For the Record ... FALLACY OF FEEDING

SOME NEBRASKA WINTERS can be harsh and uncompromising, with blinding, wind-driven snow and freezing temperatures sweeping in to cause a bleak outlook for wildlife. At such times man ponders how any creature out in the open can possibly survive. Pheasants and quail are the most common objects of concern, for it is these highly-prized game birds which appear in need of man's help. The apparent simple solution seems to be put out feed to keep the birds from starving, but is this the answer?

Winter feeding may be likened to a doctor treating the symptoms rather than the disease. The patient may feel some better while being treated, but he will not get well until the disease has been properly diagnosed and treated. In the case of pheasants and quail it is the habitat which is deficient, and this cannot be cured by employing emergency feeding.

Farmers often feed a covey of quail or a flock of pheasants around their farmstead, and these individuals are to be commended for their concern. However, such operations are not to be confused with a mass-feeding program which is aimed at providing food for a large segment of the game-bird population.

There are a number of reasons why extensive winter-feeding programs are impractical, but the following are among the more important:

Costs for carrying out a feeding program are notoriously high. Grain is expensive, but even if surplus supplies are made available for winter feeding, the cost of distribution into the cover areas puts the program out of the price range. Grain scattered along the roads may result in increased highway kills. Besides, the roadway may be quite some distance from protective cover and birds use up needed energy getting to and from the feed. Putting out feed will concentrate the birds and may make them more vulnerable to predation.

Another drawback to winter feeding is that any grain that has been put out is drifted over and lost by subsequent storms. The winter of 1959-60 proved that dropping grain from an airplane is not practical because of cost and wastage.

Bobwhite quail and ring-necked pheasants have been here for a long time, and both species have gone through the conditioning process offered by Nebraska's fickle weather gods. Pheasants, and to a lesser degree quail, can survive most of our winters with only light or moderate losses. But during winters of unusual severity when repeated blizzards occur, losses are inevitable. By far the most common pheasant mortality is suffocation resulting from ice and snow forming over the bird's beak and nostrils.

It may sound like a fatalistic attitude, but when a genuine severe winter occurs we must expect heavy mortality, especially for quail. Although these losses can affect the number of birds available to the hunter, they can be absorbed by the population, and given favorable conditions in the years following, the birds will rebuild rapidly.

When severe storms strike, man would do better to ponder the improvement of habitat rather than lamenting the lack of feeding programs.

Ken Johnson Assistant Chief, Game Division

Speak Up

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

SAVED AND SAVORED-"Of the several magazines that arrive at our house, NEBRASKAland is one that is saved and savored during the ensuing months. The pictures are of the highest quality. How about some of your excellent photography for Fontenelle Forest?"-Lew Clark, Sacramento, California.

SIX-MAN FOOTBALL-"I would like to see an article on six-man football. I believe this game was developed in Nebraska. It was played by small schools that didn't have a large enough enrollment to field an 11-man team.

"I saw one very fine example of this game when I was at Lincoln High. We 'scrubs' scrimmaged Cathedral High's six-man team. They had some very fine players. One was Bob Costello who went on to the university and turned in a stellar job. This game developed players of speed, quick reactions, and brains—not a bad combination." —John T. Anderson, Oakland, California.

LOSE MY TURN?-"Enjoyed the article on the Negro homesteaders in the February NEBRASKAland. Two of them carried our mail at different times when we lived in the Sand Hills. They used a team of horses and a squaw wagon and delivered twice a week. They came into Seneca from Brownlee on Monday and returned on Tuesday, then again on Friday and Saturday. In the winter, they would walk beside the wagon for miles to keep from freezing. One was named 'Serell', and if memory serves me correctly the other was 'Crawford'.

"In the 1920's, Mack Boyd and Turner Price played for a lot of dances in the Brownlee area and it was worth a long horseback ride to me just to watch and hear them entertain.

"I recall being in Mr. Hannah's barbershop in Brownlee waiting my turn when a cowhand with a few shots of 'Canyon Run' under his belt plus a heavy beard was in the chair. The barber's razor usually needed a little more stropping, so as the barber pulled the razor over the cowhand's chin, he asked: " 'Barber, if you drag me out of this chair with that razor, do I lose my turn?' "Mr. Hannah chuckled and whet his razor." —Mr. and Mrs. C. B. Huddle, La Crescenta, California.

BUCK FEVER-"I have bow hunted deer since I was 16 and in the ensuing 6 years, I have never filled a permit, yet the memories of the hunts have more than repaid me for the cost of the licenses. For example, I like to remember this hunt with a buddy named Pat who is now serving in the Navy.

"It was a cool November morning and Pat and I were in our tree stands before sunrise. It was foggy and we couldn't see more than a hundred yards, but we hoped the fog would burn off with the sun. Shortly after sunrise, I spotted two bucks heading for an alfalfa field. The fog was still pretty heavy, so I decided to stalk them and managed to get within 30 yards of the animals.

"I took dead aim and released. The twang of the bowstring alerted one of the bucks and he stopped short. The arrow passed in front of him. Then he and the other one ambled toward the field and were gone. Pat joined me just as I found the arrow.

"The fog diminished about 9 a.m., so we sat down to discuss our next moves. To our amazement, 22 whitetails came out of the brush and started grazing in the field. We were sure we would fill our permits in short order, so we headed down a draw to intercept the deer when they returned to the brush.

"Before long, the animals started back, one and two at a time. We picked our bucks and waited. Several small deer passed within 10 yards of me, and I was so excited, my heart was pounding like a bass drum. Suddenly, there he was, a five-pointer and headed directly toward me. I froze with my half-drawn bow, not daring to bat an eye. In seconds, the big buck was within 15 feet of me and completely unaware of py presence. Then I got buck fever. I couldn't bring my bow to full draw; I couldn't do a thing. Helplessly, I watched as the buck walked into the brush. Right about then I was ready to give up hunting forever.

"In the meantime, Pat bagged himself a fine four-pointer. He will never let me forget the day I had buck fever and let the most beautiful five-point buck I ever saw get away."—Sp/4 Dennis O. Meyer, Co. D, 4th Medical Battalion, 4th Infantry Division, APO S.F. 96262.

APOLOGY —"You owe Oshkosh an apology. In the October list of Nebraska airports you put 'none' under names, under runway surface, you put 'turf, under meals, 'none', under transportation, 'none', and under remarks, a blank for the Oshkosh airport. Our airport has a name, Oshkosh Municipal. It has a concrete runway 3,700 feet long and 50-feet wide. It is the only lighted and paved airport runway between Scottsbluff and North Platte.

"It is located adjoining the city. A cafe adjoins the airport near the administration building. Across the street is another cafe and two motels. Transportation? The administration building is four blocks from the main business intersection in downtown Oshkosh.

"Under remarks, you could put that this is the closest paved and lighted airfield to Lake McConaughy; you could mention the North Platte River and the sandpits one mile south, or the scenic Oshkosh canyons three miles south.

"You could mention the state game reserve along the river all the way through the county, making this a goose-hunting area, you could cite the antelope and deer that abound in the area, you could mention the pheasant hunting, you could mention Ash Hollow State Historical Park at Lewellen just 11 miles east, you could mention the brick clubhouse and the golf course a mile south, and you could mention the free swimming pool (heated) during the summer."-Charles E. Greenlee, editor Garden County News, Oshkosh.

Information in the chart was taken from the "Nebraska Airport Directory' published by the State Department of Aeronautics. — Editor.

INJUSTICE-"The article on the Borman Collection of Andrew Standing Bear's work in the December 1969 issue was a fine one, but because you do such fine color work I feel there was some injustice done to the paintings. Why couldn't we have some color pictures?" - Mrs. Marvin Morgan, Gordon.

The Where to Go department in NEBRASKAland is not set up for color reproductions. Sometime in the future, we may devote a" spread" to Standing Bear's art. — Editor.

RIVER VICTIM-"NEBRASKAland readers might be interested in this bit of history about Ionia, a one-time thriving town in Dixon County that is remembered for its 'volcano'.

"In 1856, three men surveyed and staked out the townsite of Ionia where three families were living. One year NEBRASKAland later, L. T. Hill, a merchant from Davenport, Iowa, engaged J. J. Pierce and his son to locate a townsite for him. Learning that the proprietors of Ionia desired to sell out, they purchased it for Hill who immediately started to develop it. At first progress was slow, and the village remained little more than a trading post and fueling station for riverboats. In 1860, Hill built the first ferryboat at Ionia. It was a great help to the farmers of Dixon and Dakota counties, who had to cross the river to sell their produce to the army at Fort Randall.

"The fifth post office to be established in Dixon County was located in the picturesque and historic village of Ionia. John J. Pierce was the first postmaster. He received his appointment April 20, 1860. The post office was discontinued in 1900, and the mail service transferred to Newcastle, Nebraska.

"In 1862, the large amount of good timber on the Ionia bottoms induced Hill to erect a sawmill and in 1867, a gristmill was added. Fitzgerald and Lyons built a large store, and in 1868, Isaac Hughes built a hotel. In 1869, Levines and Rose built a large two-story general store. Many new shops and residences were added in 1870, and also in that year the Ellyson brothers, Wall and Allen, built and operated the first steam ferryboat above Sioux City there.

"Ionia continued to flourish for several years. It reached its peak about 1875. At that time it boasted several generalmerchandise stores, two hotels, two sawmills, a gristmill, shoe and boot factory, drug store, two ferryboats, blacksmith shop, carpenter shop, and several hundred people. Then the river changed its course and started to cut away the townsite. The erosion became so bad that it became necessary to move what was left of the town to higher ground. It struggled along for several years until it ceased to exist as a town altogether.

"So, the same mighty destructive force that destroyed the Ionia Volcano, was also instrumental in the destruction of the town of the same name." —W. W. Ellyson, North Platte.

HANGING GAME—"Can any of your readers or staff members give me some advice on 'hanging' game before eating? We need this advice."-Mrs. I. A. Trively, Clemson, South Carolina.

A study has determined that the following procedure would yield the best venison. Skin the deer and wash it with clear, cold water to remove dirt, leaves, blood, and hair. Hang the animal in a clean, dry place with a near constant temperature of 34 to 36° F. A walk-in cooler is best, but a tight garage, back porch, or outbuilding can be used if the weather is cool. The aging period will vary but one to two weeks are the most desirable. Aging gives the meat a better flavor and helps tenderize it. — Editor.

FEBRUARY 1970

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . .

Multiplication is the name of the game for these little rodents. They "explode" every four years

PRAIRIE VOLE

by Bob Craig Wetlands Biologist

SLEEPING BY DAY and working by night is normal procedure for many Nebraska mammals. From dusk to dawn the woods, hills, and grasslands are alive with thousands of tiny creatures, scurrying about searching for the necessities of life. Perhaps one of the busiest of these nocturnal prowlers is the prairie vole, or meadow mouse as he is often called.

Although not a familiar sight, this small, stocky, grayish to blackish brown rodent with light underparts and short tail is distributed throughout Nebraska, and in some areas rivals the western harvest mouse and the white-footed mouse as the most common mammal.

His scientific name, Microtus ochrogaster, which is about as long as the animal it describes, comes from four Greek words, "Mikros" -small, "ous"-ear, "ochro" -yellow, and "gaster" -belly. The vole belongs to the family Cricetidae which contains small to medium-size rodents.

The vole begins his 15 to 16-month life as a blind, deaf, naked 1/10-ounce ball of wrinkled skin. His childhood lasts until the ripe old age of two weeks after which he is on his FEBRUARY 1970 own. The species begins breeding at about 28 days and producing young at 49 days. One of the most prolific mammals known, the vole may produce many litters a year, the number depending on food supply, temperature, amount of cover, abundance of mates, and other factors. A litter may contain one to seven young, but three, four, and five are the most common.

An adult will usually weigh about 1 1/2-ounces and grow to lengths from 4 1/2 to 7 inches. His large head, long hair, short legs, and tail give him a sluggish, roly-poly appearance which can be quite deceptive to a predator with an easy catch in mind. The vole can run like lightning for 50 to 100 feet, and, if in trouble, can swim up to 900 feet. Speed is not his only defense, however, for he has razorsharp teeth and claws, a constitution of steel, and a fair amount of intelligence to help in his constant fight for survival.

Open season on the vole runs the year around as far as his enemies are concerned. Foxes, coyotes, skunks, weasels, raccoons, cats, and snakes will seldom pass up a meal comprised of the careless rodent. Airborne danger, in the form of owls, hawks, crows, and magpies is ever present in our small friend's world.

The vole's habitat includes herbaceous fields, grasslands, thickets, fallow fields, fencerows, alfalfa fields, bluegrass, clover, and lespedeza. A system of well-defined runways is built both on top and beneath the surface of the ground and it is in these passageways or tunnels that much of the vole's short life is spent. The passageways lead to feeding grounds which are usually shared by the entire community including the voles, other mice, shrews, and moles. Not a world traveler, the vole usually spends his busy lifetime within an area of one-half acre, and if he isn't being chased by a hungry intruder or mating, he usually can be found within 20 to 30 feet of his home.

Multiplication is the name of the game in the vole's fight for survival. A population explosion, usually occurring in four-year cycles, helps keep his numbers up while playing an important role in the balance of nature. During this explosion the vole can be very destructive. A theoretical population of 100 per acre will consume 300 pounds of alfalfa per year, or 96 tons per year per section, while wasting at least twice this amount. This large population will blight whole orchards in its quest for the inner bark of the trees. When food is scarce on the surface the vole will dig about seven inches into the ground to feed on roots. During the boom, man employs many tactics to reduce the onslaught, but disease and predation are the major factors which return the voles' numbers to a proper balance.

The beneficial role of the vole is often overlooked because of the adverse effects he has on crops during his times of abundance. His tunneling and other life activities help keep the soil well cultivated, which aids future plant growth. He provides an important link in the food chain by converting the nutrients from vegetation into his own flesh, and passing them on to the predators which feed on him. He reduces predation on other and more desirable animals such as game species by being a numerous and ready food supply, and to some extent, regulates the population trend of those who prey on him.

The prairie vole will probably never take the Animal of the Year Award or rank in the top 10 of "Who's Who Among Furry Creatures", but he will continue to play his small but important role in nature's delicate balance. THE END

9

MY LUCK TURNED COLD

by Dave Keller as told to NEBRASKAland

CARRYING MY shotgun, in case a finishing shot was needed, I set out across the Lake McConaughy ice to retrieve a duck that had dropped some distance from our blind. I was only a few yards out when the ice began to crack all around me. There wasn't time to retrace my steps, so I threw myself forward with my shotgun under me just as the bottom fell out. My effort kept my head from going under, but the rest of me dropped into the icy depths. My breast waders filled up and several gallons of frigid water soaked into my many layers of heavy clothing. My two companions rushed to help me, aware that our routine hunt could turn into a tragedy.

We had arrived at the blind shortly after 5 a.m. that December day in 1965. Within minutes we had our limits of mallards. Rather than quit so soon, we voted to sit tight and see if some geese would start moving.

Perhaps an hour had passed when three ducks winged toward us. I don't remember what they were, but they weren't mallards so we tried them. Two dropped, one close to the blind and one well out. I volunteered to get the far one, not knowing until the ice gave way beneath me that the river had changed its course and undercut the ice just yards from the blind.

By kicking and crawling I finally worked out of the hole onto thicker ice. I dumped the water out of my waders and wrung out my socks right away, but the big problem was still ahead. It was 1 1/2 miles to the car and the temperature was well below freezing. Already, my outer clothing was glazed with ice, so I told my friends I would go to the car and sit in front of the heater until they were ready to head home.

