For the Record ... QUALITY OF LIFE

Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life! What you make of it and the world you live in is up to YOU. You and I can work individually or together to make it a better place, or we can turn our backs and ignore the problems that face us. But, the Earth is a closed ecosystem. If we despoil it, there is nowhere left to turn.

Wildlife is a most reliable barometer of the conditions facing all forms of life. We all know about extinct species. When their habitat (environment) is gone, they are doomed.

One of the oldest definitions of conservation is "use without waste". When we have USED our rivers and lands to the point where they no longer support life, we have wasted them.

Sediment is one of our most serious forms of pollution. It can be checked if the land is put to proper use... a use that will also support wildlife in greater numbers than now. Still, there is hope of changing the land use, so it will increase production of all forms of wildlife.

There are many kinds of pollution. One we "hear" little about, but that should vitally concern us, might be labeled "environmental intrusion" — NOISE.

As the director of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, I pledge my personal and my department's support in the cause of preserving our environment. I feel it is particularly significant that my term began on Earth Day, the greatest single demonstration of concern for our world ever seen.

The Game and Parks Commission further will work diligently with all levels of government to actively represent the wildlife and outdoor recreation interests of all Nebraskans. That includes such groups as the Governor's Planning Commission, the Soil and Water Conservation Commission, the Department of Agriculture, and various branches of the University of Nebraska.

We further pledge to:

• continue to develop tourism programs that will revitalize rural Nebraska and merchandise our fascinating history;
• direct our resources toward early and complete development of major state park and recreation area facilities;
• continue efforts to preserve our wetlands to increase the production of migratory waterfowl;
• strive to further a "Code of Outdoor Ethics" that will promote respect for the rights of all and limit harvests to one's fair share —in other words, to behave like a true sportsman".

If we are going to enjoy the "Quality of Life", then we must begin now to preserve the lands and waters and to bring back, if possible, those that have already been despoiled. This, then, is the challenge.

Yes, tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life. What you make of it is up to you... and me.

WILLARD BARBEE Director, Nebraska Game and Parks Commission JUNE 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.

YOU'RE WRONG-"My father, the late H. M. Springer of Antelope County, owned the pastureland where the landslide (A Lake Is Born, December 1969) occurred. He owned it from 1910 until 1931 when it passed down to his children, then to a grandson until it was sold to Mr. Vanderheiden of Elgin in 1958 or 1959. Mr. Vanderheiden owned the Elwood farm mentioned in your article and it adjoined the Springer land on the west. He wanted the land to make a lake which was made by building a dam downstream on the Springer land, thus the large lake was man-made — not born.

"The landslide started about 1926 and was very gradual, starting with a crack in the ground which kept getting bigger and settling more and more. Then another crack would appear. It all happened very gradually, so there was never a chance that a span of mules could have been buried in it.

"Another mistake was that there never were milk cows driven over the hill because it would have been impossible to get them over there. There never was much conversation in the store about the landslide as an outsider couldn't get in to see it. There was no public road past it and you had to go across several farms belonging to different people, which made it almost impossible to get to it.

"The water in that stream was crystal clear and real cold. There were springs all along the stream which flowed the entire length of the pasture which was one mile long. The millstream pond at NEBRASKAland Oakdale was mentioned as filling with the silt from the landslide, but it (was already) filled and wasn't used some years before the landslide started." — H. S. (Hobart) Springer, Exeter.

PIONEER COOKIES-"I thought some of your readers might be interested in this recipe for pioneer cookies. It has been changed somewhat to take advantage of modern ingredients. For example, the recipe used to call for bear cracklings, but pork has been substituted.

Pioneer Cookies 2 cups pork cracklings 1 teaspoon salt 2 tablespoons dark syrup 1 cup sugar 1 teaspoon soda 2 tablespoons corn oil 2 eggs 1 cup brown sugar 1 teaspoon 1 teaspoon vanilla cinnamon 1 teaspoon vinegar 3 cups flour

"Mix all ingredients, drop onto cookie tin and flatten with fork. Bake for 10 or 12 minutes in a 400-degree oven. Will yield about 80 cookies." —Mrs. Lester Dannehl, Bertrand.

WHITE-WINGED SCOTERS - "Robert Reager and sons were hunting on the Platte River east of the Chapman bridge. They killed two ducks that they did not know and stopped at my home to see if I could tell what they were.

"I was quite sure I knew what they were as Francis Larson (now dead) and I had killed three in 1946 or '47, about four miles east of Central City off of Prairie Island, that looked like the same kind of ducks. I have three books which show that the ducks were white-winged scoters.

"I have hunted in the Platte River since 1907 and have never heard of anyone ever killing any of these ducks. There were eight in the flock that Larson and I saw and Mr. Reager stated there were five in their flock.

"They fly very, very fast, do not decoy but swing across the decoys and straight ahead 10 or 12 feet above the water, very similar to the flight of redheads." — Ernest Beaty, Central City.

SOCK IT TO 'EM-"I am 14 years old and enjoy your page in NEBRASKAland about 'Outdoor Elsewhere'. I have a hint that I figured out to keep my hunting dog trained. My Lab retriever is good at bringing in fowl from the water, but I needed something to throw into the water for him to bring back for practice that would not sink. So I took three rubber balls and a heavy work sock, put the balls in the sock one at a time, and packed each with straw to make it firm. I tied the sock tightly so it was good and strong and would take a lot of use." — Chuck Smedra, Loup City.

