For the Record ... BURNING TRADITION

Fire instantly strikes terror in the heart of every living creature. While fire can be the direct cause of death to all forms of animal life, the most far-reaching effects on our wildlife are more subtle.

Why does a landowner or operator deliberately start a fire? There are two main reasons for most spring fires — weed control and "improvement" of the appearance of the land.

Most people who burn to control weeds believe that fire will destroy weed seeds. However, authorities agree that most varieties of weed seeds are actually quite tolerant to fire. In fact, some varieties of weed seeds are actually stimulated to germinate by fire. Weeds cannot be controlled by burning.

Burning to "improve" the appearance of the farm or ranch is usually carried out in conjunction with the so-called "burning for weed control". Most of this burning occurs in roadsides, fence rows, and odd areas around the farm.

Does the unsightly scar left by a spring fire actually improve the land? Exposed soil resulting from burning is subject to severe wind and water erosion. Mother Nature constantly strives to cover bare land with some type of vegetation. If the land is undisturbed, it will eventually be covered with growth called "climax vegetation". This may be native grasses or a forest, depending on topography, climate, and other factors. When an area is burned off, it actually reverses what nature is trying to do.

What effects can this burning have on Nebraska's wildlife? Actually, few wild animals are killed directly by fires. During this period, most forms of wildlife are mature and capable of escaping the threat. However, the indirect loss of wildlife can be extensive. Nature cannot produce when her hatcheries are destroyed.

Wildlife cannot survive without protective cover. In summer and fall, there is normally adequate wildlife cover found throughout most of Nebraska. In late winter, however, adequate protective cover can be rather limited. Protective winter cover in the form of woody or brushy plants is preferred, although a wide range of heavy grasses, brush, and weeds is used and suffices under all but the most extreme conditions.

Winter cover is important to wildlife in Nebraska, but there is an acute shortage of another vital type. It is totally absent in some localities. More important to pheasants and other game than any other is nesting cover.

Good nesting cover may occur in several forms, but the most common is a mixture of grasses, legumes, and forbes (weeds) which stand to 30" high. A hen pheasant requires enough ground cover to protect her and the nest from predators and other mortalities for six weeks or more each spring. As nesting cover goes, so goes the pheasant population.

Perhaps the most tragic thing about cover destruction is that it is mostly unnecessary. The burning is done out of tradition or habit and because the wind is right and matches are handy, not because burning is a good land management practice.

Clayton Stalling Land Management Supervisor MARCH 1970

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.

GRAND TOUR-"Our December NEBRASKAland was so inspiring that we decided, with another couple, to tour parts of Dodge, Douglas, and Washington counties one Sunday afternoon. Such a drive is so inspiring. Corn, milo, soy beans in such abundance, and weather unequaled by any place in the United States. The car radio was kept silent. The farms, buildings, and cribs so neatly filled and housed for oncoming winter. If Nebraska's football team doesn't thrill you, take a drive most any place in Nebraska. Both our football and our crops rate No. 1." —Leonard A. Mangold, Bennington.

FAR-FETCHED PHANTOM-"Your story, Phantom of Driftwood Creek is interesting even though a little farfetched.

"You say there are 10 reported and 2 confirmed sightings of mountain lions in Nebraska since 1880. But in 1945, while driving through Clearwater at about 2 a.m., I stopped and took a bucket to the Elkhorn River to get water for my car radiator. After filling the bucket I got up and turned. My flashlight lit up two bright eyes the size of half-dollars. I saw that they belonged to a mountain lion about 20 feet away. I froze.

"After a few seconds, which seemed like an hour, I realized that the big cat was curious—just watching me. Not wanting to run or walk away, which might provoke an attack, I stamped my foot, shook the bucket, and said, 'Scat!' The lion jumped into the river, swam 50 feet to a small sandbar, then turned and looked at me like he was wondering what kind of silly jerk I was.

"I threw a piece of driftwood at it and the lion waded the rest of the river, then disappeared into the trees. I drove back to Clearwater and told the night marshal who looked at me with the same wondering expression as the lion. Two weeks later a newspaper reported a lion at Shelby.

"A barber at Pacific Junction, Iowa, just across the river from Plattsmouth, shot a mountain lion in about 1956.

"In October, 1958, my son-in-law and I saw a mountain lion east of Fontenelle Forest. We told deputy sheriff Mike Cisler about it. He called Dick Wolkow who is now at Two Rivers State Recreation Area. Wolkow took plaster casts of the four-inch prints in the mud. I have seen the lion several times since. Once it walked to within 100 feet of me and watched me fish the river.

"In 1959, George Bilek fost a cow to a .22 bullet. He buried the animal. Several days later the lion dug it up, leaving plenty of tracks nearby.

"I took plaster casts and gave them to policeman Harold Henry in Bellevue." — Lawrence Dokulil, Omaha.

CHERRY COUNTY SIGHTINGS - "The January issue is most interesting and I particularly enjoyed the article on page 48, Phantom of Driftwood Creek. I also read the italicized comment following the article.

"If you are interested in a trip to Cherry County I am sure that we can provide information concerning numerous sightings of puma in this area during the past 15 years —the most recent only 2 years ago and in the same area of several earlier sightings." —Roger Little, Valentine.

HEALTHY ENVIRONMENT-"An article (Reader's Digest, October, 1969) cited south-central Nebraska, composed of an 11-county stretch, as the healthiest spot in America. The reasons given for longevity in this area are varied and inconclusive. In spite of its violent weather, the fact remains that Willa Cather Country holds this unusual distinction which is a glowing tribute to our NEBRASKAland."—Mrs. Gordon Moranville, Bayard.

SINKING SOD—"I just finished reading in the December issue an article, A Lake is Born, by Bess Eileen Day. The first time I read the article I was rather confused about the location of the big cave-in.

"I was born in Sherman County and grew up there. I remember hearing of a man's cornfield sinking. Until three or four years ago it was just a story, though. Then my wife and I went back to Loup City to visit my family. While there we went on a Sunday drive, and the conversation led to that old sinkhole. My brother-in-law took us to the place between Scotia and Cotesfield where an area about a mile long and 1,000-feet wide sank about 100 feet. Trees and grass were growing in the bottom and the land is farmed right to the edge of the sink.

"The article in NEBRASKAland describes a place near Oakdale — so there are at least two good-size sinkholes in the state." — Chriss Obermiller, Gordon.

BOTTLE NOTE-"While working on the Chicago and Northwestern railroad one noon hour, I found a bottle and wrote my name and the year and threw it in the Platte River. Two years later I received a letter from Omaha.

"One other time I found a bottle while fishing, but all it said was, Thrown from Schuyler bridge on Flag Day.' Here, in part, is the letter I received:

"'Dear Billy —We found your bottle with your name and address on August 16, 1948. We can't read the date you wrote as the paper is torn. All I can read is April 18, 194?. My dad and little brother were digging for worms on an island where the Platte and Elkhorn rivers join. We have a cabin there. Many times we threw in bottles but never received an answer...

" T would like to hear from you. Where and when you threw your bottle in. Perhaps one of my brothers would like to write to you. I wonder how many miles your bottle floated. I suppose the floods washed the bottle in and buried it on our island. What do you think?' signed Francis Pistello." — Billy Buchholtz, Morse Bluff.

NEWER MODELS - "I am 94 years old and live at the Linden Manor nursing home in North Platte. I have seen and read a great deal of history. The only things in use today that were made before I was are the telegraph and steam engine. Every other thing we have in modern life has come about in my lifetime. But your story in the December magazine beats anything I ever read.

"I have been up to the Fort Robinson museum and have seen the skeletons of prehistoric beasts and I saw one thing that I didn't believe at first. It was a human skull. But, now I believe it, for this country was pretty well populated when Columbus lit here. Men can estimate maybe within a thousand years or so of those things that took place, by studying fossils, and some times they get very close. They say the fossil bed in northwest Nebraska extending into Wyoming is from 10,000 to 12,000 years old, and I expect that is very close." — John V. Allen, North Platte.

BIT OFF —"You are the ones who are a bit off on Mrs. John Miner Schoer's story about the rabbits in Custer County. I have been hunting in Custer County NEBRASKAland since the 1920's. At that time there were two kinds of jackrabbits, whitetails and blacktails. The whitetail was the larger of the two."— Ed Dreyer, Ashland.

You are right. There are two kinds of jackrabbits, whitetails and blacktails. We were not arguing that point in our January editor's note. What we said is that cottontails and bunny rabbits are one and the same. Jackrabbits are another bundle of fur. — Editor.

NASTY WORD —"Boy, are you guys going to catch it now from all of the blue-noses who wrote to complain about the pictures of the beautiful Nebraska hostesses. Wait till they see the nasty word that's on the snowmobile in the January issue."—Harold C. Kleckner, McCook.

BOTTLE FIRE-"Warning! A bottle of water can start a fire. We found this out the hard way this fall, and almost burned up the pickup truck we were driving.

"We always carry a bottle of water for the dogs and ourselves. On this occasion, we placed the bottle inside of an open carton, along with some crumpled up sacks that we were going to use to hold our birds. About 11:30 a.m., we parked the truck, facing north, exposing the top quarter of the water bottle to the sun. We had walked the fence about a quarter of a mile. When we looked back, we saw smoke coming from the truck. The carton had completely burned up, together with the papers, and had spread through the loose hay in the truck. Had this been other than a steel body truck, it certainly would have done damage to the vehicle.

"My brother has experimented with this same situation since then. In each case, the carton, hay, or papers have been set afire. The water bottle was full and, we presume, since none of us smoke, that the bottle of water acted to magnify the sun's rays. This is the first time anything like this has happened to us, in our 40 years of hunting, but then there is always a first time for everything, I guess." — Fred E. Bodie, Lincoln

WHIMSICAL SPRING by Miss Lucille Patterson Lincoln, Nebraska I herald the coming of whimsical spring when winds softly whisper among elm and pine. Green tufts of grass steal across a dewy hearth of sun-dappled wedges of shiny black earth. I cherish the gay song the robins sing, as they perch on blossoming bush and bough. Spring is here! Spring is sunshine, laughter, and cheer. Facetious......Sultry...... Spring is cloud and rain beckoning with splashing fingers on my windowpane. MARCH 1970

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . PINTAIL

Whether hunted or watched, this duck will quicken pulse. Spring courtship show is sightseeing must

by George Schildman Waterfowl Biologist

THE MERE THOUGHT of wild waterfowl is enough to quicken the pulses of a good many sportsmen. Imagination may first conjure up images of the gaudy mallard, but second reflections often create a mental picture of a slim, trim, handsome drake with a linear white stripe on his long, slender neck. He is a pintail, but in some areas he is known as a sprig or sprigtail.

Scientifically, he is known as Dafila acuta tzitziboa. But, whatever the name, these birds create quite an impressive sight as they rise from a field or marsh in late winter or early spring. Exceedingly wary, they have frustrated many a hunter as they decoy to a set of blocks about two gun ranges high and after a third and fourth pass disappear into the distant horizon.

These birds prefer the flat open spaces of the short-grass prairie and meadow for nesting, after an awe-inspiring courtship flight that is a picture of speed, and grace, and maneuverability.

The drake chooses the actual mating territory, usually a small pothole or the bare beach of a bay of a larger water body. The hen selects the actual nest site on grassy flats of dry land, sometimes as much as a mile from water. The nest is a shallow, scooped-out hollow with a lining of grass and down. Clutch sizes range from 6 to 12 eggs, averaging about 9. Incubation begins when the last egg is laid and takes 22 or 23 days.

Pintails are early nesters. In Nebraska, the first ones start appearing about the third week in May, along with some early mallard broods. Their primary breeding range is the pothole country of the Canadian prairies, but they have one of the most extensive breeding ranges of any duck. Pintails avoid the woody parklands and lakes north of the prairies, but utilize the more northern tundra of the Yukon and Alaska and even the marsh country of Siberia. Over the past 14 years, pintails have comprised about 6 to 7 percent of Nebraska's breeding ducks, with a population averaging 13,600. Populations have ranged from a low of 4,400 in 1965 to 32,000 in 1958.

The young are among the faster maturing species of larger ducks, and the first few days of July find the earliest broods on the wing. Their flight capability develops fast, and they begin moving out of their nesting area in all directions. By the time the hunting season begins, 8 some have moved northward as far as southern Canada.

Migratory habits are characteristics of northern breeding ducks, and the pintail migrates, too. But, he does it differently than the more conventional species. Most ducks move south and southeasterly from the breeding grounds to their wintering areas. Although some Central Fly way pintails do move from northern latitudes across Nebraska to the coast of Texas and into Mexico for the winter, the bulk of them move to the West Coast and winter in California and on the west coast of Mexico.

In late winter they begin the first leg of their journey to the breeding grounds by moving easterly across Mexico to the Gulf Coast and then northward through the Central Flyway states. They, along with some mallards, are the first migrants, arriving in Nebraska by mid-February and even earlier in some years if the winter is mild.

Severe weather will frequently push this early vanguard back south to more moderate conditions. But they keep the pressure on winter's •northerly retreat, accounting for the large concentrations bunched up just south of winter's icy grip. Their stay in the state is rather short, and the mass has moved on by late March. These spring spectaculars are made up mostly of drakes, and in the years prior to our recent depressed duck populations, their numbers exceeded the million mark in the Platte River Valley and basins south of it.

In addition to the attraction provided by the large concentration of waterfowl, spring is also the time that mate selection occurs. The aerial-courtship show that accompanies the numerical spectacular merits a sightseeing tour.

In spring, the females are outnumbered several times over, and the drakes in their finest breeding plumage put on a rigorous display of neck stretching and antics to reveal all their charms. She seems to ignore all this attention and takes to the air. The chase by six to ten males begins one of nature's most fascinating aerial shows. She leads her pursuers in tight formation in highspeed twists and turns, shooting to great heights and power-diving down again. The formation is so tight at times that the wing tips are flapping together.

In the fall, observers do not see the large numbers that occur in the spring, but the pintail is one of Nebraska's more abundant visitors. He is again an early migrant, arriving in substantial numbers in mid-to-late August. Peak fall flocks occur early in October, and most have left by late that month.

Pintails are classed among the large ducks and are a welcome addition to the hunter's bag. They rank close to the mallard as table birds. Nebraska's average harvest of this species over the past 13 years is 16,500. The short season and small bag of 1961 limited the kill to less than 5,000. The largest take occurred in 1957, when 46,000 were bagged.

A streamlined, distinctive bird, the pintail occupies a place of special esteem with most Nebraska outdoorsmen. THE END

NEBRASKAland

CLICK FOR HELP

by Bob Craig

BUSINESS AS USUAL was the order of the day as I worked my way through western Nebraska's incredible Sand Hills. Bunchy, gray clouds shrouded the choppies that chilly mid-March day back in 1967, and as a newcomer to the area I was really amazed at the vastness of the hills. Trouble couldn't have been farther from my thoughts.

A game biologist with the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, I had recently been transferred to Alliance, and was spending the day making a wetlands survey in Sheridan County. This type of survey involves the inventory of potholes and lakes and collecting a variety of data about them.

Although new to the area, working from a topographical map, I always knew my exact location. I had just checked out a shallow marsh-lake and was rounding an unusually large hill when I made a big mistake. I hate to admit it, but I was gawking at the landscape rather than paying strict attention to the treacherous Sand Hills trail. "Ker-slam", I drove directly into a blowout. Carved out of the sand by the wind, blowouts range in size from huge craters to relatively small holes. The one I happened into was just big enough to put me in a jam.

I climbed out of the car and evaluated the situation. It didn't look good. I got back in and tried to work the car out, but only managed to bury the back wheels in the soft sand.

"Oh Boy!" I thought. It was about 3 p.m. and I was going nowhere fast. I got a shovel from the trunk and went to work digging. After about 20 minutes or so, I pretty much had the sand cleared away. Once more I climbed in the car and tried to get out of the hole. And, again, the soft sand pulled the car tighter into its grip.