Jumping up and down frequently to keep up my circulation, I made the first few hundred yards without any trouble. Gradually, however, my feet and hands lost their feeling. And, to make matters worse, I had a growing urge to rest. Soon, rest became the most important thing in the world to me, but I knew I had to keep moving. Memory of what had happened a few years before to an acquaintance goaded me on. He had frozen to death under very similar circumstances. He had stopped to rest during a storm, and he never got up. If I possibly could I wasn't going to let that happen to me. Still, there was a long way yet to go, and my mind started to wander.

Time meant nothing to me, for reality went no further than the next 10 NEBRASKAland

agonizing step before me. My nightmarish world was a pointless slogging on a treadmill. I even forgot my goal, except I knew it was somewhere ahead, and I resolutely kept going. The numbness had spread slowly, and I felt little elation when I finally stumbled up to the car, about a half hour after my dunking.

It looked like all my efforts were to be rewarded by an even more grotesque quirk of fate. Vainly I fumbled with all my might for the keys in my pocket, but the numbness in my fingers made my groping useless. Without the keys I couldn't get into the car. I was worse off than ever.

Gradually, the desire to keep struggling left me, and I felt the first pangs of fear creep through my bitterness. I thought of lying down beside the car, out of the wind, and hoping that my friends got there before it was too late. I was completely miserable and dejected. It seemed like my last glimmer of hope was locked up in that frosty car, and I couldn't get at it.

Then, just at the darkest moment in my life, with severe frostbite or maybe worse only minutes away, a FEBRUARY 1970 bright spark came. Another friend, Bill Craig, drove up in a nice warm pickup. Just like that, the whole picture changed, this time in my favor. Bill needed only a glance to know I was in trouble. He pushed me into his truck, peeled off my icy outfit, and put some of his own clothing on me. Then he made me sit in front of the heater where the warm air could blow on my hands and feet.

The experience is long behind me, but every time I think of it I also think about my friend who wasn't so lucky. I know all too well how easy it is to give up. Fortunately things worked out for me, but what if Bill hadn't come along when he did? THE END

FISH ON A BOARD

From bragging-size fish to "proof positive" takes only kit and a few hours

by Lowell Johnson

AN OLD SAW admonishes that "You can't have your cake and eat it, too", but such is not the case with a fish. There is a way you can eat a big fish, yet retain it as proof that "Here is a big one that didn't get away".

After all, what good is it to relate the glowing details of a momentous battle with the monster of Miller's Pond, if your listeners don't believe a single word? An angler's reputation is not above reproach, so as proof of your veracity as well as your fishing prowess, you need the full-scale, bona-fide, unquestionable evidence hanging right there where your audience can see it.

Mounting a fish is the answer, and it is nothing new. Yet, most anglers would rather gain a reputation as an exaggerator than spend $25 or more to have a prize catch preserved. But, there are inexpensive and easy ways a beginner can mount his own fish and still have a professional-looking job. One way is to buy a commercial fish-mounting kit, which contains the preservative, stuffing material, two fish eyes, paints and varnishes, instructions, and tools, including scraper, needle and thread, skinning knife, and paper clips. An alternative is to round up these materials on your own from a taxidermy supply house. Initially, the fish-mounting kit is the easiest.

Following the directions supplied in the kit, Norm Stucky of Lincoln took an 11-pound northern pike and converted it into a praiseworthy wall decoration. To duplicate the pike's exact size later on, Norm measured the body at the tail, near each fin, and at the head. After selecting the best side, he made an incision along the entire length of the other side from base of tail to gill cover, then started skinning it.

When removing the skin, leave a little meat rather than risk cutting through. Any flesh on the skin can easily be removed afterward with the scraping tool included in the kit. As much meat as possible should be taken from inside the head and next to the fins. For best results, keep the fins wet by daubing with water. Any remaining meat should be liberally treated with preservative. This granular powder must be rubbed in well and pushed into all unscraped cavities.

With the fish properly preserved, the stuffing begins. First, form a pocket at the tail by stitching up about three inches, then push in the prepared stuffing. Sew another few inches and pack in more stuffing. At this point your earlier measurements become very important, as you want to bring your fish skin back out to

NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 its original size and shape. The fish can also be given his "posture" or curvature at this point. Usually they look best with some curve, as if they were jumping out of the water or fighting a hook.

When all sewing and stuffing are completed, clean the fish with paint thinner or gasoline to remove grease and dirt. Next, form the fins into shape by flaring them, then hold that shape by placing cardboard on each side and paper clipping them together. Wait until the fins are completely dry, then put a coat of varnish on the backside of the fin. Next, lay on a single thickness of facial tissue and give it several coats of varnish. Eventually, the tissue will become as strong as the original fin.

After five or six days of drying, clean the fish once again and coat the entire surface with varnish. The false eye can be put in snugly by using putty or wood filler. When the varnish dries, painting can begin. Color photos of fish are helpful, and the job will vary in difficulty depending upon the species. Usually the fish fades during processing, so the original colors must be duplicated by using paints.

Norm's pike turned slate gray on the back and sides, while the spots became indistinct, palid marks. Dissatisfied with the paints in the kit, Norm mixed small quantities of artist's oil paints, diluting them with paint thinner rather than linseed oil, which requires a longer drying time. If the color was too dark or heavy, he spread it with his finger. The white belly was done first, and the paint was kept thin and somewhat transparent to prevent that "covered-up" look.

When the gray areas were returned to a healthy green tint, the spots were retouched with a very light yellowish-white, also softened with fingertips so they did not appear artificial. Touching up the fins must also be done carefully to avoid a plastic look, so go easy with the paint, diluting it with thinner and shading, rather than plastering it on.

When painted, let the fish dry, then give the whole works several more coats of varnish or use a clear plastic spray. This not only preserves the paint and the fish, but gives that "wet" look. For neatness, the throat should be closed off with plaster of Paris or putty.

If possible, run through the entire routine on a smaller, practice fish and your second effort will then be much improved. Still, careful work on your initial try can mean a surprisingly good job—one that will back up your angling story and brighten your den. THE END

13

MOOSE HUNTS DEER

Does 75 years of experience equal 5 minutes of female intuition? I find out on a Mues shoot

by Fred Nelson

WHEN IT COMES to deer hunting, 5 minutes worth of womanly intuition is sometimes more effective than 75 years of experience. At least it was last deer season when Margie Mues decked a five-point whitetail while the menfolk of her family went deerless. Here is how it happened.

Back in June I heard of the Mues family and their deer-hunting prowess. The name Mues (pronounced moose) intrigued me, and I sensed the makings of a good story. So, it didn't take long to wrangle an invitation to join the three-generation family on a week-long try for whitetails along the Republican River in west-central Nebraska. The Mueses live near Bartley and have an enviable record on the white-tailed bucks.

Rudy is the patriarch of the clan. Tall and spare and as tough as a pine knot, he is on the shady side of

60, but he can exhaust men half his age when he's on the hunt. Rudy's son, Don, is a retired Army officer, and like his dad, he can go, go, and go some more. Then there is Dennis, Don's son, who is as avid a hunter as his dad and granddad. Margie, Don's wife, is one of those competent women who can manage a house, look after a big family, and still find time to share her husband's and sons' outdoor activities.

When the Saturday opener came in November 1969, I was there complete with .30/06 and two deer permits. Don gave me a quick rundown on their hunting techniques.

"We're great for tree stands and the wait-for-them bit. I've got a couple of good ones lined up for you and me on the south side of the river. Dad and Dennis have their favorite spots on the north side about a mile east of here," my host explained.

It was still 45 minutes from dawn as Don and I waded the shallow Republican and fought our way through the dog-hair-thick willows that fringed the channel. My guide was a good navigator but awfully fast and I puffed to keep up. Finally, the Bartley hunter stopped and clued me in.

"As soon as we break out of this scrub, we'll be in the bigger timber. Your stand is about 20 yards from here in that leaning cottonwood. I'll be about 400 yards west of you."

The break gave me a chance to shuck my waders in favor of a pair of light hiking boots that I had carried across the river.

"I'm not in shape for all day in heavy boots," I grunted as Don fidgeted at the delay. "Besides, I'm the

14 NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 15   nervous type and about two hours are about all the waiting I can take."

"We don't stay out all day. If we don't score by 10 o'clock, we go in, eat, rest a bit, and try again in the afternoon," Don reassured me.

He snicked a cartridge into the chamber of his .264 Magnum, threw me a good-luck wave, and before I knew it, he was gone.

The east was lighting up but it was still dark beneath the trees, so I inched my way toward the cottonwood and gingerly eased my way up its slanting trunk to the first "Y", determined to stick it out for a couple of hours.

My stand was a good one, with an unobstructed view to the east and south. Don's strategy was evident. Deer that had left the willows to feed in the adjacent croplands during the night would be sneaking back to laze out the day, so there was a better than even chance that an old buck would meet the business end of my rifle head-on.

The river came alive with the young morning. A ragged formation of crows cawed across the graying sky and awakened a fox squirrel into a scolding rebuke. Out in the water a pair of mallards splashed and quacked with commotion enough for a dozen ducks. A few small birds twittered and fluttered about my tree and finally overcame their timidity to perch in the smaller branches above.

"Let's see, Rudy and Don have hunted deer for about 25 years. That makes 50, and I've got about 25 seasons here, there, and everywhere. Dennis has been at it about 3 years, so that makes 75, 76, 78. Let's be conservative and call it 75 years of experience. Yes sir, we're going to get some deer," I mused.

Three hours later that confidence had ebbed considerably. There hadn't been any shooting within

miles of me, and the biggest animal to come along was a tardy raccoon that ambled up from the river, climbed a decaying cottonwood, and squeezed into a cavity that seemed much too small for his bulky body. I was more than ready for company when Don crunched over the frosty leaves toward me.

Three does, one a great big one, passed right under me," he sighed. "You see anything?" I shook my head. "Not a hair."

On the way back I questioned Don about Margie. She had accompanied us for about 200 yards toward the river before slanting off to the east.

"Oh, she's got a favorite stand at the corner of that field. She's shot a few bucks from there, too, but hunting is a casual affair with her. She plays hunches and hunts when she feels like it," her husband explained.

Rudy and his grandson came in shortly afterward. Their luck was poor, too. Dennis had seen a small doe,

but his grandfather was like me —zeroed. Still, we weren't down; there were 8 1/2 days of the rifle season left and none of us doubted that we would fill our tags.

In a way, I was in the catbird seat. One of my two permits was an "any" deer ticket. Last year for the first time, the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission inaugurated a system whereby permit numbers divisible by a certain digit entitled the holder to any deer. Luckily, I had drawn one on my second application.

We decided to follow the morning routine that afternoon, but the matinee was the same story for me until 10 minutes before quitting time. A sharp bark of a heavy rifle shattered the evening stillness, so, I surmised that Don had scored. He had quite a story when he finally rejoined me.

"A friend of mine dropped a small doe just below me. He dressed her out, but it got too late to tote her across the river before dark. I'm going after her in the morning with my four-wheel drive. I can work my way down pretty close to the water and save a lot of work for him," he announced.

"How about the coyotes, won't they chew her up?" I questioned.

"Nope, I put my jacket over her and the man scent will keep them away."

We hunted for a couple of hours the next morning before returning to the house to get the truck. Dennis and Rudy hadn't had any luck either, so the youngster decided to go with us while his granddad caught up on some farm chores. Lloyd, Don's other son, was too young for a license but wanted to go, too, so Don told him to pile in.

"Had I better take my rifle?" I asked.

Don grinned. "I never go into deer country without mine."

We were skirting a cornfield on our roundabout way to the river when one of the boys started pounding the cab.

"Deer! Deer!" Dennis shouted as Don braked the truck. The animal was at the outer edge of the corn, looking more curious than startled at our appearance.

"Must be a doe," Don remarked, studying the animal through his scope. "Take a look." My scope confirmed that it was a small mule deer without antlers.

"You've got a doe permit, better take her," Dennis urged.

I didn't particularly want her, but a deer in the sights is worth two in the future. I leveled the .30/06, centered the crosshairs, and squeezed the trigger. The deer made three frantic lunges and piled up. Lloyd was the first to reach my kill.

"Button buck," he yelped excitedly.

We dressed the buck out in a few minutes and tossed him in the truck. Although the animal was small, he did cheer us up. "Maybe he's the ice breaker," Don opined, "We can sure use one."

After retrieving the doe of the evening before, we returned to the house, hung the animals in a tree, and went back to hunting. None of us saw a thing.

The next morning we changed tactics. Don, who had permission to hunt several miles of river, took me about three miles to the east with instructions to hunt the north bank back while he paralleled me on the south. Rudy and Dennis stayed in the general area of their tree stands with plans to hunt west after they tired of waiting.

I spent most of the morning on stakeout watching a sandbar, and then started still hunting back with many a long wait between steps. Time passed quickly and before I knew it, it was (Continued on page 64)

16 NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 17

TO KEEP THEM ON ICE

In sport where stitches and scars measure a player, Rock Batley is both a mother and maid to 20 men

WHEN THE PHONE rang at 4 a.m., Rock Batley switched on the lights and fumbled for his glasses. As a trainer for the Omaha Knights, a Central Professional Hockey League team, he expected late-night calls. But he dreaded them just the same, because they usually meant trouble. Yawning, he picked up the receiver, listened, then mumbled instructions to the caller. Several minutes later the phone rang again.

"Rock, I tried the ice, but the nosebleed still won't stop," a worried voice on the other end indicated. "In fact, my nose has been bleeding since 12:30 a.m."

"I'll be right there," Rock muttered. In a tough Wednesday night game, Syl Apps had been bashed in the face. Rock had stopped the bleeding and the player finished the game. After the contest, the trainer checked the nose again and it appeared to be all right. But when Rock arrived at the apartment and saw the player's bloody bathroom, it was apparent that things weren't all right. The trainer took Syl to the emergency room at a hospital. The player had lost a lot of blood, but the injury was just a complicated nosebleed.

The 36-year-old trainer is No. 21 on a 20-member team. Fans see him at every game, but few recognize the 5-foot, 10-inch bachelor as an integral part of the team. When he sits in the back left corner of the players' box, he looks just like an ordinary fan who is watching, waiting, and hoping for another Omaha goal. But the man from Peterborough, Ontario, is more than a spectator. He is totally involved in a game that is considered the world's fastest sport.

"A trainer is the forgotten man on a hockey club," Larry Popein, coach of the Knights, said as he sat in his office at the Ak-Sar-Ben Coliseum. "His work is important, and a poor trainer can 18

NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 upset the whole team. He must keep the players and management happy, and that means work. You might say he is the mother and maid of a team."

Describing a trainer as the mother and maid of a rugged group of men doesn't quite fit the hockey-player image. But the young men, who turn the coldness of ice into a heated battleground of human conflict, are potentially worth $20,000 to $100,000 to the New York Rangers, the Knights' parent club. As a trainer, it is up to Rock to protect that investment. That means 8 to 15-hour days and plenty of behind-the-scenes work that few fans know or even care about. But Rock's work is just as much a part of hockey as shoving a puck past a goalie for a score.

A metal door marked "No Admittance" at the far end of the Omaha rink hides Rock's major contribution to the Knights' team effort. Behind that door and up a short flight of wooden steps is the Knights' dressing room. The distinctive "dressingroom" odor is there, but the tall, metal lockers associated with most sports aren't. In their places, long, wooden footlockers that serve as benches line three of the walls in the players' room. Behind the benches hang part of the 16 pounds of paraphernalia that a player wears when he skates out onto the ice. Below the footlockers are names of players written on tape, a hopeful sign that these young men have not come here to stay. But there is nothing permanent about this room except maybe a bulletin board on the wall opposite the stippled-glass windows, a scale, and a table in the middle of the room that is littered with pop cans, tape, broken skate laces, foam padding, and pieces of gauze.

For the last three years the Omaha dressing room has been Rock's world of hockey because this is where he does most of his work. To find out how important Rock's job is, you have to run, not walk, after the quiet, but always smiling man as he scurries around the dressing room. There isn't such a thing as a typical day in the life of a trainer, because his daily procedures will vary with the schedule of home and away games, the practices, and the number of injured players he has to take care of.