SMALL TOWN STORIES-"I have, for many years, enjoyed looking at your magazine and this year I finally have a JUNE 1970 subscription for it. Your section entitled 'Speak Up' gave me the idea of writing. Since you welcome suggestions, I will offer one.

"Many of the readers from around the state live in small towns which they feel could be talked about a little more. So, why not have an article, possibly each month, on a place which a reader has asked about. The article could include present-day facts about the place, its history, its importance, and what it is known for. You could even tell its population, date of incorporation, etc. Many people will look forward to seeing their selections printed in NEBRASKAland." — Bill Noel, Lincoln.

YOUNG MASTER-"Our 10-year-old son, Jerry, recently took a 12-pound, 4-ounce walleye at Lake McConaughy, which so far has netted him several angling awards, and put him in line for more.

"Jerry received the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission's Master Angler Award, a Distinguished Angler's Award and a Best in Species Award from Sports Afield magazine, and a Certificate of Award and an Honor Badge from Field and Stream magazine. He also placed

third in the junior division of the latter's national contest." —D. W. (Pete) Pomplun, Broken Bow.

OVER THE LINE-"I sure would like to take a spin around NEBRASKAland, but not on a bus that goes around a curve on the yellow line (Inside Front Cover, April 1970) "-Carl Grotrian, Cook.

Safety standards are, of course, among our major concerns at NEBRASKAland. The photograph Mr. Grotrian referred to was set up for impact and technical excellence. And, the photographer took all necessary precautions to assure the safety of all concerned. — Editor

NEVER AGAIN-"In the days before the railroad, my grandfather Dierks lived on a farm near Johnson. He had five sons, so when the crops were harvested, he started them out with a wagon train of freight for Denver.

"At that time Kearney was located on the Platte River and freighters were never bothered by the Indians before they reached the community. Once there, the boys would circle the wagons and stand guard. The Indians would come in, ride around the wagons until the freighters fired a couple of shots in the air, then the tribesmen would depart.

"On the trip west, they came to a place where the Indians had attacked some white people. Quite a bit of stuff was strewn around and the boys found a stove with a built-in oven. They took it all the way to Denver and brought it back for their mother. The boys bought merchandise in Denver and sold it in Kearney when they returned. They bought grain with that money and started for Denver again making about 12 miles a day.

"They were late in getting home and grandfather began to worry. He told grandmother he thought the Indians had gotten them. But this is what had happened.

"One of the boys got rheumatism in his feet and couldn't walk. He sat at the edge of the Platte River and soaked his feet all night in the ice-cold water. He never had rheumatism again.

"My worried grandfather would take his binoculars and peer west. Then one morning, he saw his sons coming. He ran into the house yelling, They're coming! They're coming! They will never go again!'" —D. A. Wolf, Lexington.

NO ESCAPE-"In 1921, my aunt and uncle left Nebraska for Burbank, California, and my aunt cannot forget one feature of our glorious Nebraska that offers little relief for an asthmatic condition. She writes with some nostalgia." — Cecil Eloe, Lincoln

ODE TO THE GOLDENROD by Mrs. Angie Fitzsimmons Back in Nebraska grows a posy It's not fragrant, It's not rosy. Its pollen makes me sneeze and weep When I'm awake or when I'm asleep. So, to avoid this'gorgeous pest I packed my grip and came out west, Where I can cough and weep like sin Each day the dirty smog comes in.

PROPAGANDA —"I have just finished reading your article, The Platte River Dam, in the March issue of NEBRASKAland.

"Frankly, to me this has all the marks of a purely propaganda piece for the Game and Parks Commission. I do agree with all your conclusions as to the need for more and better recreation, etc. But, I can't agree with some of your statements that Nebraskans are especially recreation conscious, or that the Platte River project, as planned, would fill the need.

"The proposal for the dam and lake has such little overall merit, in my opinion, I am surprised the Corps of Engineers advanced it. One explanation might be (Continued on page 13)

7

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . COMMON TREEFROG

Aptly named, this diminutive amphibian spends most of his life in trees. Once a gilled polliwog, the adult gains lungs and starts to climb

by Paul Novak Assistant Fisheries Superintendent

MANY A NEBRASKA bird-watching enthusiast may beam with excitement on hearing a strange new call in a nearby bush. But, to the amazement of an equal number when the source of the call is pinpointed, it is not a feathery friend at all, but the Hyla versicolor, more familiarly referred to as the common treefrog.

Aptly named, the common treefrog spends most of its life in small trees or shrubs in or near shallow water. He can also be found along fences and on vines. Tree-climbing ability comes from adhesive discs on the tips of the frog's digits. Males are seldom found on the ground, except during the breeding season. Prior to that time, they may remain landlocked for periods ranging up to 10 days. During winter, treefrogs, like others of their species, burrow into the mud, soil, and muck under the water to hibernate. This practice limits their range, however, since they are unable to survive in climates where subsoil is permanently frozen.

The common treefrog is the only species of treefrog found in the north. Its range extends from northern Florida, north to Canada, west to North Dakota, and south to central Texas. In Nebraska, the species is 8 found in the eastern part of the state and is relatively common along the Missouri River. Recorded sightings in Nebraska have occurred at Omaha in Douglas County; one-half mile east of Sprague, at Lincoln, and at Roca in Lancaster County; at Peru in Nemaha County, and south of Rulo in Richardson County. While many of their cousins live considerably longer, treefrogs generally reach the age of nine years. Ranging from IV4 inches to 2lA inches in length, the treefrog has webbing between its toes that extends to the terminal suction discs used for tree climbing.

