Nebraska. Publishing some of Mr. Talbot's work as well as that of other Nebraska artists would be very appealing.
"Several years ago, one of the art magazines listed Fort Robinson as a place to paint. I received this information from a former Nebraskan now living in South Carolina who is an artist and has painted in western Nebraska.
"Paintings of the scenery would be just as interesting as photographs and would give the magazine some zip." — Mrs. Robert R. Wellington, Crawford.
GUNNYSACK?-"As an ex-Nebraskan I enjoy the Hostess of the Month pictures. Two of the past hostesses are daughters of a high school classmate of mine.
"Frankly, I was amazed at some of the letters published in the August issue. I don't want to keep stirring up controversy, but I think the descriptive words used 'disgusting, nauseating, vulgar, suggestive, and smut', reveal more of the writers' mental processes than they do of the subject material.
"I don't have a computer, but I have roughly calculated that about 50 percent of my wife's skin is exposed on a typical summer trip to the grocery store or to visit a neighbor. Should I buy her a large gunnysack?"-Edward Heineman, Jr., Kent, Washington.
CAPTURE-"I just read the comments in the August NEBRASKAland on the Hostess of the Month squabble. Working for a newspaper, I have learned that you must report the good with the bad to give the people a fair view of what is going on. To some people, the June Hostess may seem bad but they will just have to put up with it, as we put up with the stuff they find agreeable and we don't. By the way, the June Hostess was a great addition to the magazine. Being a photographer (Continued on page 51)
Roundup and What to do
Hunting makes it big in November as Nebraska lives up to title of nation's mixed-bag capital
A WILY RINGNECK rockets skyward and a volley of shots follows. It's November in NEBRASKA land. Hunting makes it big this month as the state lives up to its heralded title of the nation's mixed-bag capital. And, hunting is only a start of the action in store for Nebraskans and their visitors during November.
"Big Red" football is still on the agenda along with high school and college clashes throughout the state. Miss Carol Joy Schaffer, NEBRASKAland's Hostess of the Month, helps set the pace for the football scene and homecoming celebrations as she welcomes everyone to join November's gridiron fun.
Miss Schaffer is no novice at homecomings. She was Norfolk Junior College's Homecoming Queen in 1966. Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Schaffer of Norfolk, Carol is a senior at Wayne State College where she is majoring in speech. She is eyeing a career in teaching. Classmates elected her Miss Wayne State last spring while her other school activities include drama club, yearbook
Pheasant and quail come under the sportsman's gun one-half hour before sunrise on the month's first day, except in the southeastern portion of the state east of U.S. Highway 81 and south of U.S. Highway 34. This area will open November 8. Then the entire state is open until the seasons close on January 11, 1970.
Big-game hunters in the southeast go into action in the Blue and Nemaha units on November 1. On November 8 the remainder of the state opens to firearm-deer hunters. Archers must halt their deer stalking while the gunners are afield, but they can resume their hunts afterward and stay afield until the year's end.
Turkey hunters are already in the field when November rolls around and have until November 9 to score. Cottontail, squirrel, duck, geese, gallinule, rail, coot, merganser, and Wilson's snipe are also on the shooters' list from Novem ber's start.
Excluding geese, the open season on migratory waterfowl closes in that portion of the state west of U.S. Highway 83 on November 19 while the birds east of the road ease out of the shooting picture on November 26. For complete details on the state's hunting picture, hunters should consult the 1969 NEBRASKAland Hunting Guide, or contact the Ne braska Game and Parks Commission.
There'll be excitement aplenty in Lincoln's Memorial Stadium on two differ ent occasions during November as the Nebraska U hosts Big Eight challengers on home turf. On November 1, the Huskers tangle with the University of Colorado. A week later, Iowa State University comes to NEBRASKAland to match pigskin prowess with the Big Red. Coach Bob Devaney takes his crew to Manhattan, Kansas on November 15 for a game with the Kansas State Wildcats and then faces the University of Oklahoma on November 22 at Norman.
This month writes finis to horse racing in Nebraska as the ponies round the turn for the last time this season on November 1 at Atokad Park in South Sioux City. Anglers may have to take a short break as their year-round sport fishing undergoes a transition between free cast ing and hard-water fishing, but until the ice comes cooling waters offer good stream action on feisty trout while walleye and sauger are ready to stretch lines. The snagging season which opened in October and continues through April 30 offers fishermen a go at Missouri River paddlefish.
Omaha hosts a "Western" Mardi Gras on November 1. The Omaha Area Square Dance Callers Association sponsors the shebang with dancing and calling and NOVEMBER 1969 fun for everyone. Participants crown a Western Mardi Gras king and queen in one of the state's largest hoedowns.
"Poker-faces" had better steer clear of Lincoln on November 21 and 22 as the Lincoln Community Playhouse presents, A Thousand Clowns. Written by playwright Herb Gardner, the play is billed as hilarious and heart-warming, afford ing a laugh for each clown in the title. It is the story of a light-hearted man who insists that life should be one joke after another. A Thousand Clowns has special meaning for Lincolnites, as their own Oscar-winning Sandy Dennis won her first starring role on Broadway in New York City in the play. The play is given again on November 28, 29, and 30.
Antique bottle lovers will find their fancy catered to on November 8 and 9 in the Capital City, as the Nebraska Antique Bottle and Collectors Club goes all out for a show. Staged at the National Guard Armory, the eye-appealing collections will be on display and show-goers will have the opportunity to buy and sell sought-after antique glassware.
Arapahoe puts its best foot forward on November 15 for its annual Ham and Bean Feed, and farther west Kimball stages its traditional Turkey Days, November 20 through 22.
Hemingford becomes a must on every traveler's list come November 24 as the community's beautiful Christmas Diorama is on display from that date through January 1. Spread over a lengthy area, this diorama vividly portrays the birth of Christ via a series of Nativity scenes. It's all for fun as November boasts western-geared see-and-do activity.
What to do 1-Jan. 11—Pheasant and quail seasons open, statewide except east of U.S. Highway 81 and south of U.S. Highway 34 1 — Halloween parade, Arapahoe 1 — University of Nebraska vs. Colorado, football, Lincoln 1 —Western Mardi Gras, Omaha 1-9 —Firearm deer season in Blue and Nemaha units 2 —Nebraska chinchilla field day, Sutherland 8-Jan. 11 —Pheasant and quail seasons open, southeastern portion of the state east of U.S. Highway 81 and south of U.S. Highway 34 8 —University of Nebraska vs. Iowa State, football, Lincoln 8-9 —Antique Bottle and Collectors Club Show, Lincoln 8-16 —Firearm deer season, statewide except for Blue and Nemaha units 9 —Fall turkey season closes, statewide 9 —Rail season closes, statewide 12-14 —Nebraska Wheat Growers' convention, Ogallala 14-15 —State high school gymnastics meet, Lincoln 14-16 —Nebraska Sheriffs' Association convention, Ogallala 15 —Ham and Bean Feed, Arapahoe 19 —Duck, gallinule, coot and merganser seasons close, west of U.S. Highway 83 20-22 - Turkey Days, Kimball 21-22 — A Thousand Clowns, Community Playhouse, Lincoln 22 — Spirit of Christmas Festival, Gordon 22 — Wilson's snipe season closes, statewide 22-23 —Autumn Festival Art Show, Fremont 24-January 1 — Christmas Diorama, Hemingford 26 —Duck, gallinule, coot and merganser seasons close, east of U.S. Highway 83 28 — Community Christmas lighting sing out, Columbus 28-30 —A Thousand Clowns, Community Playhouse, Lincoln THE END
DECOUPAGE IS MY BAG
This "new" craft will "turn you on" and spread beauty through the home
SOME HOBBIES and crafts catch on like fire in a match factory, and if ever one deserved such hot acceptance, it is decoupage. Denned basically as the cutting out of pictures and placing them under layers of varnish, decoupage is far more interesting than it sounds.
It is capable of turning a drab, even an old, ugly piece of furniture into a masterful work of art. It can make a mere wooden jewelry box be come a treasure chest. And, it can mean the start of one of the most gratifying and enriching hobbies you will ever try.
Nearly any stable material such as wood, glass, metal, or plastic is a candidate for the beautification process of decoupage, for beauty is its main objective. There are other benefits as well, for wall decorations, clock faces, trinket boxes, and furniture can be custom designed to match any decor or personality, and the procedure itself is downright enjoyable.
The basic ingredient is artwork, for it determines the ability of the finished product to fit in with its surroundings. The artwork can be orig inal drawings, photographs, printed illustrations, wallpaper, or perhaps leaves, feathers, or butterflies. Anything flat can be used, either colored or black and white. Part of the beauty of decoupage is that any size project can be done with the same basic tools, with only the amount of work and ingredients increased. Also, pictures can be obtained from almost anywhere —including the pages of your favorite magazine. For those who don't want to round up materials separately, there are starter kits available at larger department stores and craft shops.
To provide the most up-to-date and authoritative information on this ancient yet modern technique NEBRASKAland prevailed upon "Sam", also known as Mrs. Harry Neville of Bellevue, a craft instructor of TV fame. She obliged by furnishing explicit instructions as well as providing suggestions for a variety of projects.
Finished products, whether plaques, furniture, or small items such as (Continued on page 55)
My daily journal unlocks well-kept ringneck secrets. The result is more birds and shooting
Diary of a Pheasant Hunter
ONE INCH of fresh, wet snow greeted my son, Mike, and I as we left our home in Lincoln for a try at some ringnecks. It was the second Sunday of the 1968-69 season and the first snowfall of the season. Both of us were anxious to see how the birds would react with the snow cover.
The preseason report from the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission had indicated that the pheasant population was down state wide, but holding about the same as the 1967-68 levels in the southeast. From my first two hunts, I felt that the evaluation in the south east was close. I had hunted the opening day near Grafton with 3 partners and we bagged 12 birds. The cover was dripping wet, and the pheasants were sitting along the edge of the corn and milo fields. On Sunday, five of us drove out around Minden but ran into a heavy fog, lots of hunters, and saw very few birds. We ended that day with only three roosters.
The next Saturday, Pat Pattison, wire chief at Lincoln Telephone and Telegraph Company, and I hunted around Denton and filled our limits in three hours. Most of the ringnecks came out of CAP land and cut milo. Encouraged by this success, I looked forward to the coming Sunday hunt with my son.
It was about 9 a.m. by the time we pulled up along a milo field about 20 miles southeast of Lincoln, let Babe, our Vizsla, out of the car, and loaded up. Mike shoots a 20-gauge with high-brass No. 6's. The barrels are bored im proved and modified. My old favorite is a 12 gauge slide-action, bored full, and I shoot either 5's or 6's in maximum loads.