When the team is between games there are daily practices. From the time Rock unlocks the dressing room door at 9 a.m. until the last player hits the ice at 10, he is besieged by 20 players.

"Hey, Rock, do you have any gum?"

"Rock, the Frenchman won't believe me. I'm right, aren't I?"

The trainer didn't hear the question because he was too busy checking Andre Dupont's sprained thumb. But he nods his head in agreement anyway.

"My line is short one yellow practice jersey, Rock."

As the slightly-balding man throws a jersey to the player he quietly asks goalie Peter McDuffe, "How is the leg?"

"Sore!"

"Better let me rub it down now and we'll put some heat on it after practice," the trainer orders as he leads the player down a narrow hall that is lined with hockey sticks.

In a room that is barely large enough to hold a black rubdown couch, a medicine chest, a folding chair, and a table, Rock massages the goaltender's bruised leg. As (Continued on page 52)

19

Symphony OF THE SEASONS

A DAY IN spring is a melody of wild-rose blossoms peeking through prairie grass. Summer sings with an orchestra of crickets, streams, and trembling cottonwood leaves. Fall and winter, too, have their musical moments. In the following pages, NEBRASKAland photographer Lou Ell has tried to capture the seasons' symphony on film. Let these pictures help you interpret your own symphony of the seasons.

Nature's song is a combination of moods and tempos. Slow, ponderous clouds set the stage Adagio

20 NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 21  

Allegro

Happiness is music for the soul, but frolic and life are fleeting, like the flight of a bird

22 NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 23  

Splashes of color strike the eye like the quick, sharp rhythm of many marching feet Staccato

24 NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970  

An audience to the outdoor concert, trees send up thunderous applause to each colorful crescendo

Fortissimo

NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970  

Pianissimo

Soft, muted color of floating leaves, a fawn, and man's image in the sunset are nature's repose

28 NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 29

SNOW TIME FOR RAINBOWS

Many anglers think of trouting as a warm-weather sport. But my partner and I find there are advantages to cold-weather outings

by Roy Byers, as told to NEBRASKAland

THE WINTER of 1968-69 was the worst one in northeastern Nebraska for a decade. Old-time ranchers and farmers in the O'Neill area where I live, claimed that for sheer tenacity it was as bad as any they could remember. The first snow fell in mid-December and just kept coming. It was so bad that huge drifts remained until after the first of April. My gripe' over being snowbound was petty, perhaps, in light of the loss of livestock and wildlife, but it was frustrating to plan a trout-fishing outing and then be deterred by consistently bad weather, and snow-blocked roads.

Many anglers think of trouting as a warm-weather sport, but my fishing partner, Stan Gutshall, an O'Neill optometrist, and I enjoy matching wits with rainbows and browns when it's cold. Cold-weather fishing has its advantages. The summer crowds are gone, and we aren't eaten up by flies and gnats while we fish. After I retired in 1963 from a meat-packing company in Omaha, I moved to O'Neill. Since leaving the work-a-day world, I have plenty of time for fishing, and mv favorite angling day is Wednesday. Stan takes a mid-week break from his practice then and we go fishing.

Now it was mid-March and our winter trips had been seriouslv curtailed because of poor roads. However, Stan called on a (Continued on page 53)

FEBRUARY 1970 31

WHEN THE WIND IS RIGHT

Danny Liska is what most men want to be-true globe-trotting adventurer

by Bob Snow

DANNY LISKA IS what most men want to be - an adventurer. The native Nebraskan is the first, and probably the only man, to travel entirely overland from the most northern town in North America that can be reached by road, Arctic Circle City, Alaska, to the most southern town in South America, Ushuaia, Argentina. That easily qualifies him as a man among men, but the Niobrara rancher has also ridden his motorcycle from the northernmost cape of Norway to the southern tip of Africa.

Think of the most fantastic events that could happen to a man, and they have probably happened to Danny. Vampire bats have sucked his blood, he has eaten monkey and lizard to stay alive, traveled through a jungle with smugglers, suffered from malaria, doubled as a stunt man for Yul Brynner, and ridden a motorcycle over 200,000 miles. His two major trips took a total of 36 months, and since then he has visited South America several times.

Few men will ever equal Danny's amazing globetrotting feats, for the 40-year-old is one of the few true adventurers left in this world. To write about all of Danny's adventures and still stay within the confines of this magazine would be like trying to stuff a motorcycle, a sleeping bag, a knife, two cameras, a 30-day ration of food, and all of Danny's thousands of travel slides into a flight bag. The story of his journeys would easily fill a book, and Danny is currently doing just that. Because of this, I will dwell on Danny's first and probably his most difficult trip, from Alaska to Argentina.

Why does one man accomplish what thousands only dream of? Danny, who has the chest and arms of a mountain man, is basically a common man, with common hopes and common dreams. But, while most men dream of being "fancy free", he turns those dreams into reality. Danny wasn't always an adventurer, and like most young men his plans for visiting distant lands were shelved with his mementos of the senior prom. But the rancher still read and wondered about exotic lands. Finally that, combined with sunrise to sunset work, pushed him into taking a two-week motorcycle trip to the West coast in 1957. That trip changed his life.

"I stopped to see the sequoias in California, and as I sat in the midst of these oldest living things on earth, I began to wonder why I was here and what I was going to do while on this earth. The concept of time had always eluded me, because man can measure most things. He can measure an inch, a mile, a pound, and even a year, but how do you measure a lifetime? I suddenly realized that those very old trees would best qualify to measure a man's life. I found a downed sequoia that was 80 feet around and counted off 100 rings — as an insufferable optimist each ring represented a year in my life. I was already 27, so I subtracted that number from FEBRUARY 1970

100 and my remaining life was measured out in two inches on that tree. Each man has a space to fill on that tree and it is up to him how he is going to fill it. If I wanted to fill my two inches with travel, then it was up to me to do it. It is like one philosopher said, Tf you want to play the harp, play it. Don't talk or dream about playing the harp, just do it'."

In 1959 Danny stopped talking about adventure and started doing something about it. He made a seven-week trip to Alaska with the idea that it would once and for all satisfy his desire to do something different. Instead, it only whetted his appetite to accomplish that one goal he had often thought impractical—the Alaska-to-Argentina trip. For a weaker or less dedicated man, the Alaska jaunt would have more than satisfied the thrill for adventure. On the lonely stretches of the Alcan Highway he was constantly battered by rocks thrown by passing trucks, and from the very start he was caked in mud. But Danny was searching for one thing —the end of the road in Alaska. He found it at Arctic Circle City, and when he did, he headed for home.

Back in Niobrara, Danny found that his Alaskan adventure gave him a lot to talk about, but he wasn't interested in talking. When the grass turned green in the spring of 1960, Danny looked across the rolling hills of the Niobrara River valley and wondered if he could make it to the tip of South America. There was only one way to find out, so one day, "when the wind was 33  

right", he climbed on his motorcycle and headed for Mexico and his ultimate goal of Ushuaia, Argentina.

As Danny rode into Mexico he had doubts about the journey he had started. He had left Niobrara with little advance preparation, and he wondered if he should turn back. Danny had visited Mexico before, when he was 19, and on that trip he had made an unsuccessful attempt to climb the volcano Popocatepetl. As he neared the mountain on this, his second journey there, he decided that the mountain would be his test on whether or not he had the strength and endurance to continue the trek. If he made it to the top of Popocatepetl, he would head south. If he failed, he would return to Niobrara.

Danny couldn't find a guide to go with him, so he rode his machine up the mountain as far as he could. It was foggy when he clamped spikes on his boots, grabbed an ice pick, and started the climb. After what seemed like hours, he was so exhausted that he collapsed in the snow. His lungs felt like they were on fire and he was physically beat. But Danny found himself in a strange situation, one that most men never have to face. He had a choice of success or failure, and he was the only one who could make the decision. Slowly he got to his feet and started climbing.

"As I walked up the mountain a step at a time, I realized that there is only one way to get to the top, whether it be a mountain or another goal in life. A man should make just the next step his goal, not the entire mountain. When I made it to the top of Popocatepetl, I knew that I would finish my journey."

Danny's wife, Arlene, joined him in Mexico and the two of them headed for Panama. Heavy rains and unfinished roads made the going tough, and in Costa Rica it took 5 weeks to travel 120 miles. Arlene became ill, so in Panama City she climbed on a plane and headed back to Niobrara, leaving Danny to face the most difficult part of the trip alone.

The road south ended 37 miles out of Panama City, and beyond lay 450 miles of some of the most impenetrable jungle in the world. There were no roads, no trails — nothing but jungle, "wild" Indians, snakes, and vampire bats.

"When I came to a sign that read 'End of the road ... Here begins the Darien Gap", a Panamanian walked up and said, 'Mon, you're crazy to think about going into that jungle. No mon goes in there and comes back'.

"I have nothing but contempt for pessimists, and by now I didn't believe in anything but myself and Popocatepetl. Somewhere beyond that trackless wilderness was Turbo, Colombia and that magic line that would carry me, aboard my motorcycle, to the end of my rainbow —the tip of South America.

"Behind me lay a similar trail that I had come to know. From the barren wastes of the treeless tundra of Alaska we had come through tall forests and quivering muskeg. We had sloughed through Costa Rica in the rainy season when all other traffic was at a standstill. Rain, rain, and more rain, it came down in torrents for 14 days. Landslides and 38 bridgeless rivers to cross, rivers that were choked with debris. People told me I was crazy in Arctic Circle City, Alaska, at home in Niobrara, in Costa Rica, and now at the edge of the jungle in Panama. I didn't deny it, because you have to be a little insane to try a trip like this.

"I had to ship my bike to Medellin, Colombia, but I wanted to take part of my motorcycle with me through the jungle. Before loading the machine on a plane, I took the license plate off and tied it to the back of my pack. I put the keys in the pack, along with food for two days, a hammock, my camera, a machete, a hunting knife, canteen, maps, salt, a snake-bite kit, penicillin with syringe, an extra pair of socks, mosquito repellent, matches, and garlic. I always carry garlic because a witch doctor told me it repels snakes as well as people."

On December 5, 1960 Danny and a Spanish-speaking guide called Mathews headed into the Darien in a piragua, a craft hewn from a single tree trunk. The two men stopped at several Cuna Indian villages to inquire about a guide that could lead Danny overland through the Chucunaque Valley. His overland-guide problem was solved when a young Cuna, who Danny called Manuel, offered to take him through the valley. Although Manuel had never even seen the valley, he was confident that for three dollars a day, a lot of money to a Cuna, he could find the way.

"The trail grew steadily worse, and when it disappeared entirely we had to cut our way through a tangle of vines and ferns with machetes. Manuel assured me that we weren't lost, but as we crawled on our bellys through the jungle, it was hard for me to believe it. When we finally found a path, I never again doubted him."

After Danny and Manuel finally made it to a Hill Cuna village, he sent the guide out in search of eggs. Minutes later three chiefs informed the Nebraskan that he had broken a tribal rule by not first getting the chiefs' permission to buy food in the village. Immediately, they informed him of other tribal laws.

"They told me where and when I could relieve myself, because they use the river water for cooking, drinking, and washing. I carry toilet paper with me and when I finally got permission, I took it with me. When I returned, several Cuna boys came running up

to give me back my tiny pieces of white paper. These people are extremely honest, and the boys thought I had lost them.

"If you want people to respect you, you must show them your respect. I had to learn this in the jungle from so-called savages. When I travel I never carry a weapon. If you go into a jungle with firearms the people are afraid of you, because they know you can kill at a distance. To them a gun is worth a lot of money. I have been in places where someone would slit a person's throat for three dollars, but I have yet to be in a place where you can buy a gun for the same price."

Danny and Manuel made it into Uala Indian territory, a forbidden stretch of jungle. When they arrived at an Indian village they were held prisoners and put on trial. Danny had violated a law by coming into this part of the jungle without permission, and Manuel was in trouble because he had guided him. Manuel was taken away during the first part of the trial and when he returned he was bathed in sweat and his face was masked in pain.

"After a long trial they finally asked me what position I held in Niobrara. My fate and possibly my future hinged on the answer. Finally I shouted out, I am president of the Niobrara Community Club'. A look of awe swept over their faces, and I knew I had said the right thing. I don't know what they did to Manuel, as I never saw him again after the trial, but they let me go."

The next morning an old witch doctor named Mastali and his son led Danny through the jungle. The two men became friends during five lazy days floating the river fishing, swimming, (Continued on page 51)

34 NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 35

A Country Kind of Spring

This season of calves and colts brings bustle of activity to Sand Hills

by Marcia Greer

WHEN THE SNOW begins to melt and the valleys become huge patchwork quilts of shrinking drifts and widening circles of greening sod, and every dip and hollow holds a blue mirror of water, we know spring has come to the Sand Hills. The meadows are alive with the green and white flashes of hundreds of mallards that wheel and dive and splash gracefully in the lakes, ponds, and puddles, filling the air with their gladness.

What special spark makes a country spring so much more vital and alive than the city season? Perhaps it is simply awareness. Here there are no distractions to keep us from enjoying the redwing blackbirds flitting in the cottonwoods, or listening to the first tentative trillings of the meadowlarks, or watching a close wedge of geese honking across the sunset. We can appreciate the radiance of twilight when everything is suffused with pale gold, so unique from the bright tones of autumn or the eggshell tints of winter sunsets.

Best of all the season's excitements though are the new babies. Little toddling calves with such never-again white markings on bright red curly coats hide behind their mothers in the calving lot. From the first timid and wobbly steps to the know-it-all attitude of a few days later, their every moment is a delight to watch. Of course, there are always a few problems and a hectic schedule in connection with calving time. All the "heavies" (very expectant cows) are (Continued on page 64)

STRAIGHT FROM THE BURROW

Debonair comic of the plains sets the record right in an exclusive interview with NEBRASKAland

Photographs by Steve Kohler by Phineas T. Prairie Dog, Esquire as told to Peg Jones

BOY, WAS I ever surprised when I got this phone call from a NEBRASKAland writer asking for an exclusive interview. Not that it is so unusual for a prairie dog to get a phone call, I was just amazed that I was selected since there are so many Phineas T. Prairie Dogs listed in the book. It must have been the Esquire behind my name that did the trick.

Anyway, this writer says, You prairie dogs are supposed to be the comedians of the plains. What makes you so happy? Tell it like it is."

Well, I invited her down to my burrow, but she just muttered something about not being able to get a round "Peg" in a square hole and asked if I would meet her topside. I agreed and we set a time to meet at my lake-front home at Red Willow Reservoir,

Well, what started out as my simply being a consultant on the story ended up with me writing it. What that kid didn't know about us prairie dogs would have filled the burrows of the world. She just sat around and kept asking me to do something funny. In exasperation, and mainly because I'm a firm believer in the literary school that says a writer should live what he writes, I offered to do the story for her. After all, it would be infinitely easier for me to turn writer than for her to turn prairie dog. So, we worked out a solution —I would dictate, she would take it all down. Not that I am incapable of writing, it's just that I choose not to. Oh, sure, once in a while I'll drop a postcard to my cousin in Weeping Water, but for the most part  

I prefer to do the thinking and let someone else do the jotting.

We prairie dogs are widely known for our rather dapper appearance — our fur coats are a lovely reddish hue, that, I'm very glad to say, does nothing fashion wise for the wearer unless he, too, is a prairie dog. Hence, we have no problem with scalawags trying to knock us off to cover the back of some woman in Paris. Our roly-poly appearance doesn't show it, but come impending doom, we can scamper at a second's warning. We pride ourselves on our fine physical shape. What you people have assumed is just good-natured scampering and frolicking are in reality part of a rigorous physical-training program. You have to be in top shape to escape hawks, owls, ferrets, and a lot of other predatory characters. All of this, plus our eyes, which have been called liquid, vivacious, warm, and appealing by more than one amorous buffalo, makes us the most sought-after dandies on the plains. If I had to choose one word to encompass the "prairie-dog look", it would simply have to be handsome, although debonair does run a close second. But enough of this.. .when you see us, you will have no difficulty in recognizing us as we are the only couth animal on the prairie. Honestly, the way buffaloes take care of themselves! I don't warit to say what their problem is specifically, but you never have any trouble locating a buffalo if your olfactory sense works properly.