Common treefrogs are relatively easy to identify, when they are found. Although the skin on the back is quite warty for a treefrog, the warts are not as prominent nor do they protrude as much as those of the common toad. Their skin is also quite tough and the head is short and broad. There is a wide variation of color in this amphibian, running the gamut from gray, brown, or green to pearl gray or even white. A dark blotch on the back and a light spot under the eye is nearly always discernible, with the concealed undersides of the hind legs sporting a bright orange hue with wavy brown stripes in males. Unlike others of its species, the common treefrog never has stripes on its back.

Like the chameleon lizard sold in pet shops and seen in circuses, the common treefrog has a camouflage technique of blending with its background to avoid enemies. It can render itself nearly invisible when clinging to brown or gray tree bark and is capable of changing color rapidly. Often, the only way its presence can be noted is by its vibrant call, a loud, resonant trill, lasting 1 to 3 seconds and repeated every 10 to 20 seconds.

Though the frog is primarily nocturnal, its call can occasionally be heard during the day when the weather is damp and cloudy. The call, often disconcerting to those in the immediate vicinity, is usually sounded as the sun lowers over the horizon and evening comes on.

Mating season normally begins in April and runs through August, depending on rainfall and temperatures. However, this hopper does not call or mate when the temperature dips below 50 degrees fahrenheit. During the mating season, treefrogs often congregate in considerable numbers and croaking may continue into the late evening during such a gathering.

The mating embrace takes place in open, shallow water, though bushy areas are nearby. Egg masses containing 5 to 40 eggs are laid, with a single female capable of laying up to 1,800 eggs. The bouyant eggs are attached to the vegetation at the waterline, and begin to hatch in four to five days. Early stages of the treefrog are tadpoles or polywogs. Unlike their later frog form, tadpoles are usually vegetarians and are identifiable by red and black markings on their tails. After hatching, they look remotely like big-headed fish without fins. They breathe with gills, have a tail, and are equipped with a special mouth and a long intestine adapted for their vegetarian diets. Within 90 to 100 days, they begin the transformation into tiny frogs. They develop lungs in place of gills, four limbs appear, the tail is absorbed, the intestine shortens, and the typical frog mouth becomes apparent. As the conversion continues, the small frogs spend less and less of their time submerged, venturing farther onto land.

From the tadpole stage on, treefrogs feed on nonaquatic insects such as bugs, flies, and beetles. These tiny members of the amphibian world add a bit of spice to NEBRASKAland outdoors. THE END

NEBRASKAland

SINKING SAND

by Don Maca As told to NEBRASKAland

SUMMER SUNDAYS ALWAYS had a special appeal to me. They were for pure relaxation. They meant freedom from worldly cares and a chance to refresh myself before the next week's work.

One particular summer Sunday, however, holds special meaning for me. That particular Sunday, in August 1940, found me 19 years old. In less than three years, I would be a pilot in the Southwest Pacific with the United States Navy. That Sunday meant much to me —in many ways.

My favorite Sunday pastime was fishing. I had been going with a buddy each weekend, but this time he couldn't make it. I did get to use his car though, a 1929 Model A Ford. So I planned to head for a good spot a short distance from Grand Island, where I was living at the time. Friends had told me about their good luck at a sandpit, and gave me directions to it.

Saturday I took care of the preliminaries so I would be all set to go as early as possible the next morning. I picked up some minnows and worms and, because the weather had been quite warm, I set up a sprinkler to keep them alive over-night. My gear was ready to go and I was anxious to angle.

That night was nearly as warm as the day. It felt good to get up at 4 a.m. and enjoy the quiet peacefulness of early morning. I grabbed my gear and headed for the sandpit, not far from the Platte River south of town. When I arrived it was just starting to get light. But even at that hour it was already getting warm. It would be a hot day.

The sandpit was not very large, about 100 feet across. I walked to the edge through deep, soft, pure white sand, getting a load of it in my low-cut tennis shoes with each step. Across the way stood the dredge that, during the week, had been working to enlarge the hole. A long strip of sand tailings, the discards of a gravel operation, ran from either side of the machine.

I didn't look long at my surroundings, however, for fishing was on my mind. I was mostly interested in bass, my favorites, but I would take what I could get. Using worms, I began working rather deep. My first fish that day was a bluegill, and within a short time, I pulled in several crappie. There was no wind, and the water was absolutely flat. I had begun working my way around the pit in a clockwise direction, when I noticed ripples on the other side NEBRASKAland

where bass were breaking water, apparently surface feeding on bugs.

That was all the invitation I needed. Walking to where the action was, I changed my tactics, taking off the weights, putting on a minnow, and working the surface. I was soon rewarded with a nice largemouth, about a pound and a half. Moving closer to the dredge, I came up with two more, including a three-pound beauty. By 8 a.m. I had a pretty heavy stringer with more than a half dozen fish. It was getting hot, so I knew that I wouldn't be staying out much longer.

I had moved around to within 25 yards of the dredge and was standing at the edge of one of the sandy beaches. My gear was right with me, tackle box, minnow pail, can of worms, and that loaded stringer. I was still working on those bass, hoping to land a few more before leaving.

From behind me came a muffled cracking sound. At first I paid no attention, but the sound continued, becoming louder and louder. I turned around and was amazed to see what was happening. The sand on which I was standing was slowly sliding away from solid ground 30 or so feet away. Sensing the peril I was facing, I dropped my rod and abandoned my gear. I began to run as fast as I could.