After fussing about in this same manner for another 45 minutes, I decided to abandon the idea. Somewhat embarrassed, I picked up my radio microphone to call the Alliance office for help.

Clicking the on button, I called the office. But, there was no answer to my call. I tried again and again, but always my calls went unanswered. From the map, I could see that I was about 20 miles north of Lakeside. I couldn't figure out why the office wasn't reading my signal. Then, it hit me. The large hill that I was stuck next to was blocking my transmissions.

Now I was really disgusted, especially with myself. The map showed 10

a house about 1 1/2 miles south. It was then about 4:30 p.m. so I thought I better get to it before dark. The walk to the house seemed short, but the rewards were even shorter. It was abandoned. According to the map, another house was about a mile to the west, so I decided to give it a try. A little later I again faced disappointment, as the map had led me to another deserted house.

Darkness was only a few minutes away by now. I had a decision to make. I had passed a house on the trail about six miles back that I knew for sure wasn't deserted. Should I try to backtrack to it in the dark or wait until the next morning? I decided the chance of getting lost wasn't worth it, especially since I was a newcomer to this territory. I had heard many a grisly story about folks who lost their way in the hills, and by no means was I a survival expert.

When I got back to the car, I tried the radio again. Still no response. The sun had now set, and the day's leftover cloud cover transposed the dark of the evening into an inky impenetrable blackness. Coyote yips and a cold prairie wind made me happy I chose not to walk.

I was just sitting in the car cursing myself for goofing up when my radio sounded off. I was startled at first, then glanced at my watch. It was nearly 8 p.m. I figured my wife had someone out at the office trying to call me.

I received the message perfectly, but I knew they wouldn't hear me. In low hope I picked up the microphone and answered. No luck. I tried to answer again. A voice over the radio then told me that they could pick up my clicking but that was all.

"If you are all right, answer with two clicks. Use only one click if you are injured," said the voice over the radio. I replied with two clicks.

Then, using this same technique of affirmative and negative answering, headquarters tried to locate me. However, when asked which direction I was from certain landmarks, I was helpless because of my unfamilarity with the area. About all I NEBRASKAland could do was answer "yes" to being north of Lakeside.

The next three or four hours were extremely anxious ones, as I sat waiting for help. They were also frustrating. I could hear the searchers talk to one another over their radios. And, at one time one of the search units was about a mile from me. But, that crazy hill still blocked my transmission to the radio tower leaving me helpless.

About 11 p.m. the searchers still hadn't found me. I guess there's a lot of country north of Lakeside. A few minutes later the radio dispatcher told me that the airplane was going to be called out for the search. By this time I was really angry. All this trouble over me, and I really was in no danger at all.

It seemed like hours before I heard an airplane in the distance. I grabbed my microphone and immediately made contact with pilot Leonard Spoering. The airplane-to-single-unit communications is set up so that a radio tower is not necessary for contact. It was sure good to talk to someone again without clicks.

A few minutes later a set of headlights was rumbling down my trail. Before I knew it, three men came running full speed up to the car. I stepped out and greeted them in a happy and embarrassed voice.

"You're all right," they all shouted in unison.

"Fine," I said. "I told you I was all right."

But, I really hadn't. When they had asked if I were o.k., and told me to answer affirmative with two clicks, I did. But, apparently the transmitting tower failed to receive one of my clicks, sending only one click to headquarters. Everyone had thought I was injured.

My rescuers were Game Commission personnel Ken Johnson of Lincoln and Harvey Suetsugu of Alliance and the rancher whose land I was stranded on. After we figured everything out, it was unanimous to head for home. It was about 2 a.m. A chain was incorporated to pull my car out of the hole, and an hour later I was home comforting a worried wife.

The next few days I was subjected to considerable ribbing from my coworkers. I deserved it though. I made it a point to learn a few tricks about getting unstuck from the sand, and today a similar episode might not turn out the way it did then. In any event, I haven't lost an ounce of respect for the massive Sand Hills. And, one thing for sure, whenever I'm driving off the beaten path in the hills I always keep both eyes on the road ahead. THE END

MARCH 1970

NEBRASKA'S UFO'S

From all over the state have come reports of strange vehicles in the sky, some from as far back as 1897

by Lowell Johnson

RETURNING HOME FROM a prayer meeting in Inavale, Nebraska the night of February 6, a group of people suddenly saw a very bright light passing directly overhead. The source of the light, they found, was an airship, conical in shape and perhaps 30 to 40 feet long. The craft had two sets of wings on each side, and a large, fan-shaped rudder at the rear.

At the same time, a "most powerful" light was evident for several months in the skies near Hastings, and so people assumed there was some connection. Also during that period, a craft fitting the same description was spotted over Omaha by several witnesses, including a group of Ak-Sar-Ben members. They said the airship was about 90 feet long, eliptical in shape, with wing-like projections fore and aft on each side. On the forward end was a bright light which was evidently used as a headlight. Reports of the same vehicle also came in from Kansas City and Denver.

The year was 1897, the airplane was still in the future, and reports on this "mysterious airship" were probably the earliest recorded UFO (Unidentified Flying Objects) sightings in the state. The descriptions of the airship bring to mind a dirigible, but even that explanation is highly unlikely. Unlikely because the first dirigible was not developed until 1884 in France, and it was many years before they were capable of crossing the Atlantic. Besides that, the United States didn't even have a model capable of worthwhile flight. Another theory was that the airship was really a kite, but that too is unlikely because the object was spotted in several different areas.

Further evidence that something peculiar was roving the midwest skies came from a farmer in the neighboring state of Kansas. He apparently observed the same craft that was seen in Nebraska. His account resembles a science-fiction thriller.

The farmer, his son, and his hired man were attracted to a field near the farmhouse one evening. There, slowly descending from the sky was a huge airship. As the three men drew near they saw a carriage made of glass or another transparent material underneath the 300-foot craft.

In the brightly lighted interior were six of "the strangest beings I ever saw. They were jabbering together, but we could not understand a word they said."

Upon sighting the three men below, the spaceship crew turned a bright light on them, started the power for a 30-foot turbine wheel, and the buzzing vessel rose. At an altitude of 300 feet, the ship paused and hovered over a two-year-old heifer which was tangled in the fence. The trio went to the animal and found a cable tied about its neck that ran up to the craft. Unable to cut the cable, the men cut the fence, whereupon the vehicle ascended, lifting the heifer with it.

More recently, Nebraska was one of several states included in a blanket of sightings of UFO's. The rash of reports began in August of 1965 when authorities at Wichita, Kansas said the Weather Bureau tracked several UFO's between altitudes of 6,000 and 9,000 feet. Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma was said to have tracked 4 unidentified aircraft on its radar screen at one time, estimating their altitude at about 22,000 feet. During the same influx of sightings, reports came in from Sidney, Grand Island, Broken Bow, and other localities in Nebraska. Captain Les Beekin of the Sioux Army Depot at Sidney said he saw objects three nights in a row, as did four other guards who were on duty at the plant.

"They looked like a Naval cruiser going through the sky," he said. "There were one large and four MARCH 1970 smaller objects, flying in a diamond formation, and they appeared white."

In the 1940's, 50's, and 60's the story was the same. From York, Nebraska City, Alliance, Blue Hill, Fairbury, Oshkosh, Ainsworth, Valentine, Gordon, Nelson, and dozens of other sites came reports of lights or airships. A few were admitted hoaxes, some were doubtless illusions and mistakes, but the others?

One day in 1957, jets of the Nebraska National Guard scrambled to intercept a UFO sighted over Lincoln by the crew of a passing B47. Because it was nearly overhead, the radar operator wasn't able to zero in on it, but pilots of F84's were sent aloft to intercept. They were incapable of attaining the altitude of the "thing", however, and could climb to only about 5,000 feet below it. One pilot, when asked its size, answered that it was "as big as hangar No. 2".

The object still remains as an unknown because no one was able to get an exact "fix", but it was a large, silvery globe with a smaller rectangle below. The object may have been a weather balloon because it took 2 1/2 hours to cross the sky. But, the fact remains that it was a UFO.

Many factors can account for sightings. A high percentage of the objects seen are probably of natural origin, either terrestrial or celestial. This has long been the claim of astronomers, investigators, and other "nonbelievers". Officialdom, in fact, explains away all but two percent of the total sightings by attributing them to planets, bright stars, birds and insects, reflection of lights off clouds, various gases, the Aurora Borealis, pranksters or hoaxers, hallucinations, powerline corona, and several others.

Still, there is that two percent with no explanation. Despite intensive study, questioning, and even ridicule, some people's stories cannot be shaken. These few phenomena give the believers something to hang onto with tenacious determination, and form a basis for building other reports upon.

Nebraska has had its share of phenomena. Hundreds of individual reports appear on the books and in the papers. They originate in all parts of the state, although the eastern portion, with its greater population, accounts for the bulk of them. A sampling of Nebraska incidents is representative of those from other 13  

parts of the world and leads to all manner of speculation. What is being seen? If not natural objects, where are they from?

For example, how is the case of Herb Schirmer, a police officer in Ashland on December 3, 1967, explained? He was making a routine patrol that night, and about 2:30 a.m. found a UFO hovering 8 feet over the highway south of town. He stopped about 40 feet away from the object, which was shaped "much like a football" with a sort of flattened base and with a cat-walk and a row of porthole-type windows around the center.

The width, he estimated, was about 20 feet and the height from 10 to 14 feet. A sound similar to a pulsating siren was evident. Then the vehicle lifted about 50 feet into the air, emitted a huge, red-orange beam of light, and disappeared amidst the siren noise. "There was no smell, smoke, or exhaust," Schirmer noted.

No traces of the craft were found at the scene later. Several months afterward, Schirmer went to the University of Colorado to see if he could add anything to his experience while under hypnosis. A professor at Colorado was working under a federal grant on an intensive study of UFO's. For one thing, Shirmer had been unable to account for a half hour, from first sighting at 2:30 until 3 a.m. when he next realized where he was. Under hypnosis, the episode became even more involved, for he related details he had not mentioned before, such as an apparent telepathic or real conversation with one of the "beings" on the craft. That "being" promised to return within the year.

Almost a year later, on November 30, 1968, Dean Edwards of Lincoln did, in fact, report seeing an object 14 about 9 p.m. near Ashland while he was driving on Interstate 80. He said the thing looked like a beacon circling about 200 or 300 feet above the ground. It was round and flattened, made no noise, and was unlike anything he had ever seen before. With him at the time were his wife, brother, and sister-in-law.

Doubtless a good many such incidents are nothing more than unusual or normal occurrences seen under abnormal circumstances. Excluding the possibility of someone's practical joke with a home-made craft, the alternatives seem to be either pure imagination or actually seeing a ship. It is possible to confuse dreams with reality under certain conditions, but it is also easy for non-witnesses to dismiss all such stories as hysteria, make-believe, or pure and simple mistakes. Persons having run-ins with alien craft, however, are not normally of questionable integrity.

In the words of Dr. J. Allen Hynek, chief scientific consultant for the Air Force, "The surprising thing is the level of intelligence of the observers and reporters of UFO's —certainly above average, and in some cases decidedly above average. The typical witness is honest and reliable."

Among possibly hundreds of Nebraska sightings are the following:

Earl Moore and Ed Rowley of Lincoln saw two white or silvery objects over downtown Lincoln one afternoon in 1952 while they were crossing the street. They estimated the objects as 100 feet in diameter.

Several witnesses in Lincoln sighted a strange thing on October 1, 1952. They reported from Waverly - a white flash of light about 10 yards long, with a ball of orange fire at one end and blue-yellow exploding fire at the other. The same description came from other NEBRASKAland couples who saw the thing from Pioneers Park on the opposite side of Lincoln.

Two Douglas County sheriff's patrolmen, Sgt. Dan Lang and Joe Golden, reported a bright, green-blue object trailing off to an orange glow, moving across the sky at 4:15 a.m. on May 28, 1966. At about the same time, an employee at Western Electric in Omaha saw the same object while he was on lunch break.

On August 10,1952, a crew of Douglas County employees working on a bridge saw a 'round puff of smoke" streak across the sky at 12:18 p.m. The puff traveled at great speed, being visible only for about 15 seconds.

A formation of a dozen white lights was seen in the night skies in the Oxford, Orleans, Arapahoe area in south-central Nebraska by several witnesses on August 1, 1955. They believed they were not regular aircraft.

Five college students in Lincoln, from several locations, reported on April 16, 1966, that they saw an oval-shaped craft, unlike any airplane, maneuvering in the skies over Lincoln. They watched it make a circular flight. It made no sound, was tremendously brilliant, and changed colors. Its size was described as being like a spool held at arm's length.

Two Lincolnites, returning from Colorado on October 14, 1959 spotted a flying object near Pleasant Dale, and they stopped at a service station on Cornhusker Highway in Lincoln to point the object out to station attendants. The men said they first heard a siren sound, then saw a light in the sky which they at first thought was a meteor.

"It was the biggest we ever saw," they related, and compared it with an arc light. They followed the light nearly to Waverly where it disappeared behind clouds.

Descriptions of flying objects are fairly universal, usually being saucer or disc-like or resembling cigars or dirigibles. They are almost always accompanied by bright, flashing, or colored lights, but they are about divided as to being silent or making noise. Except for a case near Hastings in which a California man claimed to have conversed and traveled with aliens in their spaceship, Officer Schirmer's case is probably the only one in the state involving direct confrontation.

In the Hastings case, the man involved was committed to a hospital for examination and treatment, and officials shrugged it off as hallucinatory. After his release, the man traveled widely, accusing investigating officials of persecution, bungling, and ignorance.

Arguments against the existence of flying saucers or whatever they are called, are quite impressive, however. The U.S. Air Force compiled just about 12,000 sightings between 1947 and 1969, of which all but just over 700 were attributed to natural or explainable sources. One argument supporting the Air Force contention that people are merely "seeing things" is provided by the vast network of full-time sky watching. Virtually every inch of space above North America is scanned continuously by radar operated by the Air Defense Command.

Further support comes from the Smithsonian Astrophysics Observatory, which has set up automatic cameras in the midwest, including four cameras in Nebraska. Covering essentially the entire sky and designed to photograph celestial objects, the camera system has not captured anything the researchers did not understand.

Carl Sagan of the astronomy department of Harvard University and the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory came up with an interesting statistic. He noted that even if one million other planets in our galaxy had intelligent life, each capable of launching spaceships at random, one annually each, and earth was the target for all of them, only 1 would reach earth every 100,000 years.

Despite all logic, though, many reports are difficult to dispute. Whether it is wishful thinking or faith in their fellow man's beliefs, many people tend to believe some of the tales. Disregarding hoaxes and illusion, there are cases which sound authentic.

Unfortunately, there are enough practical jokers, who have admitted constructing "flying saucers" to give people something to talk about, that investigation has been greatly hindered. Because nothing has ever been turned up of a suspicious nature, the Air Force recently closed down its "Project Blue Book" office — the facility assigned to catalog UFO reports.

If any of the "contacts" with alien craft have been true, it would be difficult to prove it from among the many false ones. Human nature being what it is, UFO sightings will continue. Reports of lights and craft in Nebraska will probably be among them. Perhaps, after all, Nebraska's tranquillity is an attraction for beings other than humans. THE END

MARCH 1970 15

ANOTHER "FIRST" AT BIG MAC

A young swimmer had conquered our largest lake. Now we had a new challenges 90-mile hike around it

MY DAUGHTER JODI and I stood silently at the south end of Kingsley Dam. We looked out across Lake McConaughy's many miles of blue, restless water and were bathed with the warmth of a clear, August morning. Gulls dipped for breakfast, while white wisps of clouds arched overhead under the urging of a southern breeze. It was a picture-postcard setting, but we were in it —actors in a scene of unbelievable beauty and peacefulness. An automobile horn, though, ended our reverie.