As for this comedian of the plains tag, we didn't realize that we were the comedians. We always thought you humans were the funny guys coming out to entertain us. But if you

40 NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 41   want to continue believing our life is just one big frolic, be my guest.

However, we do have our gripes. Like holes, for example. We get blamed for every hole dug in America. Why, it is getting so bad that we don't even visit the Grand Canyon for fear of being blamed for that, too. We don't just go around digging holes to bug humans. In fact, if you ask us nicely to move on, we usually do. Since you people came to the prairies, we have been continuously on the move trying to get out of your way.

Another thing, this poison you keep leaving around our towns. Someone is likely to get hurt if you keep flinging it around so carelesly. Perhaps some of you feel ill will toward us, but I'll let you in on a secret —that poison is so effective in controlling us that you don't need to go hog-wild with it and exterminate us. Even the government recognizes our plight and says we are close to being an "endangered species". I don't know what that means exactly, but it sounds pretty grim. How long has it been since you have seen a black-footed ferret? Quite a while, you say? They are our natural enemies, so I hate to say anything in their defense, but they, too, are an "endangered species", because we are. If you exterminate us, you exterminate them, too, and there's no telling where the vicious circle will end.

And one more request. How about changing the stupid name of prairie dogs? It just doesn't have any class or zing. Maybe it would help our image if we could come up with some neat name like miniature prairie gazelle or prairie antelope, both sleek-sounding names which would make as much sense as our present monikers. After all, and this is a family secret, we, are rodents instead of canines, Frankly, I've always liked the sound of prairie schooners —sleek, strong, hardy. My grandpuppy, Joshua, used to tell me he greeted the first prairie schooners that passed this way.

All in all, though, I guess we do have a pretty good life. In what other society can you get a three-room burrow rent free? And even the buffaloes agree that we prairie dogs have the best dust wallows in the United States. We have no violence or psychiatric problems to contend with because when we feel like getting out and barking, we get out and bark, which is always good for the soul. In fact, the next time you're depressed, why don't you drop into our community? We don't promise to cure ingrown toenails or poverty, but a good bark or two now and then sure clears the air. THE END

42 NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 43

THE LAST BIVOUAC

Born during the Indian wars, Fort McPherson was a bulwark on the frontier. Its residents now sleep in honor under the quiet rows of marble markers

THEY CALL it Fort McPherson National Cemetery and the unknowing ask why the "fort" in its name. There are no martial trappings there except for Old Glory waving above the ordered monuments. Monuments that mark the last bivouac of more than 3,000 Americans who fought and died for their country.

The significance of the word, fort, dates back to October 13, 1863, to be exact, when men of Company F, Seventh Iowa Volunteer Cavalry rode up to a spot 9 miles east of the junction of the North and South Platte rivers. They went to work in a hurry, for trouble was close—Indian trouble.

It had started the year before with Indian raids in Minnesota and had spread south and west like prarie fire. The red men were on the war path and the whole Platte Valley was theirs for the pillaging. The hard-bitten troops of other years who had guarded the valley were off to the Civil War, and the Indians knew that now was the time to drive out the hated whites for good. True, Fort Kearny did offer some protection to the settlers, immigrants, and freighters who lived on or traveled this traditional route. But, it was 350 long miles from Kearny in the east to Fort Laramie in the west and their tiny garrisons could not guard all the trail against the hit-and-run tactics of the hostiles.

Somewhere in between there had to be another block and another obstacle to the Indians, and so the future Fort McPherson was established, 18 miles east of the present city of North Platte. Company F did not call the post a fort, not yet. Its men were too busy cutting red cedar in the nearby canyons and turning the logs into barracks to trifle about names. Winter was coming and they had to get under cover as quickly as they could. The thinkers among them could see the strategic importance of the new post, first called Cantonment McKean, but for most of the troopers the place was one of plain hard work with buck saw, cant hook, and ax. It was kind of nice to know this new post was named in honor of General Thomas McKean, commanding officer of the military district, but such knowledge didn't take the sting out of blistered hands or the grumble out of hard-case sergeants.

The post was well located. There was a good spring At a nearby ranch which insured a stable water supply and plenty of red cedar in the canyons for lumber and fqel. Even more important to the military minds was its proximity to a major Indian crossing of the Platte. Besides, the post's Central location made patrolling of the side trails that fed into the main valley relatively easy.

After the barracks were up, the Seventh turned to building a guardhouse,"a bakery, stables, supply depots, a hospital, a headquarters, and all the other construction a frontier post needed to be fairly self sufficient. Indeed, building, rebuilding, (Continued on page 63)

The Alarming Case Against DDT

In recent years, environmental scientists have documneted an enormous - and enormously menancing - body of knowledge concerning the worldwide side effcts of DDT

Reprinted with permission from the October 1969 Reader's Digest Copyright 1969 by The Reader's Digest Association, Inc.

DURING the last year, "the great DDT controversy" has gone worldwide. Opponents of the insecticide, convinced it is doing harm to our environment, have succeeded in getting it banned in Sweden, Denmark and Hungary; in the United States, Arizona and Michigan have outlawed it, and dozens of cities, including New York and Chicago, have abandoned it as a tree spray. Now there is increasing pressure for nationwide banning, both here and abroad.

But many farmers, scientists and government officials still say that the banning of DDT is a panic reaction to unproven charges, and that it will do far more harm than good. Their argument is this:

DDT is among the cheapest and most easily applied insecticides. It has saved millions of lives through the prevention of insect-borne diseases like malaria, typhus and encephalitis. It has been proved harmless to man, and the damaging side effects claimed by conservationists - the killing of wildlife and even the approaching extinction of some species - either have been due to other causes or have been relatively minor compared to the chemical's economic and humanitarian benefits.

One extremely influential factor in DDT's future will be a decision soon to be reached by the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources. Scientists and politicians around the world are waiting to see which way Wisconsin goes, because earlier this year that state held the first full-fledged public "trial" of DDT-27 days of hearings at which the country's leading authorities on the subject testified under oath and were cross-examined by attorneys for both sides.

Opposing DDT in Wisconsin were local conservationists and a group of scientists called the Environmental Defense Fund, Inc. (EDF), whose aim is to fight strategic test cases in court that will establish the legal right of the people to an unspoiled environment. Defending DDT was a task force of the National Agricultural Chemicals Association, a trade group.

After attending several days of the hearings, I discussed the major issues in the DDT controversy with one of the men most responsible for bringing it to the fore: Dr. Charles F. Wurster, a 39-year-old assistant professor of biology at the State University of New York at Stony Brook, who is one of the founders of EDF and is chief expert on DDT's worldwide side effects.

Q. Dr. Wurster, you've been spending most of your time for the past six FEBRUARY 1970 years campaigning against DDT. What got you so involved in the problem?

A. In 1962, when I was a research associate at Dartmouth College in Hanover, N.H., several other biologists and I decided, purely as a spare-time project, to study the effects on the local bird population of the spraying of elms with DDT. We'd heard reports of bird mortality from elm spraying, but we were quite unprepared for the number of deaths our study revealed. Hundreds of birds died, including 70 percent of Hanover's robins.

Q. But many scientists say it's irresponsible alarmism to take an incident like this—even if it is repeated on a local basis in hundreds of other places — and blow it up into a picture of worldwide killing. In fact, that's their main criticism of Rachel Carson's book, Silent Spring, which was the most influential single factor in starting the movement against DDT.

A. You have to understand that DDT does its damage in two distinctly different ways. One is what happened at Hanover —the creation of intense, very localized "hot spots," where animals are directly killed by the high concentration of DDT in the environment. Here the harm is sudden and dramatic, and the cause is easy to identify.

But when this local concentration of DDT spreads out into the rest of the environment, the levels become much lower and the effects far subtler and harder to discern. The affected animals are spread over large areas; often they're out of sight — out in the oceans or in wild areas infrequently visited by man —and the harmful changes come slowly, over a period of months or years.

Now, when Rachel Carson did her research, in the late 1950s and early '60s, the evidence of even the first kind of damage was often hard to find; and there was even less evidence of the second kind. But in the years since Silent Spring was published, hundreds of environmental scientists all over the world have begun studying the side effects of insecticides.

They've measured DDT in all kinds of animal species, from plankton and clams in the sea to penguins, seals, crickets, frogs and man. They've fed DDT to birds and fish and observed the effects on the eggs they laid and the offspring that were — or weren't —hatched. They've analyzed samples of soil, water, air and rain at thousands of places all over the world.

Based on all this research, they have published a truly monumental body of the kind of evidence that was lacking when Miss Carson wrote. And what all this information tells us is that she was right in almost everything she said. As one of the scientists at the Wisconsin hearings said, "I'm scared." The danger is no longer debatable; it's established, scientific fact.

Q. What do you regard as the most important of these "nondebatable" facts about DDT?

A. First, DDT is an extremely longlasting chemical. The insecticide Parathion is far deadlier than DDT, but on an environmental scale it's much safer because it loses its potency in just a few days. If a man applying Parathion to an apple orchard gets a drop of it on his sxin, it could kill him; but a few weeks later you could safely eat the apples he sprayed.

DDT, on the other hand, persists for years in the environment without losing its potency. It probably has a half-life of several years; this means that if you spread two pounds of it on a field today, and none washed away, in 10 or 15 years you could still have a pound of active DDT in the soil.

Second, there is no way to prevent DDT from spreading around the world. In fact, the main application method — converting it into mist-like particles that float in the air —guarantees that much of it will be circulated wherever the wind takes it. Measurements of DDT sprayed from a plane showed that about half of it did not reach its target on the ground.

But even if it all did hit its target, it would still spread throughout the environment. The rain washes it into rivers and oceans, and it vaporizes into the air and is blown away. It's the most widespread pollutant we have; you and I are breathing it now, and tonight we'll have it with our dinner.

Third, being a nerve poison, DDT can kill anything with a nervous system, but the necessary dosage varies from species to species. For instance, when we discuss doses of DDT we usually talk in terms of parts per million — ppm — which is the number of grams of DDT per million grams of the water, air or animal tissue in which it is found. It takes 50 ppm in the brain of a robin to kill the bird, but one tenth of that amount will kill some fish; pheasants and herring gulls, on the other hand, can sometimes store thousands of ppm in their bodies without lethal effects.

Q. This question of parts per million brings up a major point made by the defenders of DDT. In the whole environment, you'll find such high doses of DDT, only in the relatively few "hot spots" near sprayed (Continued on page 62)

47

HOME-GROWN PEOPLE-STOPPERS

Every Nebraska community has something to boast about. Developing these attractions requires imagination and work

by Elizabeth Huff

EVERYONE WOULD like to get something for nothing, otherwise "con" men would starve. Unfortunately, very little is achieved without thought, patience, and old-fashioned hard work. And that cruel fact of life applies to tourist attractions as well. Elves, leprechauns, and fairy godmothers cannot do the job. A successful attraction will not magically appear. Money helps, but even millions of dollars cannot guarantee success, nor are such funds essential to the creation of an appealing people-stopper.

Disneyland is nice, but such grandiose attractions are hardly realistic for the average NEBRASKAland community. What then is the answer to the dilemma? The solution is really very simple. One need only open his eyes and ears and look around. Even the community that had "nothing to attract visitors" does have some interesting attribute on which to capitalize. What do guests want to see when they come to visit? Maybe it's an unusual building, an old-fashioned country store, a herd of Herefords, or a windmill.

Tourists are strange people. It doesn't take a million dollars or fantastic mountain ranges to interest or delight them. They are intrigued by the unusual, the offbeat, and the colorful, and often what may be commonplace to the native Nebraskan can be completely new and exciting to the visitor.

Many "city dudes" have never seen a cow or a pig or a chicken... except as steaks and chops and drumsticks in their local market. Consequently, they are fascinated by an ordinary farm or ranch. A miniature barnyard in a village park could well lure travelers into a community and keep them there for a few hours.

Down in Kansas, the folks at Greensburg have made a booming attraction out of the "world's largest hand-dug well". Certainly, Nebraskans can equal their neighbors south of the border. Of course, once an "attraction" is spotted, it will require promotion and advertising. People can't stop if they don't know something is there.

NEBRASKAland is rich with possibilities for "home-grown" attractions. And, events have their potential as well.

Many communities have already scratched their collective heads and come up with some exciting tourist draws. The Swedes and Czechs have capitalized on their ethnic heritage with festivals at Stromsburg, Wilbur, Schuyler, and Dwight. O'Neill's Irishmen have appropriated St. Patrick's Day for their own special brand of festivities. And, Valentine had the heart to take advantage of Valentine's Day to spread the word on that community.

Obviously, some towns have a slight advantage. They have had the nucleus for prime attractions handed to them. Of course, they must recognize the possibilities and make the most of them. Many have done just that - North Platte with Buffalo Bill, Ogallala as the Cowboy Capital, Gothenburg with the Pony Express, Red Cloud with Catherland, Gering with the Oregon Trail, Grand Island with the pioneer. And, there are others.

On the other hand, some communities must really dig to come up with an idea. But it can and has been done. Kimball has capitalized on its strategic location in the center of the intercontinental missile network and in the heart of Nebraska's oil country. Plans are even afoot there to build a multi-million dollar missile museum, an outgrowth of a small, but good, idea.

One of the greatest success stories in Nebraska comes from Brownville. This Missouri River village was all but gasping its last when some dedicated folks decided to pump some new life into it with injections

of its rich and colorful history. Today, its spring and fall festivals draw many thousands as does its famed Country Music Festival. The recently-established Village Theatre is doing "standing-room-only" business. Efforts have snowballed until now the entire summer is a beehive of activity.

However, any endeavor requires plain, old-fashioned hard work, whether the town starts with something or nothing.

Ogallala has Lake McConaughy and its western history as the last of the "trail" towns. Still, it took vision and elbow grease to interest visitors. Its recreated Front Street is now a success, but the promoters worked long and hard to make it so. And, always thinking ahead, Ogallala has even annexed the interchange on Interstate 80 to bring the traffic into the city limits. Plenty of thought was and is necessary to compensate for the high-speed superhighway and to lure travelers from it.

Just as every community has an attraction hidden somewhere, so, too, can it gain further recognition 48 NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 49  

and income from the production of home-grown souvenirs. Here again, almost every city, town, or village has some local place or colorful heritage or historic individual that will create possibilities for mementoes.

While most everyone immediately comes up with postcards, slides, and the like, the souvenir that reflects the individuality of the community should be the sought after item. Too many souvenirs are the "made in Japan" variety that vary only in the name of the place as the travelers cross state lines.

Most visitors are looking for the unusual memento as a reminder of their trips. With the variety available in NEBRASKAland, the possibilities to meet such demand are as vast as the prairies. Local products are naturals. Milford has its pottery, while Omaha's Boys Town sells items made by the boys.

Crops have innumberable potentials, since city dwellers are naturally curious about them. One cafe operator along Interstate 80 was continually peppered with inquiries about the milo field next to his establishment. Finally, he bought several bushels of milo, put it in small, individual plastic bags, and sold it. Tourists snapped them up. The same idea can be used with corn or wheat. Cattle country is a natural for leathercraft.

Even tiny bales of hay could be used as mailers or key chains or other traditional souvenir items. California and Florida have successfully used the tiny crates of candy oranges, so why not hay! By the same 50 token, Nebraska's "Apple Valley" could use the idea with tiny candy apples.