The crescendo of noise continued. As I ran, the earth beneath me was JUNE 1970 falling. Foot by foot, the sand slowly slumped from the bank. It took me only seconds to cover the 10 or 15 yards to the break-off, but already the firm ground was at shoulder height. I scrambled up and slid over the top. I turned just as the entire area where I had been fishing completely caved in.

Squatting at the edge, I waited for the finale. As the sand sank, water from the pit poured over it. As if in a huge kettle, the water began to boil. Bubbling and hissing, it churned and swirled. A vast cloud of dust formed over the entire area. Sand filled the air as in an explosion.

For nearly a half hour I sat there, watching the dust slowly settle and move away. The air was absolutely still and the sun bore down on me as I pondered what had happened. Had I not made that sudden move, I would probably have been drawn under by the sudden suction of sand and water, and been with my gear somewhere at the bottom of the pit.

I lost a few things that day, but I gained a lot more. My brand new flyrod was gone, as well as the rest of my tackle. But in their place I had gained some maturity and wisdom. I would value life a little more in the years ahead. Every once in a while I think about that hot summer day in 1940 and get a little bit of a "sinking" feeling. THE END

Peru State College

JUST A FEW months after Nebraska became a state, Peru State College, then called the Nebraska State Normal School, opened its doors as Nebraska's first state-supported college. To honor the state's oldest institution of higher education, a State Historical Marker has been erected on the campus by the Historical Land Mark Council, since absorbed by the State Historical Society.

Nestled in the gently-rolling, oak-studded hills of Nemaha County on the outskirts of Peru, the cornerstone for the college was laid in the spring of 1866. It was a combination Methodist church and school, christened as Mount Vernon Seminary. The building was only partially completed when the college opened for business, and its one-man faculty, J. M. McKenzie, greeted 36 students.

Soon, however, the church and local residents, who had contributed to the college, clashed on how the school should be operated. McKenzie foresaw the fall of the neophyte college and decided to try for the establishment of a normal school, supported by the state when statehood came.

McKenzie's premonition proved correct and his efforts, combined with those of the newly-elected Nemaha County legislators, won out. The first State Legislature authorized the location, establishment, and endowment of a State Normal School.

During the first year, McKenzie and his wife were the only instructors, with an enrollment of 71. The next fall the faculty was increased 50 percent with the addition of an art and music teacher.

In November 1870, McKenzie was elected State Superintendent of Public Instruction and left Peru State. However, a firm foundation built during his four years of leadership awaited his successor.

During its first 100 years the school had 4 official names. It kept its original name of Nebraska State Normal School until 1921 when authorization from the legislature granted bachelor's degrees in education and a change from a two-year to a four-year curriculum. The school then became Peru State Teachers College. In 1949, the granting of the liberal arts degree brought along with it the name Nebraska State Teachers College at Peru. The last change came in 1963 when a drive for individuality and a recognition of common usage changed the name to Peru State College.

A dormitory and glass-walled student center now share the site of the original Mount Vernon Hall. The once fledgling campus now stretches over a hundred acres dotted with 20 modern-day academic structures, and a thousand stately oak trees. The 1969 enrollment reached 1,263. The college looks to the future with dedication and determination characterized by its past in serving Nebraska.

JUNE 1970

SPEAK UP

(Continued from page 7)

that, at present, they have just about run out of projects — and necessity is the mother of invention. In short, they need something to keep going on and to justify the setup they have in Omaha.

"The estimated cost of $495 million would undoubtedly represent a final cost of three-fourths of a billion dollars. The engineers never built anything in their lives that did not run way over the original estimate. As you say, this would be a lot of lake, but this also is a lot of money. This would probably be 90 percent boating as far as recreation is concerned. I can't, for many reasons, see it as much of a fishing lake. Most projects have other values to justify most of the cost. As I understand it, electric power or irrigation do not enter the picture. Solely as a flood-control project, smaller dams on tributaries would be more practical at a fraction of the cost." — Emil F. Leypoldt, Lincoln.

This article was written before concrete plans for building the Platte River Dam were approved. The Corps of Engineers has since laid these plans aside to further study a proposal that dams be built on Platte River tributaries farther upstream. -Editor.

MORE ON THE 1733-"I read the Speak Up about the 1733 Ranch near Kearney in NEBRASKAland last June. There was a sign there at one time, but I haven't seen it in recent years. Here is a picture

of the sign with my husband and me when we were attending Kearney Teachers College in 1921." — Mrs. Anna L. Thompson, North Platte.

See story on 1733 in July issue.— Editor

CREELING A "STIRK"-"This incident occurred some 40 years ago when my father and a friend, named Bill, were fishing the Cumberland Derwent near Isel in northwestern England.

"After reaching the river, the two agreed that dad would fish the first pool while Bill went through the gate to the next field. There was a herd of young stirks* grazing in dad's field and they could see only part of dad.

"The beasts were puzzled to know what on earth was going on as dad kept raising his arm to make the casts. Curiosity got the better of them until one got too close and was hooked in the tail by dad's back cast. As soon as it felt the prick of the hook it took off like a streak of lightning.

"Bill couldn't see what was going on, but he heard the reel screeching as the

stirk pounded away. He thought, 'Sounds like he has hooked a big one. I had better go and see if he needs some help.'

"Imagine his surprise when he got to the gate and saw dad in midfield, his rod held high, chasing the stirk. Between them they got the beast cornered.

"Whenever the two men get together and talk over the good old days, the incident is sure to come up."—Miss A. E. Moore, Blennerhasset, Carlisle, Cumberland, England.