"We'd better get off the road, Jodi," I chuckled, "or we might not finish this little hike."

Our "little hike", however, was not so little. Already we had walked nearly 45 miles. Our goal was to go all the way around Lake McConaughy, a distance of some 90 miles. Big Mac, which has been testing boaters, swimmers, and fishermen since it was created 30 years ago, now gave us a challenge. No one had ever walked completely around Mac, and that's what we were trying to do. Kingsley Dam, at which we found ourselves that Wednesday morning, marked the halfway point.

As we began the three-mile walk that would take us from one end of the earth-fill dam to the other, I had a chance to think about the first four days of our adventure, and why it now felt so good to be finally going across this mammoth structure.

Our journey began on Saturday, August 16, 1969, at 10:45 a.m. I know the precise time because I carefully recorded all the important incidents of our trip as they happened in a small, red, spiral-bound notebook that I kept in my shirt pocket. Lewis and Clark may have kept better journals, but I figured that later we might like some reminders about mileages and events. Thirteen-year-old Jodi originally had intentions of keeping a diary, too, but every time we stopped to put down some notes, instead of putting words in her notebook, she would start drawing pictures of horses. Horses, especially appaloosas, are Jodi's first love, and any chance she got added another sketch to her growing collection.

My wife, Dorothy, drove us from our home in Bridgeport to Lake McConaughy's southwestern shore. She was confident that we were well prepared with both supplies and outdoor experience, but this was our first try at extensive hiking and backpack camping. And despite Dorothy's cheerful send-off, we knew as well as she did that this trek wouldn't be a picnic. There was, as Dorothy had told a friend in Bridgeport, "nothing but packs between them and the outdoors."

Those packs held a lot of useful gear, and our years of family camping helped us choose the right equipment. For preparing meals we had a one-burner stove with a supply of gasoline, a cooking kit, and a few necessary utensils. We also had plenty of food along. Some of it was canned goods but most of our provisions were of the powdered-instant variety. The majority was in my 50-pound pack. Jodi had 35 pounds in her pack, but little of it was food. We hadn't planned it that way, but I had to laugh when my daughter realized that as we ate each meal, my burden would get lighter and lighter.

Other gear consisted of extra clothing, a first-aid kit, and a folding saw. Sleeping bags hung beneath the packs. Our two ponchos, besides their rainwear duties, would be used at night to form a tent. A portable radio and other odds and ends completed our outfit for this "mini-expedition".

As we stepped out, the two of us were full of energy, and the weight on our backs seemed light. The lake, our silent challenger, was to the left as our unusual convoy headed east. The trek began on sand, but as we 16 were trying to follow the shoreline as much as possible, we faced a variety of terrain, including rocky hills, grassy slopes, and muddy shores. The idea of pacing hadn't been given much thought, and before long we found that we were pushing ourselves too much. We had begun by walking for 55 minutes and then resting for 5. Longer breaks later proved valuable.

After three miles of walking, our duo dipped into Dank worth Canyon and continued along the shore. Despite being right on the beach, we got some shade from nearby cottonwoods. Lunch break came just before noon. Our fare might not have tempted a gourmet, but the bean soup, potted meat, crackers, raisins, and candy bars satisfied us.

Many miles slipped by that afternoon, and evening found us at Eagle Canyon, known to some as Eagle Gulch. After setting up our poncho-tent on the sand beach, we had a light dinner. Before leaving, we had decided that we would have something hot each meal and we pretty well stuck to that decision.

That night the wind came howling across the lake, and a couple of times I thought for sure that our shelter would blow away. Additional discomfort came in the form of hordes of pesky mosquitoes. But I soon fell asleep, thinking of the course of events that got us here in the first place.

I guess the idea for this wild scheme was conceived three years ago. Our family had gone to Lake Mac almost every year with our camping group, the 4-Fun Family Campers. That particular year, beachcombing was the favorite pastime and arrowheads the preferred booty. We would head up the shore and then back-track to the campground, looking for relics of those Indian campers of the past.

"Wouldn't it be nice," Jodi mentioned, "if we didn't have to retrace our steps."

"You bet," I countered, "but how could you do it without covering the same places twice?"

One thought followed another and we decided that it would be fun to someday go all the way around the lake.

I had gone on outings with my son, Kenny, away at Chadron State College, but now I wanted to make a jaunt with my daughter, Jodi. Soon to enter the eighth grade, she was at an age where hanging around with your parents loses some of its appeal. I knew that before long she might not be interested in going along with her old dad, so when we had the chance this summer to give the hike a try, we couldn't pass it up. I took annual leave from my job with the Soil Conservation Service, allowing 10 days for the hike. I wasn't sure we could pull it off though, no matter how much time there was.

Reveille was at 6 a.m., and to start the day I fixed some instant oatmeal, coffee, and hot chocolate for Jodi. That morning, we spotted a big buck in some trees. To us, he symbolized the freedom and solitude that we now enjoyed. Catching our scent, he gracefully leaped through the woods. There was a lightness to our steps as we went on our way.

During the summer, the water level of Lake Mac is lowered, exposing more of the shoreline. Sandy areas stay pretty firm, but other spots get really muddy. When our boots got loaded with the goop, we took to the higher ground. Up on the hills we skirted a pasture.

"Those cows are just as curious as anyone else," I mentioned to Jodi, as their wide eyes followed us as we strolled past.

"I'm just glad they can't say what they're thinking," Jodi replied, knowing that she and her escort were the (Continued on page 52)

NEBRASKAland by Ivan Griffith as told to NEBRASKAland

THE COLLECTING CRAZE

Acquire two and you have an all-important fad

Text by Faye Musil, Photographs by Greg Beaumont and Steve Kohler

PEOPLE WILL pick up anything. If they acquire two of it, they have a collection. Then the idea is to get as many kinds of the same thing as possible. Watches and wishbones, dolls and decoys, baubles and bonnets, wrenches and spark plugs, all are collecting hobbies.

People have been acquiring things since the beginning of people. Somewhere in prehistoric times early man began picking up pretty stones or shells, because they satisfied his simple aesthetic sense. Besides, he thought, someday they might be useful. He proudly displayed his collection to someone else. Soon his stones or shells became tradable for his other wants, because someone else was trying to complete a set.

While there are rock collectors and shell collectors today, hobbies have become diversified along with the rest of civilization. For example, Esther Jefferson in Sutton gathers wishbones. She has about 3,000 of them displayed in her office at the Sutton Motel. On the other hand, Dr. C. H. Eisner of Crete assembles antique cars. He has about 14 of them, all in perfect running order.

And that brings up another way collecting has changed. Once man lined up his parcel of pretties in his cave and admired it. Today, many people work actively with their hobbies, like Dr. Eisner who is largely his own mechanic.

R. H. Hockaday of Hastings, is a rock collector, but not of the old kind. His delight is in bringing the inner beauty of rough stones to their polished surfaces. His 19  

hobby is also a skill. In his hands, every rock becomes a gemstone. He gathers stones from agate to jade to opal, from Arizona to Africa, then smooths, shapes, and facets them. The stones begin as crude chunks of primitive rock. They end as refined stones with regular shape and deep, high-lighted color.

Today people proudly spend hours whipping their collections into shape. But once hobbies had a little less prestige. When simply making a living was a lifetime goal, they were luxuries of the leisure class. A common man who hoarded things, besides money, was a lazy slacker. Today, a hobby is a status symbol. And clock collecting is one of the more prestigious hobbies.

Paul Thompson of Lincoln is a member of the clock cult. His father is, too. It's a family tradition. Paul specializes in double-dial calendar clocks, because "these days you have to specialize."

Once, when he was a novice, he bought all kinds of clocks. He went to garage sales and bought antique clocks for $10 or $15. Now, however, people have become antique conscious and prices have skyrocketed. Today the craze is no longer an individual effort. There are collecting clubs and hobby shops that cater to the collector's whim. Antique shops are a good source to help build the hobby of Mr. and Mrs. Ben Cowling of 20 NEBRASKAland MARCH 1970 21   Lincoln. They're novice insulator gatherers, but they like to go primitive and pick up their own insulators.

"They're kind of fun and kind of silly," Mrs. Cowling says. "There are many shapes, and sizes, and colors. There are types that are common to different areas".

Once, collecting was just a whim. Today it may still be just a frivolous whim, but some collectors are less romantic than serious. Mrs. L. G. Beers saves dolls. From china (godey) dolls to tin-head dolls, she costumes them and cares for them. Once little girls' companions and babies, the dolls have been gathered now in a classic fairy-tale world where they are being preserved for future generations.

At the other extreme is a Sand Hills boot collection. Along a lonely fence line between Bucktail and Whitman is a string of old, weathered cowboy boots resting on the fence posts. No one claims the bunch of boots. It is just worn-out footwear that one cowboy used to "decorate" the fence. Now it is tradition for ranchers and riders to "hang up their boots". There are women's boots, children's boots, and even a pair of "tennis" boots.

And people will collect just about anything. Nebraskans amass antique furniture, artifacts, and coins. There are collections of old machinery and cookbooks, recipes and pens, souvenir plates and matchbooks. Phillip Dowse of Comstock stockpiles wrenches. The hobby includes the variety of shapes and sizes available. "But," he said, "when I want to use one, I can never locate the appropriate kind."

Some fads are common and some not-so-common. Some are serious and some not-so-serious. But common or rare, serious orfrivolous, collections add some color and variety to NEBRASKAland. THE END

22 NEBRASKAland MARCH 1970 23

HE CAUGHT MASTER ANGLER BLUEGILL

How does Corky Thornton always bring home certificate winning fish? He knows that important third ingredient for success

HOW DO YOU catch a Master Angler-size fish? Simple —know where to fish, know how to fish, and fish a lot. How do you catch two Master Angler fish? Just as simple —more of the same.

How then did Calvin "Corky" Thornton of Valentine take over 300 Master Angler-size bluegills through the ice last season? There is no magical formula. Corky knows how and where to fish, and he spends a lot of time on the ice.

Born and raised in Valentine, he found the best fishing spots by dangling a line in nearly every stream, pond, and lake in the area. He has studied angling since early childhood, and as owner of Cork's Bait Shop for the last 17 years, he has made it his business to know where the fish are biting and how to catch them.

Corky doesn't know how many fish he caught last winter, but estimates his bluegill take at somewhere around 2,000. A stickler about wasting game, he cleaned them all and gave away what he and his family didn't eat. How many of the oluegills were over the one-pound qualification for Master Angler certificates? Corky didn't weigh them all but figures that half of the fish were close to a pound and is certain that several hundred would have made the grade.

Corky heads for the water or ice whenever he gets a chance. On December 19, 1969, it was shortly after 9 a.m. when he drove south out of Valentine on U.S. Highway 83 toward the Valentine National Wildlife Refuge for his first day of ice fishing in the new winter.

A cold snap the previous week had iced the lakes and whetted Cork's appetite for fish. He knew the odds were against his early season outing, for he had taken most of his big bluegills in mid-to-late winter.

About 28 miles south of town he swung off the highway, bumped across a cattle guard, and proceeded west on the narrow refuge road. Minutes later he arrived at Dewey Lake.

Area fishermen had been taking good numbers of perch at Dewey during the past week and Corky considered stopping. Pelican Lake, however, lay five miles to the south and it was there that he had caught most of the certificate-size fish the previous winter.

"Pelican may not even be frozen," Corky thought as he turned (Continued on page 60)

DUCK WITH A BOW

With smaller bag limits, shorter seasons, and more gunners in the field, we find a "new" hunting challenge

by Steve Olson

THE BIG FLOCK of greenheads appeared high in the southeastern sky. Highball calls swung them around and now they circled just out of range over the decoys. Then from upstream another call rang out. The big ducks climbed and headed upstream in answer to the call.

'There they go again," muttered a hunter to his partner as they watched the ducks wing upstream, circle twice, and set their wings to drop in. Then, just as they appeared ready to land, the ducks flared for no apparent reason. Towering, they disappeared into the northern sky.

"Those guys upstream must be crazy," one of the hunters said, watching the mallards fade into dots. "They've been calling in one flight after another all morning and haven't fired a shot."

The puzzled hunter was far from right. Maybe we were a little crazy and any normal duck hunter might logically have questioned our offbeat approach, but we had been shooting at every duck within range. Our weapons were bows and arrows.

The hunt had originated early in the fall when Steve Kohler, a NEBRASKAland photographer, suggested that ducks could be taken with a bow. I had done some bow hunting, so the idea interested me but I was skeptical. The 12-inch circle of a standing deer at 30 yards was tough for me and the chances of hitting a duck in flight seemed pretty remote.

Steve, an ardent bowhunter and a member of Lincoln's Prairie Bowmen Archery Club, insisted that it could be done.

"I know a couple of guys in the club who would be interested and I think we ought to give it a try," he said.

"I'm game, but we'll have to have a good blind where we can get lots of shots at ducks as they're coming in," I answered. Steve assured me he knew just the spot, a blind on the North Platte River near Bayard.

It was the second weekend of the High Plains Experimental Duck Season before we were able to get away for the hunt. Steve and I drove to Bayard with 26 Herb Hull, a Lincolnite employed in the printing division of the University of Nebraska. Herb has bow hunted for 10 years, concentrating mainly on small game. He had taken ducks with a shotgun, but had never tried wing shooting with the bow.

A full schedule of appointments prevented the fourth member of our group from accompanying us on the long drive out. Dr. Ben "Doc" James, II, a Lincoln dentist, flew in to join us that evening. Doc's archery trophies include deer, a 250-pound Russian boar, and a bear. Like all the rest of us, Doc had taken ducks with a shotgun but was new to archery wing shooting.

Freezing, wind-driven rain greeted us on the first morning of our hunt. A thick layer of ice glazed the road and made the drive to the blind, west of Melbeta, an experience in itself. We arrived shortly after 7 a.m. and were encouraged by a sky full of mallards. Shooting time was 7:18, so we quickly put out the decoys and headed for the comfort of a covered, four-man blind.

There we encountered the first of our problems. While the sunken, flip-top blind was ideal for shotgunning, there simply wasn't enough room to shoot a bow.

"I guess we'll just have to take cover outside around the blind," Herb said as we clambered back out into the wind-driven rain.

Cover was scarce around the blind, but we all managed to find a little brush to hide behind. It was three minutes before shooting time when four mallards landed among the decoys. Doc gave Steve an approving nod as the ducks swam up for closer inspection of the fakes. All of a sudden the greenheads decided something was amiss and beat a hasty retreat.

At 7:18 Steve began calling. Our first customers were five big drakes accompanied by a lone hen. They came in high, out of the southeastern sky, made several swings, and dropped down. Then, a lone drake peeled off and plummeted down passing within 30 yards of Doc and Herb. Two arrows streaked toward the quacker, but passed several feet behind him.

Moments later a single surprised Steve and me and we both shot behind him.

"We're going to have to lead them more," Doc shouted as we scanned the sky during the momentary lull. "That's for sure," I answered. "I was ten feet behind that one."

Then Herb spotted a flight to the east and the big flock circled cautiously overhead several times before lowering the flaps. We waited until they were hovering twenty yards above the decoys and then let fly. All of us registered near misses.

"Those four arrows are lost," said Herb as he pulled another shaft from his quiver. This was the second of our major problems. The Platte has four separate channels at this point. We were hunting on the southernmost stream, which was thirty yards wide but shallow enough to wade. Only a narrow island separated this stream from the deep, main channel. Any arrows passing over the main channel were lost.

By midmorning we had all recorded several more near misses and the ducks were becoming increasingly wary.

"They must be spotting us," Steve said. "We'd better see if we can get under cover a little more." We all squirmed back into the brush and while the ducks did decoy better, we found it was more difficult to get off a quick, accurate shot.