Nebraska's Czechs have successfully marketed a cookbook that not only promotes their festivals but their national heritage as well. Other communities with strong old-country connections could well do the same...Swedish, Danish, Polish, Irish —all are here.

Wooden items might be an avenue worth exploration by communities located close to the various divisions of the Nebraska National Forest. And, there, the diversity is almost endless.

Even a little town like Potter can get into the act. Back in 1927, the largest hailstones ever recorded anywhere fell at Potter. Glass replicas recording this fact could be turned out as bracelets, paper weights, etc.

Tilted towns have but to capitalize on their claims to fame. Cozad with alfalfa, North Loup with popcorn, and Deshler with brooms, to list but a few. One community in another state has even bottled its "pure mineral water", and such was once the case in Nebraska when Victoria Springs was a "health spa".

Every community has something about which to boast —history, ethnic heritage, famous sons or daughters, unusual industry. All are potential applicants for "home-grown" attractions or souvenirs or both. The problem lies in recognition. That takes a little imagination and a lot of hard work, but that has never bothered the average Nebraskan before. So, scratch your heads, kick around some ideas, roll up the sleeves, and have at it. THE END

NEBRASKAland

WHEN THE WIND IS RIGHT

(Continued from page 35)

stoning an occasional alligator, and eating monkey and lizard. Mastali left Danny at the edge of Choco Indian country, saying he couldn't go on because the Chocos were his enemy.

Danny made his way from one Indian camp to another until he reached the central part of the jungle. At the banana port of El Real, in the middle of the Darien, it seemed that his overland journey might come to an end because he couldn't find a guide. Finally, a group of smugglers agreed to take him into Colombia for a fee of seven dollars. The Darien was reeling from one of the worst floods in 10 years, and trees, drowned deer, wild pigs, and an occasional Choco Indian hut floated by as the gunrunners headed upriver.

"Those men were engaged in a desperate business, but I felt safe with them. They were men with a purpose, and in the jungle that is a valuable asset. We camped two days when a man became seriously ill. One morning I awoke to the sound of a shot. They had put the dying man out of his misery, dumped his body in the river, and were dividing his possessions. It was cruel, but the man was near death anyway. Besides, every day wasted was another day of chance —a chance that they might be caught. I never once thought about what they might have done to me if they thought I was holding back the party."

When the men reached a settlement called Boca de Coupe, Danny was too tired to string up his jungle hammock. He fell asleep on the floor of a hut. Sometime during the night he became aware of a gentle fanning, and at the same time he detected a musky odor. When he felt some creature crawling up his body he jumped to his feet. The hut was filled with vampire bats, and one of them had been feeding on his big toe. After that, Danny always slept in his netted hammock.

After less than a month in the jungle, Danny reached civilization. The toughest part of the trip appeared to be over, but there were still hundreds of miles of unknown ahead. But the jungle had taught him a valuable lesson.

"When I was in the Darien, I never once allowed myself the luxury of a negative thought. That would have destroyed me and my journey. In the jungle I came to grips with the world on its own terms because the jungle doesn't recognize the standards man has set up for himself. It doesn't distinguish between a wealthy man, a black man, or a white man. In the jungle I met a man. To me he was a stranger, but that man was me."

Slowly the rancher worked his way south. In Peru he had to wait three months for repairs. The delay allowed him to explore parts of the Amazon, the mountains, and the jungles in the area. Crossing borders in South America is a problem because it is difficult to obtain permission to take a motorcycle into some countries. Danny spent two weeks on the Chilean border waiting for permission to enter, and another three weeks waiting to get into Argentina.

In southern Argentina the going was tough. In this land of few towns, fewer FEBRUARY 1970 ranches, and poor roads Danny had to push and pull his machine through snow. In one day he tipped his machine over 50 times. It was cold and miserable, but Popocatepetl and the knowledge that the end of the road was just a few hundred miles ahead kept him going.

"When I finally reached the tip of South America, I came to a hill overlooking the ocean. The road was clear, the sun was shining, and there was only one last town to ride into — Ushuaia. There should have been one last obstacle in my way as I rode into town, but there wasn't even a washed-out bridge. I accomplished my ultimate goal, something that I had always dreamed about, yet I wasn't really happy. Talk about a letdown, I can't tell you how vacant I felt."

The mail and money Danny had been expecting when he arrived in Ushuaia had been sent back to the United States six months before. He was penniless, so he left his machine and caught a free ride on a boat. He heard that a movie company in northern Argentina needed hundreds of extras, so Danny joined up with a bunch of gauchos who were going to work in the movie.

The movie was Taras Bulba, and when I saw Yul Brynner I decided I was going to do his dangerous work. One Sunday Yul's stunt man refused to ride down a treacherous hill at full gallop. When the director scanned the other men to find a replacement, I worked my horse up to the front of the line, put my hand on my hip, and tried to look like Yul Brynner. The director spotted me and gave me the job, and from then on I led 7,000 men into battle."

After the movie's action scenes were shot, Danny headed for Lima, Peru where he caught a free ride on a fish plane heading for Miami, Florida. From Miami he took a bus back to Nebraska. Danny was home, but not to stay. He and his wife flew back to South America, picked up his machine, and traveled through Brazil, Uruguay, and Paraguay.

In 1964, Danny started on another "dream-come-true" adventure that would take him from the northernmost cape of Norway to the southern tip of Africa. On this 15-month, 40,000-mile trip, Arlene joined him in Germany and the two of them shared a whirlwind adventure that more than once made them kissing cousins of danger.

For instance, in Ethiopia two uninvited guests walked into camp and sat down. A short time later three other men came into camp and the first two ran into the bush. The trio gave chase and killed them. That night Danny and his wife heard the hyenas near their camp. The couple also traveled through bandit country, through areas where blacks were killing blacks, and in Somalia they saw a dead Ethiopian thrown into the street and torn apart by Somali tribesmen.

There weren't many women who would undertake a trip like this, and Danny admits that he is fortunate to have a wife like Arlene. She did give him a little trouble about her rock collecting, but she soon realized that her hobby was impractical. The total hotel bill for their one year in Africa was $15. The Liskas usually stayed with natives, European farmers, or slept out in the open. Some oil companies contributed gas, and motorcycle dealers worked on their machine without charging for it.

51   10-pc. Tuckaway SURVIVAL KIT Only $2.00 POSTPAID Contains 10 items for protection and comfort in rain, cold, sickness, accidents: large orange poncho and hooci water storage bag, water purification tablets, razor blade, band aids, aspirin, matches, fire starter, survival and first aid booklet, signal mirror. Tucks handily into pocket, tackle box, glove compartment. Essential for hunters, fishermen, motorists, campers, pilots. Send only $2.00 in cash, check or money order to-. ANDREWS ENTERPRISES, P.O. Box 27874, Omaha, Nebraska 68127 Satisfaction Guaranteed or Your Money Back! LIVE-CATCH ALL-PURPOSE TRAPS

[image]

Write for FREE CATALOG Traps without injury squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, mink, fox, raccoons, stray animals, pests, etc. Sizes for every need. Also traps for snakes, sparrows, pigeons, crabs, turtles, quail, etc. Save on our low factory prices. Send no money. Free catalog and trapping secrets. MUSTANG MFG. CO., Dept. N-34, Box 10880, Houston, Tex. 77018

[image]

DISCOVER AMRICA

[image]

Are you still holding up the U.S. mail? You are if you don't use Zip Code! advertising contributed for the public good

That motorcycle went unnamed until one day when they were crossing the desert. They saw something moving on the far horizon, and when they closed in on it they saw it was a wild donkey. Donkeys carrying back-breaking burdens were a common sight, but here was a wild donkey that was fat, sassy, and most of all, free. To them, there was a parallel between the wild donkey and the freedom their motorcycle had given them, so from then on their machine was known as the Wild Ass.

To really appreciate Danny's African adventures, one has to see his 1 1/2-hour slide program. The rancher has a sensitive eye for. beauty and he puts that trait to use when he picks up a camera. As a lecturer, he has taken hundreds of people on a reindeer roundup in Lapland, along the camel caravan routes of Africa, and into the jungles where he has filmed, in depth, some of the more primitive tribes. Danny also has a slide program on his Aiaska-to-Argentina trip, and a special program on Nebraska.

"Most men would like to make a trip like mine, but to do it they would have to give up their jobs and friends. That is a lot to lose, so I carry a camera to record my journey and later I can share my trip with those who can't travel.

"My travels have made me much more aware of what Nebraska has to offer. You don't have to travel around the world to find adventure like I did. When I returned from Africa I made a slide show on a Nebraska adventure, and I didn't have to stray any farther than five miles from home. Just filming Nebraska's beautiful sunsets and following the four seasons is quite an adventure for me.

"Every man needs a place to call home, otherwise he becomes a piece of human driftwood. If there is a Shangri-la on earth for me, it is here in Nebraska with its people. There are mountains all over the world and you can spend your whole life running from one valley to the next looking for a more beautiful mountain. But people, not scenery, make a country great, and Nebraska has some of the finest people in the world."

Danny wants to finish his book before starting on another globe-trotting adventure, but he has flown to South America several times to check out facts in his book. But someday, "when the wind is right", Danny Liska will be off again. THE END

TO KEEP THEM ON ICE

(Continued from page 19)

he does, a player sets his skates on the floor next to the door and asks, "Can you sharpen my skates before practice?" "Call yourself Rock then there will be two of us to do the work," the trainer laughs as he picks up the skates and sends McDuffe on his way.

Sharpening skates is one of Rock's more important jobs. The Knights are issued two pairs of $72 skates a year and it is up to Rock to keep them in shape. When Rock clamps a skate into the sharpener and moves the blade along the rotating cutting stone, the job looks a lot easier than it really is. If a player is to skate his best, he must feel comfortable on his skates. That means each player has to have his skates sharpened 52 in a certain way. For instance, Ab DeMarco prefers razor-sharp blades, while other players like to skate on duller blades. Defensemen, who spend a great deal of the time skating backwards, often like a downhill cut where the front of the blade is thinner than the rear.

Even the amount of blade touching the ice will vary from player to player. Defensemen spend a lot of time in front of the net blocking shots, so they usually prefer 2 to 21/2 inches of blade touching the ice. It gives them more stability when they are fighting off shots at goal. Forwards must depend on speed to score goals, so to cut down on the friction between ice and blade they like to play on skates with 1 to 1 1/2 inches of blade touching the ice.

"Besides sharpening skates, I also make all the necessary repairs," the trainer indicated as he took a small file and rubbed it along the edge of a blade. "I also have to keep this team in skate laces, and that sometimes turns into a big job. We usually run through about 600 pairs of laces a season."

When the two hour practice ends at noon, Rock's job is just beginning. For an hour or more after practice, he works with the injured players. Once they have left, he usually has about five more hours of work to do.

Rock is responsible for equipment repairs. That means he has to be half shoemaker and half seamstress. When a hockey player steps onto the ice he is wearing about $275 worth of equipment, and to keep the club management happy the trainer must keep equipment replacement to a minimum. Once a week the Canadian checks gloves, shoulder pads, and uniforms for needed repairs. If the gloves are cut, he takes them to a shoe-maker where he sews up the tear himself. If a uniform is ripped, he mends it.

To win in hockey requires complete dedication on the part of the coach, the players, and the trainer. For Rock that means putting the team out onto the ice, both home and away. Away games are tough, because in addition to his regular chores he has to pack and tag 20 duffle bags of equipment and crate up to 100 hockey sticks if the team is going to be on the road for three consecutive games.

The team takes a bus to the Iowa and Kansas City games, but they fly to the rest. When they go by plane, the trainer's job is a little easier, because the team usually waits until the morning following a game to return to Omaha. But the games in Iowa and Kansas City are tough. The team heads back after the game and arrives in Omaha around 3 a.m. Before Rock can go home he has to unload and check in all of the equipment, so his bedtime is around 4:30 a.m.

But not all of Rock's work is performed behind the scenes. During some games he does make it out onto the ice, but when he does he isn't happy about it. When he steps into the rink it means a player is injured. A doctor must be present at each hockey game, but Rock walks onto the ice first to check an injured player. If the injury is serious, he tells the referee to wave on the doctor. If it is minor, he handles the injury himself.

"A trainer must have first-aid training. After my years as a player and trainer in NEBRASKAland Canada, I have learned a lot by just discussing and watching the team doctors work on players. But there can be no substitute for a doctor at a hockey game. When I was associated with a Junior Hockey League team in Canada, a player cut his jugular vein. If a doctor hadn't been there, the boy would have died in minutes, but the doctor saved him."

In hockey a man is measured by his stitches, scars, and knocked-out teeth. What makes hockey players unique in the sports world is their indifference to pain. The Knights may accumulate up to 300 stitches during a season and 80 percent of the players already have their teeth knocked out. In fact, broken noses, cracked jaws, cuts, bruises, strained muscles, and sometimes even broken hands are considered playable injuries.

"We don't advertise our hurts, so most of the time the fans don't realize that a player is skating with an injury. Hockey is a brutal game. If an opposing team found out that a player had a bad leg or sore ribs, they would work on him until they pushed him off the ice or until they softened him up so they could go around him for a score. We never freeze an injury to take the pain away during a game. Freezing an injury is dangerous because if a player is hurt again, you can't really tell how serious it might be."

The most common injuries are bruises, strained muscles, and cuts. If a player receives a minor 4 or 5-stitch cut during a game, Rock will apply a butterfly bandage. Then at the end of the period the doctor will sew the player up. More serious cuts send the player to the dressing room for the proper treatment, but chances are he will return to the game.

The type of injuries will vary with the positions on a hockey club. A defenseman will get hurt more in the legs because they are constantly blocking pucks that are traveling at speeds up to 100 miles per hour. A forward, on the other hand, is more often injured in the upper part of the body because they are constantly being banged into the boards as they fight for a shot or attempt to bring the puck down ice. Most of the injuries are to forwards, while the defensemen rank second, and the goalie third.

Besides taking care of injuries. Rock also plays the role of a weight-watcher. Weight plays a big role in the training program of the club. Before and after each game and practice the players weigh themselves ana mark the poundage on a running chart. Once a week Rock sends the figures to the parent club.

"If a player is two or three pounds above his regular skating weight, it can make a difference in the way he plays. I don't put the players on diets because it is up to them to stay in shape. Besides, we have a fine of so many dollars per pound overweight that can be assessed and that is usually incentive enough to keep them at the right playing weight."

There are also hundreds of little jobs that keep the trainer busy. The Canadian has to order all the supplies for the club and in one year the Knights will run through over 1,000 hockey pucks, 100 to 125 dozen hockey sticks, about 30,000 square inches of tape, several cases of rubbing alcohol, and several boxes of gauze. If a player even receives a cut or FEBRUARY 1970 a scratch he has to fill out injury forms and send them to New York.

National Hockey League teams have two trainers, one to take care of the players, the other for the equipment. The Knights have only one, but Rock prefers it that way. It gives him a chance to learn both sides of the business and like most players he hopes to move up to big-time hockey. But Rock is more than just a guy who patches up players and equipment. The trainer is both a buddy and a boss to the players. They often come to him with their problems and he is willing to listen.

Last year in Kansas City, a fight broke out in front of the Omaha bench. Before long the heated battle had aroused the fans and they started moving toward the Omaha bench. As they moved closer they started throwing beer, peanuts, popcorn, and pop at Rock. The trainer was caught between a mad crowd and fighting players. He couldn't go out onto the ice because that meant a league fine. Finally, the players saw his predicament and they gave up their personal fights to chase away the fans.

"As a trainer the greatest satisfaction for me is seeing our team win a game. But running a close second is the satisfaction I get when one of our boys moves up to the New York Rangers. Last year Billy Fairbairn and Juha Widing were with Omaha, and this year they are scoring goals for the Rangers. As a trainer, I feel that I may have helped them make it."