The milo was uncut and the snow made the going mighty wet. While the snow cover in the field was spotty, I noticed numerous pheasant tracks. Babe worked the rows about 20 yards ahead of us, swung into the wind, and put a rooster up along the edge. Mike threw a quick shot but drew a miss. I lagged a little behind the ringneck and only drew feathers on my first shot, but a quick second
put him down. Babe hurried over for the retrieve, and
we had one bird in the bag within the first few minutes
of our hunt.
The dog swung back into the field and was making game again within a couple minutes. Running on the dog, this pheasant got beyond range before taking to the air. Swinging back toward us, Babe worked into the light breeze and locked up again near Mike. Knowing that a pheasant seldom holds long, my son moved in quickly and put a couple of hens into the air followed closely by a cackling rooster. Mike swung quickly, leaned into the little 20-gauge and clobbered the bird before he reached the 25-yard mark. A little fatherly pride showed through as I congratulated him on a clean kill.
Five minutes later, the dog went on point along a fencerow bordering the milo. We were taken a bit by surprise as a covey of quail flushed from the heavy cover. I shot a little too soon on the rise and missed, but scored a double with the following two rounds. Mike knocked a bobwhite down that was just wing tipped, but with the dog's help, we recovered it. Ten minutes later a pair of roosters rose from the milo at 30 yards. We missed one and bagged one. By the time we made our second pass of the 40-acre field, we had dropped our sixth pheasant and our limit for the day.
It was just a bit over an hour after we had left the car. In reviewing my many hunts for the year, I found this one was the closest to home and was by far the most successful. To say that I take bird hunting seriously would be an understatement. I have, through the years, kept a daily diary on my hunting and find that it not only provides many hours of pleasant reminiscing, but also gives me a pretty good idea of yearly success.
I log weather conditions, cover conditions, number of hours hunted, approximately how many pheasants were observed, and shots fired. In addition, I record roosters bagged and lost. Breaking down some of the facts for the 1968-69 season, I logged 29 hunting days with a group total of 85 days. In these 85 days we bagged a total of 184 pheasants for a 2.1 birds-per-day per-person average. In my 29 trips, I fared a bit better than the group average with about 2.4 birds per hunt.
Paging through the log, I found my 29 trips covered about 140 hours, which figures out to about 1.9 hours per bird. I have also noted from past hunts that
On 24 of the trips, I recorded the number of birds that could be identified both in and out of range. We saw 562 roosters in all, with about 238 of these in range. We bagged 166 and lost 7 cripples. Making a few observations on this, I note that not quite half of the birds seen flushed within range and that we connected on 173 of them which means we allowed 65 roosters to escape from either misses or multiple flushes where we just couldn't get shooting at them.
One gratifying fact is that we connected on 2 1/2 times more birds than we allowed to fly away. While looking at how many times we scored, I find a number of hunts where we recorded shots fired and roosters bagged. We fired 235 shots and bagged 59 birds. Twenty-one of them were quail. We did some good shooting on pheasants, but when quail entered the picture, things took a turn for the worse. Most of us shoot fairly tight choke guns with moderately heavy shot on pheasants which means a few more misses on quail.
While many different types of cover were hunted, weedy cut milo fields produced the most birds. Through the years, I have found this type of cover holds birds well and produces our best shooting. It is my assumption the birds like the open ground cover of the milo fields which have enough leaves left on the stubble to offer good overhead cover.
Weather plays an important part in finding pheasants. When it's fair, the birds are widely dispersed in many types of cover and may stay in corn and milo fields all day except when going and coming from a roosting area. The preferred roosting areas are usually short, heavy grasses such as an ungrazed brome pasture. If these are not available, they will use fencerows, grassed waterways, or even roadside ditches. The best time to hunt these areas is the first hour in the morning and the last hour in the afternoon. A good example of this was my third hunt of the year around Denton. Two of us filled out in less than three hours. Most of the ringnecks were flushed from roosting cover with 1 or 2 coming from an adjacent milo field around 10 a.m.
Rain, snow, cold temperatures, or high winds also influence our success. If the cover is extremely wet the birds are usually found along the edges such as corn or milo fields. They seem to prefer nearby overhead cover but not heavy grass. Undoubtedly, they don't like wading through wet cover any better than the hunter does.
I feel that the first couple of days of snow cover seems to confuse the birds somewhat, and they hold a lot better than normal. However, once they adjust to it, they can be much tougher to get up on. Snow also makes the birds bunch up more, not because of their gregarious tendencies, but because they seek heavier cover and since it is limited, more birds will be in it.
From my experience, wind has as much influence on hunter success as anything. Three of us hunted north of Friend on November 30 in a high wind, and had at least 20 ringnecks flush wild. While we did manage to get our birds, we had to do a lot of long-range shooting. We bagged nine out of a dozen that flushed in range. Our best shooting came from heavy fence and hedgerows. The pheasants will usually loaf on the lee side of the cover, using it to break the wind.
As I page through the diary, I note that occasionally habits of the birds, while (Continued on page 48)
Vistas Unlimited
Mystic beauty of miles forever unveil themslves to those who take time to savor nature's mosaic of earth and sky
ALONE WITH his thoughts and the radio blaring unheeded in the background, the driver makes his way across NEBRASKAland. Suddenly, he is acutely aware of being surrounded by beauty. It is a sensation that almost everyone has experienced, whether behind the wheel or pursuing every day activities.
Too often, however, the mosaics of earth, sky, and water are taken for granted. We look but do not see the artistry of Nature that abounds here, "where the West begins." Mean while, visitors gape in amazement as vista after vista unfolds before their eyes.
Whatever the area or the season, Nebraska's variety of marvelous sights wait to be noticed. Only in the Great Plains can man enjoy the limitless views that unveil themselves. While Interstate 80 gives glimpses of these marvels, they are but previews of attractions waiting beyond any exit ramp. Cross the state on Nebraska Highway 2, U. S. Highway 20, U. S. High way 30, U. S. Highway 83, or any other highway or byway and constantly-changing tableaus greet the wanderer.
Mystery seems to exude from the ageless Sand Hills, warning the timid that they challenge them at their own risk. And yet, the mystic beauty of miles upon miles of changeless yet always-changing dunes exert their magnetism.
North...South...East...West, the story is similar. Each area is beautiful. Yet, each is unique, with its own particular form and design. To see the Platte River and the Wildcat Hills from atop Scotts Bluff National Monument is to see infinity. In the northeast, a sea of corn drops away to reveal the sparkling expanse of Lewis ana Clark Lake where white sails unfurl against the sky. In ranch country, it may be the majesty of a stallion, silhouetted by the sun.
Everyone is affected by these scenes, often without realizing it. The duck hunter experiences a special thrill as a flight zeroes in. The fisherman prefers the aesthetics of a lonesome lake or stream. Even the city dweller, caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic, takes time to savor a special view.
Light and dark, too, work their spell. A sprinkling of stars and the mellow moon weave something special into a tranquil landscape. And, as darkness envelopes the city, it becomes a fantasy land with its twinkling lights.
The incomparable spectacle created each morn and eventide as Old Sol rises and sets can be duplicated nowhere else in America save the Great Plains. Absolutely no one who has witnessed the sun's daily routine can resist the enchantment generated at dawn and dusk. The spirit soars as the eye beholds the first light of the new day as it fingers over the eastern horizon. Twilight is an even more familiar sight for most, since they have more chance to enjoy the sun's evening performance.
Many forces paint this masterpiece known as NEBRASKAIand. The wind and weather sculpted the grotesque, yet fascinating, places like the Badlands. Water follows its course
to the sea, cutting intriguing channels called the Missouri, the Platte, the Loup, the Niobrara, the Snake, the Elkhorn, the Republican, the Blue, and the Nemaha.
The seasons, too, play their parts in weaving the NEBRASKAland tapestry. Spring clothes the land with fancy finery, summer adds the richness of full bloom, fall sets the entire scene ablaze, and winter draws the curtain as it glazes the landscape with crystal and silver.
From the Wildcat Hills' Dome Rock to the Niobrara's Horseshoe Fails and from the Pine Ridge's Smiley Canyon to the Missouri's Indian Cave, NEBRASKAland is blessed with a wealth of scenic beauty, but each person must discover for himself the peerless vistas that await beyond the next turning, for each will find vistas that satisfy his own yearnings. When he does, each new horizon presents a scene to be savored and stored in the album of memory. THE END
I-80 BASSING
Super highway lakes put icing on our farewell fishing
THREE RED AND WHITE bobbers disappeared beneath the surface at almost the same time, and I knew our good-bye-to-Nebraska fishing trip was off to a good start. Paula shrieked for some motherly assistance in handling the dancing cane pole, while Mike and Matt excitedly reeled in their taut lines. Three scrappy rock bass danced through the shallows into waiting hands and our stringer soon had its first tenants. Worms were quickly threaded on the No. 8 hooks and again plunked into the water of the Interstate 80 lake near Maxwell.
My wife, Arlene, and our three children, Paula, four, Matt, six, and Mike, eight, and I were on our last fishing outing before moving to a new job in Colorado the following weekend.
Our home for the past 5 years has been Lexington, almost in the middle of the chain of lakes that stretch 160 miles from Grand Island to Hershey, so the Interstate lakes were our favorite family fishing spots. The kids took stringers of rock bass while Arlene and I concentrated on the smallmouth in these little man-made impoundments. My thoughts on leaving Nebraska were interrupted with Arlene's, "Here we go." Her rod tip was dancing to the insistent tugging of what could only be a smallmouth. The (Continued on page 49)
NEBRASKAland
Mrs McGill DOES HER THING
It's "up a lazy river" for a weekend of relaxing fun on a 38-foot mini-mansion
LINCOLN ATTORNEY John Mason may well have the perfect answer for getting away from it all. His solution-Mrs. McGill. An eye-opening 38-foot-long floating mini-mansion, Mrs. McGill does her thing on the surging Missouri River and serves up a relaxing atmosphere potent enough to unwind even the most frenzied executive.
With rapidly increasing interest in boating throughout Nebraska and the nation, the idea of a "lazy weekend" houseboating story on the Missouri River popped up in a NEBRASKAland Magazine planning session, so it wasn't long before I wormed an invitation from John to spend a July weekend with Mrs. McGill. John's daughter, Jody, her husband, Dick Baldwin, and Dick's parents, Janice and Wayne Baldwin, all Lincolnites, rounded out our assemblage of deckhands. Janice, Wayne, and I were all novices at 26 Missouri River boating, while the remainder of the crew were seasoned veterans.
With a short blast from the glistening silver air horn, the boat churned away from the Omaha River Club Marina, and moments later, Captain Mason gave his first order to an anxious and enthused crew: "Just relax everyone and enjoy the ride." That first command from our skipper typified our two-day excursion from Omaha to South Sioux City on the Missouri.