*Stirk is "British" for steer. — Editor

NEBRASKA ODE by Mignon A. Greenwood Brush, Colorado Oh State of Nebraska, Where buffalo have roamed, Once known as a prairie The Indians called home. Then came the white settler To farm the rich land Build railroads and cities Forever to stand. Oh State of Nebraska What secrets you hold. Of hardships and struggles Of pioneers bold. Their dream for the future 'That when they were old A state would be thriving A prize to behold' Oh State of Nebraska Our Queen and our King. From Spring on through Winter Your praises we sing. From schools and from churches Your name ever ring, And ever we'll labor Your laurels to bring. You're a star in Old Glory Forever to shine And light up your part Of the blue so divine. We gather so gladly Our strength to combine, And stand, Oh Nebraska As true sons of thine. 13

14

ELECTRIC FILLETING

Here's a better, simpler way to clean fish—and without the mess

by Steve Olson

RARE IS THE fisherman who doesn't enjoy a day afield, whether it be on lake, pond, or stream. Equally rare is the man who, upon returning home, thoroughly enjoys cleaning a mess of fish. A few lucky souls can delegate such cleaning duties to a well-trained spouse or offspring. But, most anglers resign themselves to the task. And, completion of the chore usually finds them scale-covered and muttering something about "a better way".

There is a better way —filleting. Often considered a difficult process to learn, known only to professional fishing guides, the procedure actually is relatively simple and can be mastered by anyone.

To fillet means simply to cut the strip of meat off both sides of a fish, leaving bones, innards, and skin intact, to be discarded. This eliminates the necessity of scaling and gutting, plus cutting time and mess to a minimum. The filleting knife, with its long, thin, flexible blade, has long been part of the serious fisherman's gear. However, the new electric knife makes the cleaning process easier yet.

Filleting may be done on any clean, flat surface. Begin by making a cut from the back to the belly, directly behind the pectoral fin. Depth of cut will vary with the size of the fish. Cut to the backbone, but not through it. Just before reaching the backbone, ease the knife into a horizontal position and continue cutting toward the tail, still using caution not to cut through the backbone. Stop cutting just before reaching the tail. The fleshy side of the fish will now be free, with the exception of the flap of skin holding it at the tail. Flip the fillet over, meat-side up, and insert the knife between the skin and flesh. Work the knife along between the meat and the skin until the meat is completely free. The result is a fillet containing only a few rib bones which can be easily trimmed out. Cleaning is completed by repeating the process on the other side of the fish.

The first few attempts may result in thin fillets with considerable meat left on the bones and skin. However, with practice, little meat will be wasted. After a couple of trial runs, cleaning a pan-size fish can be completed in less than a minute with minimum mess. The boneless fillets may be either pan-fried or cut into strips, dipped in pancake batter, and deep-fat fried. Either way, you'll find any fish more welcome at the table without any bones. THE END

NEBRASKAland JUNE 1970 15

THE CHANGING FACE OF CONSERVATION

Compromise has sold down the river pure water, clean air, and wild creatures, threatening the quality of existence

by Wendell Bever

I AM an angry man! I've had 25 years to build a full head of steam. I detest the word "compromise" with a passion. We've used the word as a vehicle to sell wildlife down the river.

Tell me, how do we compromise pure water, clean air and wild creatures?

I am impatient! Impatient with conservation lip service, impatient with the attitude, "Let's wait till next year," and impatient with laws that provide the authority but no teeth or funds.

I am irritated. Irritated with just plain people who stand to gain or lose the most.

We have a problem. Take a look!

Oklahoma is losing 100,000-plus bob white quail each year and South Dakota is trying desperately to shore up a sagging pheasant population. In Saskatchewan and the north-central states, the ability of the prairie marshes to produce ducks decreases about 80,000 birds each year.

In Wyoming and Montana, antelope show a precarious trend and may be living on borrowed time. South Dakota's pheasant population once numbered a whopping thirteen million birds and today, about three million.

Pesticides, herbicides, bulldozers, plowshares, drainage ditches, reservoirs and even such things as woven wire fences are playing havoc upon our wild environments.

Some of the best saltwater ecologists in the country tell us the Mississippi River drains the chemically polluted waters of thousands of tributaries into the gulf. Here many of the more stable chemical compounds threaten to (Continued on page 52)

JUNE 1970 17

KING OF THE MOUNTAIN

For hurler Bob Gibson, practice, prowess are keys to throne

by Warren Spencer

TO THE MILLIONS of people who throng to baseball stadiums across the nation each year, the knoll in the middle of the diamond is simply the pitcher's mound. To Omaha's Bob Gibson, right-handed hurler for the St. Louis Cardinals, it is a mountain. And. he has taken up at least semi-permanent residence as king of that mountain. With each roar of the crowd and wink of scoreboard lights, Gibson entrenches himself that much deeper as an absolute monarch in a domain he knows best —baseball.

Things have not always been so bright for Gibson, however. What promised to be little more than a mediocre life began for Bob on November 9, 1935, in what he calls the ghetto of Nebraska's first city — Omaha's North Side. Bob never knew his father, Pack, a mill worker who died of pneumonia a month before the boy was born. But he did know his six brothers and sisters, one of whom was to have a profound and guiding influence on his life in sports. Things were tight. Victoria Gibson, Bob's mother, spent long hours working in a laundry to provide a life for herself and her children. But, at best, poverty was the name of the first game he played. Bob recalls wearing a hand-me-down coat for three or four years, until there were too many holes in it to patch anymore. And, he remembers that when he wore holes in his shoes, he'd stuff in cardboard to keep water from seeping through when it rained.