About noon the action slacked off, and we gathered for a cup of coffee. I took advantage of the NEBRASKAland

  break to examine our '"ammunition" more closely. Herb makes his own arrows and had graciously furnished four dozen shafts for the hunt. I was surprised by the variety

'We've got thiee types of fletching and I don't know how many kinds of points," Herb said, noticing my interest.

Some of the arrows had flu-flu type fletching which limited their flight to about a hundred yards. Others had conventional feather fletchings, while the remainder had plastic-foam fletchings designed for use in wet weather. The tips were two-edge, three-edge, and razor-insert broadheads. A few carried special fish-hook tips which Herb had designed. This wicked-looking point has a two-inch-wide striking surface which allows a little more margin for error.

Herb shoots a 48-pound-pull bow while Doc was equipped with a slightly heavier 58-pound bow. Both Doc and Herb do some target shooting and their bows were fitted with sights. However, as they had expected, the sights were useless on the fast-moving ducks.

As I was examining the equipment several hundred mallards filled the sky and raised our hopes. "This is it," Doc whispered to me as we waited in anticipation.

Everything looked perfect, but, at the last minute, the ducks veered and dropped into the deep channel, just out of range. The beautiful sight of hundreds of mallards settling in just yards away, counteracted our disappointment.

"Now I know why the Indians were always hungry," Doc joked as we drove back to town that evening.

"I sure wish I'd had my shotgun," I said. "All those mallards and me with a bow and arrow."

"There wouldn't have been any challenge with a shotgun," Herb said. "We all could have filled out in an hour."

"This makes you appreciate the margin of error you have with a shotgun," Steve said. "With the 28 scattergun you have a thirty-inch pattern and a six-foot shot stream."

'We got a lot of good practice today," Herb said. "I think we have a good chance of scoring tomorrow." The next morning dawned clear and still. It was fifteen minutes after shooting time before we got any action. The four drakes came in and swung around when they spotted the blocks. When the ducks were within 25 yards, we let fly.

"I ticked a wing," Herb shouted as the drakes towered and continued downstream.

In the next hour the ducks were flying high in the clear sky and all our shots were tough ones. So, a lone greenhead caught us napping, when he landed in the decoys twenty yards from Herb.

"I wonder why Herb didn't take him coming in?" I asked Doc as the drake swam nervously through the decoys.

Then the duck rocketed skyward. Two wingbeats later the big duck and Herb's arrow met. "I hit it! I hit it!" Herb shouted as the duck fell back to the water with a broken wing. A mad dash followed as Herb ran down his trophy.

"I just clipped his wing," Herb announced as he returned to the blind, grinning like a schoolboy. "Why didn't you take him when he was coming in?" Doc asked.

"I was going to, but there was a bush right in the way," Herb explained. "After he landed I edged around to where I had a clear shot. I shot above him because he was just coining off when I released."

We only had a few hours left to hunt before starting the trip back to Lincoln, so we hunkered down in the cover again. Few ducks were flying and the occasional shots we did get were tough. It was almost noon and we were preparing to leave when a single plummeted from the sky, seemingly intent on landing in Doc's lap. The duck was six feet from the water with its landing gear down when the arrow passed directly beneath it.

"That one must have been too close for me," Doc said with a grin as we collected our equipment and headed for the car.

"Next time we'll have to bring portable blinds," Herb said as we started the long drive back to Lincoln.

"And we'll find a spot where we can retrieve our arrows," Doc added. T think we all would have taken more shots if we hadn't been worried about losing arrows."

"We lost about three dozen," Steve said, "and at $7 a dozen that means we got a $21 duck." "That's not bad," Herb said. "If you break it down that means we each lost about $2.50 worth of arrows each day. A lot of shotgunners go through that much."

"Like the guys in that blind downstream from us," I said. "They must have burned up a box of shells both mornings, and they only hunted for a few hours."

"They probably got their limits both mornings," Doc said, "but I'll bet they didn't have the fun we did."

"They weren't even around to see that huge flight yesterday noon," Steve added. "That alone was worth the money in my book."

The more I thought about it the more sense it made. With shorter seasons, smaller bag limits, and more hunters each year, we are going to have to find new approaches to hunting. While archery-duck shooting is definitely not for the meat hunter, it does offer the real sportsman a worthy challenge. THE END

NEBRASKAland

RETURN OF THE TRUMPETER

At the turn of the century, the great birds were gone from Nebraska. Today they are making a comeback

by Norm Hellmers

TRUMPETER SWANS, their white wings shining in the sun, once sailed like clipper ships across the blue Nebraska sky. Migrants through the state in April and October, they were seen along the Platte River from North Platte to Omaha. Some of the huge birds also made their home in the state, particularly in the Sand Hills. But, the trumpeters declined here as they had throughout their range.

In the early 1900's, it was noted in ornithological journals that the trumpeter swan was "rare in Nebraska" and that they "formerly bred" in Cherry County.

By 1912, the swan's numbers were so reduced everywhere that one authority made this statement: "The trumpeter has succumbed to incessant persecution in all parts of its range, and its total extinction is now only a matter of years."

Fortunately, this prediction proved inaccurate. In the record of modern man's efforts in wildlife conservation, the salvation of the trumpeter swan stands as one of the few victories. Man, responsible in the first place for nearly extirpating the trumpeter swan, must also be given credit for bringing this magnificent bird back from the edge of eternal extinction.

That the trumpeter could ever approach annihilation was surely an unbelievable notion to our nation's pioneers and frontiersmen. Vast numbers once ranged throughout the north, west, and central parts of North America. The big birds had breeding areas from Alaska and northern Canada south to Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri, and Indiana. Autumn saw the great flocks move south and east as far as the Atlantic coast and the Gulf of Mexico.

But despite their original numbers, the trumpeters had to yield to the relentless pressure of the gun and the plow. Early settlers varied their steady diet of 30 deer and bison with young trumpeter swans. Market hunters included it in the list of birds they shot for a living, as the down and quills were valuable items of trade. Between 1823 and 1880, the Hudson's Bay Company sold some 108,000 swan skins, many of which are believed to have been those of trumpeters. Since the swan is ordinarily a low-flying bird, it was an easy and irresistible target for indiscriminate gunners.

Yet, the biggest reason for the dwindling of the trumpeter swan population was the loss of suitable areas for breeding. With the settlement and development of the Great Plains and far west, the swans no longer had the isolation they needed. Year by year, there were fewer lakes, marshes, and sloughs to which these great white birds could retreat for nesting and rearing of young.

Reduced by the 1930's to fewer than 100 birds in the 48 states, the trumpeters were making a last stand in and near Yellowstone National Park. Also, a few remnant flocks survived in Alaska and western Canada. The turning point in the near demise of this noble species was the establishment in 1935 of the Red Rock NEBRASKAland

Lakes National Wildlife Refuge in Montana. Many of the early practices carried out on the refuge were time-proven wildlife restoration measures. Harmful disturbances by man during the critical nesting period were eliminated, illegal shooting was reduced, winter feeding was practiced, and young birds were taken to other favorable locations to start new colonies.

Working to establish the Red Rock Lakes Refuge was a young project supervisor in the Refuge Division of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, a branch of the Department of the Interior. This man was M. O. Steen, now director of Nebraska's Game and Parks Commission. Thirty-five years later, he sat behind his massive desk in the State Capitol and remembered the joy of seeing and hearing these magnificent creatures who rule the sky.

"Have you ever seen a trumpeter? They are the largest bird, by weight, in all of North America. Adults reach 30 pounds and have a wingspread of over 6 feet. On the water and in flight, they are truly beautiful birds. The name of the trumpeter swan comes from its call, a resonant trumpeting note. It sounds like the MARCH 1970 clear, ringing tones of a French horn and can be heard two miles away."

Because of Steen's great love for this exceptional species, all Nebraskans may one day be able to experience the sight and sound of trumpeters. The Game and Parks Commission has embarked on a program to bring trumpeters back to the state.

"We have both a moral and legal obligation to reestablish this truly majestic bird," Steen notes. "Trumpeters were a part of Nebraska's original fauna and should be restored if possible. It is also important that its numbers be dispersed throughout the original range. A catastrophe could wipe out the birds in one area."

Within the last 10 years, trumpeters have begun to return to Nebraska, but in a roundabout way. Surplus birds at Red Rock Lakes Refuge in Montana were sent to other areas as breeding stock for new populations. Some of these went to Lacreek National Wildlife Refuge in southwestern South Dakota. But at Lacreek there is not enough nesting area for the 70 or so birds that now winter there. In spring, the push to find breeding areas has (Continued on page 54)

The Shifting Sands

These infinitesimal grains add a charm to state. Their beauty is fleeting, lasting for only a moment in hourglass of eternity

Photographs by Lou Ell

FROM TINY SPECKS of sand a hill grew. From that hill a man surveys the vastness of Nebraska's cattle country, In that vastness he finds beauty and because of that beauty he savors a moment of solitude. In solitude he discovers peace and with peace a world can be saved. All of this because of an infinitesimal grain of sand.

The mile-wide Platte River, a beach at Merritt Reservoir, the mighty Missouri, the endless Sand Hills, all hold a mundane sort of beauty, one so commonplace that it is seldom appreciated. There, wind and water paint temporary masterpieces on a canvas of sand Hut, in this subtle and leisurely art, there is reasoning. If man is to truly appreciate large, sweeping panoramas, he must first learn to discover nature's small, hidden treasures.

Rolling hilts, feeling the Midas touch of a rising sun, are easily recognizable for what they are, but few own eyes discerning enough to spy a sun-bleached bull skull, partially covered by the timeless sand. Such an eye will find a world of unusual beauty in the shifting sands of NEBRASKAland.

Whether it is in a hunter's boot or on a beach, sand adds a certain charm to this "where the West begins" state. In fact, the Nehraskans went so tar as to name their famed and vast cattle country the "Hand Hilts". Here, winds sweep the grass-covered hills, whisking out depressions known as blowouts. These nature-carved nests of sand are as common as cattle, but to most ranchers they are not quite as pretty. But even to a cattleman, the wind's etchings create a sense of western romance.

As the sands shift, they uncover whispers of the past. In a blowout a careful Searcher may spot an arrowhead or more recent evidence of man's presence a shotgun shell or a broken bottle. In a sense, these blowouts are hourglasses that measure mans progress on the plains.

In the hills "the sands of time" are quick io claim the neglected. An old fence line rumbles to the whims of wind and water. Then the same elements breathe a resolute anthem, as shifting sands slowly bury the wooden border guards of the prairie. An old wagon wheel meets the same fate, but in doing so it adds a cowboy grandeur to the lulls.

Sand marks time in other ways, too. Whether a man walks on a Missouri River island, along a beach of one of Nebraska's reservoirs, or through a draw, he leaves an impression in the sandy land that is uniquely his. The mobile sands honor his presence, but respect another man's search for solitude by slowly tilling the footprints left in passing. Therefore, it is up to the man, not nature, to preserve each step he takes toward tomorrow.

Like leaves in tall, patterns in the sand change with each drop of rain and sigh of the wind. Once man can appreciate these small, seemingly insignificant beauties, then he is ready to accept the challenge of more sweeping vistas, THE END

  34 NEBRASKAland MARCH 1970 35   36 NEBRASKAland MARCH 1970 37   38 NEBRASKAland MARCH 1970 39  

After 1924 Notre Dame epic, Knute Rockne ran into Nebraska dressing room and shouted...

"I WANT ED WEIR"

by Bob Snow 42 NEBRASKAland

IN THE SHADOWS of Notre Dame's Cartier Field, the Four Horsemen rode again in a style that won them gridiron fame. In the fourth quarter the score was 34-6. You would have thought the points were in Nebraska's favor instead of the other way around, if you were watching a Nebraska tackle with a No. 1 on his back. That tackle was Ed Weir, and he smashed through the line to drop Jim Crowley, one of Notre Dame's cyclone backs, for a two-yard loss.

Knute Rockne, Notre Dame's coach, had watched Ed anchor down his position the year before when the 1923 Cornhusker squad had beaten his team. In the first half of this game, Rockne sent his backs galloping toward "the Superior, Nebraska, farm boy" in an apparent effort to beat Nebraska's best lineman. But Ed relentlessly reined in the Horsemen. By the second half most of the plays were going to the right, but even then the 6-foot, 191-pound player was in on "8 out of 10 tackles".

When the game was over, Ed Weir had tackled Notre Dame backs for a total loss of 13 yards, had been in on virtually every defensive play, and had played his finest game as a Cornhusker. But Nebraska had lost and the dressing room was quiet.

"I want Ed Weir," Knute Rockne shouted as he busted into the hushed Nebraska dressing room. Husker Line Coach Henry Schulte managed to MARCH 1970 mutter, "What's wrong, Knute? What has Ed Weir done? Why do...."

Rockne interrupted, "I said, I wanted Weir. Where is he?"

Schulte shrugged toward the corner of the dressing room, then quickly followed the Notre Dame coach.

Rockne grabbed Ed's arm and said, "Weir, I want to say to your face that you're the greatest tackle and the cleanest player I have ever watched. It takes a real football player to shine on a team that is being beaten, and you outdid everyone on the field today."

What Rockne said and did during the 1920's made sports headlines across the country. When the famed coach wrote in his weekly newspaper column that the real hero of the Nebraska vs. Notre Dame conflict was a player on the beaten team, Ed Weir was suddenly being compared to such 1924 greats as Harold "Red" Grange of Illinois and Rockne's own Four Horsemen. Eastern football writers, who couldn't see as far as the Mississippi River when it came to their AllAmerican picks, were unanimously naming the Missouri Valley Conference tackle to their teams.

But Ed's reputation as "one of the fastest and best linemen" in the country wasn't built on one Notre Dame game in 1924. The early 1920's was an era of great players, teams, and coaches, and Ed led the Cornhuskers against some of the best. The 1920's also 43   meant one-platoon football and to make All-American, a player had to stand out on both offense and defense. Ed was best known for his defensive play, but he punted, kicked off, on occasion tried field goals and extra points, carried the ball on tackle-around plays, went out for passes, and opened gaping holes in the opposing team's defensive line.

In 1924, Walter Camp, father of football's All-American teams, picked Nebraska's junior tackle for his first string, and other football writers around the country followed suit. On the same team with Ed were three of the Four Horsemen and Red Grange. In 1925, Grantland Rice, who took over the All-American selections after Camp's death, picked Ed to his first team. In the same year, the Associated Press polled 100 writers and coaches and the Superior football star was a unanimous pick, something that even Grange couldn't accomplish in the same poll.

Ed was Nebraska's first two-time All-American and only one Cornhusker has done it since — Wayne Meylan, a 1966 and '67 middle-guard selection. In Ed's 1923 sophomore football picture, he was sitting in the third row from the back, but in 1924 and '25 he moved to front row, center as Nebraska's only two-time captain. In 1951, the tackle joined football's elite when he was named to the National College Football Hall of Fame.

Whenever great Husker teams and players are discussed, it is only natural to talk about Weir. Ed, who lives in Lincoln, is a Cornhusker football legend and except for a limp, the 66-year-old man looks fit enough to play in the Nebraska line even today. One evening in January, I stopped by his apartment to talk about his exploits as an All-American, a track star, and a head track coach at the University of Nebraska. For three hours I sat enthralled, as his deep voice and well-chosen words took me back to the days of one-platoon football and the triple pass behind the line. As Ed talked, I could see the square-jawed man in a set position, his deep-set eyes pensively studying the opposing line. With the snap of the ball, I saw him chase Red Grange out of bounds, then words later crash into the Notre Dame line to spill one of the Four Horsemen.

"The 1924 Notre Dame game was my best, even though we lost," Ed recalled. "It is hard to go back 46 years and recall certain plays I was in on. About the only thing I really remember about that game is seeing the Notre Dame No. 5 upside down when Elmer Layden busted through the line. I had quite a few tackles, but back then they didn't keep records on the number of tackles and assists a player made.