Powered by twin, 210-horsepower marine engines, the boat's 12-foot width was soon splitting the river at good speed, considering Mrs. McGUVs tremendous size. Although John generally stays in the channel maintained by the U.S. Corps of Engineers, high water beckoned the skipper to split the river. His rationale was that the middle would have a slower current plus less driftwood —always a menace to boaters. The boat
NEBRASKAland NOVEMBER 1969 27
draws only 28 inches of water so running aground was not a worry.
After preliminary investigation of the craft and a brief turn to watch the Omaha skyline gradually disappear, we adhered to our commander-in-chiefs earlier statement and settled down on the roomy "front porch" to relax and enjoy the ride. The breeze was more than welcome to blow away the already growing heat of the day. It was 9 a.m.
John announced our speed at approximately 15 miles per hour. Remembering the six to eight mile-an-hour current, it was easy to see that our muscle-bound marine engines weren't sissies. There were plenty of questions for John from his crew as we queried him about all sorts of things on the banks and in the waterway. A good skipper, the attorney put up with the questions and answered each in turn.
I stepped back in the cabin to chat with John as Janice served up some piping hot coffee. John kept a watchful eye on the river while talking, always keenly alert so not much slipped by his experienced gaze. Outside a slight turn to one side or the other to miss occasional driftwood, the craft was incredibly steady, for our skipper has been an active boater for over 10 years. His pre-Missouri River houseboating days center about a cabin cruiser he once had anchored at Lewis and Clark Lake near Yankton, and several other smaller craft. John has been piloting Mrs. McGill since 1968 when he brought her by river routes from Gary, Indiana to Omaha.
Mrs. McGill is a well-equipped craft. A 6-kilowatt generator provides electrical current for the stove which had brewed up our coffee, a hot-water heater, refrigerator, and an air conditioner. The boat also has modern rest room facilities and a shower. Besides the "comfort" accommodations, Mrs. McGill has a two-way radio, a deck hailer, and a compass as navigation aids.
So far, the trip was going exactly as our host had predicted, "just plain relaxing". It was an easy order to follow, so I leaned back and studied the plush vegetation that bordered both banks. In the near distance, the rolling bluffs, standing guard over the mighty river, were shrouded by a steamy mist, and I wondered how Lewis and Clark felt when they saw the Missouri before man so ruthlessly tamed it. John said that most passengers wondered that.
Before long we veered to the port, heading toward the bank. Once aboard, it doesn't take long to learn boating nomenclature. The starboard engine is the one on the right and the port engine is on the left. Of course, the same holds true for the sides of the craft. The stern is the rear of the boat and the bow is the front. However, this can get tricky when the boat is backing up, so, the pilot has to be on his toes when it comes to obeying the rules of the water.
John's voice broke the silence. "If anyone wants a cattail, here's the largest colony I've ever seen." There were cattails everywhere, bordering an entrance off the Missouri into Boyer's Chute. A former channel of the Missouri, the branch has now been diked off and has created an idyllic backwater.
John pulled into the area to give us a look. We motored up to the dike and made a U-turn. John had warned that we couldn't loiter too long as the 115-mile trip to South Sioux City was a good day's trip. Mixed Emotions, a cabin cruiser home based in the port of Omaha like Mrs. McGill, was anchored in the placid waters. Its captain was swabbing the decks. Janice let loose with an "Ahoy, there," and got a like answer. After a brief chat with the fellow boater we headed back to the Missouri.
Everyone sat back for more of the river's famed relaxation. We passed near the Omaha Public Power
However, the temperature seemed to be rising even faster than by the proverbial leaps and bounds. Whenever the boat slowed, a comfortable and pleasant ride was immediately transformed into a hot one. But, power cuts were necessary every time we met oncoming boats, or when passing a moored craft. A pass at full throttle sent a strong wake to both banks that could easily disturb a moored boat.
I asked John about the "rules of the road" and to what degree they were obeyed. He began explaining about passing a craft, meeting other boats, the buoys and their coded colors, and markers on the shore. There are definite rules for water traffic just as there are rules governing land traffic. It's important to know and obey them.
"Sailboats and rowboats almost always have the right of way. So, stay clear and remember that where Mrs. McGill goes at an appreciable speed, a strong wake follows. The largest single complaint one boat man has against another is the nuisance and damage caused by the other's wake. When the rules are disregarded, these complaints can be voiced in a court of law. So overall, it's a good deal to behave on the water, especially with a large boat. It keeps pleasure boating pleasant," the attorney said.
He went on with the briefing. "As for commercial vessels, their maneuverability is limited and one thing that boats don't have is brakes. It may take several hundred yards for a barge to stop."
I was surprised to learn that we were already 30 miles upstream when we passed under the Blair bridge. We had a gasoline stop scheduled for the Cottonwood Marina Club, so John turned Mrs. McGill over to Wayne. An ex-Navy man, the new skipper knew boats and had the shoptalk down pat. He could reel off port, starboard, and "knots" with the best of them. It didn't take a neophyte like me long to learn that shoelace knots and nautical knots were two different things.
Our stop at the Cottonwood Marina was a short one as it was terribly hot. Dick slid overboard to cool off the natural way. His loud splash was followed with an even louder "ouch", for he had accidentally stumbled into a submerged wooden portion of the landing docks and cut his toe and tore the toenail. Our wound ed crewman was patched up with two Band-Aids and ample sympathy.
The marina was well laid out and several boats lined its inner shores. A pleasant, air-conditioned club house offered cold drinks to help beat the heat and a handsome menu of steaks and seafoods to satisfy the boaters' gustatory needs. After a talk with the proprietor and a cold lemonade, we stamped the place O.K., and went back to the boat where Wayne traded his captain's job for that of cook. Weekend crew members must be able to handle both jobs.
As we moved upriver, John commented on the stop. "I think the Missouri River is virtually an untapped outlet for Nebraska recreation. You see how demand creates facilities. I guess it's sort of like the chicken and the egg as to what comes first. In this case, the facilities have to grow along with the boating interest at a balanced (Continued on page 53)
a step into the past
Here frontiersman, cattle baron, and hostile Sioux relive their glorious history
THE AIR NIPS at fingers and toes, so the passerby pulls open a heavy glass door and steps inside to escape the cold. He has entered the imposing lobby of the Nebraska State Historical Society Museum at 15th and R Streets in Lincoln. Once inside this "Showpiece of the West", he is treated to a close-up look at NEBRASKAland's exciting yesterdays. Here hostile Sioux, frontiersman, and cattle baron live again, the mementos of their moments of glory presented in displays, guaranteed to inspire a new awareness and appreciation of the state's rich pioneer heritage.
Strolling back through the pages of time in this beautiful limestone structure is a memorable experience. The present building, constructed in 1953, is the 30 Each year, 100,000 visitors tour the museum's "story of people" institution's final stop, the last of three moves since its beginning back in 1878. This must-see attraction offers the most complete collection of human history to be found on the Great Plains. Displays in the circular lobby give a capsule glimpse of 10,000 years of human history of the region, and an introduction to the more detailed displays within the museum proper.
A turn to the left and the visitor is pleasantly surprised to find himself in a NEBRASKAland of presettlement days. Here ancient Indian relics tell the story of the wandering and warring tribes. The trails of the explorers are mapped out and the mementos of the mountain man and the trapper are shown in vivid settings. Once this has been studied, the visitor moves NEBRASKAland into the east gallery to the NEBRASKAland of Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill Hickok, and Generals Crook and Custer. Here sodbuster and cowboy tell their stories in exciting displays and dioramas. A fur trader's cabin, built from the same logs used in the original structure, recalls the days when civilization feebly clung to the banks of the Missouri River. Next door, an ornate hearse waits to take one of the West's slower guns to permanent residence on Boot Hill.
Moving upstairs, the visitor sees still another phase of NEBRASKAland's exciting past. Here he gets a firsthand look at the home of a sodbuster, then moves on to see how living became easier in the homes of a later day. Each display features authentic furniture and artifacts of that particular era.
Visitors are amazed by the number of displays. Some 100,000 a year spend many a delightful hour looking at them. Few realize, however, that what they are seeing is only a small part of the tremendous col lections housed in the museum.
Like an iceberg, the historical museum has but a small portion of its work on the surface. Only about one-fourth of the 200 by 70-foot, 2-story structure is seen by the general public. Behind the walls and heavy doors are found thousands of artifacts from more than 100 archaeological expeditions, as well as heirlooms and relics that can't be exhibited for lack of display space. To the rear of the building are six levels, floors
The casual visitor doesn't realize that state archives and library, the soul and power source of the institution, take up six levels of the building. On the first and sixth levels are newspapers dating back to 1854 with current subscriptions for some 200 state newspapers constantly adding to the total. The second and third levels house the unpublished manuscripts, diaries, tax rolls, land records, writings of governors, NOVEMBER 1969 leading citizens of the state, and the humble pioneer. Levels four and five house other library materials. The man who heads up this complex operation is Marvin F. Kivett. With his staff of about 40, Mr. Kivett goes to great pains to present the materials in the museum in a manner that can easily be understood and appreciated.
Mr. Kivett has this to say about the purpose of the society: "We try to tell the chronological story of people. Our only interest in animals or natural history is in their relationship to people. We may be interested in buffaloes but only as they relate to the Indians. We may be interested in cattle but only as they affect the rancher. As for natural history, animals, or geology, they are fields for Morrill Hall, the University of Nebraska museum of natural history. Nor do we try to compete with anyone in the area of art except as it relates to the culture of a particular people of the plains."
Everything in the museum, with the exception of a few items, came from the society's 10,000 donors. Many of the articles are stored in the basement and are carefully protected for posterity, or available for display as needed. Down the corridor from where these museum items are kept is the archaeological room. One of the largest collections of Plains Indians artifacts available is found in its shelves, drawers, racks, and files. This collection represents untold hours of hard work, for every year since 1930, and in many before that, the Historical Society has had field parties probing sites about the state.
Archaeology, the study of material remains of past human life and activities, is important among the Historical Society's diverse jobs. This involves such under takings as a continuing agreement with the State Roads Department that allows it to make complete excavations in advance of road construction, individual contracts with the National Parks Service for excavating dam sites, and working with the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission in restoring historic sites for tourist attraction. The society has carried out research and archaeological (Continued on page 48)
COLOR IT INDUSTRY
Screeching machines, gurgling vats, and tangles of pipe are a part of this whirring world of dazzling hues and designs
NORMALLY ASSOCIATED with the science of making things, industry is seldom accused of being an art form. Yet, it has eye appeal not only in the geometric design of its physical plants, but in the activity and force within them.
Ingenuity is the Nebraskan's stock and trade. He has applied it to all phases of his life. Consequently, industry boasts a diversity as vast as the individuals who created it. While agriculture still ranks No. 1 here, the list of other goods and services produced fills a book. They range from the simple to the complex. Nebraskans make everything from peanut butter to trailers, meat products to golf carts, dog food to brooms. And industry reflects Nebraskans' pride in workmanship.