Things were bad, true, but poverty may have been the making of Bob Gibson. He recalls not having enough money for many of the diversions other kids had. So, he and his playmates had to resort to the amusement they found in sports, the kind they could play in the street or on neighborhood playgrounds. Baseball and basketball were at the head of the list. Gibson remembers playing baseball from the time he got up in the morning until he went to bed at night. Practice makes perfect, or so they say. And even at that early age, Bob was on his way, though he may not have known it at the time.

That he was working up to something became apparent a few years later when his brother Josh went to work for the YMCA in Omaha. Fifteen years Bob's senior, Josh worked with the kids in the Y, teaching them the baseball fundamentals he had known for years. The person he worked with most was Bob. Gibson remembered that his brother seemed to push him much harder than he did the other kids. In fact, he still carries a scar over his left eye which he picked up when a brother-batted ball took a bad hop and caught him in the head. Still, young Gibson couldn't stay away, going back for more and more work, probably realizing that the technique he was learning by heart would pay off later —in cold, hard cash.

High school days at Omaha's Technical High were a bit of a surprise for Bob, however. Sure of his athletic talents, he tried out for the football team only to be rejected because the coach said he was too small. Still 18 short of 5 feet, he weighed in at only 90 pounds. Bitterness and disappointment were natural for a kid that age, but there was solace in the fact that his favorite games, baseball and basketball, were still ahead. Irony struck again, however, when he showed up a day late for baseball tryouts in his junior year. Gibson remembers the coach running him out of the fieldhouse, telling him to join the YMCA team if he wanted to play ball. That was mistake No. 1.

Josh Gibson coached the Y team and Bob remembers that when they reached the city championships that year his team beat the pants off another, coached by that same high school coach.

But time was running out in high school. He rejected an offer to play semi-professional ball for the Kansas City Monarchs in the Negro league. It was time to start looking for a college to attend. With plenty of ability in both baseball and basketball, but little or no money, Bob sat back to wait for athletic scholarships to pour in. They didn't. Instead, he just managed to snag a scholarship at Creighton University in Omaha on the last go-around. His was a basketball ride, and Gibson admits to having the impression all he had to do was play ball, and do it well, to get through school. While that may have been true at some schools, the priests at the Jesuit college had the old-fashioned idea that schools were meant for studying. Low grades and the hot breath of expulsion on the back of his neck were the result. Basketball remained almost an obsession, however. And Bob took advantage of it. He had to remain scholastically eligible to play, and that meant study. Booking to stay alive brought his grades up and put sports on top again. He still gives the game a lot of credit for keeping him in college. Still, school didn't set all that well with him.

Basketball was his game, but baseball was gaining. Still, when the Harlem Globetrotters appeared in Omaha in 1957, he was asked to play on the All-Star team against them. And, though it wasn't in the script, the All Stars won. The result was a contract offer to Gibson if he would finish that tour with the Globetrotters. He was still in school, however, and declined. But he left the door open for a spot after school. Newly married to Charline, a girl he met through his brother's secretary at the Y, the Globetrotter offer was not enough to make ends meet. And, though he felt basketball was his sport at the time, he also had a fair reputation on the baseball scene and was hoping for a contract. The offer came, but not as he expected it would.

The St. Louis Cardinals contacted him, but at a much lower salary than he had in mind. Dickering ensued and he finally came to terms with the club — with the understanding that he could play for the Globetrotters during the off season.

Baseball meant Omaha for Gibson, with the exception of a month in Columbus, Georgia. He went into the "Triple A" American (Continued on page 55)

NEBRASKAland

A Country Kind of Summer

In this languid season, time is marked only by the number of stacks yet to be put up

by Marcia Greer

WHITE BUILDINGS and board fences gleam against a backdrop of stately cedars and shimmering cottonwoods and are surrounded, by lush, emerald meadows.

The farther gray-green hills are sprinkled with sleek, red-and-white cattle, and impatient calves butt their mothers7 sides in pursuit of breakfast. A bucket clanks down by the barn and mewing cats converge on the steamy milk poured for them. A sun-bronzed rancher stands in the shadowed barn door with his foaming pail and watches as the warming sun begins to hum away the morning mist that lies low against the meadow. Milk cows tread a single path out into the sunshine, wet grass slapping their legs, their coats stirred softly by the early breeze. Indelible memories of morning magic are stamped on the mind.

The temperature climbs with the sun toward noon, and a dying wind summons hundreds of humming insects, driving cattle knee-deep into the sloughs. They stand mirrored in the welcome coolness, languidly chewing their cuds and steadily switching flies.

This idyllic spot in my daydreams is a cattle ranch in Nebraska's Sand Hills— our home. It's been said, that God made memory so we might have roses in December. So it is that we go about in summer storing away memories, much as we put up a bountiful harvest against harsher seasons ahead. I We hardly notice as days slip by, except to wonder at their (Continued on page 62)

CATS in the CEDAR

Record 13 inches of rain and flooding smashed the river. Still, my fishing urge reached a fever pitch

by Don Mahoney 22

NEWS USUALLY TRAVELS fast. But it was 5 days after 13 inches of rain fell on my hometown of Cedar Rapids before the news reached me in Wisconsin. The heaviest rain in the history of the Cedar Valley raised the water level on the Cedar River 18 feet, washing out or damaging most of the bridges in Boone County. For two days in mid-August, the river cut across fences, farmlands, and highways. When it returned to normal, it left three-foot sandbars across highways and fields, and had washed out several small lakes and gravel pits. New channels left several miles of riverbed dry.