Rock may be No. 21 on a 20-member team, but his behind-the-scenes efforts play an important part in a fast-moving sport called hockey. THE END

SNOW TIME FOR RAINBOWS

(Continued from page 30)

Tuesday evening and suggested we try the Middle Branch of Verdigre Creek or Steel Creek. Both streams are north and east of O'Neill and lay between the Niobrara and Elkhorn rivers. Stan had talked to some of the area farmers and they thought it might be possible to reach the Middle Branch, but they doubted if we could make it to Steel Creek. However, we decided to give it a try.

An hour's drive out of O'Neill revealed impassable roads to Steel. Some of the highways were open, but they were thawing. Others had ruts that could swallow a tractor, or were blocked by six-foot drifts.

"Let's try the Middle Branch," I suggested as Stan swung the car back south. Thirty minutes later, we had spun, bumped, and slid our way to the head-waters of the little stream.

"I wish we could go farther downstream," Stan offered. "I have the best luck about two miles below here, but it's a cinch we can't make it on these roads." "Let's give it a try, anyhow," I said, rigging up my fly rod.

"What kind of bait do you have?" my partner asked, tying on a spinner that he uses with a couple or three salmon eggs. "Eggs and worms," I replied. "If you are going to use eggs, I'll try the worms."

"Looks like the weather is going to get rough again," Stan remarked as we hiked to the (Continued on page 59)

53

Where to go

Table Rock Museums, Box Butte Reservoir

ALTHOUGH TABLE ROCK'S population is 422, it is a mighty big town when it comes to preserving Nebraska history. On the west side of the town square, two Table Rock museums bring back memories of the days when white straw hats, parasols, and one-room schools were a way of life.

At the top of the stairs, behind a weathered door, you'll find evidence of a bygone era of frivolity and reality. The Opera House Museum brings back the days when the greatest events of the year in Table Rock were the performances of traveling actors in the theater. When a traveling troupe was not around, the theater was used for high school plays, and later, silent films played there to the tune of a tinkling piano.

Though the actors have long-since disappeared, the theater's stage is still occupied by mannequins dressed in clothing that was popular back in the early 1900's. Harsh footlights still shine on a park-like backdrop and by this spring Table Rock developers hope to open the backstage area to visitors.

The old, wooden chairs have been removed from the Opera House and display cases, filled with objects of the past, have been substituted.

The postmaster's office has moved into a rear corner of the museum. A mannequin, dressed like the old postmaster himself, silently stands behind the 54 counter ready to hand out much-awaited mail. Green visor, black vest, pin-stripe trousers, and black arm bands make up his authentic costume.

Pianos and organs of ancient vintage line the "orchestra pit" along with an old upright piano that might have accompanied the musical parts of Opera House programs. Old clocks and weapons typify the styles of their respective eras, while a pump-operated vacuum sweeper proves that woman's work was once more difficult than today. In those days, sweeping was literally a two-woman affair with one pumping and the other sweeping.

A history room opens into the Opera House. The walls of this room are lined with pictures of old-time Table Rock. The daily activities of the sodbusters from planting and reaping to butchering are chronicled. On the display tables are records, legends, maps, and county histories.

On the balcony sits a red plush "fainting couch", still sturdy though decades have taken their toll in a slight wearing of texture. Paintings, cradles, and baby carriages tell their personal tales, while old-time bedroom furniture is tucked away in a corner.

A replica of an old kitchen expands on the story of history. Used in the theater's day to serve refreshments, the kitchen now serves memories of the past.

After touring the Opera House, visitors can stroll a block north and tour the Pioneer Museum. The walls of this building seem to echo with the shouts of working men and the rattly-bang of their machinery. A hand-operated corn planter, a wooden thresher, and a heavy plow helped make Nebraska an agricultural

NEBRASKAland state and they have taken their rightful places in the museum.

Transportation history is recorded in the top buggy, surrey, a sleigh, Model A Ford, and numerous other vehicles in the museum. All of them were driven into their present resting places. Even the carved sides of a horse-drawn hearse have found their way into the collection. A blacksmith shop adds a final chapter to this colorful history.

Stepping out the side door of Pioneer Museum, one faces a log cabin. Its anticipated completion is set for spring. Beyond the log cabin is a schoolhouse. As the visitor steps inside the one-room school, the odor of old books, ashes in a pot-bellied stove, and lightly-settled chalk dust greet him. A small American flag and a picture of George Washington are patriotic wall decorations. An old Edison upright phonograph is the original audio-visual aid.

Small desks attached together on runners once accommodated the barefoot boy and his pig-tailed sweetheart with ink-dipped hair. After school that boy may have gathered up a bamboo pole, a line, a fish-hook and some worms, and whistled his way to the nearest water hole.

Table Rock's museums are open every Sunday afternoon from May 1 to October 1. On any other day, year-round visitors can make this step into the past by stopping at the drugstore next to the old Opera House and inquiring about guided tours.

Although memories have taken over in Table Rock's museums, the lure of fishing is a now proposition. One of the most promising "water holes" in Nebraska is Box Butte Reservoir. Far in the northwest corner of the state, Box Butte is light on fishing pressure but heavy on lunkers.

Among the lake's many charms is its trout population. In 1965 when the reservoir was renovated it was stocked with rainbows and browns. Northern pike stocked in 1966 have enjoyed unrestricted growth, and in 1969 at least one had reached 15 pounds. Anglers have been taking walleye of 18 and 19 inches, too. Perch and largemouth and small-mouth bass swim the reservoir's depths. Even stunted bluegill, which were stocked in the lake in 1968, have grown to dinner-plate size.

For ice fishing, Box Butte could yield the biggest and best in the state. The lifting of a minnow-fishing restriction is the x-factor which could mean the difference between last winter's light success and a fishing bonanza in 1970.

In summer, camping is encouraged, and pumps and restrooms are available. To reach this angler's and camper's paradise, drive north from Hemingford on the paved county road.

From an angler's haven in the west to a history buffs paradise in the east, NEBRASKAland offers a variety of warm and cold entertainment. THE END

FEBRUARY 1970

Roundup What to do

This month is short on days, but long on fun. Sports events and travel shows fill calendar

FEBRUARY IS a month for dreamers and doers. While the doers are out pursuing winter's frosty pleasures such as ice fishing, cottontail and varment hunting, and snowmobiling, the indoor-bound visionaries look through ice-glazed windows and long for the outdoor joys of summer.

But everyone thinks of warmer days, and hearth-side planners are already deciding on where to go when nature finally loosens her chilly grip on NEBRASKAland. Substance for such fantasies is available at Nebraska's sports, vacation, and travel shows.

Welcoming show-goers is NEBRASKAland's Hostess of the Month, Miss Peggy Wiemer. Boating, water skiing, and swimming are among her favorite pastimes, and Peggy is looking ahead to this summer's action.

A University of Nebraska junior majoring in secondary education and history, Peggy is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Wiemer of Creston. She began her college career at Northeastern Nebraska Junior College at Norfolk where she was Homecoming Queen, a member of the Student Senate, FEBRUARY 1970 and listed in Who's Who Among Students In American Junior Colleges. Two sports shows are on tap for Nebraska this month. The Omaha Boat, Sports, and Travel Show runs from February 20 through March 1 at the Civic Auditorium. In Lincoln, Pershing Auditorium will host the Nebraska International Sport, Vacation, and Travel Show from February 26 through March 1.

Featuring displays and exhibits by manufacturers and dealers, the shows are a perfect opportunity for dreamers to get in on the action. Some folks will go home with thoughts about new boats and trailers and fresh ideas for that next vacation. Others will have a vacation right at the shows, vicariously enjoying the outdoor diversity that is NEBRASKAland.

February is also packed with a variety of indoor sports events. At home in Lincoln, the University of Nebraska faces Big Eight basketball foes Kansas, Missouri, and Oklahoma. In Omaha, Creighton University faces Wisconsin on the 5th and Loyola on the 18th. Other college and high school teams across the state also will be tested on the roundball court.

Basketball's court jester, the Harlem Globetrotters, bring their time-tested family entertainment to Pershing Auditorium in Lincoln on the 18th. From their "Sweet Georgia Brown" warm-up to the final quip of the game, the Globetrotters effectively prove that they are skilled basketball players and comedians.

To the Omaha Knights, ice hockey is serious business, and they have no illusions about the toughness of their full February schedule. During the month, the Knights will play eight home games against Central Hockey League opponents.

February brings to the fore sports events for individual competitors, too. The bow-and-arrow set invades Lincoln on February 7 and 8, as professionals and amateurs from around the midwest compete in the second annual NEBRASKAland Pro-Am Archery Tournament. While vying for $1,000 in prizes, the archers prove that their activity has successfully made the transition from an outdoor sport to a wholesome indoor family recreation.

Nebraska's high school athletes will pursue their dreams for team and individual success when the State High School Wrestling Meet convenes in Lincoln on February 20 and 21. The best of the high schoolers meet again in Lincoln on the 27th and 28th for the State High School Swimming Meet. Stroking their way to watery excellence, the swimmers belie Nebraska's land-locked status.

Swimming outdoors in February isn't a recommended activity, except for fish. These finny critters lure anglers onto the ice for some of the finest fishing to be had. Northern pike, walleye, bluegill, and crappie are the most cooperative, and a loaded stringer can make the coldest days pleasurable.

A convenient way to get to some of Nebraska's more remote ice fishing spots is by snowmobile. These slush-eating winter workhorses can take an outdoorsman and his gear almost anywhere. But the practical vehicles are also adding to outdoor family fun. Many snowmobilers have found that Nebraska's rolling hills are ideal for weekend family adventures.

Although many hunters have shelved their guns for another season, there is still plenty of action for the avid sportsman. Cottontails and varments will more than test a shooter's ability during February. For trappers, muskrat, and beaver in designated areas, may be taken until the seasons come to an end on February 28.

If February is for dreamers, then Valentine's Day fits in perfectly. Nebraska's city of Valentine again acts as Cupid, as mailers seek its unique postmark. This Sand Hills town is also the setting for the Valentine's Day Coronation and Ball.

All Nebraskans enjoy the beauty of February. It's a show that is open at all hours, every day. The attractions are many: the quiet beauty of a crisp, clear day, the peacefulness of the slumbering earth, and the stillness of the white woods at dusk.

The February calendar attests that despite the cold, Nebraskans don't hibernate. Dreaming can be enjoyable, but Nebraskans having the most fun are up and doing.

What to do 1 —Kansas City Blues vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 4 —Fort Worth Wings vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 5 — University of Wisconsin vs. Creighton University, basketball, Omaha 7 —University of Kansas vs. University of Nebraska, basketball, Lincoln 7-8 -NEBRASKAland Pro-Am Archery Tournament, Lincoln 8 —Oklahoma City Blazers vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 8-14 —Winter Carnival, Bancroft 12 —Dawson County Feeders Tour, Lexington 13 —Tulsa Oilers vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 14 —Valentine's Day Coronation and Ball, Valentine 14 —Dallas Black Hawks vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 14 —University of Missouri vs. University of Nebraska, basketball, Lincoln 14 —Hereford Breeders Sale, Valentine 14 —Pancake Feed, Winside 18 —Harlem Globetrotters, Pershing Municipal Auditorium, Lincoln 18 —Loyola College vs. Creighton University, basketball, Omaha 20 —Iowa Stars vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 20-21-State High School Wrestling Meet, Lincoln 20-March 1 —Omaha Boat, Sports, and Travel Show, Civic Auditorium, Omaha 21 —Kansas City Blues vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha 23 — University of Oklahoma vs. University of Nebraska, basketball, Lincoln 26-March 1 — Nebraska International Sport, Vacation, and Travel Show, Pershing Municipal Auditorium, Lincoln 27-28-State High School Swimming Meet, Lincoln 28 —Kansas City Blues vs. Omaha Knights, ice hockey, Omaha THE END 57

Where to go

SNOW TIME FOR RAINBOWS

(Continued from page 53)

creek. A few minutes later his prophecy was borne out as a light snow began falling.

Winter bait is sometimes hard to come by, and this year it had been even tougher than usual to find. However, Stan and I have had good success on rainbows with salmon eggs, which are usually available in the sporting-goods stores, so I wasn't worried about lack of bait. When the trout are hanging in the deep holes and not feeding actively, we find that worms and minnows are the most productive. Browns are usually a bit more selective than rainbows and seem to prefer minnows over any other bait. We didn't have any minnows, but I did have a few worms.

The Middle Branch of the Verdigre is typical of the streams in the O'Neill, Orchard, and Royal area. It is born of springs that seep from the low spots and gradually build into a creek that will hold trout. Most of these creeks meander through comparatively open valleys and have some undercut banks, fast runs, and deep holes. One of their more unique features is the watercress which nearly chokes the channels in spots. It offers good cover for trout. We began working some likely looking water, but after an hour we paused to compare notes and decided there weren't any fish that far up the creek.

"There's still plenty of time to try Big Springs Creek, north of Orchard," my partner suggested. "I have permission to fish it. The road into it should be good." I was ready. "Let's try it. I want to catch a couple of trout today if possible. It's been a lean winter for fish fries at our house."

Big Springs Creek begins about three miles north of Orchard and like most of the streams in the area it flows through private land, so anglers have to have permission.

The low clouds began to break and a welcome sun began to break through the overcast as we started out. About half an hour later, Stan rejoined me.

"Doing any good?" "I've seen some trout spook off the riffles," I answered. "They scare easily in this low, clear water and with that sun any shadow sends them for cover." "I noticed a couple doing the same thing," Stan replied. "We'll have to sneak up on them."

We separated to try the new technique, and it was a few minutes before FEBRUARY 1970 we met up again. Fortunately, fishing prospects were starting to improve.

"Raised one in this hole," Stan offered as I walked by him. "He took a pass at the spinner and the eggs just as I lifted them from the water. Give me a couple worms. Maybe I can fool him again."

The optometrist threaded the worms on his hook and dropped them into the hole. The first cast drew a zero, but on the second, the leader stopped its downward drift. Stan tensed. "Take it," he urged.

A second or two ticked by before he set the hook with a light snap of the rod tip. A little rainbow of about 10 inches pranced into the air, skittered across the surface with the help of the rod, and landed flopping on the bank.

"Not bad, in fact, he looks real good. I haven't seen many trout this winter," I said.

My first fish came from a bend along a high bank where the water had washed under the roots of a willow. The trout hit three or four times as my bait washed through the hole, but it wasn't until it worked into a back eddy that I finally hooked him. He wasn't as big as Stan's, but he was perfect for the pan.

By mid-afternoon the elements took a turn for the worse. Rain and sleet began to fall and we knew it wasn't going to be long before the weather drove us out. We had creeled five fish between us.

"This cussed weather is going to cut us short again," Stan griped as we hiked for the car.

"Right", I agreed, "but maybe next week will show some improvement, I hope. Let's try the Verdigre over at Grove Lake."

Stan was agreeable. "I hear they have been taking a few there."

"Tell you what, partner," I grinned.

"I'll just go over there one of these days and see what's going on. If this weather will let me."

Grove Lake is a Nebraska State Special Use Area located just north of Royal. The lake itself is formed by a dam on the main Verdigre. The Nebraska Game and Parks Commission stocks the stream and the lake with trout and they often offer some interesting fishing. From past experience, I have found that minnows are the best winter bait for the stream, so after a number of phone calls to fishing friends I came up with two dozen shiners.

It was nearly a week, however, before the weather was decent enough for fishing. I started at the public-fishing area just above the trout-rearing station. Selecting a long shank No. 9 hook, I ran it through the mouth of my minnow, out the gill, and then under the dorsal fin. This rig works best for me whether I drift it through a hole, or retrieve it slowly upstream.

Adding a large splitshot for weight, I eased the minnow into the head end of a bend and let him drift downstream on a slack line. Once through the deep water, I began a slow retrieve. It was a pleasant surprise to feel a sharp rap as the bait came near the head end of the pool. Reacting from experience, I slacked line to give the trout time to mouth the minnow. Tightening up the line again, I felt a tug and set the hook.