Energy bulges from industry. Gurgling vats smolder over ice
blue flames as screeching steam spews from huge throbbing pumps
32
NEBRASKAland
NOVEMBER 1969
33
and tangles of steel pipes. The power giant groans and clatters
throughout the day and into the night, obedient only to the laborer.
Man dreamed energy into the massive machines. The dream was first nurtured onto paper and then bolted and sealed into cast iron and steel. From these dark masses of machinery come the products of progress and a playground for the imagination and the camera's eye. The cold gray of steel pipes and cement floors, of ashy smoke and oily residue, bursts into a kaleidoscope of color.
A curious mind skips through the whirring wilderness of industry discovering dazzling beauty and intricate design. A willing imagination sees a world of fairy folktales and heroic legends. Like
Row upon row of bright cans march over belts and conveyers melting into regiments that keep time to the pounding machinery. To other eyes, the tin cans may not be a regiment of soldiers at all, but a golden honeycomb surrounded by its own beehive of activity.
Heavy, sullen industry is often highlighted with splashes of beauty. Tiny stars shower in sparkling waterfalls from the welder's torch and fiery drops of molten metal flow into cold rigid molds. A stream of sparkling glass bottles winding in an endless spiral be comes a spangle of industry. A refractory, too, may don a sequined 34
costume. Silhouetted against sunset glow, a drab maze of pipes be
comes a fairyland creation, a lacy spider web jeweled with crystal
dewdrops.
Not all industry reflects scintillating color and shimmering lights. Transportation mirrors a more quiet, abstract challenge to the imagination. A faded barge makes its way slowly and silently through the gray mists shrouding the Missouri River with only gentle lapping of waves on the hull penetrating the stillness. Since a
Where once ox-drawn supply and immigrant trains rutted the prairie, mammoth trucks and sleek autos transport goods and people along gleaming ribbons of concrete. Overhead, giant jets punctuate the skies.
Industry leaves the city and melts into the countryside where cattle and crops are products of the prairie. From rolling grassland
A new industry, known as tourism, is making its power felt. Trail travelers are again making a journey to the prairies, not to settle a frontier, but to discover the industry, the progress, and the pride of a land that was molded by man's dreams.
This is the land of industry, of rich soil and energetic people. But all is not dedicated to utility and progress. A sense of the artistic has not been lost. THE END
THE STRIPER... POTENTIAL
Anglers are already getting a bang out of these new salt-water fish, but the big boom may still be ahead
THERE IS A potentially explosive situation developing in Lake McConaughy and some other fishing waters in NEBRASKAland. A situation that may, if all goes well, blow the state's sport fishing sky high in the years to come. The TNT is a fish with the apt name of striped bass. A few anglers have already creeled this newcomer to Nebraska's fishing scene, but the big bangs are still in the future. Landlocked stripers live long, grow big, and pack plenty of fight.
Rex Tovera of Brewster, Kansas got a flash of striper's explosiveness on August 5, 1969, when he caught a 4-pounder on a night crawler in Lake McConaughy for a new state record. His striper was 22 1/2 inches long. Rex may not hold the record long, for stripers are being caught with increasing frequency. For example, as of August 14, 1969, there were 75 confirmed catches of striped bass compared to only 12 confirmations in all of 1968. These 87 catches represent fish stocked in 1965, 1966, and 1967. Fisheries technicians expect a 5-pounder in 1970.
Unlike many other fish, the striper is extremely long lived. There are records of 14-year-olds being taken in eastern impoundments. A pound a year is considered an excellent growth rate for most fish, but the striper, given an adequate food supply, will gain up to two pounds a year. The fish are prolific spawners with adult females carrying up to two million eggs. They become sexually mature at four years.
Nebraska's efforts to introduce this grand fighting fish to its waters began in 1961, when 10 adult stripers from 3 to 6 pounds were flown in from North Carolina and released in Lake McConaughy. They vanished into the 35,000-acre impoundment forever. This initial stocking was followed by the stocking of 2 to 5-inch striped bass from California in 1961, 1963, and 1965. The 1,585 fingerlings of 1961 and 1963 followed the 42
Stripers have a more streamlined appearance and lack the "dish" or hump behind the head that marks the white bass. The length of the second spine on the striper's anal fin is also a good identifier. It is one-fifth the length of the striper's head, whereas the white bass's spine is one-third the length of his head.
Fisheries experts are cautiously optimistic in predicting the future of the striper in Nebraska. They hope he makes it, for this one-time refugee from salt water is a sport fisherman's dream. He grows big, (30 pounders are not uncommon) he hits a variety of lures and bait with enthusiasm, and he's a fighter from the word go. As a forager he has few equals, a good trait that helps keep fishing waters from becoming overcrowded with highly prolific bait fish.
So far, the story of the striped bass in Nebraska is one of small triumphs and big frustrations, but fisheries researchers and managers are patient people. They hope to develop a "homegrown" striper hatchery similar in operation to the present walleye culture.
Recognition of the striper's potential as an inland sport fish came about by an accident. The striper's original home was the sea, but as an anadromous fish, he spawned in the fresh or brackish waters of the coastal rivers. The fry stayed there for a year and then moved into the oceans. When sexually mature, they returned to spawn in freshwater and repeat the cycle. Then came the closing of Santee Cooper Reservoir in South Carolina. Stripers were trapped in its freshwaters and to the amazement of fisheries experts, the bass took the man-made break in their cycle with out turning a scale. What's more they even reproduced. Now, the scientists had something to think about. If the striper could make it in Santee Cooper, could he make it in other inland lakes?
It was hoped that "ripe" females could be stripped of their roe and the eggs hatched artificially. However, the females didn't go for this too well. First, water temperatures had to be at 65° to trigger the spawning urge. Secondly, their spawning period is a matter of hours and netting female stripers at just the right moment was a costly and frustrating business, so fish culturists turned to hormones, and discovered spawning could be stimulated and controlled by injecting egg-laden females. South Carolina was the first state to establish a striped-bass hatchery, but other southeastern states weren't far behind.
The Fisheries Division of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission was aware of this work and made deals to obtain fry from the southern hatcheries, hoping to raise stripers to fingerling size at the North Platte hatchery before releasing them in selected impoundments. McConaughy with its fine reputation as an outstanding fishing lake was a prime choice. Besides it has heavy populations of gizzard shad, a favorite food fish of the stripers.
If the striped bass became relatively well established in Lake McConaughy, fish managers hoped to catch gravid or egg-laden females in the fish trap at Lewellen and inject them with a stimulating hormone before stripping. However, the joker in the plan was the establishment of enough striped bass to make this feasible. Even if the stripers "take off", technicians expect no natural (Continued on page 56)
rabbit truth
A boy armed with a BB gun adds just-right touch to this Platte Valley bunny-hunting blast
A COTTONTAIL is a small animal, not more than 10 inches tall when sitting upright, with soft fur and eyes like small wet moons peeking over furry horizons. I like to take a bow and a handful of arrows, and wander the winter woods with this primitive equipment, and attempt to be a good enough hunter to spot this creature before he spots me, a good enough stalker to get within range before he runs and a good enough shot to hit him with an arrow on the first cast.
Further, I like to take along a kid and let him learn about the woods, and the rabbits, and the weather, and everything that makes this sport unique for those who would rather participate than spectate. But let me begin in the beginning. Nebraska, in winter and after a fresh snowfall, is a spiderweb of rabbit trails, particularly in the eastern third of the state. The greatest concentration of cottontails is closest to the waterways, because here is where cover abounds —great impassable tangles that weary the walker and brings tears to the eyes of one who gets hit by a stinging branch on a cold day.
Marion McCracken of Lincoln, my nine-year-old son, Mark, and myself were trying our level best to ease our way through this type of cover, and being about as successful as the Queen Mary easing her way up the Elkhorn River when I felt a tug on my jacket sleeve and Mark whispered:
"Dad, there's one sitting back there."
Not being given to honoring a point very well, both Mac and I whirled, ready to fly, but we were just a little too late. The nine-year-old hopeful hunter had already taken care of that for us, and a surprised cottontail was bouncing off through the brush, smarting from the sting of a BB fired into his backside at 10 feet.
I explained to Mark that a BB gun is a fine training weapon and just the thing for a beginning shooter, but that he should not expect to bag a mule deer with it, nor even a cottontail, and if this situation arose again he should allow Mac or myself the honors of firing first at the bunny.
His answer was an affirmative shake of the head with about as much enthusiasm as a condemned criminal climbing to the noose. As a sop to Mark's wounded feelings we allowed him the honor of breaking trail, so he would miss the thrill of getting hit in the cheek with a limber willow that snaps back when a hunter walks past. This ranks about equal to being stung by a scorpion, or having your foot stepped on by a fractious horse, or getting cracked in the shins with a ball bat.
We three were hunting the bottomlands of the Platte River, not far from Columbus, in a country where rabbits and deer are far more numerous than people. Tall cottonwoods etch the sky with leafy lace, growing straight in the constant reach for the sun, interspersed with punctuation marks of smaller elm, willow, and thickets of wild plum. It is ideal rabbit country-cover, food, and water are all abundant.
With the BB-gun-toting kid in the lead the hunt progressed somewhat more smoothly, although now it was Mac and I who were muttering about the blacksnake whip cuts being made in our cheeks by the willows.
Mac is a hunter, a real hunter. He reads the country as he walks, rather than just looking at it. He hadn't been on the hunt more than 10 minutes when he spotted a deer-bedding ground, and by feeling the warmth of the bed estimated that the deer had been absent from it only a few minutes, probably flushed from a deep sleep by our clumsy city-type feet.
A few minutes later he spotted a rabbit, and a quick "hssst!" got our attention. With hand signals he informed the kid and me that we were to circle the sleeping bunny and come up from the other side, keeping cover between rabbit and us at all times. At the same time he signaled that we were to get the first shot if and when shooting became possible.
Maybe our stalking wasn't perfect, but it was good enough to put both Mac and I into position where we could get a shot. He was behind a tree, about 15 feet away from the bunny, that was dozing in the warm sun, protected from the wind by a small brush pile. I was slightly closer, but it would be difficult for me to shoot because I couldn't dodge around some intervening brush without flushing the cottontail.
So when the moment of rabbit truth came, Mac stepped quietly out from behind his tree with arrow at the nock and bow drawn, took quick aim, and let fly. It was not a perfect shot, but it took the bunny amidships and stopped him cold.
Rabbit hunting with a bow and arrow being what it is, and we as rabbit hunters being what we were, it was a time for celebration. We don't kill every rabbit we see, or even every other one. In fact, if we manage to get two or three in a day's hunt we've had a highly successful time.