The appearance of the river was greatly changed. Normally, Cedar River is a small stream running from north-central Nebraska to empty into the North Loup River at Fullerton. The sand and mud-bottomed river was 20 to 60 yards wide and, before the flood, averaged about 3 feet deep, with 6-foot holes a rarity. The flood seemed to have washed a canyon down the middle of the river. In many places the river almost stopped its flow, and stretches of river 10 feet deep could be found, plus a scenic waterfall.

My curiosity in seeing these natural atrocities matched my dread at seeing the damage when I returned NEBRASKAland

home from my summer job. I planned on fishing, but now it seemed completely senseless. Still, once fishing fever has taken hold of a man, it never leaves. Instead, it surfaces at the sight of every fishable body of water. So it happened that the day after my homecoming August 23, some 10 days after the record rainfall, I was along the river, fishing pole in hand and ready for action.

I was having amazing luck, considering I was fishing a small river that had gone back into its banks only a week before. Catching 10-inch catfish was a snap. A few 20-inchers also found their way onto my stringer. Returning the next evening, the action was just about the same and again I took home several 12-to-18 inchers, and one 26-incher weighed about 4 pounds. Now fishing fever really had me. The third night, I was back on the river, this time in a new spot.

The first of two lines was in the water. The second wasn't even baited when, with a sudden splash, a big cat broke water right in front of me. A short, but furious battle taught an 8-pound catfish that a 40-pound-test line can have a lot of sting. Before that night was over, another nine-pound catfish succumbed to the same line. Several much smaller cats put up a good JUNE 1970 fight on my six-pound-test line on a small spinning rod. If fish have emotions, I am sure they were not the same as mine when I returned home that night, for I slipped into sleep with high spirits.

The sun rose next morning on a clear, calm, and warm late-summer day. A day never dragged so long before. And, fishing again had to be put off until evening. That night the river bank again became a stomping ground for fishermen, this time for many more, as communications were back to normal and news of eight-pound catfish sends most small-river fishermen scurrying for their rods.

The fish did not disappoint us. We soon had many small cats, and before too long a three-pounder. For a while it was hard to tell who was coming out ahead, the river or the fishermen. For every fish caught, at least one line became snagged or broken. The odds, of course, were uneven, as the river had darkness and half-submerged trees on its side. The fishermen had the additional handicap of fishing from a 15-foot bank. After a while, either the fishermen or the river grew tired, for a lull set in. But not for long. The six-pound test on my spinning rod began to twitch, slowly slackening and tightening (Continued on page 59)

23

MARCH OF THE FLOWERS

In step with the season, wildflowers move across the land. They bear arms of greenery and carry shields of color

Photographs by Lou Ell and Steve Kohler

AS SHOUTING KIDS explode from schools to trample dirt lots and grassy fields, a quieter kind of rebellion is taking place. In undisturbed areas of NEBRASKAland, a host of tiny comrades proclaims its presence with waving banners.

First to conquer winter's silent white, small green shoots unfurl their flags of delicate pastels. Flowering currants blow myriad golden trumpets to waken scores of sleepy-headed violets.

Woodlands are covered by phlox and rose mallow armies. Camouflaged or nearly hidden under leaves, among grasses, and behind every rock, they sight in on drab enemies. The last vestiges of winter snipe at them with cold accuracy. A late freeze withers them. Cool winds stay their march, holding their ranks in a protected line.

Waiting soldiers shuffle threateningly, a stray ray of sun flashing off modest medallions of color. Plum branches provide their braid, dandelions their brass. Little ball cactus provides purple medals of valor, and generals are marked by small pink stars of sorrel. Chokecherry blossoms make plumes for marching soldiers' hats.

Dutchman's breeches stand ready like an earth-bound air force. And woods roses are Trojan horses beckoning with their pink flowers and attacking with prickles.

As the army of tiny lancers marches through woods and across fields, rebellion spreads into trees and bushes where redbud and plum assail the nostrils with their dizzying fragrance. Watches are synchronized by JUNE 1970 warming south winds and each battalion of color has its function.

Tiny lavender violets are the spies of spring. They steal forward into the camp of winter, seeking news of retreat. Starting in the more protected river valleys and wooded areas, they flit from rock to rock, from tree to tree, barely showing themselves. In time, they make their report that spring has arrived.

The prolific phlox are escaped prisoners of war. They eluded cultivation. As these aliens wander winter's stronghold, they persuade the landscape to join their party. "Acres of the world, arise," they chant. "You have nothing to lose but your pallor."

While "foreign" flowers weaken the last of winter's holdings, the bloodroot and fawn lily coordinate a take-over of the woods. Rose mallow and veiny dock lead an attack on the fields. Mariposa lilies sound the charge on the west.

The death of cold heightens floral activity as their ranks infiltrate just-greening grasses. Like dozens of grenades, they explode into bloom.

Gradually, though, even these proven warriors must yield to superior forces as summer flowers take over their positions. As the blooms shrivel and die, they form fruits which will perpetuate their yearly battle. Again, come spring, pastel blossoms will spread throughout the plains, vanquishing winter's colorlessness, opening the way for summer's riotous color.