"To remember those football days, I keep this," the quiet man said as he opened a suede-covered scrapbook. The headline, "Nebraska 14, Illinois 0-Grange Stopped by Bearg's Men, Led by Weir", jumped out at me.

"We faced some tough teams during my three years as a player. Nebraska went against Illinois and Grange three times and Rockne's Notre Dame teams three times, twice when he had the Four Horsemen," Ed reminisced. "Our three greatest wins were the two against Notre Dame and the one over Illinois in 1925."

In 1925, Nebraska's schedule started tough with Illinois and ended up the same with Notre Dame. When Nebraska traveled by train to Urbana, Illinois, most fans expected to see the "Galloping Ghost" go twisting down the field as he had the season before. But this is how Grantland Rice, the dean of sports writers, described the game:

"Thousands turned out to see Red Grange. But in the Nebraska line was another gentleman, known in

his hometown as Ed Weir, and in those parts he is considered something of a star himself. And though it might sound presumptuous to say that Mr. Grange had met his match, it can be said safely that when Mr. Grange had gone five yards he had made his run."

Before the game the big question was which of the two All-Americans, Grange or Weir, would come out a winner in their personal duel. Nebraska and Ed Weir answered it with a 14-0 upset victory. The only way to stop Grange was to dump him before he got started, and Ed led a powerful defense that did just that. The left tackle continually smashed through the Illinois line to stop Grange with gains of two and three yards and three times he chased the big No. 77 out of bounds. Grange carried the ball 19 times and could only make 62 yards. For the second year in a row Nebraska kept the redheaded back from crossing the goal line, something no other team could do. Besides stopping Grange, Ed also recovered an Illinois fumble and threw the other Illinois backs for total losses of 14 yards.

In the fourth quarter, Robert Zuppke, the Illinois coach, pulled his mud-covered wonder back out of the game. But Zuppke was used to seeing Ed Weir put a ball and chain on the Galloping Ghost. The year before his team had pulled out a 9 to 6 squeaker over Nebraska, but in that game Grange went scoreless for the first time in his college career. Out of a total 13 carries for 57 yards, Ed dropped the back once for a three-yard loss, once for no gain, and several more times after he had made only 1 to 6 yards.

"In the Illinois games, I was going for Grange most of the time," Ed said as he picked up his pipe. The All-American was credited with being the first red-dogging college lineman and he played "a loose tackle". With his unusually fast start, he liked to play a wide tackle or line up a yard or two in back of the line of scrimmage, and after the ball was snapped, he would break through into the backfield.

They didn't trap so much in those days, but when I was going to blow into the backfield, I would snap my fingers behind my leg to let the linebacker know that I was going in. I hate to think what might have happened if they would have sent a back through that big hole I left behind."

But if Ed was a thorn in the side of Illinois, he was a spike in Notre Dame's offensive plans in 1923 and 1925. "If I have to pick between those two Notre Dame games, I would say that I enjoyed the 1925 battle the most. The Irish didn't have the Four Horsemen then, but it was my last game as a Cornhusker and after our big loss to them the year before, that 17-0 victory felt good."

When Ed led the scarlet-jerseyed Huskers onto the field for that game the fans went wild. Folks in Ed's hometown of Superior chartered a special train to take fans to the game, and they weren't disappointed in "their" boy's (Continued on page 53)

44 NEBRASKAland MARCH 1970 45

THE PLATTE RIVER DAM

State recreation developers regard the proposed lake as "manna from heaven"

by Fred B. Nelson

WATER IS essential to man. He drinks it, he washes in it, and he plays in it. Water is necessary to the good of his mind as well as his body. At present, Nebraska has plenty of water, but when it comes to outdoor recreation, it's just not in the right place. Through a quirk of geography and economics, most of the water playgrounds are in the west, while most of the people live in the east.

The easterner can go west for a weekend or a vacation, but he can't make it for after-supper fun. Even today's speedy transportation cannot close the gap between the two, for in western lingo, "Nebraska is a mighty big spread". However, this doesn't stop the east from wanting and deserving all the pleasures that suitable and sizable bodies of water offer.

This imbalance between availability and demand has worried those who are responsible for developing 46 the state's water-oriented recreation programs. So, it is only natural for these specialists to look upon the proposed Lower Platte River Reservoir, popularly called the Ashland Dam, as "manna from heaven".

M. O. Steen, director of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, says, "The Lower Platte River Reservoir would meet deficiencies (in outdoor recreation) that cannot be overcome by any known project."

Nebraskans are rightly proud of their Please, Uncle Sam, we would rather do it ourselves", philosophy, but the proposed impoundment is far too big for any state agency or any combination of agencies to attempt. The U.S. Corps of Engineers has hung a $490-million price tag on the project. That's a lot of money, but it buys quite a package.

The reservoir at working level would have a surface area of 62,000 acres with a maximum depth of 70 NEBRASKAland feet and an average of 33 feet. The river section of the dam would be 100 feet high and 6,500 feet long, more than a mile. The Ashland section of the Platte River embankment would be 100 feet high and 22,700 feet long. Overall, the project covers 126,000 acres. It will take at least 10 years to build and has tremendous potential as a multiple-use facility.

The Lower Platte River Reservoir, as seen on the drawing boards, roughly resembles an hourglass, stretching from a point south of Fremont to the north edge of South Bend. An arm of the dam juts northwest from the lower "bulb" toward Wahoo.

Like any project of this magnitude, the proposed dam has a host of socio-economic aspects, but viewed strictly from its water-oriented recreational potential, it has much to recommend its construction.

Right now, more people are using the less than one-half of 1 percent of Nebraska's total area that is fish-producing water, than are using 99.5 plus percent that is land area. Translated into understandable figures, this means that at least 220,000 people enjoy our fish-producing water, scant as it is, compared to only 195,000 hunters enjoying all the land. In short, the relative recreational value of water acres over land acres is well over 150 to 1.

Although statistics can be made to support any tenet, pro or con, the outdoor people cite some additional statistics that are hard, unalterable facts. Hunting is largely limited to males, 16 to 66, while fishing is practically an all-age, both-sex recreation.

All of us have grinned at the antics of a three-year-old valiantly trying to land a feisty bluegill or shared his excitement as "daddy" reels in a stubborn bullhead. We chuckle at the squealing glee of a matronly woman fighting a 10-pound channel catfish or watch with envy the old-timer, who with his life's work done, contentedly watches a dancing bobber.

But fishing, enjoyable as it is, is not the only pleasure associated with water. Boating, water skiing, swimming, and building castles in the sand depend upon suitable and accessible water. That brings up a sad fact that worries the people who are charged by law to provide wholesome outdoor recreation to the citizens of the state.

The large metropolitan areas of Omaha, Lincoln, and Grand Island are seriously short on adequate and easily available water-oriented recreational facilities. Careful studies by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission show that 53 percent of the state's population have only an average of 15 percent of the state's suitable boating water readily available. Readily available is considered a facility that can be reached in an hour's drive. The fishermen in these areas are slightly better off than the boaters —they have about 22 percent of the state's suitable fishing water within an easy drive. Water skiers really get the short end of a short stick. They have only 5 percent of the state's suitable water available for after-supper fun, while swimmers have about 15 percent. Unfortunately, this have-not situation will worsen in the years to come.

Opponents of the proposed dam claim that Nebraskans aren't outdoor-recreation minded and couldn't care less about fishing, boating, or other water activities. But these people have not visited Pawnee Lake near Emerald on a summer evening or tried to rent a boat at Harlan County Reservoir when the white bass are hitting.

This demand for outdoor recreation, already heavy and not adequately fulfilled, is bound to grow even louder as the metropolitan populations increase, personal MARCH 1970

incomes grow larger, and working hours shorten. It is no wonder that sweating outdoor-recreation developers see the proposed dam as 'nnanna from heaven".

These specialists are confident that the proposed impoundment will not become a "stinking, weed-choked mudhole" that some claim through a mysterious agent called eutrophication. Eutrophication is a natural process that has been going on since lakes were first created. It is a change which involves the fertilization of water and the subsequent growth of aquatic vegetation. By and large, it is a healthy thing. Without eutrophication, lakes would be as devoid of life as a glass of tap water. Fish, like all other higher forms of life, must have plants to survive.

True, the water skier and swimmer do find water vegetation objectionable, but in 99 percent of the cases, there is little or no real (Continued on page 52)

47

HOGAN'S RIVER

Few have had a chance to see beauty of the Missouri first-hand. The Ponca Chief and its captain make it possible

48 NEBRASKAland

FOR CENTURIES, the Missouri River has had boats of many kinds plying its unpredictable currents and poking into its backwaters and tributaries. For early trappers and explorers, the river was merely a flat, muddy highway to somewhere else. Nowadays, the "Mighty Mo" is a playground for pleasure boats, although barges utilize her waters to move the material things of life.

While much of the river's romance is lost forever, some people are concerned about the historical significance and natural beauty of the noble Missouri. Dave Hogan is such a man. He has been intrigued by the river since 1961 when he bought 20 acres of land near Ponca State Park in northeast Nebraska. His fascination took on new dimensions in the summer of 1969 when he began to share his knowledge and interest with others.

Few Nebraskans and far fewer visitors to the state, he reasoned, have the opportunity to see the beauty of the river first-hand. Only those traveling the river by boat can enjoy its timbered bluffs, unique shorelines, and other fascinating features.

Last summer, Dave Hogan provided the means for many people to appreciate the river. He initiated excursion-boat trips and made arrangements with the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission to operate out of Ponca State Park. By the end of his first season over 750 passengers had "seen" the river.

"Most of those, about three-fourths, were Nebraskans, but I imagine 99 percent were from outside Dixon 48 NEBRASKAland MARCH 1970 49  

County," observes Dave. 'To many this was a once-in-a-lifetime trip."

The majority of them were tourists at the park, as no advertising was done last year to attract customers from outside the park. Actually, few people need inducement to take a boat ride anywhere, let alone to see the "hidden" face of the Missouri River. Nearly all who took the excursion rides made a special point to tell Dave how much they enjoyed it.

"Probably 75 percent of the people thanked me for the trip, even though they paid for it," Dave recalls. "This indicated to me the value of the service. The venture at this point has not been particularly profitable. However, there is every indication that in future years 50 more and more people will be taking the excursion rides."

An excursion ride does not just involve looking at the tremendous scenery. Perhaps the most notable thing on the journey is Dave's commentary. He has delved deeply into the history of the river, the adjacent area, and into boating itself. He points out special features such as one of the longest single-span oil-pipeline suspension bridges in the world.

Dave's narration mixes the past and the present and interprets changes. It encompasses some unusual facts, such as the tale of an area near the park where Joe Brewer and his son unearthed remains of a giant plesiosaur back in 1873. It was only the second of its NEBRASKAland

kind in the world at the time, and the reconstructed skeleton ended up in a Chicago museum.

Pointing out a region on the Nebraska bank, Dave tells passengers that coal was once mined there and used locally back in the 1930's. Then there is Goat Island, which was so named because a farmer turned several unwanted goats loose on it, but instead of fading away they flourished into a huge herd. Also, Ponca Landing is noted as a place where a ferry boat operation once headquartered.

In his dialogue, Dave points out that the river stretches 2,315 miles from Three Forks, Montana, to St. Louis, Missouri. Depth varies from a few inches to 60 feet, the current ranges between 3 and 7 MARCH 1970 miles per hour, and there is a drop in elevation of roughly 1 foot per mile. And, the river is getting shorter. Since 1890, its course between Ponca and St. Louis has been cut by straightening from about 839 miles to 754 miles.

Channelization by the Army Corps of Engineers has changed the river a lot since the early days. Water flow is controlled and the banks stay where they are. Sturdy timbers and rock jetties keep the water from cutting away large chunks of shore, but small, calm bays are created. These are havens for wildlife, with deer often seen there in early morning, while herons like them for nesting spots. These big birds are a favorite with passengers.

Changes in the river since the channel was deepened and stabilized are easily seen. Silt, pumped out of the channel and deposited on shore or into another part of the river, formed small islands which have since grown over with foliage. One spot, included in the tours is called the "man-made channel". The river formerly wandered east about two miles, cut its way south, then meandered back west nearly two miles. When the cutoff channel was first made in the 1950's, it was very narrow. But, it soon widened to over 700 feet and deepened considerably. Now, the two-mile channel replaces the old five-mile detour.

Indian lore adds to the mystery of the mighty river, as Dave intrigues his passengers with yarns about such legendary characters as Chief Black Bird. The ruthless and fearless leader of the Omahas ruled with an iron will a region bounded on the east by the Missouri. As he requested, his grave perches atop one of the bluffs, so that his spirit can look down upon the river and watch the white man's boats.

Certainly Black Bird has much to see, if he is still watching, for numerous vessels of all sizes and descriptions use the now-controlled waters. Everything from tiny canoes to ponderous houseboats range many miles from their berths in towns along the river.

Several factors in Dave's background make him a "natural" for his role as host on the river. He is accustomed to dealing with people, for he drove a transcontinental bus for several years, and he has several years of teaching experience. When he first moved to Ponca he taught school in a nearby town. Since then, he has gone into the insurance business but is still involved in busing students through a contract firm he runs.

Christened the "Ponca Chief, Dave's boat is a 19-foot V-bottom aluminum rig with a 115-horsepower outboard motor and is well suited for use on the Missouri. It is equipped with built-in floatation for safety, life jackets, a two-way radio, and a public address system. Dave believes the river is generally safer to navigate than a big lake because the water conditions are more stable.

"You never have to cope with big waves from wind action like on a reservoir," he explains. Still, many people are afraid of the river, probably because it used to be treacherous and unpredictable.

"Currents can play tricks. You have to be used to them. It isn't like boating on a calm lake, so you have to respect the river, but there is more danger from other boats' wakes than from the river itself," Dave claims.

Sometimes, passengers are dragged aboard the excursion boat by friends in spite of their fear of water, but they are not afraid long. Once the tour starts, people get caught up in the scenery and Dave's stories and forget all about their worries.

Bookings for the excursion cruises are made at the office at Ponca State Park. Last year, runs were made daily, usually starting (Continued on page 60)

51

PLATTE RIVER DAM

(Continued from page 47)

problem. Outdoor-recreation developers refute the eutrophication argument by pointing out that Pawnee Lake, one of the most highly "eutrophied" lakes in the Salt Valley complex, is 80 percent clear of troublesome aquatic growth when weeds are at their summer high. There is no reason to believe the proposed impoundment would ever be worse than Pawnee. Waters which have no plant life have little potential for fish life. Areas designated for swimming would be kept clear of weeds just as they are now at man-made sand beaches. Water skiing areas could be buoyed off just as they are now in many lakes. This reservoir would be a deep lake, much like Lake McConaughy, with much the same characteristics and fertility.

A companion objection to the eutrophication misconception is the cry that the new reservoir would become highly polluted and soon unsuitable for any recreational use. To list all the reasons why pollution will not become a major threat to the new impoundment would take every page in a full year of NEBRASKAlands. Suffice it to say that Nebraska is already taking steps to eliminate pollution of its waters and will be increasing this effort in the years to come. The proposed reservoir will be no worse than other big impoundments in Nebraska.

Besides, the President of the United States has demanded a major national effort to reduce and eliminate pollution. Nebraska will not be overlooked in this massive campaign.

Outspoken Mel Steen dismisses contentions that the proposed lake would become a $490-million eutrophic cesspool with one word-"poppycock". He has solid evidence and a half century of experience to back his opinion.

The Game and Parks Commission will play a key role in developing the new dam as a major water-oriented recreational facility, as it has done at other impoundments in the state. This work would be a continuing effort as money and opportunities become available. Also private capital would play a major role in development.

If the Lower Platte River Reservoir becomes reality, it will probably retain its present imposing title, at least in official records, but to an awful lot of hard-pressed recreation planners it will be "Manna", as from heaven. THE END

ANOTHER "FIRST" AT BIG MAC

(Continued from page 16)

strangest sight these cows would see all summer.