Mac leaned his bow against a tree, pulled out a small pocketknife, and in 15 seconds the rabbit was field dressed. To those who enjoy eating a succulent rabbit, this is the second most important step in a hunt, ranking beside a successful shot. Mac slits the bunny's undercarriage from the rib cage to the crotch, then catching hold of front and back legs gives a quick jerk and slings the viscera out on the snow. This allows the meat to cool quickly, gets the animal bled as rapidly as possible, and lightens the load when you are carrying several rabbits.
But when you have four hungry mouths to feed at home you can't rest on the laurels of one rabbit, so we got off our haunches, handed the rabbit to the BB-gun toter to carry, and set off on the quest of more game.
Normally, Nebraska makes a promise to those who live here to provide a winter once a year. And usually she keeps her promise. So it takes some care to pick the right kind of a day for a bow-and arrow rabbit hunt. When it's storming and snow is coming all the way from Canada with nothing to stand in its way but a barbed-wire fence, don't go. Likewise, when the wind gets frisky the creatures of the wild head for dense cover and stay there.
But our day was ideal. It had snowed the night before, not hard, but drifting silently down as softly as a coasting owl, covering the ground in a two or three-inch blanket that covered all old tracks and left room for lots of new ones. Then on the morning of our hunt the sun came out, warming the south side of trees and hills, and providing a warm place for the cottontails to cavort.
Many of them, luckily for us, did not cavort but instead sat sleepily in the sun, comfortable and happy and quiet. It was these we sought, the ones that wouldn't run at the first footstep of a man. Then the trick was to approach from down wind, keeping cover between us and the rabbit until it was time to launch a shaft. Mac and I prefer the more easily handled target arrows for our bunnying. No reason in particular, we just like them, and they will kill a rabbit just as effectively as a broadhead. We're also a little individualistic in the weapons we carry. Mac packs a 60-pound-pull laminated bow, while carry a 50-pound glass job that costs less than the license for my car.
I spotted the next candidate for the frying pan, a fat cottontail dozing in the sun, and dreaming of springtime and the good days to come. Now, it was my turn to windmill my instructions to the others. Our target sat on the side of a steep hill, about halfway to the crest, and the only possibility was a frontal attack, to come up the hill as quietly as we could, and hope we could get close enough for a shot.
It took us a good 15 minutes to traverse the 30 yards necessary to get within the 30 to 40 feet that I can cast an arrow and hope to hit a target the size of a bunny. But at long last, we stepped from behind our cover and pulled the arrows, ready to fire, only to find a small complication had arisen during our stalk-our prey had flown the coop. With an eye as cold as a mother-in-law's kiss, Mac informed me that in the future I was to make sure we were stalking rabbits instead of gray logs, then expanded into several completely unnecessary remarks about my eyesight and my ability as a hunter.
When Mac hunts, he HUNTS, and nothing else is of consequence. He pays no heed to the vagaries of wind and weather and will march forthrightly through three feet of solid brick wall to get a shot. He is about 5 1/2 feet of determination when hunting, and anything or anybody that comes between him and his chosen prey is to be brushed aside as rapidly as possible. Yet I know he enjoys the frustrations that make bow hunting the enjoyable sport that it is.
We could have killed 20 rabbits during our daylong hunt with a .22, and with shotguns we could have killed 30 or more. Yet we chose the most primitive of modern hunting weapons — the bow. With a bow you have to get close to the game, much closer than when hunting with a gun; you must also be accurate with this equipment and be able to hit a target the size of your fist at ranges of from 10 to 50 feet or more, and you must have more than a passable skill at stalking to accomplish the feat of getting this close to a creature that is as flighty as a high school girl at a fraternity smoker.
If frustration is the key to fun we were having a picnic. We managed to see 40 or 50 rabbits, all moving, all going away from us, usually heading back into the safety of heavier cover, but sometimes breaking for the open country in the peculiar bouncing, side-to-side gait that is indigenous to cottontail rabbits and young boys who have stumbled onto a hornets' nest.
It was close to mid-afternoon when Mac's sibilant hiss announced that he had spotted a rabbit, and signaled who was to go where and do what. Compared to our earlier stalks it was a breeze. Mark and I were in a position to come over a low rise and be right on top of the intended victim, no more than 10 feet away at the most, while Mac was millstoned with a shooting spot closer to 40 feet from the target. We sneaked over that rise as quietly as a Sioux Indian getting set to charivari a wagon train, took careful aim, and plunked an arrow right into the bunny's boiler room. The BB-gun carrier fired his weapon at the same time and claimed equal credit for the kill. This was graciously given.
Deepening shadows from across the Platte River told us that the day was preparing to draw the blanket of night around her, so we called it quits, and headed for the car, richer by two cottontail rabbits and at least a thousand dollars worth of clean air, companionship, exercise, and chatter from the nine-year-old.
Nebraska rabbit season is year long, and a hunter is allowed a bag limit of 10 per day and 30 in possession. Unless your name is Robin Hood, however, this need not concern you because you're not going to kill 10 rabbits per day with a bow. So pick your time, come when the weather is brisk and a skift of snow is on the ground, and you'll have the time of your life.
You might even bring along a small son with a BB gun. THE END
NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . BLACK-TAILED PRAIRIE DOG
Poisoning programs have drastically reduced population of this mammal. Rodent control is possible, though, without extermination
COMMUNITY LIVING best describes the life style of one of Nebraska's most interesting mammals, the black-tailed prairie dog, Cynomys ludovicianus. The animal's unique safety-in-numbers' concept provides security against natural enemies, but it may well spell doom for the species from man. Most landowners look on prairie dog towns as serious economic drains on grazing land as well as objecting to the burrows which are a menace to valuable livestock. Concentrated poisoning programs have reduced the "sod poodles" to only a fraction of their former population levels in NEBRASKAland and other western states.
True, these small rodents strip the grass growth from around their towns, but this depredation is largely restricted to the immediate area of the community. Since the damage is so concentrated it is easily noticed and condemned, whereas other grass eaters will consume a like amount of vegetation, but their depredations are spread out over a bigger area and go largely unnoticed.
The black-tailed prairie dog is found over all of Nebraska except the eastern quarter. His distinctive living habits coupled with his roly-poly appearance and clownish antics make him a great favorite of wild life observers. Watchers are in for a treat as these rodents are natural comedians as they go about their daily activities. One of the best towns for observation is located near the concession area at Red Willow State Recreation Area, north of McCook. The dogs are acclimated to people and always put on a good show. An other people-oriented town is located at the Fort Niobrara Wildlife Refuge, northeast of Valentine.
Males weigh from two to three pounds while females are slightly smaller averaging about two pounds. Lengths range from 12 to 15 1/2 inches. Prairie dogs are diurnal (daytime) foragers and non-hibernators. How ever, extreme temperatures will keep them in their burrows for extended periods. These squirrel-like mammals are excellent earth movers and often dig burrows 10 feet deep with numerous side chambers. They rim or mound the dirt at the entrances to their burrows to prevent flooding.
Prairie dogs mate in late March or early April and after a gestation of 28 to 32 days females can bear 8 to 10 young. However, the average litter is five or six. The "pups" emerge about the middle of June and reach adulthood when they are slightly over a year old.
Although community minded, prairie dogs establish territorial rights in the town. Studies show that 2 NOVEMBER 1969 to 35 animals will form a coterie and live happily to gether. Nonmembers are driven away.
Prairie dog towns are of no particular size or shape and may vary from one-half acre to several sections, depending upon the time they have been established and the tolerance of their human host. Control can be accomplished without extermination, thereby preserving the dog's aesthetic and sporting values. The animals are considered varments and are a favorite of off-season hunters who use light, flat-shooting, high velocity rifles equipped with telescopic sights to zero in on their targets. Sod poodles soon become "educated" and present only a minimum amount of anatomy while still keeping an eye on the intruder.
Prairie dogs often play host to other species of wildlife. The near extinct black-footed ferret is almost completely dependent upon them for food and living quarters. This large member of the weasel family is considered an endangered species, and all wildlife experts agree that continued reduction of the dogs will most certainly mean the complete extirpation of the ferret.
Another species less dependent upon prairie-dog colonies for existence is the burrowing owl. Although burrowing owls are present in nearly every town, they may also set up housekeeping in abandoned badger holes. The disappearance of the prairie dog would probably mean a greater reduction in the interesting little mouse-catching birds.
The old belief that prairie dogs, rattlesnakes, and burrowing owls live together in happy harmony is an old wives' tale. It is true that rattlers are found in the towns, but the snakes are using the burrows, and if the original owners object they end up as meals for the bad tempered reptiles. The same is true of the burrowing owl. He uses the home and couldn't care less about his four-legged hosts. Riflemen should be careful not to confuse the owl or the ferret with their intended targets.
Prairie dogs are primarily vegetarians, but they will sometimes take grasshoppers and other insects. Water is not a necessary requirement due to the dogs' ability to extract virtually all of the moisture content of their food. Even the driest grasses and seeds contain sufficient moisture for their existence.
The prairie dog along with his companions, the owl and the ferret, are as much a part of the West as coyote and cactus, and if they should be extirpated, a bit of western romance and atmosphere will vanish with them. THE END
STEP INTO PAST
(Continued from page 31)groundwork for such attractions as Forts Robinson, Kearny, and Atkinson.
The work of restoring these sites, rich in western history, but sometimes poor in physical evidence, begins by consulting all available records. This information is then correlated with findings and individual features at the actual site. In this undertaking the old army records get equal attention with the excavator's shovel. Some projects are relatively easy, such as Fort Kearny which had a lot of available records and visible remains. Others such as Fort Atkinson of the early 1800's are a real challenge. Scant records and nothing above ground at the original site made this project a task of high order.
Wherever the need for concrete historical data arises, the Historical Society is ready to lend assistance. Its resources were devoted to providing data and exhibits for the Union Pacific Centennial Train which is presently touring the country. The institution's advice and as sistance has also been utilized by such diverse groups as the local corporation in Ogallala that recreated the famous Front Street attraction, and the committee responsible for the bronze busts of famous Nebraskans now being placed in the State Capitol's Hall of Fame.
Sidelines of the Historical Society range from working with local groups in the placing of historical markers to publishing a quarterly magazine, monthly newsletter, and various other publications. Most of this material goes to some 4,500 members of the society.
Nebraska is steeped in history, much of which parallels our nation's development, so European explorers, demise of foreign flags, slavery, free homesteads, Indian and range wars, and the populist movement are represented in some form or another in the museum. It's all there to see, carefully confined in that big building on the University of Nebraska campus.