My fish surprised me with his one and only run. He came upstream and passed me like a finned comet until he hit the end of the line and turned back to deeper water. I hauled back on the rod and unceremoniously dumped the 10-inch rainbow on the bank.

The stretch I was fishing had been riprapped with rock by the Game Commission to keep the banks from eroding and to narrow the channel. This work deepened the water considerably and created more areas to hold trout.

A few yards farther downstream, I drifted the minnow into a deep slide that was bordered by watercress. On the retrieve, I saw the flash as a trout hit the spinning minnow. I slacked off line, waited, and set the hook. The fish turned downstream for a few feet until he ran out of line. He made one jump. Then he came upstream, helped by the pressure of the rod. A couple of seconds later, I hauled another 10-incher up on the bank.

The fishing was steady over the next couple hours. Sometimes a trout would strike and then turn away at the last instant. My seventh fish was a challenge. It took me almost 30 minutes to catch him.

I raised him from a deep channel on my second cast. He made a couple of passes at the minnow without a touch and then sulked. I was about to give up and move upstream when he made another pass without a take.

"I've got just as much time as you do," I thought to myself, settling down to see if I could take him.

I rested the spot for a few minutes before trying again and reflected on similar situations. A good percentage offish that show interest can be taken if the angler will stick with it. A trout is interested if he swirls or bumps the bait. From there on, it's up to the fisherman to present his offering in a way to make the fish take it.

Normally, I would have changed bait and used something different —a worm, perhaps, but I didn't have any, so I rigged a fresh minnow, added one more split-shot to get the bait down a little deeper, and drifted the channel again.

After a dozen tries I let the minnow drop to the bottom along the edge of the current and waited. Nothing happened. I inched the minnow along the bottom in the retrieve and waited some more. "Haven't tried a fast return," I recalled.

Working the bait into the center of the run, I pulled up on the rod and stripped line to make the minnow dart from the bottom and skid along the surface. The trout slashed out of his hole and I helped him miss by pulling the minnow away.

Casting downstream, I repeated the procedure, allowing the minnow to work to the deepest part of the run before zipping the bait toward me. I felt the fish hit at almost the same instant I saw the flash of his silvery side. I dropped the rod tip to let him mouth the minnow.

The bite of the hook brought the fish flailing across the channel. He nosedived into the depths, ran with the current, and then yielded to the rod as I worked him upstream and onto the bank. He was a nice rainbow, running a shade better than 10 inches.

I was quite pleased with my outing, but I regretted that Stan wasn't along. But, judging from the snowdrifts that were all around, we would still be enjoying winter fishing, even if the calendar did say it was spring. THE END

59

Where to go

Family Tenting

Available in many sizes and styles, the unique shelters offer an "in" to the great outdoors

PEOPLE ARE FUNNY. There was a time when humans lived in tents because they offered protection from the elements. Now, people turn to tents to get out of their everyday element and into the great outdoors. As all forms of camping continue to grow in popularity, more and more people find tenting an escape from daily routines, and a way to beat the high cost of lodging while traveling or vacationing.

Even more people would enjoy tenting if they weren't leery of it. Many envision such an outing as a long series of rugged hardships. Actually, a tent can be cozy and enjoyable. It doesn't have all the conveniences of home, but then, where would the fun be if it did?

If you haven't introduced your family to a tent, now is the time. Not everyone will enjoy tenting —and maybe no one would if they had to do it all the time. But, most people take to it with a passion. There are elements of challenge, of getting close to nature, and of adventure in living under canvas.

Most men and practically all kids are in favor of camping in the boondocks at every opportunity. Some women, however, view the prospect of roughing it with considerable apprehension. They imagine tent camping as a continual battle against dampness, bruises, and strange little crawly critters. And, most think they will be expected to whip up gourmet meals with the barest of equipment and the meanest of facilities, like cooking freshly-caught fish on a spit or something equally as inconvenient. True, a tent has no built-ins to help with the daily housekeeping, but it can still be an enjoyable habitat any place, any time.

Some adjustment from the everyday routine will be necessary if everything is going to go smoothly on an extended stay out-of-doors. Some beforehand planning will make things a lot easier on the campgrounds. Of major importance is the selection of the right tent. It shouldn't be too small dr too large.

A wide range of models is available. There are such humble rigs as a one-man plastic job that folds into pocket size, and which is little more than a waterproof covering for a sleeping bag. At the other extreme are huge, cavernous affairs which will hold the largest tribe. Tents not only come in different sizes but in an array of shapes, materials, and prices.

Among the most popular of canvas homes are the wall type, which have straight sides for about four feet or so before the roof begins. This gives much more usable floor* space than the simple "A" type. The umbrella tent is one of the favorite models, particularly if it comes with a floor.

Which brings up another important consideration. A floor is important at times and a nuisance at others. It keeps out cold drafts, insects, and some moisture. One of the main arguments favoring a floor is that these nasty little "critters" will be forced to go around, rather than through, NEBRASKAland

the tent. This is an asset when trying to get a balky wife into the woods. More care is needed to store a floor model, however. It is also bulkier and heavier, and its innards must be cleaned out occasionally.

Other tents offer various advantages which meet a particular need or preference. There are station-wagon models, for instance, and FEBRUARY 1970 some that mount atop a car or extend from its sides. These enable the camper to use the interior of the vehicle as part of the living quarters. Some of the car-top units are selfcontained in a shallow box, and then fold out into an elevated tent. Although somewhat awkward to get into, these outfits offer security from almost all wildlife.

Each family will have to decide what model or style will best fit its needs, but the experience of others may be helpful. There is a tendency to buy a tent which is often too small, because it is less expensive and easier to store, haul, and set up. This is fine as long as the users are aware of their limitations. However, if the weather gets bad, a tent which may be adequate for sleeping will be much too small for playful kids, a stove, lantern, and a cooler.

A small-tent problem can usually be avoided by having a separate canopy to protect camp gear. This canopy can double as a dining area, too, or for resting up between excursions. In addition to forming a canopy or "fly" for the dining table, an extra tarp can also be formed into another small tent by using a ridgepole in the center and pegging the sides down into the usual "A" shape. The less squeamish members of the household many prefer this structure.

Lightweight tents, made of thin fabrics, are fine for occasional use if handled and stored properly. For frequent or extended use, however, it will pay to buy a top-quality, heavy-duty tent. It will be far cheaper in the long run and save many frustrations and inconveniences in the field. Rain and wind are two tests which any tent will ultimately face, and a sturdy, wet-proof shelter is a real confidence builder when storms threaten to shake things loose.

For those who want larger quarters, one of the big wall tents is ideal. These can be obtained in almost any dimension up to the size of the average living room. The main consideration with a big tent is setting it up. This is no one-man job.

Setting-up procedure should be one of the factors considered in determining what size and style of tent to purchase. Some types are easier to erect than others because of their design. The umbrella, for instance, requires driving stakes around the bottom and then raising the center pole. Some newer models have an exterior framework which replaces the center pole, and leaves the interior unobstructed.

Over the years, many refinements have been made on tents to make them suitable for year-round use. Such niceties as screened windows with built-in closures for bad weather, exterior braces for easy assembly and uncluttered interior, simple rope-tightening devices, improved tent pegs, mildew-proof and water-proof treatments, and other accessories help to make tenting comfortable at any season.

Most of these additions mean additional cost, but they are a good investment in future comfort. On a hot day, a tent will get very warm and humidity tends to build up, so ventilation is highly desirable. Shade from trees or from a separate fly or canopy erected over the tent will keep the sun from boosting temperatures to uncomfortable levels. A tent heater will take the bite out of a chilly-weather camp.

A few pieces of extra canvas, spare poles, and a few feet of rope are mighty handy around camp. A simple elevated tarp can serve as a cover for the dining area, to shelter equipment, make another tent, or be used as a sun shield over the regular tent. They are also useful for windbreaks, dressing rooms, groundcloths, and tablecloths. Strong and inexpensive plastics are ideal for many of these purposes, as they are completely waterproof. Canvas will probably last longer, as it does not tear easily, but it is heavier and takes up more packing space.

Waterproofing a tent is somewhat critical as the material should shed water, yet must be porous enough for the fabric to "breathe". Spray and liquid waterproofing formulas are available which help restore a tent's waterproofing. Be sure to follow the manufacturer's directions when applying these compounds.

Tents should be aired out after use in humid weather or during a rain. Periodic washing and brushing of the fabric also help preserve them. During the off-season, storage should be in a cool, dry place.

Tenters should consider location when setting up. The campground should be protected from wind and sun, have a clearing without rocks, and have slope enough for runoff. Ditching around a tent with a feeder trench to carry off water is often advisable, but be sure and fill in the trench after breaking camp. The ground should be soft enough to drive tent stakes, yet firm enough to hold them. Rocks or buried anchor logs can often be substituted for stakes. Avoid dry washes or canyon floors. A sudden storm, miles away, can send a wall of water rushing down on the unsuspecting camp.

A little care and foresight makes tenting a highly rewarding experience even if the ants do get into the beans. THE END

61

THE ALARMING CASE AGAINST DDT

(Continued from page 47)

areas. Everywhere else it's measured in parts per billion or trillion-levels, that, according to DDT's defenders, are so low as to be "biologically meaningless."

A. I was hoping you'd mention that argument, because it's the one most widely —and in my opinion most deceptively—used by the other side. It ignores important facts about the way DDT behaves.

For one thing, living organisms accumulate, or "soak up," DDT from the air, soil or water in which they live, so that they soon contain much higher concentrations than their environment. For instance, there are only a few parts per trillion of DDT in the water of Lake Michigan, yet many of the lake's fish carry 10 or 20 parts per million in their bodies; that's a concentration more than a million times higher than in their environment.

But the story doesn't end there. The gulls that eat the fish from the lake contain 100 or more parts per million, five or ten times higher than the concentration in the fish. What happens is that as you move up the animal food chain — from the microscopic plankton in the water, to the minnows that eat the plankton, to the larger fish that eat the minnows and the predatory birds that eat the larger fish —you find a higher concentration of DDT in the bodies of each successive species, a process that is called biological magnification.

Furthermore, these heavier doses don't have to be lethal to do serious harm. For DDT can render a species extinct without killing a single mature individual. Around the world today, sub-lethal doses of DDT are already hastening the decline and threatening the extinction of some important species of birds and fish.

A good example is the bald, or "American," eagle, a bird that lives mainly on dead fish. It's been declining in population over most of the country since the early 1950s, and in some places it's suffered a population collapse. Twenty years ago, for instance, there were dozens of pairs of bald eagles around Lake Michigan, but now there is only one pair and it produces no young.

One of the reasons is that DDT—which typically averages a sub-lethal 11 ppm in the eagles' breast muscle —has upset the birds' calcium-processing mechanism and causes them to lay eggs with abnormally thin shells. The eggs break easily or lose water through the shells, which causes the yolk, or embryo, to dry out. In 1936, 97 percent of eagles' nests around Chesapeake Bay produced young; in 1966, only nine percent.

Basically the same story is true of many other predators, such as the Bermuda petrel and the brown pelican. The peregrine falcon used to be numbered in the hundreds of pairs east of the Rockies, but now its nesting population is extinct there — and its numbers are drastically reduced in the western United States, Europe and Great Britain.

Q. What about humans? You and other anti-DDT people have intimated it may be harmful to man, but at the Wisconsin hearings the industry presented convincing evidence of its harmlessness. For instance, they cited a U.S. Public Health Service study in which doctors examined 35 men who had worked in a California DDT plant for an average of 15 years and

been exposed every working day to DDT levels as much as 400 times greater than average; some of them had 80 times more DDT than average in their fat. Yet none of them showed any ill effects.

A. All we say is that it's skating on dangerously thin ice to claim, on the basis of present knowledge, that DDT is not harmful to humans. The California study is a good case in point. It was extremely sketchy; the examinations of the workers weren't much more than what you get in your annual medical checkup. Dr. Donald Kennedy, the chairman of Stanford University's biology department, has compared it with taking three dozen smokers, watching them for a few years and then, if they don't die of lung cancer, declaring that smoking is safe. The study didn't even examine the possible effects of DDT on the workers' livers, though recent studies show beyond any question that DDT affects liver biochemistry.

The basic fact is that nobody knows whether or not DDT is harmful to man; yet we persist in using the world as a gigantic test tube.

Q. But if we abolish DDT entirely, what about the economic effects on farmers and the health effects on countries where insect-borne diseases are a serious problem?

A. Take the health question first. Immediately after World War II, when DDT was truly the miracle insecticide, and there were no effective alternatives, its use against plagues and tropical diseases saved millions of lives. But since then it's become just one of dozens of miracle insecticides. Today there are over 900 basic chemical compounds from which literally thousands of pesticides are made, many of which don't have DDT's long-lasting quality. A few that are equally effective: Abate, Sevin, Methoxychlor and Malathion —and dozens of others, none of which existed during the early years of DDT. In addition, significant progress is being made in the biological control of insects —that is, using non-chemical means such as largescale sterilization or predatory insects that don't harm man out feed on crop-destroying pests.

As to the economic argument, just look at the figures. In 1967, about 425 million pounds of pesticides were used on U.S. crops; only about 21 million pounds of that total —five percent —was DDT, representing sales of only ten million dollars. Does that suggest it's an essential chemical that we can't do without?

Actually, I think the reason the industry is fighting so hard to save DDT is not because it's better or cheaper, but because its banning could establish what would be from their point of view a dangerous precedent. Up to now, the regulation of pesticides has been almost solely in the hands of agriculture-oriented interests—chemical companies, farmers, departments of agriculture. They're afraid to let environmental scientists get a foot in the door, because we're only secondarily interested in the economics of farming.

Our primary interest —which should also be the primary interest of mankind — is the protection of the environment in which we all live. And this is why we think DDT should be banned, immediately. THE END

THE LAST BIVOUAC

(Continued from page 45)

and repair never stopped during the post's 17-year existence. Soon after the Seventh's arrival, the post was named Fort Cottonwood. In 1866, it was rechristened Fort McPherson in honor of General James B. McPherson who was killed in the battle of Atlanta during the Civil War.

Fort McPherson never came under direct attack, but it did figure in a "massacre". It happened like this:

Scurvy was always a scourge of an isolated garrison and in the summer of 1865, Fort McPherson, then Fort Cottonwood, was hit hard by the dreaded disease. Post surgeons ordered the not-too sick to pick and eat fruit as a remedy. There were plenty of wild plums in Cottonwood Canyon and on one particular day, nine men rode out in an ambulance to the plum patches. Two other armed troopers had ridden out earlier, and the ambulance contingent was reassured to see them picking and eating the fruit.

About an hour later, a dozen Sioux swooped down on the unsuspecting soldiers. The troopers dashed for the ambulance, piled in, and hightailed for the fort as fast as the team could go. The Indians followed the wildly careening vehicle, firing as they went. Partway down the rough trail two men were shaken loose and pitched out of the ambulance. Their exits went unnoticed by the enraged warriors, who caught up to the wagon and poured several volleys into the sick and demoralized soldiers, killing three of them. The Indians then broke off the attack and retraced their steps to where the running fight had started. On the way they ran into one Private Anderson. He had been the driver and had lost his seat when the ambulance bounced over the rough trail. Somehow, he had kept his weapon. It was a new Spencer repeater and Anderson knew how to use it. He dropped several Indians before the survivors rode him down and killed him. They paused long enough to scalp and mutilate his body before vanishing into the canyons.

The other man who had been thrown out was a Captain Mitchell who was in charge of the sick party. The marauders didn't see him and he made his way back to the fort to report on what was to become the Cottonwood Massacre.