By looking across the lake and seeing what features we were opposite, I could pretty well judge where we were most of the time. However, I didn't particularly like looking at that north shore, as it reminded me of how much farther we still had to go. At about 10 a.m., I thought I could see Otter Creek over there, so I marked our location on my map. This 52 point was special for two reasons. First, the trees ended here, and we would miss the shade on what was now a very hot day. Secondly, we had to start detouring because of the deep indentations that occur wherever the lake has backed up into a canyon. Having to go around these until we reached a point narrow enough to get across added many extra miles to the total distance of our hike. I calculated that including all of the detours and by following the shoreline as much as possible, it would be about 90 miles around the lake.

By noon, the extra mileage started to take its toll. The temperature, now pushing 100 degrees, combined with the weight of our packs, made us feel like camels crossing the Sahara. Relief came when we reached Lakeview. Our original plan was to camp the whole trip, but seeing the comfortable-looking cabins made us change our minds. Too tired to go on, we rented a cabin, had our meals at the cafe, swam down at the beach, and did our best to relax and refresh ourselves.

The next morning found us stiff and sore. The only thought on our minds was whether or not it was worth continuing. Back and forth, we discussed the reasons why we should or shouldn't go on.

"You're going to have to decide," I finally said to Jodi, not being sure myself which way I hoped she would reply. "We said we would go around," she answered, thinking of what her friends might say if she quit now, "so let's get going."

We did get going and, like the faithful on a pilgrimage, we lifted our loads and wearily plodded onward.

Our spirits did improve that day, and we had our first chance to do some beach-combing. But, it wasn't easy with packs on our backs. Leaning over to have a look at something wasn't too hard, but getting back up was the problem.

Our biggest thrill that morning was seeing the dam, ahead of us to the east. I don't remember now who saw it first, but it was encouraging. All day the dam played hide-and-seek as we roller-coasted up and down the hilly shore, and the hot sun made us use up the water we were carrying quickly.

"How much water do you have left?" I questioned Jodi. "Mine is just about gone."

"Just a few drops," she said, as we both exchanged worried glances.

That afternoon we found out that lake water really tastes pretty good. After filling our canteens, we dropped in a few halazone tablets. As Jodi commented, it was better than some city water.

The dam was getting closer now, but it was still a day away. Camp that night was at the Road 20 public beach. Some other campers there gave us some ice water and pop, ending our water shortage. Once again the ponchos were made into a makeshift shelter. It had a real test that night, as it rained for hours. Lightning and thunder alternately spooked and entertained us, as we huddled in the middle of the tent, holding in the sides. The storm passed by 11 p.m., leaving us rather soggy and cold. Our fourth day began with both of us damp, stiff, and rather discouranged, but NEBRASKAland we knew the dam wasn't far away. Going over the rocky hills was too rough, so we tried walking on the road. Hiking on that gravel was just as bad, so we gave the pastures a try. At about noon, we stumbled into Sports Service at the south end of the dam. A rented cabin and cafe meals again beat out the camping routine.

That night we assessed our physical condition. Our hiking boots had been broken in before this trip, so we had no trouble with blisters, calluses, or other such ailments. We are both pretty strong and, we thought, in fairly good shape, but the weight of the packs left us with aching muscles and in need of rest. But now that we had reached the dam, all our cares were forgotten. I called Dorothy and asked her to bring us fresh clothes and more food. Now we knew we could make it all the way around. We had turned the corner.

So Wednesday, our fifth day, found us strolling atop Kingsley Dam, the halfway mark of our circuit. To our left lay Big Mac's 35,000 liquid acres. On the right and about 150 feet below us, the North Platte River continued on its way east. Exactly one hour after we left the south end of the dam, we reached the north shore. With renewed vigor we hiked around Martin Bay. By afternoon, when we edged around Arthur Bay, it got very hot, and the few breezes that came up were stopped by our packs.

"Let's try walking backwards," Jodi suggested.

Now I do lots of square dancing, but I haven't done much promenading backward and especially not with a 50-pound pack on my back. So that experiment didn't last very long. We didn't get relief from the heat until we reached our stopping point for that day, a cabin at North Shore.

Day No. 6 dawned cloudy and, thankfully, a good deal cooler. About noon we stopped at the Gate Nine camping area. We liked the spot and decided to stay there. Apparently it was once the site of a mill. Stones used in the building are scattered on the shore, and different varieties of trees indicate that some of them must have been planted. We set up our tent under a large black walnut tree. We even got to use a picnic table, a real luxury to backpackers.

Our seventh day was our last. We were up at six, anxious to be on our way. We crossed Otter Creek, thinking of when we could see it from the other side. Since the highway runs close to the lake on the north shore, we didn't have long detours at the creeks, the way we had on the south side; we just used the bridges.

We had decided before we left to end the hike at Omaha Beach, an area we knew pretty well. Jodi knew what it looked like, too, but she missed the landmarks as we came in, and I had to tell her that our journey had come to an end. There were no shouts for joy or loud congratulations.

Jodi and I just quietly shook hands. We didn't have to say anything. We both knew that another dad and his daughter were a little closer, thanks to the challenge of a big lake. Silently, we walked MARCH 1970 out to the highway to a store where I telephoned Dorothy. I asked her to come and get us. We had done it. We had hiked around Big Mac. THE END

"I WANT ED WEIR"

(Continued from page 45)

performance. Notre Dame kicked off and Nebraska got the ball on the 31-yard line. On the first play from scrimmage, Ed backed up and punted.

"The safety was playing close and I can still see him running frantically after the ball as it sailed over his head and rolled dead on the four-yard line," Ed recalled.

With the ball on the four, Notre Dame ran two no-gain plays and tried a third-down kick. Ed stormed in and partially blocked the punt and the ball spun out of bounds on the 12. A snap of the ball later, Nebraska had six points, with Ed kicking the seventh. Although the tackle played a good defensive game, his personal highlights were another extra point and a 25-yard field goal. After the game Ed was awarded the game ball and that trophy now rests in the University of Nebraska Coliseum.

"At that time most of the teams wore high hip pads on the outside. I soon found out that those pads made pretty good handholds when I was coming up behind a runner. After Nebraska's win, Rockne did away with the outside pads and he credited me as the reason."

But Rockne had watched Ed play an important part in another Nebraska win, a 14-7 victory over the Irish in 1923. In that game the sophomore tackle horse-shoed the Four Horsemen several times, dropping Crowley once for no gain. He also intercepted a Notre Dame pass and threw a key block for a 42-yard Nebraska touchdown scamper.

In 1923, Nebraska also played its first game in Memorial Stadium. In the dedication game with Kansas, Ed Weir showed his All-American potential. He caught a deflected Nebraska pass and ran 18 yards with it, he forced and recovered a fumble, and he threw the Kansas quarterback for a 16-yard loss. As a result of his play as a sophomore, Ed was named to the Missouri Valley Conference All-Star team.

"Those Notre Dame and Illinois games were tough," Ed said as he flipped to another page in his scrapbook. "But from the standpoint of hard hitting, the Washington University game in 1925 was the roughest. Washington was the powerhouse team on the West Coast, and the year before they had played in the Rose Bowl. They hit harder than any team I played against at Nebraska, but we tied them 6 to 6.

"I never did score a touchdown in my football career, although I carried the ball several times on tackle-around plays and caught a few passes. One time in pro football I scooped up a fumble and ran 60 yards into the end zone, but the play was called back because we were offside.

"After the 1925 Nebraska football season, I worked as a part-time coach at the University. But in the fall of 1926 I got a letter from Guy Chamberlin, a Nebraska football great, asking me to play pro ball for the Frankford Yellowjackets. He offered me $350 a game, and I couldn't turn that down.

"My first pro game was probably my best, because I played way above my head. I threw the quarterback 5 times for losses of 15 yards or more and kicked the game-winning extra point. I didn't know it then, but the fellow I replaced was booed by the fans because he couldn't convert one-pointers.

53   BIG I NEBRASKAgram an important fact about the great cornhusker state NEBRASKA IS FIRST IN NATION FOR PRODUCITION OF GREAT NORTHERN BEANS

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"I liked the pros, but I had a family to think of and I also liked coaching. I gave up pro football and returned to Nebraska in 1929 as a full-time assistant football and track coach."

The position of both a football and track coach was a natural for the All-American. Besides being a gridiron star, Ed was also a top performer on the Nebraska track team. At one time, he held the Nebraska and Missouri Valley record in the 120-yard high hurdles. Ed was also a top high-school track star, and he once held the state high-hurdle record and still holds the high-school pentathlon record, an event that is no longer run. To win the pentathlon Ed had to enter five events and out of a possible 5,000 points he scored 4,781.

"I naturally thought I would play in the Nebraska backfield when I came to the University," Ed recalled. "But they asked me if I wanted to play tackle. I told them that if that meant I could play my football on the field, instead of the bench, I didn't care. My speed and track experience helped me on the football field because hurdling developed my legs."

When Ed came back to the University in 1929, he continued to be an assistant until Track Coach Henry Schulte retired in 1939. Ed took over the job and gained national recognition as Nebraska's head mentor. From 1939 until 1954, when he relinquished the job to become an assistant to the athletic director, his teams compiled an impressive list of five indoor and five outdoor conference titles. Of a total of 30 conference titles that were at stake during his tenure, Ed's teams won 10, came in second 8 times, and third 5 times. After 46 years of either playing or working for the University of Nebraska Athletic Department, he retired in the summer of 1969.

"I liked football and I liked being track coach," Ed said as he closed the scrapbook. "But I will tell you one thing, football has changed. The boys seem about 3 inches taller and 20 pounds heavier today. I have seen a lot of great Nebraska teams, but I would have to rank 1969's squad and the 1941 Rose Bowl team as two of the best. I pick this year's team because they fought hard for a share of the title."

"What about the teams that beat the Four Horsemen and Red Grange?" Ed repeated. "Oh, we had..."

He never finished the sentence. He just laughed silently to himself and handed me the scrapbook. THE END

RETURN OF TRUMPETERS

(Continued from page 31)

apparently sent some of the trumpeters south into Nebraska.

Beginning around 1964, trumpeter swans were once again being sighted in Nebraska. Whistling swans, however, are often mistaken for trumpeters, as the two species are very similar. The whistling swan is somewhat smaller and usually has a yellow spot on the bill in front of each eye. Unless the yellow spot is present, however, it is almost impossible to tell them apart unless one hears the voice. The call of the whistler is high-pitched compared to the deep horn-like call of the trumpeter.

Regrettably, some of the trumpeters have been positively identified because they were shot by gunners, either by mistake or through ignorance. The swans have been seen at various lakes in the Sand Hills, and since 1966, they have been observed yearly at Valentine National Wildlife Refuge.

Valentine Refuge has proven to be a real attraction to the trumpeters. The refuge hosted nine swans in 1967. The next year a pair was observed on a muskrat house. This led to the speculation that the two may have been trying to nest. However an inspection of the site one week later showed no evidence that the two were nesting.

Then, in the summer of 1969, while making an aerial survey over an inaccessible area of the Valentine Refuge, biologists spotted below them two gray cygnets or young swans. The occasion was indeed a happy one for all Nebraskans. For the first time since the turn of the century, it could be positively said that trumpeter swans had successfully nested in Nebraska. Earlier hatchings may have occurred, but here was definite proof that the trumpeters could once again make their home here. How the parent trumpeters came to be in Nebraska is not known for sure, but it is very likely that they were from the Lacreek Refuge in South Dakota, 70 miles away.

Swans generally pair for life when they are about three years of age and start to nest about one or two years later. In late April or early May, these two probably flew southeast from their winter home, seeking a suitable nesting location. Not honoring the man-made divisions of states, they sought only to satisfy the strongest urge they know to insure the perpetuation of their kind. The remoteness of the Valentine Refuge must have appealed to them, as they wheeled to a landing on the open water.

Everything they needed to insure their survival was available. Food was there in the form of plants associated with the marsh-type habitat-sago, arrowhead, watercress, and other vegetative matter. Nesting sites were available in the form of active or abandoned muskrat houses. And the vital factor of isolation was there; the swans need an enormous area, as large as a square mile, free from intruders. They will drive off geese and other swans, although they will usually tolerate ducks in their nesting territory.

The pair of swans apparently found everything to their liking at Valentine. The female or pen scraped a nest out of the top of the muskrat house and perhaps laid five or six dull-white eggs, one every other day until the clutch was completed. Meanwhile, the male or cob jealously guarded his mate and her nesting activities. After the last egg was laid, incubation started. Hatching began about 32 or 33 days later.

History was made that summer day when the cygnets finally struggled free from their shells and breathed the fresh air of the Nebraska prairie. The first week of life was hazardous for the young birds. Occasionally cygnets are trampled by their parents. Others, when first venturing from the nest to feed, become entangled in plants and drown. Some cygnets fall prey to leeches and to parasites which infect internal organs. Despite the dangers, two young lived and trumpeter swans had new life in Nebraska.

The young learn to fly about the end of September. Swans take off into the wind, running over the surface of the water, head and neck extended horizontally, and wings beating powerfully. Once airborne, feet and legs are folded against the under surf ace of the tail. The family of four at Valentine was later joined by two other trumpeters. Then, one day in mid-November, the young made use of their newly-learned powers of flight, as the group of six left the refuge. It is likely that they flew to Lacreek Refuge to spend the winter.

Swans need open water throughout the winter season. Lacreek's waters remain open because they are spring-fed, while the lakes and ponds of Valentine freeze over completely.

Whether or not trumpeter swans will again nest at Valentine Refuge remains to be seen. Meanwhile efforts are being made by the Game and Parks Commission to increase the likelihood of a resident flock. On August 29, 1969, four trumpeters were shipped from Red Rock Lakes Refuge to the Bill Mahon ranch, north of Haigler. The birds were given to Nebraska by the Bureau of Sport Fisheries and Wildlife. Although use of the Mahon ranch was originally offered by its owners as a home for Canada geese, the site was recognized by Steen as suitable habitat for trumpeters. It has springfed ponds that remain open throughout the winter and there is an abundance of aquatic vegetation.

Unfortunately, of the four birds placed there, only one adult female was able to survive the stress such handling necessarily involves. The remaining swan will hopefully have company this spring. Four additional trumpeters are to be sent from the Red Rock Lakes Refuge after trapping and banding operations.

Perhaps someday, southwest Nebraska or some other suitable area in the state may once again support a flock of trumpeter swans.

Trumpeter swans are today increasing in number throughout North America. A census made in the fall of 1968 indicated 907 trumpeters in the contiguous United States. The total U.S. population, counting Alaska, exceeded 4,000, and there are still additional trumpeters in Canada. Because of the dramatic comeback of the trumpeter, they were removed from the U.S. Government's list of rare and endangered wildlife.

In 1849, Capt. Howard Stansbury, exploring the Bear River Marshes in the Great Basin of Utah, reported: "The marshes were covered by immense flocks of wild geese and ducks among which many swans were seen, being distinguished by their size and whiteness of their plumage. I had seen large flocks of these birds before, but never did I behold anything like the immense numbers here congregated together. Thousands of acres, as far as the eye could reach, seemed literally covered with them, presenting a scene of busy animated cheerfulness, in most graceful contrast with the dreary, silent solitudes by which we were immediately surrounded."

It is not likely that such scenes will ever again be, but surely even a few trumpeter swans can give their cheerfulness to enrich the lives of everyone. Unless man is willing to protect such species as the trumpeter swan, his world will be nothing but dreary and silent. THE END

Where to go George Norris Home, Sandhill Cranes

AN UPSTART, a political maverick, Senator George Norris began a revolt which lasted forty years. From the day of his partisan blunder in 1904 when he voted against his party, he upset the unshakable foundation of the great GOP.

Yet he was a quiet man. The Norris Home in McCook, like the Norris personality, is soft-spoken. It reflects quiet in its warm, neutral shades.