The importance of preserving and as sembling the state's cultural and historic aspects was realized and set forth way back in 1867 when Nebraska became a state. It was then that the society was chartered, but it didn't really become active until its 1878 reorganization. Today, the Nebraska State Historical Society in following this mandate has given the state and the nation a master piece which has become as much a part of NEBRASKAland as the history it preserves. THE END
DIARY OF A PHEASANT HUNTER
(Continued from page 17)consistent in most cases, can sometimes be inconsistent. An example is a January hunt that four of us participated in west of Beatrice. The first cover we hit was a heavy weed and cane-covered creek bottom which is a consistent producer when snow cover is heavy. We NEBRASKAland busted about 50 pheasants from the cover and most flew into a wheat-stubble field. This was again consistent because it was about the only other concealment the birds had in the area.
We debated for some time as to trying the stubble, because we knew from experience that if the birds reacted normally they would be running and flushing far ahead. But for lack of better opportunity we decided to try the stubble and fanned out across the field with the dog working across in front. Our early conclusions were borne out when we topped a rise and a number of ringnecks flushed nearly 200 yards ahead. However, when we worked nearer the end of the field a cock broke within range of the center gunner. He fell to two quick shots. A little farther on, the hunter on the flank had a few hens flush wild, but he walked toward the area and put up three roosters. Taken somewhat by surprise, he bagged only one but he should have had all three as they got up a few seconds apart. As we cleared the end of the field another cock was dropped as he flushed within good gun range. A sixth bird flew across in front of two of us and drew a barrage, but he only shed a couple of feathers and sailed out of sight. The shooting had been every bit as good in the stubble as any we would expect early in the season. Why the birds held is one of those inconsistencies that make pheasant hunting the great sport that it is.
Consistent success on ringnecks takes effort. The hunter that rides the roads looking for birds, or walks down one row of a milo field, or passes up a pile of tum bleweed along the fence line because it's a little out of the way cannot expect to have consistent success.
A man should examine each part of his hunting, such as his knowledge of the birds' habits, and preferred habitat. He must be completely familiar with his gun and know how it patterns, and he should be able to estimate distances and know the effective range of his shotgun. Many gunners feel the best way to im prove their prowess with a gun is to shoot their birds in June, July, and August — on the trap range, that is. THE END
1-80 BASSING
(Continued from page 24)fish broke the surface with a rush. He wasn't one of the two-pounders the lake contained, but he was at least a solid pound and full of fight.
"Looks like a Nebraska fish dinner is on the schedule before we move," my wife smiled as she slipped the fish on the stringer.
The sun was still bright and hot at 6 p.m., but I could see a few ripples on the calm surface where fish were beginning to feed. It looked like a good evening coming up. Fishing in the middle of August is traditionally slow, and bass in particular are pretty tough to latch on to. But with our time for fishing in Nebraska running out, we decided to give it a go, anyway.
I was using a small white-tailed spinner to entice the smallmouth. Deep running lures are usually the best choice in artificials during the hot summer months, with (Continued on page 52)
Outdoor Elsewhere
Most Dangerous Game. An Ontario-government survey cited rabbits as the "most dangerous game" to hunt in that province. According to the survey, rabbit hunters were involved in 26 percent of the hunting accidents, as compared to 22 percent for deer, moose, wolf, and bear gunners combined. Sixty-one percent of all gun accidents were not due to hunting at all, but to accidental discharge of mishandled weapons. —Ontario
All-time High. Two Maine fishermen were arrested for having 186 trout in their possession when their combined limit was 16. Definitely a no-no, the guilty pair not only set an all-time high for number of illegal fish, but also a record for fines. The total assessment came to $900. -Maine
Beginner's Luck. Hunting may be a man's sport, but at least one Utah woman can't wait for deer season to return. On the first day of her first hunt, the damsel found a billfold containing over $200. On the second day, she bagged a large three-point buck. On the third day, she located the owner of the lost bill fold, and received not only the original $200, but another $50 as a reward.— Utah
Good Argument. A Kentucky sportsman surprised his five-year-old son with a young rabbit for a pet. Delighted, the youngster began scurrying about mak ing a home for his new friend. Later, the father asked his son what he had named the rabbit.
"Louis," the boy replied.
"Well, how do you know that the rabbit is a boy rabbit?"
"Well, he's got whiskers, hasn't he?" his son promptly retorted. —Kentucky
NEBRASKAland SPEAK UP (Continued from page 4)for the newspaper I just might have to come to Nebraska and capture some of your beautiful girls on film."-Rob McCollough, Brainerd, Minnesota.
A HOST? —"As a native Nebraskan, vintage 1900, I eagerly greet each charming 'hostess with the mostess' and find they compare most favorably with our California lovelies. How anyone can ascribe the terms, 'nauseous, disgusting, smut, pollution, indecent, vulgar, lascivious ness, and sin', to any of these girls must stem from the eyes of the beholder?
"May I suggest as a balm to some of these troubled folk you might picture a Host of the Month'. Nebraska has a wealth of splendid young men (I could nominate several nephews) who would be a welcome addition to your most in teresting magazine." —Mrs. Edward J. Anthony, Monrovia, California.
INANE DISCUSSION-"Received my August NEBRASKAland and was upset to note that two pages were devoted to an inane and unwarranted discussion of a two-piece bathing suit.
"Sixteen letters (14 of them signed by ladies who may, or may not have been a little jealous of the physical endowments of your June hostess) used words such as 'nudist magazine, unclean, nauseating, suggestive pin-up, pagans, sex articles, vulgarity, disgusting, disgraceful, and lasciviousness'.
"There are many towns in Nebraska, mine included, that have swimming pools where if one writer wanted to make calculations, he could come up with higher percentages of flesh to cloth than 82 percent. Odds are also high that several of the above mentioned 16 have daughters who occasionally sport a higher percentage.
"I wonder if these people tear out the pages of their mail-order catalogs that advertise bathing suits or ladies' under wear so that their children will not be subjected to 'sex articles'.
"NEBRASKAland is about the best magazine in any field and I would strongly take issue with anyone who suggests it is guilty of any of the above adjectives."-Don Zimmer, Pierce.
SICK!!-"Only someone SICK would find anything remiss in your efforts..." Frank J. O'Dell, Huntington, Indiana.
FASHION IS BARE-"About your question in the June issue of NEBRASKAland regarding your 'Hostess of the Month' article. I feel it should be left just as it is and my husband feels the same.
"We started taking your magazine only a few months ago and your hostess feature has been very interesting to us. Your subscriber who complained must be NOVEMBER 1969 afraid to open his or her eyes as fashion is very bare now. Too, they must never go swimming as nearly everyone wears two-piece suits. I feel it depends where your mind is whether or not the article is DIRTY.
"More important, the feature lets everyone know what's happening in Nebraska, when and where. As far as being a family magazine it is, as the reading is clean, not trash like the newsstand issues your subscriber mentioned." — LaVerle Storms, Omaha.
DON'T CHANGE —"You had better believe I find the hostess feature very pleasing and approve of it completely. I sure hope you don't change it...
"I'm all Nebraskan even though I now live in North Carolina. My birthplace is Hershey and I have several members of my family still living in the state...
"I have met thousands of World War II veterans in my travels and when I tell them I'm from Nebraska, they always remember the way they were greeted and treated at the North Platte canteen. Just a Nebraska lad with a southern accent, that's me."-Ernest H. Winkenweider, Charlotte, North Carolina.
FULLY AGREE-"We fully agree with 'A subscriber from Cambridge' about our Hostess of the Month. Our Nebraska is beautiful, so let's keep it morally beautiful'.'—A subscriber, Gordon.
WORKABLE SOLUTION-"I have digested with considerable amusement the arguments by both sides in the great Hostess-of-the-Month debate. It is my conclusion that the issue can be decided only by an observer with an unobstructed view of the subject. Therefore, I offer my services.
"Admittedly, I cannot claim to be entirely unbiased, for I like girls. I always have and always intend to. And your hostesses, quite clearly, are girls. Still, I am neutral in that I am a Hoosier, not a NEBRASKAlander. I can gaze upon your hostesses with an eye unafflicted with homestate astigmatism.
"I have studied your conflict, and your hostesses, at great length, and I believe I have arrived at a workable solution. What you should do is this:
"Round up all the Nebraskans who dig the hostesses (there must be zillions of them) and assure them that in your coverage of Nebraska's natural endowments, your magazine will continue to tell it like it is.
"All the other Nebraska natives, those who do not know a natural resource when they see one, you could invite to pack up and leave."-Al Dunning, Sports Editor, Evansville Press, Evansville, Indiana.
With that we end the Hostess-of-the-Month controversy. The consensus is in favor of continuing the feature and so it will be. — Editor.
Shot Your Limit?
The Game Commission—The Wildlife Service
—Area Residents—Successful Hunters—and
all other accessible sources of hunting informa-
tion offer hints as to WHERE and HOW to hunt...
DIAL
Make the right turn
SPORTSMAN
WITH
LES WEBER
6:15-6:30
daily
on the...
NEBRASKA TELEVISION NETWORK
Channels 13-6-8-4
MODERN LODGING • COCKTAIL LOUNGE
Tops in Food West O Highway 6
HEY CAMPERS!
Here's a new Christmas gift idea.
A CORDLESS ELECTRIC
TOOTHBRUSH-
comes with batteries, case, and brushes.
Only $9.95
Nebraskans add 20c sales tax.)
Great for camping trips.
LINJAY ENTERPRISES
4530 Pioneers N119
Lincoln, Nebraska 68506
NEBRASKAlcmd Information Station
POW WOW ROOM for
Parties —Conventions —Sales Meetings
Banquets — Receptions
HWYS. 183 & 383 ALMA, NEBR. 68920
1-80 BASSING
(Continued from page 49)worms, minnows, frogs, and crayfish the favorites of live-bait fishermen.
My spinner went out at a 45° angle to the shoreline that dropped off quickly about 3 feet out. Smallmouth like to cruise along the drop-off in search of minnows and frogs, and by placing my lure at an angle I could bring it through deeper water where the fish were resting, as well as covering a good bit of the shallower drop-off area.
From past experience with black bass along the Interstate I knew the smaller one-pounders stay almost all day along the shoreline with the bigger two-pounders showing up in the early morning and evening. My turn to scrap with a smallmouth came with two taps in rapid succession followed by a sure hit. True to form, he was a one-pounder.
The Nebraska Game and Parks Commission has stocked the Interstate lakes. The Nebraska State Department of Roads and the Game Commission control most of them with the exception of a few that are privately owned. Most of the state-owned lakes are open to public fishing. They were formed when fill material for construction of the Interstate was removed. The depressions quickly filled, thanks to the high groundwater table in the Platte Valley. Stocking by the Commission began as early as 1962 in some lakes in the Grand Island area, but most of them were stocked in 1965 and 1966.
Biologists decided to stock these small impoundments with smallmouth bass, rock bass, which are panfish but not as prolific as bluegill, and channel catfish. Reproduction of all species has been good with the smallmouth in a few of the ponds edging toward the 2 1/2 to 3-pound mark.