Before Fort McPherson closed military operations in June 1880, its garrison, seldom more than 700 men and usually far less, played an important role in protecting the frontier. Its men took part in three major expeditions against the Indians, furnished escorts to the wagon trains, and took on the responsibility of guarding the telegraph lines and mail routes. Although these latter duties weren't spectacular, they were very important, for the powers in Washington knew that if this country was ever to be one, communications had to be kept open between the east and the Pacific Coast.

The troopers must have hated winter with a passion, for two of their three major campaigns were mounted during the cold months. The first began on January 16, 1865, with the objective of driving the Indians out of northwest Kansas and eastern Colorado. A two-company column under the command of General Robert Mitchell was to move southwest over Traders' Trail and go 50 miles deep into Kansas, then turn northeast to the Republican River and Medicine Creek and sweep back toward the fort. The campaign was ineffective. The Indians knew better than to fight in the bitter cold and they kept on the move. It was tough on the tribesmen, but it was doubly tough on the troopers. After a bit more than a week in the field, the horse soldiers turned homeward.

General Mitchell was upset. He knew the expedition hadn't accomplished a thing militarily, so he came up with a new plan to harass the Indians. He would destroy their hunting grounds and deprive their ponies of grass. On January 27, 1865, he dispatched telegrams to all military personnel between Fort Kearny and Denver. His message was brief: "Set the prairies on fire at all points at sundown January 27."

It was done and before long the fire was raging along a 300-mile front. It roared south, driven by strong winds, and three days later reached the Texas Panhandle and the Arkansas River. It did quiet the Indians for a year, but by January 1866, they were getting troublesome again, so once more it was "Boots and Saddles" for the men of Fort Cottonwood.

The 700-man expedition had the same objectives as the year before, the Medicine Creek area of southwest Nebraska and on into northwest Kansas. The column didn't make contact with the Indians until January 16 when about 100 braves attacked the soldiers' camp at Sappa Creek in Kansas. It was terribly cold and neither side had much heart for combat. Casualties were light and the Indians soon withdrew. Afterwards, the weather grew so cold the cavalrymen could not resume their march for two weeks following the skirmish. When the column did move, its progress was mighty slow. Some days the men made less than two miles, but it was the nights that were really terrors. It was so cold the troopers often had to stay awake beside their campfires or else freeze to death. It was February 19 before the men got back to the fort.

More than 3 1/2 years passed before the men campaigned again. Indian raids prompted General E. A. Carr to call out 10 companies of the pony soldiers for an expedition against the Cheyennes. After a month of searching, the scouts, of whom Buffalo Bill Cody was one, found the Indians camped at Summit Springs, Colorado. When the shooting was over, 52 Indians were dead, 15 women and children were prisoners, and the 84 lodges of the village were little mounds of smoldering rubble. Later, Buffalo Bill was to make a re-enactment of this battle an important part of his Wild West Show.

Units at Fort McPherson didn't get a chance to get lazy between campaigns. They were always busy with the routine 62 NEBRASKAland FEBRUARY 1970 63   duties of escort or rounding up Indians who pulled nuisance raids and jumped the reservations. The troops were often turned out for "peace" parlays between tribal chiefs and the officers, or "stood to" for ceremonials. The Grand Duke Alexis buffalo hunt of January 1872 was organized from Fort McPherson.

Company L of the Fifth Cavalry was among the last of Fort McPherson's garrisons to fight the red men. The company was sent to northwest Nebraska to assist troops there in recapturing the Cheyennes who had escaped from Fort Robinson in the winter of 1879.

By 1880, the Indian threat was all but gone and Fort McPherson was no longer needed. But even before that the central Nebraska post had entered a new phase. On October 13, 1873, an act of Congress authorized a national cemetery at Fort McPherson and 107 acres of the reservation was set aside for that purpose. Later, this was reduced to its present 20 acres, where veterans of every conflict from the Civil War to Vietnam sleep in honored glory.

Military dead from a wide area were reburied in the cemetery as smaller post cemeteries in Nebraska, South Dakota, Wyoming, and Idaho were closed. One grave at McPherson holds the remains of the 28 men killed in the Grattan Massacre in Wyoming on August 17, 1854. Lieutenant John Grattan, the headstrong officer who began the whole affair when he tried to take a Sioux prisoner for stealing a Mormon cow, is not with his men. He is believed buried in Arlington.

Another grave holds the remains of Chief Spotted Horse. A one-time bitter foe of the whites, he later became their friend and worked diligently for peace between the two races. Some of the graves at Fort McPherson hold the remains of the unidentified. When they were originally interred, wooden slabs were put up as markers. In time, some of these either faded or were destroyed. Today, all graves in the cemetery have uniform white marble markers provided by the government from a single quarry in Columbus, Mississippi.

A fort by popular definition is a place of protection. Fort McPherson has been just that for more than a century. THE END

MOOSE HUNTS DEER

(Continued from page 17)

4 p.m. and I still had a mile to go. It was a calm afternoon and sound carried well, so the sudden shots sounded surprisingly close. There was a string of three, a pause, then one more.

The shots were something to ponder. I knew they weren't Don's. He was behind me on the far side of the river and about a mile to the south. It could be Rudy or Dennis, but they were supposed to be three or four miles to the west and the shots were closer than that.

"I wonder if Margie went out this afternoon?" I asked myself. "Those shots sounded like a .30/06 and she's the only Mues with one. Dennis and Rudy are using 6.5's."

Don had heard the shots, too, and like me wondered if it could be Margie. We met just before we got to the house. Once inside, we needed only one look to know the story. Margie was practically bubbling. Finally, she calmed enough to give us the details.

"I debated about going out this afternoon, but along about 4,1 decided to give it half an hour just on a hunch," she related. Then she paused, savoring the drama of her tale.

"I had just reached the field and was catching my breath when I saw this big buck running real hard toward the river. I waited until he was across from me before I shot. It was a miss. My second shot missed, too, and by this time the buck was really going. My third shot was another miss and I was about ready to cry. Then he stopped. I shot the fourth time and he went down."

Then with feminine illogic, she pouted, "He was too pretty to kill."

Margie's buck was a beauty. A five-point whitetail, he field dressed at about 200 pounds. But his rack was his most distinguishing feature. Almost ivory white, the beams were long and heavy with uniform and widely spaced points, making him a fine-looking trophy.

We didn't know it then, but Margie's buck was the climax of our hunt, though we gave it everything we had for several more days. For Dennis, the desire to get a buck became an obsession. He was up and into the cover before dawn and it was long dark before he returned. "I'll get one yet," he gritted, but it wasn't to be.

Rudy and I were a little more philosophical about our ill luck. We wanted deer and we wanted them badly, but as the season dwindled toward the last day, both of us knew it wasn't our year. We saw does from time to time, and one morning I watched 8 "baldies" parade across a winter wheatfield within 50 yards of my stand. The scope on my rifle was a good one, but it couldn't put "ivory" where it wasn't.

Don wasn't as ready to accept Rudy's, "This is the year of no deer," as I was, so he hunted and hunted, spooking does right and left, but never a buck. He came in about 4:30 p.m. on the last Sunday bitterly disappointed that his long string of successful seasons was ended. Dennis felt even worse. With a teen-ager's ingrained desire to better his elders, he had hoped to equal or even beat his mother's prize. And, if he could have scored while Don and Rudy went buckless, he would have been in glory.

But after awhile, the natural optimism of youth came back. "Wait until next year," he promised, putting his rifle into the gun cabinet.

Don regretted that I hadn't downed a good buck even more than he regretted his own failure, but I cheered him up as we shook hands.

"You know, Don, this hunt has proved a long-held theory of mine. Always play your hunches. Margie did and look what happened. I'll bet she even felt the Mets would take the World Series."

"As a matter of fact, she did," her husband grinned. THE END

COUNTRY KIND OF SPRING

(Continued from page 36)

brought in for close observation and every few hours, night and day, they are checked by a rider on horseback.

One poor baby born in the snow one night had to be brought into the house and given a warm bath (a quick way to thaw out a nearly-frozen calf). Then the calf spent the day being briskly rubbed down beside the electric heater and drinking warmed milk. No human invalid could have been given better care. (And of course, a sick calf in the bathroom is much more interesting than sister in bed with the flu.) It was quite an occasion come evening when the calf NEBRASKAland finally gained enough strength to try standing up (some accomplishment on a slick floor), and could be taken back to the barn.

The protective instinct is very strong in the new mother cows and even the most placid old bossy will soon be "on the prod" if she senses her offspring in danger. This is a most necessary attribute in this country where a pack of coyotes, after a hungry winter, will lie in wait for a wandering and unwary calf. But this same instinct provides a few problems for a cowboy trying to doctor a new baby and quite often sends him scurrying over the fence with "mama" hot on his boot heels!

Of course there is always an occasional cow, usually a first-calf heifer, that refuses to claim her calf, and it must be bucket fed unless it can be grafted onto another cow whose offspring has died. Another problem is the weather. Spring is most unpredictable, and often a late snowstorm may develop into the worst blizzard of the year. Under this threat the ranchers gather up all the calves they can find, put them in a truck, and haul them to shelter. Often it is impossible to match up the appropriate offspring to their mothers after such an ordeal, resulting in a number of "bums" or orphan calves, but it is better than having them lost in the storm.

The mares are also heavy with foal and soon there will be wide-eyed, awkward-looking colts in the pastures. Other new little ones are very much in evidence about the place. Even as I write I have four wee purry helpers. Kittens pounce on every movement of paper or pencil and climb all over. With fluffed-out tails and humped backs they skitter about playing a ferocious game of tag, and staging mock battles for king of the mountain on the arm of the sofa. The sun slants into the house at a different angle in the afternoon now, and soon finds tired kittens, piled in a heap, fast asleep.

The biggest event of the season is the branding that takes place in May. The neighbors join forces to work the cattle and in the process manage to have a whale of a good time. This spirit of cooperation has prevailed since the pioneer days when pooling labor was a necessity. Now it is an occasion for a social visit for the women while they cook up a big noon meal, and a chance for the cowboys to try out a special horse or a new rope in preparation for the weekend ropings which are held throughout the Sand Hills all summer. Saddle leather creaking, horses sweating, dirt flying as noose and neck connect, while the bawling of the calves and the smoke from the fire imprint memories on the mind that could well have come from the 1880's instead of 1969. We are glad that this Old West tradition still lives, for our children to experience today.

So often have we appreciated the quiet solitude of winter that we quite forget the bustle of spring, and all the activities that burst upon us with the advent of warm weather. But how thankful we are to be able to observe nature's perfect example of renewing life in the Nebraska Sand Hills. THE END

FEBRUARY 1970

Outdoor Elsewhere

A Very, Very Old Dove. Most small-game animals and birds are relatively short-lived, and a dove that lasts for more than two or three years is getting somewhat elderly. But, a band returned to the Arizona Game and Fish Department showed that its wearer, a white-winged dove, was at least 11 years old. By human standards, the bird would have been around 200 years old. —Arizona

Whitetail Blackmail. A Pennsylvania game warden recently delivered a road-killed deer to a meat processor so the venison would not be wasted. After cutting up the deer, the meat processor hung the head and hide on his fence for the game warden to pick up. When the game warden arrived, he found a note reading: "Put $25 in a brown paper bag under the bridge or we'll turn this hide in to the game warden." The warden notified the victim of the intended white-tail blackmail, and they complied with the message. Before long two youths were apprehended, putting a quick end to their extortion career. —Pennsylvania

An Impossible Mission. First it was the man on the moon, then the New York Mets that helped make the word "impossible" obsolete. But, what about th'is one? A Missouri sportsman learned that his 17-foot boat had torn loose from it's mooring on the upper end of the Lake of the Ozarks during an overnight rise in the river. The boating buff immediately set out in search of his craft. He estimated how far the boat could have traveled downstream, then began his search at that point. As he finally neared the original mooring point, he thought he had underestimated the distance and was just ready to turn back. Suddenly, he noticed the craft heading upstream. His boat was heading home, propelled by a wind that was stronger than the current. When he overtook the boat it was only 50 feet from the spot where it had broken loose. — Missouri

Submarine Warfare. Sonar, an apparatus used to detect enemy submarines, is being employed by Minnesota's fish-and-game officials to rid the state of a different type of underwater enemy. Fisheries biologists have adapted the sonar technique to pinpoint schools of carp and other unwanted rough fish for quick removal by netting. Formerly, it was a hit-or-miss effort since the location of rough fish was highly uncertain. — Minnesota

Messy Habits. Everyone has heard of the litterbug, but how about a "litter bird"? Ravens in an Oregon state park have learned to remove loose garbage can lids in camps and picnic areas. Then they scatter debris around the cans while scavenging for tidbits. Now, park rangers are pleading with the public to always replace the lids securely so they won't have to pick up after ravens as well as people. — Oregon

Rainbow Roundup. There's more than one way to catch a cat, and the same apparently holds true for trout. A Massachusetts angler recently connected with a hefty rainbow. While he was playing the fish, it jumped and threw the hook. But, the fight wasn't over, as the lure looped over the line and lassoed the fish. Seconds later, the cowboy angler was victorious over the four-pound trout.— Massachusetts

Cry For Help. When a woman is married to an outdoorsman, she usually has one prerogative — like it. After suffering through mosquito bites and sunburn on fishing trips, shivers on hunting expeditions, and severe boredom at football and baseball games, a Maine sportsman's wife wailed to her mate: "Why can't you be like other husbands and never take me anyplace?" — Maine

A Poor Shot. An outdoor columnist for the Kansas City Star recently told this story on himself. "One advantage of being a poor shot: After reading my goose hunting story on Sunday, in which I missed three times on a flock coming right in, two farmers called and invited me quail hunting. Each one added, T don't have too many birds, but since you can't hit them anyway, come on down and hunt.'" — Missouri

Shoots What? An Arizona newspaper shocked some of its readers when an article about Roy Rogers quoted the movie cowboy as saying he "snoots craps and skis" for recreation. The following day a correction was printed saying Rogers does not gamble or ski, but that he shoots trap and skeet. After all, what would "Bullet" and "Trigger" say?- Arizona

Bess Streeter Aldrich

ELMWOOD IS A small, quiet community in southeast Nebraska that sits astride a hill in Cass County. It is a little town, with a big reputation, for this was home to world-renowned author Bess Streeter Aldrich. In remembrance of its most famous citizen, the Library Board sponsored a Historical Marker which stands in Elmwood Park, just across the street from her former home.

Born in 1881, the daughter of pioneer settlers in Cedar Falls, Iowa, Mrs. Aldrich began her writing career at age 14 when she sold her first story to the old Chicago Record and received a $5 camera as payment. After graduation from Cedar Falls High School and Iowa State Teachers' College, she taught school for five years. It was while teaching in Marshalltown, Iowa, that she met her husband-to-be, Captain C. S. Aldrich. They were married in 1907. After living two years in Iowa, they moved to Elmwood, with their infant daughter, where Mr. Aldrich was a banker and attorney.

In 1911, Mrs. Aldrich began her real literary career when she won a $175 prize from the Ladies Home Journal with a short story she wrote "while the baby was having her nap."

Mrs. Aldrich first won recognition with her short stories in the American Magazine, McCalls, Ladies Home Journal, Delineator, Designer, and Woman's Home Companion. Then, in 1924, she turned out the first of her 13 famous "prairie" novels. She also authored some 200 short stories during her lifetime. She wrote of the typical American home and of the pioneer life of the midwest. People and events within the sphere of her knowledge and experience were the subjects of her books. She loved Nebraska and it was the setting for most of her stories. Her best seller, A Lantern In Her Hand, was about pioneers such as her parents, who had a dream and with hard work carved Nebraska out of a rugged frontier.

All of Bess Streeter Aldrich's books have been printed in braille as well as several in foreign languages. Her story, The Man Who Caught The Weather, was included in the O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1928.

After the death of her husband, she kept on writing until her children were grown and educated. In 1946, she moved into a new home next door to her daughter in Lincoln, Nebraska, where she lived until her death on August 3, 1954.