He was not interested in social climbing, and his home reflects that, too. It's a plain house, but a warm one. It was not new when Norris bought it, and it was not furnished in the most ostentatious manner then. But Norris played an important part in this nation's history, so the federal government has recognized it as a Registered National Historical Landmark.

Although Norris earned national prominence, his home reflects none of the show of successful political circles. The original house was built in 1886 on the top of a hill overlooking McCook. Norris bought it 13 years later, in his second year as district judge. Today, Norris Park, across from the house, honors the veteran statesman. So does Norris Avenue which runs between the house and park.

The house remained the same while McCook grew and a district judge became a congressman. Long on political integrity, but short on patience with the MARCH 1970 partisan straight-jacket, he followed a policy of uncompromising independence. And that independence was reflected in his home. While other successful McCook residents were building homes to reflect their wealth, Norris' home remained unchanged.

Then came the stock market crash and the depression. In 1931, when hard times had struck in earnest, Senator Norris initiated his own "private relief program" by remodeling his home. Changes in the building kept McCook workmen busy for many desperate months. They added a story, expanded the second floor, and perched a small attic on top. Each of the three bedrooms upstairs had a private bath. A new fireplace not only warmed the Norris family but earned fuel for the homefires of the workers. A sunporch became Norris' resting place, a place of meditation for the senator. Known in his lifetime for triumphs such as the Tennessee Valley Authority and the Lame Duck Amendment, Norris died in 1944 after 40 years in Congress. Mrs. Norris remained in the house until 1968, when she donated it to the Nebraska State Historical Society. While in the house, Mrs. Norris also made some changes.

The Norris kitchen is a spotless, white room full of moderately modern conveniences. It's a center of midwestern doit-yourselfism, for the Norrises had no

servants. The dining room across the hall is not grand or spacious but it's comfortable and accommodating. The heavy wood table is covered by an elaborate, crocheted tablecloth. The dinnerware is plain in a rich, tasteful sort of way.

A massive fireplace dominates the living area. The graceful curves of an ornate couch accent the contour of the room. And, everywhere are Persian carpets, the senator's favorites. Perhaps the proudest possession is a rug which is an exact duplicate of one owned by President Franklin Roosevelt.

Norris' study, too, reflects the character of the man. A small cubicle, it suited his needs without fuss or ostentation. His own library was once quite extensive, but Mrs. Norris gave numerous volumes away.

The historical society has converted the basement into a display area to reveal the accomplishments of the late senator. Exhibits in separate glass cases follow the chronology of his eventful life. The garage, too, is part of this museum of Norris history. The senator's 1936 Buick Special was driven from Washington to rest at the Norris home.

Throughout the home the theme is the same. Emphasis is on practicality and comfort.

In contrast with this quiet harmony is the raucous majesty of migrating sandhill cranes. Starting in mid-March, thousands of birds stop along the Platte River. Between Grand Island and North Platte the cranes stop off to do their courting dances. The largest congregations occur near Doniphan and between Overton and Elm Creek.

To reach the Doniphan grounds take the Grand Island exit on Interstate 80 and drive south on U.S. Highway 281. About two miles from 1-80 the birds gather in the fields. They join in such thick congregations that they look solid — like acres and acres of gray-brown stubble —and are hard to recognize.

About an hour before sunrise and again an hour before sunset the cranes fly to and from roosting places on the river. From Lexington to the Elm Creek

bridge on the Interstate they are visible wheeling and milling before settling for the night or rising in the morning.

Serious watchers should use binoculars or observe from well-concealed blinds because the cranes are suspicious of humans.

Perhaps the most thrilling sight in cranedom is the mass lift-off of thousands of cranes. They spiral upward then level off as though commanded by one signal. The sounds of their wings and of their calls are wild and instinctive, and it is this majestic dignity that makes crane-watching worthwhile.

From the dignified quiet of a great man's domicile to the clamor of cranes Nebraska leads varied lives. THE END

57

Roundup and What to do

Spring races for the wire as Nebraska opens a new season of activities

MARCH IS HERALDED as the month of rebirth. The first crocuses push up their purple buds. Ducks and geese again wing to the north and everyone feels a surge of energy as winter fades. Nebraskans are fortunate, for a host of activities ranging from horse racing to opera is on tap for the "in-between month".

Heading for the starting line to usher in 160 days of NEBRASKAland racing is this month's hostess, Phyllis Jean Bodie, formerly Phyllis Jean Cacek. The daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Donald C. Cacek of Superior, Phyllis graduated from Wymore High School and is now a junior at Peru State College.

First runner-up in the 1969 Miss NEBRASKAland contest, Phyllis has brains as well as beauty. Studying home economics and interior design, she has been on the dean's list every semester since entering college. Active in the Peru Home Economics Association and State Historian for the Nebraska Home Economics Association, Phyllis also finds time for her hobbies, which include cooking, painting, swimming, and horseback riding.

Come March 20, Phyllis won't be the only one heading for the starting line. Hundreds of Nebraska horse racing fans will converge on Fonner Park in Grand Island for the very first day of the racing 58 season. The thoroughbreds will run at Fonner through April 29.

March is also the month of Easter bunnies and Easter bonnets. In keeping with the more serious nature of this religious holiday, Curtis will host its annual Easter Pageant on Palm Sunday, March 22. Originated in 1958 to make Easter more meaningful to area residents, the pageant has grown through the years. A large inter-community choir will present choral selections, complimented by living pictures. The living pictures, portrayed by a cast of more than 100 members, depict famous religious paintings in exacting detail.

One look at the calendar should be enough to bring a smile to the face of any sports fan. An array of varied events make the month a spectator's delight. Basketball action comes to a peak with the State High School Basketball Tournament, March 12 through March 14. The top eight Class A teams will vie for honors at Omaha's Civic Auditorium with Class B, C, and D clashes scheduled in Lincoln.

Wrestling also enters the March sports scene as the University of Nebraska in Lincoln hosts two big meets. Top grapplers will gather March 13 and 14 to test their strength in a Big Eight contest and again on March 26 through the 28 for a National Collegiate Athletic Association tournament.

If it is action on ice you seek, March is your month. Few sports rival the speed and excitement of professional ice hockey, and the Omaha Knights will dish up plenty of action as they finish their regular season with five home games. The Knights face the Oklahoma City Blazers on March 6 and again on March 21 for their final contest. Middle of the month battles pit the Knights against the Dallas Black Hawks on March 11, the Iowa Stars on March 14, and the Tulsa Oilers on the 19th.

An enticing assortment of cultural activities also dots the March calendar. Scheduled at Pershing Auditorium in Lincoln are a concert by the Norman Luboff Choir on March 16 and the Youth Festival of Musical Arts on March 20 and 21. The Lincoln Symphony Orchestra will present a March 17 concert featuring violinist Pinchas Zukerman. End-of-the-month activities include a musical show at Stuart on March 22 and an art show starting March 29 in Scottsbluff.

Drama, too, enters the scene as Nebraska Wesleyan's Enid Miller Theater presents "La Boheme" February 26 through March 1. Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" is scheduled at Howell Theater on the University of Nebraska campus March 11 through 14 and again on March 18 through March 21. The University of Nebraska at Omaha will present "The Hostage" at the University Theater from March 20 through March 22. Other plays scheduled during the month include "Don't Drink the Water" at the Omaha Playhouse, "Wait Until Dark", to be presented by the Norfolk Community Theater, and "The Night of the Iguana" at the Lincoln Community Playhouse.

Irish eyes shine and green beer flows on St. Patrick's Day, March 17. O'Neill, Nebraska's Ireland, is planning a three-day celebration March 14, 15, and 17, complete with entertainment and a parade.

Whether it comes in like a lion or a lamb, March promises to blow in a host of activities along with a new season as spring begins on March 20.

What to do 2 — University of Nebraska vs. Oklahoma State, basketball, Lincoln 4 — Goldovosky Opera, "La Traviata", Pershing Auditorum, Lincoln 4 —Creighton University vs. Houston College, basketball, Omaha 5-8 —Third City Home and Recreation Show, Grand Island 6-Omaha Knights vs. Oklahoma City Blazers, ice hockey, Omaha 6-22 -Omaha Playhouse, "Don't Drink the Water", Omaha 7 —University of Nebraska vs. Iowa State, basketball, Lincoln 7-8 —Annual Rocky Mountain Oyster Shoot, Bellevue 11-Omaha Knights vs. Dallas Black Hawks, ice hockey, Omaha 11-14 —University of Nebraska, Howell Memorial Theater, "A Midsummer Night's Dream", Lincoln 12-14-State High School Basketball Tournament, Omaha, Lincoln 13-14-Community Playhouse, "The Night of the Iguana", Lincoln 13-14-Hastings College Theater, "Vietnam Rock", Hastings 13-14 —University of Nebraska, Big Eight Wrestling Tournament, Lincoln 14-Omaha Knights vs. Iowa Stars, ice hockey, Omaha 16-Norman Luboff Choir Concert, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 17-Symphony Orchestra Concert, Lincoln 18-20-McCook College, "Music Man", City Auditorium, McCook 18-20-Norfolk Community Theater, "Wait Until Dark", Norfolk 18-20 —University of Nebraska, Howell Memorial Theater, "A Midsummer Night's Dream", Lincoln 19-Omaha Knights vs. Tulsa Oilers, ice hockey, Omaha 20-University of Nebraska Wildlife Club Awards Banquet 20-21-Youth Festival of Musical Arts, Pershing Auditorium, Lincoln 20-22-University of Nebraska at Omaha, "The Hostage", Omaha 20-22-Community Playhouse, "The Night of the Iguana", Lincoln 20-April 29-Horse Racing, Grand Island 21-Omaha Knights vs. Oklahoma City Blazers, ice hockey, Omaha 21-Blue Valley Hereford Show and Sale, Fairbury 22-Musical Show, Stuart 22 —Easter Pageant, Curtis 23-24-State High School Debate Meet, Lincoln 26-27-University of Nebraska, N.C.A.A. Wrestling Tournament, Lincoln 27-29-Community Playhouse, "The Night of the Iguana", Lincoln 29-April 11-Art Show, Scottsbluff 31-April 5 —Omaha Home Show, Omaha THE END NEBRASKAland

HOGAN'S RIVER

(Continued from page 51)

at 5 p.m. and continuing until dark on weekdays, with afternoon and evening runs during weekends. Several types of trips were available, including half-hour and hour trips downriver. A longer tour all the way to Sioux City, a round trip of 45 miles, was available when a sufficient number of passengers wanted to go. That cruise takes about two hours. Also, charter trips upstream onto the "wild" or unchannelized stretch of the river could be arranged on occasion.

Along with his dissertation on the scenic marvels and historical aspects, Dave traces the growth of boating activity, talks about wildlife, and various other topics. Boating has its own historical facets, he says, for riverboats once lumbered up and down the river in great numbers. Some sank, including one which lies beneath the mud, sand, and water near Ponca. It was supposedly laden with whiskey, and none of the cargo was ever recovered. That was just one of about 450 such mishaps on the Missouri during the heyday of the paddlewheelers.

For the benefit of anglers aboard, Dave gives a rundown on fishing potential, listing the catfish, paddlefish, sauger, walleye, crappie, bass, and several other species taken. Hunters also get in on the action, as shown by duck and goose blinds set up along the route where gunners can see as many as 20,000 geese when conditions are right.

Next summer, Dave Hogan plans to be back on the river, hopefully with an expanded schedule. As more people hear about the river junket and with some advertising in the region, he anticipates an increase in traffic. Certainly the potential is there, for few rivers are better known or have a more colorful history than the Mighty Mo.

And Dave Hogan is always ready to share "his" river with anyone who will step aboard the "Ponca Chief." THE END

MASTER ANGLER BLUEGILL

(Continued from page 25)

to the south. "But I think I'll give it a try."

A lone coyote was crossing the ice as he topped the rise and looked down on the lake. After parking at the edge of Pelican, Corky grabbed a five-gallon bucket that contained his fishing gear and an ice auger from the back of the pickup, and cautiously worked his way out onto the ice. Thin at the edge, the ice firmed up as he went farther from shore. About 100 yards out, Corky stopped where a scattered clump of reeds poked through the ice.

"This looks good," Cork said to himself as he bored two holes at the edge of the reeds.

His equipment was simple, consisting only of two short jigging rods, an ice auger, and an ice skimmer. The two-foot-long rods each had a side-mounted, spool-type reel, filled with six-pound-test monofilament. The five-gallon bucket served as a seat as well as an equipment carrier.

OUTDOOR CALENDAR HUNTING Rabbits-No closed season, statewide. Varments-No closed season, statewide. State special-use areas are open to hunting in season the year-round unless otherwise posted or designated. Hunting permitted in season in state-recreation areas from October 1 to April 1 unless otherwise posted or designated. FISHING All species-Hook and line. Statewide. Season open all year. Archery-Nongame fish only, year-round, sunrise to sunset. Hand-Nongame fish only, year-round, sunrise to Spearing sunset. Underwater powered Spearfishing-No closed season on non-game fish. Snagging —Missouri River only. All other waters closed. STATE PARKS Fort Kearny State-Interpretive Center open from Historical Park 1 to 4 p.m. Saturday & Sunday. The grounds of all state parks are open to visitors the year around. Official opening of all park facilities is May 15. FOR COMPLETE DETAILS Consult NEBRASKAland hunting and fishing guides, available from conservation officers, NEBRASKAlanders, permit vendors, tourist welcome stations, county clerks, all Game Commission offices, or by writing the Game Commission, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509.

Corky uses both rods when the fishing is slow, but has found that one rod is all he can handle when the bluegills really start biting.

After skimming the ice from one hole, he tied on a teardrop and baited it with a waxworm. The small, fluorescent orange and silver lure, in combination with the waxworm, had been his most consistent producer during the previous winter. Dropping the set into the water, he stripped off line until he felt it touch the bottom about 4 1/2 feet down.

Cradled by low rolling sand hills, Pelican Lake is typical of the shallow refuge lakes, and Corky knew from experience that the majority of the fish fed just off the bottom. The angler decided on a yellow jig for the second rod. With both lines in the water he sat down and began jigging.

"Better enjoy days like this while I can," Corky thought, remembering the heavy snow and bitter cold of the previous winter.

Last winter the weather was enough to keep most fishermen home, sitting in front of the fireplace. But Corky managed to make it to the lake nearly every day, often literally shoveling his way in in the morning and back out in the evening.

One day in early February particularly stood out in his mind. When he left Valentine the temperature was 16 below zero with a strong wind blowing out of the west. The bait shop owner set up his portable ice-fishing tent near the east end of the lake and with the two-burner, white-gas stove going full blast it was almost comfortable. The fishing, however, was enough to make anyone forget the cold and the wind.

Apparently oblivious to the weather above, the bluegills were on a real feeding spree. For several hours, Corky caught big bluegills, as fast as he could

unhook them and get the lure back into the water. When the action finally slacked off, he had over two hundred fish on the ice. Several of them were over a pound, but one stood out among all the rest. Corky applied for a Master Angler certificate for the 1-pound 10-ounce beauty.

The fisherman catches so many fish that he applies for certificates only when he personally feels the fish is exceptional. He figures that filling out forms for all the Master Angler fish he catches would cut into his fishing time, and sending them in would double his postage bill. His only other bluegill certificate was for a one-pound nine-ounce fish which he took late in March.

A strong strike brought Corky back to reality. He set the hook quickly, expecting to lift out a big bluegill. Instead, three feet of line ripped off the reel as the fish made a run into the reeds. "A northern," Corky muttered. "Should have known I'd get into them."

The fish was still on but well tangled in the reeds. Picking up the auger, Corky bored another hole directly over the spot where he figured the fish was hung up. As the auger broke through, the line jerked and then went limp. Pelican Lake contains pike up to 14 pounds and Corky has taken his share of them with wire leaders and larger lures. However, using the light jigging rod, he knew his chances of landing the fish were practically nil and he was happy to have retrieved his lure.