I decided to wait until a little later and try for the bigger fish that would move in with the setting sun. The kids were busy with rock bass and some small black bass, so I chose to be chief hook baiter and fish remover for a time. The ease with which young anglers can catch fish is an outstanding plus for the "Chain of Lakes", and our three youngsters were quickly taking advantage of the voracious appetites of the rock bass.
Bobbers were disappearing and fish were appearing with regularity. These rockies weren't as large as the one-pounders that are turning up in some of the lakes, but the number of six and eight-inchers that were going on the stringer would make real table fare.
"Catch any more walleye, Dad?" Matt asked. Since Arlene and I pulled in some nice walleye from the inlet at Johnson Lake earlier in the year, most large fish are walleye to Matt.
"Dad is catching smallmouth bass," Mike corrected his brother.
"Right!" I confirmed, "and I haven't caught any since that first small one, but I think I'll do better later on." Matt, satisfied with what he heard, turned his attention back to the bobber that was moving slowly away from shore. It bobbed below the surface and Matt tugged hard. Up came a nice rock bass. NEBRASKAland Paula ran over to check her brother's catch and had just started her inspection when Arlene said, "Paula, you've got a bite."
A scream of delight ended the inspection as she ran back to her rather unwieldy cane pole. Her hidden adversary was barely large enough to pull the float under, but his futile tugs were causing a lot of commotion. Finesse was not Paula's strong point, so with a mighty heave the fish was propelled out of the water, through the air, off the hook, and into the grass behind. There then ensued a mad scramble to corral the slippery, flipping quarry, but soon the little catch was clutched in her hand.
Surface activity was increasing as the sun rapidly headed down. "They ought to be moving in," I told Arlene. "Why don't we start plugging the shoreline?" "Good idea," she replied, "What are you going to use?"
I restated my faith in the white-tailed spinner, but Arlene opted for a balsa minnow in gold, a floating lure that runs a few inches under the surface when retrieved.
On our last outing, an errant foot had brought a sudden demise to my favorite spinning rod that carried my open-face reel, so this time I was using a rather stiff pole and a closed-face spin-cast reel. To make up for the lack of play in the rod, I had loaded the reel with light four-pound-test monofilament, knowing a fighting two-pound bass can give you a workout on light-test line. Arlene was using the same type of rig.
I moved west along the north side of the 25-acre lake following my earlier tactics of casting near shore to drag the drop-off area. Arlene headed the other direction.
On my third cast the spinner was bumped once, twice, then ignored. I tossed in again a little beyond the spot where the bumps occurred.
Again on the retrieve, two short taps.
"Rock bass," I muttered, casting again. As the lure passed through the same area for the third time, there was another bump. I speeded up the retrieve and the spinner was pulled up short, set the hook and in the next instant I knew it was not a rock bass that had been playing with the lure.
The four-pound-test monofilament sliced through the water as the fish headed down the shoreline, and the lightly set drag on my reel sang before it finally slowed, then stopped the frantic run. The fish broke the surface with a powerful rush as I began cranking in line. He was a smallmouth that would easily make two pounds. His surface display took the edge off his strength but he took some short runs before I lifted him from the shallows. A check of my watch revealed that it was 8 p.m., 1 hour until full dark.
Arlene had been working her wooden minnow along the shoreline, and as I looked up from my watch, I saw her set the hook in one smooth motion. The dancing rod tip indicated a hooked fish, and it was no sulker. He broke the calm surface with no preliminaries and tail walked for a couple of feet trying to throw the plug. He didn't look quite as large as mine but he was fighting just as NOVEMBER 1969 hard. Still, Arlene didn't have any trouble handling the short runs of the slowly tiring bass.
The battle over, she hoisted the spent bass out of the water as I moved a little farther along the shoreline. Two rock bass accepted my offerings, but no small mouth.
The kids had tired of fishing and were ready to rejoin us. Paula and Matt moved toward their mother, but Mike walked in my direction.
"Caught any more, Dad?", he asked.
"No, but that patch of moss a few feet from shore might just have something for us."
I tossed the spinner to the left and behind the underwater growth and a bass hit the silver lure right now. This contest was nearly a carbon copy of my first. My catch fought hard but seemed well hooked, so I let him run a little without cranking him in.
"Let me help," Mike chirped excitedly at my elbow, so I handed over the rod, keeping one hand on the crank to prevent a run-away that could lose our catch. The eight-year-old played the fish like a professional and when the bass lost all his spunk, I let my son reel the fish in. Our mutual catch was only slightly less than two pounds, and both of us were quite proud; I of my son, and he of his fish.
I have always heard good things come in pairs, and the excited shouts of Matt and Paula told me Arlene had hooked something pretty good, so Mike and I moved through the gathering darkness toward the sounds. If my wife had connected, it would be a good wrap-up to our evening.
As we approached, I could see Arlene carefully playing a l 1/2-pound bass around some submerged plants. The fish was determined to use the plants as a sanctuary, but his continued efforts to reach their safety soon had him tired out and the rest was easy.
"Not a bad evening's work," my wife smiled as she admired the stringer of rock bass, the four nice smallmouth she and I had caught, plus some pound-size smallmouth the kids had hooked.
I had to agree. We were moving to the rushing mountain trout streams of Colorado, but the peaceful, easy to get to, and full-of-fish Interstate lakes of our home state would always top our list of favor ites. This last trip had seen to that. THE END
MRS. McGILL DOES HER THING
(Continued from page 29)proportion, but if one grows without the other, it creates an awkward situation. The remarkable thing to me is, say, starting with South Sioux City, the facilities are near a boaters' dream, but south of Omaha down the Missouri where large metropolitan areas border the river boating facilities are often lacking It was new for me and quite surprising that there was such a variety of activity to be found on the Missouri and even more surprising to find such an array of captivating scenery.
When John announced our expected time of arrival in South Sioux City at about 9 p.m. I had visions of the day being a long one, but right after we left Cottonwood Marina the "best cook in Nebraska" (Continued on page 55)
MRS. McGILL DOES HER THING
(Continued from page 53)sounded lunch call. And, living up to his unmodest cognomen, Wayne served up a mouth-watering lunch that started everyone praising the galley cook. After eating, we switched pilots again as Jody took the helm.
In the next few hours we saw fishermen on the bank and in boats, picnickers, water skiiers, and numerous pleasure boaters. I can't remember one incident where big-hearted, friendly waves weren't exchanged. And, as we continued our journey, the facilities and comparable degree of interest were evident just as John had said.
Swallow Hollow was our next stop and a great one. Fashioned similar to Boyer's Chute with the exception of being smaller in size, Swallow Hollow was like pulling into a travel poster. Sheer cliffs, where thousands of swallows carried out their day-to-day homemaking, bordered the area against the bulling river. I couldn't understand how the birds managed to build adobe nests on the sides of the bluffs. Even more puzzling was the way they would fly up and land directly on the vertical walls.
Two houseboats and a cabin cruiser were already tied up in the tranquil area. Our crews exchanged "Ahoys" and Mrs. McGill was soon snugly tied up. The whole thing was great, especially since dinner was scheduled here. Dick and Jody slipped overboard for a cooling swim and I wasn't far behind, but Wayne kept busy setting up his cooking. After checking the water for submerged hazards and depth, Dick climbed to the sundeck for some high-diving antics.
A small column of smoke and an unmistakable odor soon gave away Wayne's work and about 20 minutes later the dinner bell rang. Barbecued steak headlined the menu along with one of Janice's pet tossed salads. To say it was delicious would be the understatement of the year.
After dinner we departed Swallow Hollow for our last stop. A good old-fashioned Nebraska sunset was on the agenda as we accelerated up the river. The next two hours found us at our day's destination after a quiet and restful cruise. The marina at South Sioux City was impressive, and even at 9 p.m. there was an abundance of boating activity. Boats of all sizes, colors, and makes zipped up and down the river while others were moored in the dock-lined harbor. A huge motel complete with restaurant is nearing completion and will soon over-look the river. John swung Mrs. McGill into the main dock where we took on fuel and replenished our water supply. The skipper made arrangements to tie up in one of the berths in the harbor and within minutes we were on shore. Although initial plans had called for the entire crew to sleep aboard, the soaring heat necessitated a change of plans. At 9 p.m. it was 90° and the humidity was about as high.
The new plan called for Dick and Jody to sleep in Mrs. McGilUs air-conditioned NOVEMBER 1969 cabin while the rest of us tested the comfort of the local motels. Breakfast call was for 7:30 a.m. aboard the boat.
We were all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 7:15 when we boarded, so Wayne substituted the dinner bell for the wake-up call. The wild ringing brought Dick and Jody to life in a hurry. Scrambled eggs, hot coffee, and sausage really hit the spot. After breakfast we learned that a vessel with unsmart decks wasn't "in" and the proper thing is a good old swabbing. Even the cook popped out of the galley for a turn to at swabbing the decks.
Yesterday's leftover heat was already making its presence felt, so we decided the best way to beat it was to get underway. The marina was quiet as we motored into the current and headed homeward, but then what place isn't at 7:30 on a Sunday morning?
It was another beautiful morning. Someone punched up some mood music on the stereo tape, and a perfect atmosphere for meditation and relaxation was at every individual's command. Our speed downstream was about 20 to 25 miles per hour, and the breeze from our pace kept the temperature just right. The landmarks of the previous day came and went quickly as we sped downriver and I wasn't surprised when John announced our expected time of arrival in Omaha as about 4 p.m.
Swallow Hollow went by and before we knew it John was churning into the Cottonwood Marina for fuel. It seemed we had hardly resettled when the Omaha skyline came into view. Soon we were in port and walking down the gangplank. It was then I happened to remember the old adage: "Time really flies when you are having a good time." Now I knew what it meant. THE END
DECOUPAGE IS MY BAG
(Continued from page 12)jewelry boxes or even jewelry, involve the application of many layers of varnish over your picture or other flat objects. The appearance of the project is vastly different after completion, as richness and depth become more apparent as the work proceeds. The effect is as appropriate for items with a Victorian flair as for ultramodern ones, with the choice of illustrations determining the appropriateness.
But, let's get started on this exciting undertaking. First, Sam points out, there are two media —varnish and lacquer. Varnish is the traditional method and is the best, but it takes much longer because of the drying time required between coats. She suggests that the first projects be done with spray lacquers since everyone is impatient at first. Techniques are much the same with both methods, and a switch to varnish can easily be made anytime.
After deciding on a project, such as adorning a clock face, select the artwork you want to use. After the clock is sanded smooth, paint it with three coats of the desired color. Apply a coat of sealer to the picture, then glue it to the clock in the desired location with white craft glue. This waterproof, elastic glue is available at hobby shops. Press the picture firmly or go over it with a small roller or tool so it lies flat with no bubbles or wrinkles. Let dry for about 24 hours.