"It was a northern that played retriever for me last year," Cork recalled as he rebaited the teardrop and sat back down.

It all started late one afternoon when the bluegills began biting suddenly. Cork had been fishing with both rods and after landing a bluegill on one rod, he laid the other one down to put on a waxworm. He looked up just in time to see his second rod disappear through the hole.

A week later, while fishing in the same general area, he hooked a big pike. The fish made several wild, circular dashes before escaping. Reeling in, Cork was surprised to find the lost rod tangled in his line.

Corky doesn't limit his fishing to blue-gills, although he feels no other fish can top them as table fare. He consistently scores on bass, pike, and walleye, and he holds the state record for Sacramento perch.

On this trip he was after bluegill, but he would take anything that grabbed his lure. His first two holes were unproductive, so he selected another likely-looking spot 50 yards to the east. Corky knows that the fish bunch up in the winter, so he takes a "move around until you find them" approach to ice fishing.

By noon, he had tried over 20 different locations and still was Ashless. A large portion of the lake was still unfrozen and he speculated that the open water, exposed to the subfreezing air, might be keeping the lake too cold for the fish to bite.

Having promised his wife and two sons fresh fish for dinner, Cork decided it was time to head for Dewey Lake. Dewey had been deserted when he passed it earlier that morning (Continued on page 64)

60 NEBRASKAland MARCH 1970 61

THE TRUTH ABOUT FAMILY CAMPING

Well-meaning friends may tell you stories about tenting pleasures. They don't jibe with mine

by Shirley Lueth

MY FAMILY is the outdoor type. I happen to be the indoor, sit in an easy chair, read a good book, and sip a cool drink type. But they outnumber me eight to one and any way you look at it, over the ironing board, around the kitchen, changing the sheets, or mending socks, those are pretty big odds. They are also pretty big odds when it comes time to take a vacation. Every year I continue to vote for an air-conditioned motel near a large shopping center and spending the remainder of our vacation funds on theater tickets, babysitters, meals outside the home, and beauty-parlor appointments. My husband votes to go camping.

And, because the children's father is bigger than I am, richer than I am, and the only one in the family who can drive, they vote along with him and there it is again... eight to one.

Last summer, after the usual yearly farce of letting mother cast her silly vote, the rest of them picked the spot where we would camp. They chose Johnson Lake at Lexington. Now, if it had to be camping, Johnson was my favorite spot to go. It is close to civilization, surrounded by lovely trees, the water is shallow enough for safe swimming, the beaches are sandy, and the fishing is good. We were even frivolous enough to make plans to spend the weekend preceding our vacation with some friends at their lot on Mallard Beach. They had just bought it and were eager to show it off. I envied them the long, low trailer equipped with electricity, hot and cold running water, a real bathroom with chrome, and soft, squishy beds. I growled a lot as we threw up our tent some 15 feet away.

Two more families joined us and we spent the weekend roasting corn in the sand, rescuing small children who drifted too far in their inner tubes, chasing the gulls that landed in droves on the island across from the beach, and playing a little bridge. "If I have to camp," I thought, "this isn't half bad."

Then the weekend was over and our friends packed their pots and pans, their campers, and their wet bathing suits and took off for home and "the daily grind". (These were my husband's words, not mine. He 62

really and truly felt sorry for them. I didn't. I felt sorrier for myself. Two days in a tent is my smiling limit. Our affluent friends with the trailer had offered us the keys and the use of the lovely, comfortable thing while we were there, but my husband drew himself up in proud virility and turned them down.. .flat. After all, he is a tent man. I took the keys, pride be hanged, and promised that we wouldn't take advantage of their hospitality unless an emergency came up. It did.

The next day dawned clear and windy. We paddled around in the water, drove into town for supplies, toured the island, and settled a few family quarrels. About six that evening it began to drizzle. This didn't surprise me for it always rains when we pitch a tent. I've learned to accept this along with charcoaled rice krispies for breakfast and brushing my teeth in public. We sat on the dock and fished in the rain for awhile. This isn't my idea of fun, but it was better than being stuck in an airtight tent with nothing but the pitter-patter of rain on canvas for entertainment. I am deathly afraid of gasoline lanterns in a tent, so as soon as the sun goes down our tent is pitch black. It is safer but cuts down on recreational outlets. There aren't too many things a family of nine can do in the dark. Finally, after being thoroughly dampened and chilled to the bone, I drew in my fishing line, tossed a surly "the heck with it" over my shoulder, and plodded up the path to the tent, casting a grudging eye at that beautiful trailer that was just sitting there empty, lonely, and unloved. I loved it but none of the rest of my nature-worshiping family gave it a second thought.

We were all in bed by 8 p.m. At home when I suggest bedtime at eight, I have a near riot on my hands and our kids do everything but march with protest signs. But here in the damp woods there isn't a heck of a NEBRASKAland

lot they can do about it. No television, no light to read by, and the transistor is so full of snap, crackles, and pops we can't even hear the weather report.

However, it wasn't long before we were well aware of the weather. We needed no report. We were right smack-dab in the middle of it. It began to rain in earnest and the thunder started to roll over the lake. By the time it reached our tent it had built itself up into one giant boom, Boom, BOOM! Loud, crashing, and terrifying. I was scared to death. And the fact that the lightning kept dashing in and out of my sleeping bag didn't calm my nerves any. One of the children complained of drowning in a puddle of water that had crept in beneath our "waterproof tent floor and two or three others were huddled like kapok cocoons in a corner. My husband told us it would soon pass over, that it was just a little summer storm and nothing to be scared of. He lied. The thunder and lightning continued and it grew in ferocity until I thought my whole body would be shaken apart by the vibrations.

It was now about one in the morning and the "little summer MARCH 1970 storm" had been going on for four hours and showed absolutely no signs of wanting to crawl back under the clouds and quiet down. I had reached the edge of hysteria. The drowning child was gurgling and the cocoons had been joined by three others. Everyone was herded into one corner and miserable. Even my husband had stopped his cheerful little banter and said "Oh hell" once or twice.

Suddenly, someone up there gathered forces, put his shoulder to the wheel, and put together the biggest mass of noise in the world, the brightest streak of electricity, molded them into one hunk, and hurled it down on top of our tent. The world split apart and our canvas tent rocked.

"HO-kay. That's it!" said my husband, his hitherto courageous camping face ashen. "Let's go to the trailer!"

I was up, out, and in the door before he could possibly change his mind. Eight bodies crowded in the door behind me. "Oh, where are my mighty campers now?" I thought. Scared just like I was, that's where they were.

It was lovely in the trailer. Electricity blazed through the inside like a sunrise on Easter morning. The walls muffled the thunder and we drew the drapes against the bright lightning. It was so snug and peaceful. I brewed coffee and everyone, even the little children, had a sip or two. The outside world and its miseries seemed a thousand miles away. Everyone found a comfortable, dry bed and we turned out the lights and settled down to finish what was left of a very short night.

I had barely adjusted my pillow, for the last time, called out the last good-night and blessed our trailer-owning friends for the hundredth time in prayer when I heard strange voices outside our window. Strange men's voices.

"Do you think there is anyone in there?" one said —deep, low, and menacing.

"I don't know!" said the other, and an eerie flashlight beam played along the sides of the trailer.

"Oh, no," I thought, "we'll all be killed and robbed in our sleep." Mind you, it was still thundering and no one could have heard the trumpet of elephants, let alone the scream of a suffering woman. I could see the headlines in the morning paper, "Family (Continued on page 64)

63

MASTER ANGLER BLUEGILL

(Continued from page 61)

but now cars and pickup trucks lined the northern shore and 40 fishermen dotted the ice.

Parking at the edge of the lake, Cork spotted Francis Crowe, a retired rancher and avid fisherman, coming in off the ice. Picking up his gear, Corky headed out to meet him.

"Where have you been?" Francis asked as they met.

"I tried Pelican this morning," Corky answered. "Thought the bluegills might be biting, but I couldn't get a hit." "Things have been pretty slow here this morning, too," Francis said. "The perch have been biting for the last week but I didn't do a bit of good this morning. Thought I'd drive over and check out Clear Lake on my way in."

"I guess I'll try it here for awhile," Corky said. "Let me know if you do any good at Clear Lake."

"I'll give you a call," Francis said.

Hiking to the east end of the lake, Corky selected a spot over a submerged weed bed that was barely visible through the milky ice. Again he lowered the lures to within inches of the bottom.

Ten minutes later he felt a strike and lifted a seven-inch perch out of the water. A three-quarter pound bass and several pan-size bluegills soon followed.

"Looks like Francis left a little too soon," Corky thought as he pulled out another perch.

Within an hour Corky had an assortment of over 30 bass, perch, and bluegills on the ice. None of the fish were of exceptional size, but they were the makings of a fine fish fry. The teardrop had accounted for most of the bluegills and bass while the perch seemed to favor the jig.

With dinner secured, Corky again began moving around, looking for a school of larger fish. A dozen different locations yielded more of the pan-size fish, but none approached Master Angler size.

It was late afternoon before Corky felt the weight of a larger fish at the end of his line. He had moved out near the center of the lake and the sharp strike had come as a pleasant surprise. Cork let the fish make several runs before easing it through the hole. The two-pound large-mouth bass flopped on the ice as Cork unhooked the jig. He had been hoping for a big bluegill but the bass was a fine fish.

Deciding to call it a day, he dropped the largemouth into the bucket with the other fish, collected his equipment, and started for the pickup. The thought of golden-fried fish quickened his step.

It had been a good day for Corky. While his catch was modest, he had enjoyed a day of quiet solitude on the ice. Corky fished at a proven location with proven techniques but still didn't come up with a certificate-size fish.

Master Angler fish are the exception rather than the rule, even for Corky. But he knows about that third ingredient to winning Master Angler Certificates — lots of fishing. That's what sets Corky apart. He returns to the ice again and again, and when the big ones finally decide to bite, you can bet that he will be there. THE END

64

TRUTH ABOUT CAMPING

(Continued from page 63)

Wiped Out In Camping Massacre".

The "Voices" started beating on the sides of the trailer with heavy (and I was convinced murderous) fists.

"Who is there?" I shouted in my deepest, most masculine voice. My husband was fumbling around in a confined space trying to put on his pants, more concerned with preserving his modesty than his life. I was in my nightgown and couldn't care less.

We soon found out that our visitors were not threats to our lives but two very nice gentlemen who came through the rain to warn us that there was one heck of a cabin fire just up the line and that we should get out of the trailer fast. We got out, fast! Little pajamaed bodies peeled out of that trailer like shot out of a gun on the first day of pheasant season. The "Voices" stood by in stunned amazement at the hornet's nest they had stirred up. I was the last one out still dressed sensually in my nightdress (I camp beautifully) and I gave one last calm look and picked out the things I thought needed saving. I took one feather pillow, one talking Drowsy doll, and one blue canvas bag which included deodorant, toothpaste, shaving lotion, and a box of baggies. I left my purse, my watch, the polaroid, my housecoat, and our youngest child. I went back after the child and we flocked to the station wagon.

The cabin six lots up from our spot was soaring to the skies in flames, smoke, and sparks. It couldn't possibly be saved. I had known all along that the bolt that had driven us from the tent had a double whammy attached and the poor burning cabin proved it. It was a terrible and ghastly sight and each one of the children solemnly swore he would never, never play with matches. Smokey the Bear got some new recruits that night believe you me. It ran through my mind that I might stop smoking but I was too nervous.

Relief poured over us when we heard the sound of fire engines wailing over the hills. We shouted and clapped our hands like kids at the movies on Saturday afternoon. One or two of the children were relaxed enough in the backseat to make sly comments. "Mom sure does look funny sitting in the car in her nightgown."

We watched the firemen battle the fire and, bless them, finally put it out. The heavy rain had saved the trees, thus sparing the surrounding cabins, the ; trailer, and unfortunately our tent. I had tried to mentally guide a spark or two toward the tent but they just fell around it, lay on the ground, and sputtered out. It is still complete, intact, and leering at me —waiting—just waiting for vacation this year.

We found out the next morning from a dear old gentleman, who must have lived at the lake since the first tree was planted, that it was the worst electrical storm he could remember. Naturally. And the rainfall totaled 5 1/2 inches. Naturally. I mean, what else could they expect? I was camping there. THE END

NEBRASKAland

Outdoor Elsewhere

The Water Haul. A New York striped-bass charter-boat captain is finally retiring after being dogged by other skippers for 20 years. It seems that the veteran seafarer always knew where the stripers were every spring, and was the envy of all his kind. He recalls the day when several skippers decided to gang up on him and followed him 14 miles off-shore. But, to their surprise, all he was doing was obtaining a sample bottle of water for a biologist making a study. When he put the cork back in the bottle and started back, they cursed him blue. Needless to say, the mooching skippers stopped dogging the captain for quite awhile after that episode.— New York

Bugler's Last. A group of hunters had a cabin and were blowing a bugle at different times during the day. When asked why, one of the fellows replied: "The first one in the morning is a signal that breakfast is ready. The second one is the signal for dinner. The third one —well, if you don't hear it you had best gather some wood for the night because you are lost."—Pennsylvania

A Fishy Rain. After 13 inches of rain fell in a 20-day period last July, a trio of Iowa farm hands noticed a commotion in a puddle and found a 3-inch fish of unknown species flip-flopping about. After some discussion, one of the fellows noted, "It either rained fish or this one swam three-quarters of a mile through corn and bean fields from the nearest creek." —Iowa

The Silent Partner. It seems that some people will try just about anything if they think they can get away with it, but this story has to take the cake. While patrolling fishing waters off the coast of Washington, there was something about two fishermen in a small boat that just 66 didn't set right with an officer. So, he swung back for a closer look and discovered that one of the pair was a dummy. The "real" fisherman was immediately slapped with a summons for violating the law, which requires that not more than one rod and one lure be used per fisherman while sport fishing. — Washington

An Expensive License. Lying is often a dangerous game for anyone, and this holds true for sportsmen. When an Oklahoma hunter was arrested without a license, he told the officer he'd left his permit at home. So, the hunter arranged to meet the officer the next day and present his license. As promised, he showed up with the permit. But, a careful check by the officer showed it had been purchased the afternoon after the arrest. It turned out to be the most expensive hunting license ever sold in Oklahoma. The hunter paid $423.25 in court fines and costs for hunting without a license and signing a false affidavit to obtain one. Had he admitted to hunting without a license in the first place, it would have been only a $10 fine. As it was, he ended up paying the equivalent of two lifetime combination licenses, plus $113.25. The moral .never mix lying and gunpowder. — Oklahoma

Ecological Merry-go-round. Results are in from Borneo on another pest-elimination program that backfired. DDT was successful in demolishing the rural flies. But lizards ate the flies, absorbed the DDT, and accumulated the poison. Then, cats ate the lizards and the cats died. With no cats, rats had a reproduction field day, resulting in a plague that threatened the entire country. —Borneo A Dream Come True. Loading a boat with fish is every fisherman's dream. Three Kentucky anglers recently boated 987 pounds of white bass to fulfill their fishing dreams. However, a conservation officer disapproved of their angling method. It seems they used a net in lieu of rod and reel. Each of them was fined $100 and court fees. Their boat, an 18-horsepower outboard motor, and the 900-foot net were confiscated. All was not lost, though, for an orphanage got the fish. —Kentucky

Law And Disorder. Some insect exterminators claim they can control any and all insect pests except the "litterbug". And, based on a recent clean-up project in California, it's no wonder they don't want to tangle with the litterbug. Rigid laws prohibit littering that state's lakes and streams, but one would never know it from the amount of junk fished out of just one fishing lake. A group of 55 volunteers from 7 sportsmen's clubs hauled out of just one lake, in addition to the usual litter of bottles, paper, and cans, a pay telephone, a parking meter, a bicycle, and 6 shopping carts. - California

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