Now, the fun begins. In a ventilated and dust-free area, spray an even coat
of lacquer or brush on a coat of varnish
over the entire surface of the clock, pictures and all. Let dry. This will take only
a few minutes with the spray, but about
24 hours for varnish. Then, apply
another coat, dry, then another, until 10
coats have been put on.
Already the job will look highly professional, unless it is covered with finger marks or crawly bugs have gotten on it. After the 10th coat, sand the whole clock with fine (400) "wet or dry" sandpaper, using it wet. This sanding is to level and smooth the surface, because the picture will be raised slightly above the underrated portions. After sanding, rub with very fine steel wool (004), clean very thoroughly, then put on another six coats (or more) of lacquer or varnish. Again, sand evenly with 400 grit wet sandpaper and steel wool, put on 2 more coats of lacquer, using sandpaper and steel wool between each coat, then give it a final sanding and going over with steel wool.
Let the job age for a day or so, then apply a coat of wax once daily for three days, and you are ready to install the battery-powered clockworks, which is available through hobby shops or jewelry stores. Now, it is not just a clock with a picture embedded in lacquer, but a time keeping treasure you'll be proud to show all your friends. Almost certainly it will prove to be the first in a long line of projects you'll do in rapid succession in coming months.
Instructions come with decoupage kits, but those who want to know more about the hobby before investing can get a catalog from a major dealer by dropping a card to Sam. Her address is Mrs. Harry Neville, 1204 Thomas Drive, Bellevue, Nebraska 68005. These catalogs give instructions, list the cost of the neces sary materials, and have illustrations of typical projects.
There is something about the warm glow of decoupage that lends itself to a wide variety of applications. New ideas will come to mind whenever you are exposed to other people's work and good old ideas are worthy of duplication. Reference books at the library can be gleaned for more detailed information as well as for illustrations of additional or more extensive projects.
But, descriptions and photographs only hint at the true attractiveness that can be achieved. Decoupage must be seen firsthand to be fully appreciated. Yet, the process is amazingly simple — requir ing only a few tools, some careful preparations and brush work, and as much artistic sense as can be mustered. But look out, for in a few weeks you may decide to cover the walls of your home with large, glowing murals, for it is easy to become "hooked" on decoupage.
THE END
STRIPED BASS... POTENTIAL TNT
(Continued from page 43)reproduction, so stripping and artificial hatching are the keys to maintaining fishable populations.
The first attempt to raise fry to fingerlings at North Platte was discouraging. Early in May 1966, 500,000 fry were flown in from South Carolina. Shipping mortality was slight, but once the fry went into the holding ponds, something
A few weeks later, these recommendations were followed for the 200,000 36 hour-old fry shipped in from a Virginia hatchery. This time the shipping mortality was higher, around 20 percent. The survival in the holding tanks was not spectactular, but it was far better than before. After a bit more than 2 months at North Platte, 13,805 fingerlings went into Lake McConaughy and the North Platte River. Although survival rates seem very low, they are infinitely higher than under natural propagation. Less than 1 fish out of 1,000 makes it to maturity in the wild.
There were several advantages to controlled rearing rather than stocking fry directly or trying to obtain sufficient numbers of fingerlings from other sources. For one thing, sizeable populations could be established quickly, for stocking is basically a numbers game. Stock heavily often enough and survival rates will normally be sufficient to establish significant populations. Also, fry were easier to obtain through trades for other species, simpler to transport, and more amenable to study. So, again in 1967, 500,000 striped bass were flown in from Virginia and placed in rearing ponds at North Platte. About 2 months later, 32,302 fingerlings were still around. Lake McConaughy got 26,302 while the remainder went into 2 Interstate 80 Lakes and the Platte Valley Irrigation Canal.
With two pretty good attempts behind them, technicians looked forward to 1968. Once more 600,000 little stripers took to the air from South Carolina for a new home in Nebraska. They were followed by 570,000 fish from Virginia. If fish ever received tender, loving care, these did, but weather was the villain. It got cold, then colder, and the fish from the south could not cope with it. Survival rates were decidedly low, for striped-bass cannot survive sudden temperature changes for their first 7 to 10 days. After that, they're on their way.
The 1969 attempts were almost a repeat of 1968. Nebraska gave South Carolina 500,000 walleye fry for 500,000 striped-bass fry and followed up this trade with another to Virginia. Virginia got half a million northern-pike fry in return for half a million tiny stripers. Shipping mortality took its toll, but 665,000 went into the North Platte holding and rearing ponds. Again weather unleashed a one-two punch. A cold spell settled in and wreaked havoc with the stripers. Only 940 survived.
However, there are still hopes for the striper. Ready for stocking at press time are the 940 striped-bass finglerlings of the 1969 effort. They may be just enough to tip the balance. If they are, look out fishermen, for there's a big bang coming. THE END
OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air
Where to Go
Mari Sandoz Room, Fontenelle Forest
A GLIMPSE OF the mosaic of an interesting personality is available to all in the Mari Sandoz Room at Gordon, Nebraska. Located in the Chamberlain Furniture Store (Gambles') on Main Street, the room is a collection of memorabilia of Nebraska's well-known author, the late Mari Sandoz. The room is to be distinguished from the Mari Sandoz Museum, 21 miles south of Gordon, which is a reproduction of Mari Sandoz's New York City apartment. The room is open during store hours, 8 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. Monday through Saturday.
An antique settee, upholstered in red velvet, invites visitors to sit down and browse through scrapbooks compiled by Mari's sister. One of these is completely filled with "We regret" rejection notes from publishers.
Parts of Miss Sandoz's record and book collections are displayed in the room. A single record of Mozart sonatas is a sample from her classic record collection — of which her favorites were interpreted in strings or on piano. The records not only nourished her hunger for good music, but also partially drowned out the noise of trucks at the warehouses along the wharf only two blocks away from her New York apartment. A set of records, "Forty Lessons in Living French," represents a frustrating attempt to learn 58 some French before a European trip. A first edition of Old Jules and a carbon copy of the manuscript of Miss Morrissa are housed in the museum, too.
Pictures include a 1923 photo of the Old Jules fruit farm with its growing orchards and the big barn that Mari described as holding "dances, school, cattle, horses, and grain." A flash shot of the Gimbels' window display of Cheyenne Autumn is another prize. Gimbels on New York's Broadway is a place where every writer dreams of seeing his book.
On the walls hang copies of Mari's awards and a large framed family crest of the Swiss Sandoz family. A life in the limelight requires the proper dress, and in the room is a collection of Mari Sandoz's clothing. There are the dressy suits and cocktail dresses she wore at autographing parties, while white hats, accessories, place mats, and jewelry that were handcrafted by Indian friends add detail to the author's image.
While the Sandoz room is a paradise for lovers of letters, Fontenelle Forest near Omaha is a joy to all lovers of the out-of-doors.
The Fontenelle Forest Nature Center is a 1,600-acre natural tract one mile southeast of Omaha between Bellevue and the Missouri River. It is open to the public, the year-around, and contains all the regional types of terrain including ridges, ravines, springs, streams, swamp, marsh, lake, floodplain, and prairie.
Since the habitat is so varied, dozens of species of plant and animal life inhabit the area. The center hosts 190 species of birds among its animal guests and 350 types of herbs, vines, algae, fungi, liverworts, and mosses.
In 1964, the forest was designated one of the top 7 National History landmarks in the United States. Two years later, the nature center was created from the entire forest area. The Natural Science Building became the headquarters —the hub of all activities. Study specimens, information, a forest overlook, films, classes, and meetings are all centered there. Live plants and animals are also exhibited.
Open every day from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., the forest boasts special lectures, guided nature hikes, and family activities on weekend afternoons when the natural science building is open. There are 2 and 4 p.m. lectures on Saturday and Sunday, too. Group activities may be scheduled Monday through Friday and on Saturday mornings, or personal interests may be pursued without guides.
Further information is available at the Fontenelle Forest Office, (402) 731-3140, or by writing Fontenelle Forest Nature Center, 1111 Bellevue Boulevard North, Bellevue, Nebraska 68005. An informative ramble through the woods or an excursion into the life of one of Nebraska's famous, both are enriching and enjoyable experiences. THE END
NEBRASKAland MIXED-BAGGER AWARD .
Handsome citations pay tribute to gunners' prowess afield
NERASKA, THE "Nation's Mixed-Bag Capital", offers hunting opportunities found nowhere else in the country. Sportsmen can hunt 365 days a year, if they so desire, and seasons on major game species span 5 months from September to January.
With this vast array of gunning opportunities, hunters are sometimes hard pressed to decide on a favorite. But, for those hunters who enjoy the challenge of learning the tricks and then pitting their skills against a variety of game, there is a special bonus beginning this year. The Nebraska Game and Parks Commission will honor their prowess with the new "NEBRASKAland Mixed-Bagger Award."
Tfyere are three categories, and it may not be as easy to qualify as it may appear at first glance. Skill is essential for the qualifying hunter.
Categories include "Expert", "Sharpshooter", and "Marksman". A Marksman must bag his quota of four of the eight species eligible. A Sharpshooter must score on six of the eight, while the top honor of Expert is reserved for those who can reach the standard for all eight species. While all species need not be taken the same day, the quota for a given species must be bagged and certified in a single day afield. And, qualifying species must be taken during a single calendar year.
Quotas for any combination of the following species may be taken to qualify for the various categories: pheasant, 2; quail, 3; prairie chicken, 1; sharp-tailed grouse, 1; duck, 2; goose, 1; cottontail rabbit, 4; and squirrel, 2. The hunter's bag must be certified on an official application by a permit vendor, conservation officer, NEBRASKAlander, or Game Commission employee. After all species necessary for the award indicated have been certified, the application should be mailed to NEBRASKAland Mixed-Bagger, Game Commission, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509. Application forms are also available from the same sources.
Quotas may be certified for only one award. For example, if a hunter applies for a Marskman citation and takes his quotas for pheasant, quail, rabbit, and squirrel, he may not use those same bags to qualify as a Sharp-shooter. He must take those species again, plus two more, or any other combination of six to become a Sharpshooter.
When all requirements are met and the application is accepted, the gunner will receive a handsome, personal- ized, multicolored certificate suitable for framing. Printed on high-quality parchment, the award will make an at tractive addition to any trophy room, recreation room, gun room, or den. It will also be an unusual reminder of exciting and challenging days afield in NEBRASKAland.
While such an award is particularly appropriate to the Nation's Mixed-Bag Capital, it is also the Game Com mission's way of recognizing those sportsmen who are truly sportsmen.
Try your hand at becoming an Expert, Sharpshooter, or Marksman. All it takes is the skill, the will, a current small-game permit, and the necessary upland-game-bird and "duck" stamps.