Again they will send out their spies to report on winter's slow retreat, again bluebells will ring out victory with their tiny tinkle. THE END

25   Soldiers shuffle threateningly, a stray ray of sun flashing off modest medals of color; plum provides braid, dandelions, brass; cactus are medallions of valor, and chokecherry are soldiers' plumes. Winter's white is the vanquished enemy 26 NEBRASKAland   Trees and shrubs join spring's rebellion and offer their variety of blossoms and buds to the season's arsenal of color. Serviceberry, plum, and redbud perform aerial maneuvers, while elms, bombers of the force, drop seeds across the field 28 NEBRASKAland JUNE 1970 29   Camouflaged in white, fields of evening primrose, bloodroot. spring beauty, and fawn lily steal up to the very ramparts of Cold. Like patches of nearly-melted snow they retreat into colder northern land, pursued by sweet pea and gromwell   32 NEBRASKAland Obeying commands of the season, mosses lead the attack on winter's fast retreating occupation. Spears of fresh green borne by Solomon's plumes are spring's weapons. The sorrels offer rocket bursts to brighten the field of battle, while ferns overwhelm all JUNE 1970 33

CORNSTALK CONSTABLES

Dedicated to proposition that all sportsmen are created equal, this 49-man, law-enforcement agency is guardian of wildlife. Incidents range from the macabre to the ridiculous

by Lowell Johnson

WHEN A CONSERVATION officer of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission dons his badge each morning, he has no way of knowing what he may face that day. That 1 1/4 x 2 1/4-inch piece of metal may bring weighty responsibility or rest lightly on the green uniform.

Each day holds something new for members of this 49-man, statewide, law-enforcement agency. So, instances range from the macabre to the titillating to the taciturn to the downright ridiculous, but they make the life of the "cornstalk constable" what it is.

During the spring spawning activity of northern pike in Mother's Lake in southwest Cherry County, there is a certain attraction for people to illegally spear and shoot the fish when they are in shallow water. Each year, a number of arrests are made. Many anglers attempt to dash away as the law closes in on them, and others step right into trouble. Officer Jack Henderson of Stapleton strolled up to the lake one evening in his "civvies" and was greeted by a man with a pitchfork. Thoroughly soaked from dashing around in the water trying to pinion pike with his fork, the fellow asked Henderson if he had seen anything of the two conservation officers who had been hanging around earlier. He should have asked if the conservation officers had seen him, but he learned that in court.

On his day off, Officer Elvin Zimmerman took his family fishing at Merritt Reservoir near Valentine, his home and duty station, to sample the trout action. He knew that trout eggs placed in a nylon mesh worked well as bait, so he and his wife started having success almost immediately. Two anglers from eastern Nebraska, fishing nearby, sauntered over, complaining bitterly that fishing was bad, and marveled at Zimmerman's luck. Partly to prove fishing was better than the two men thought, and partly to be helpful, the officer showed them his method and gave them the necessary materials. Within minutes, the two strangers began dragging in trout.

"They were only one fish short of their combined limits when I left, but I resisted the temptation to stick around to see if they would break the law," Zimmerman concluded.

During the 1961 firearm-deer season in western Nebraska, Officer Cecil Avey, Crawford, stopped along the road to talk with a hunter. "There are just no deer around here," the hapless fellow complained.

While they stood chatting, Avey watched a three-point buck amble out of the timber, nibble some branches, and lie down under a tree. Although the hunter was also looking in the deer's direction, he didn't see him. Waiting a few moments for a break in the conversation, Avey said, "Why don't you shoot that buck over there?"

At first the hunter thought he was being sarcastic, but finally was convinced when the exact spot was pointed out, only a couple of hundred yards away. He subsequently downed the buck, and drove off, happy as a kid on the first day of summer vacation.

Law violators can get into funny situations, although their offenses are serious business at the time. Officer 34

Raymond Frandsen of Sidney, patrolling southern Pawnee County in the fall of 1964, saw a hunter in the brush. Deciding to check his license, Frandsen walked over and spotted a second hunter, but not the first. Getting nearer, he saw the first hunter sprawled on the ground. The officer's first thought was that the man had suffered a heart attack, for both he and his shotgun were jammed down in four inches of snow. Although in his 70's, the gunner was perfectly healthy — he was just lying there because he didn't have a hunting permit and thought he was concealed. He wasn't.

Officer William Anderson of Lincoln was patrolling during pheasant season in 1962 when he saw a hunter carrying a rooster. Stopping the car to routinely check out the gunner, Anderson was surprised to see him make a dash for the safety of a cornfield. His escape was thwarted, however, when his britches got caught on the barbed-wire fence. An agonizing and painful few moments followed, then an arrest for not having a license and another "poacher" hopefully revised his hunting methods.

At the Two Rivers State Recreation Area, where alcoholic beverages are prohibited, Officer Bill Earnest, Riverdale, saw a couple fishing and sipping beside one of the lakes. He walked toward them and never saw them dispose of any containers, yet when he reached them, no beer was in sight. The woman was sitting innocently with her skirt spread out. After a few moments of idle conversation, the officer acted surprised and said, "Ma'am, I hope you're not afraid of snakes," and he gave a little jump.

"Where?" she shrieked, jumping up. As she moved, two six-packs of beer rolled from under her dress. All three were so tickled over the affair that Earnest doesn't even remember if he told them to get rid of the beer before he left.

Also at Two Rivers, while off duty and fishing like everyone else at the trout lake, Earnest heard an out-of-state angler complaining that Nebraska was a rotten state. He lauded his home state, but told everyone within earshot that hunting and fishing were terrible in Nebraska. After about two hours of this, he sidled up to Earnest and asked if he would like a few trout as he had over his limit. The officer replied, "Yes, in fact, I would like to have all of them!"

The law-breaker gave him an incredulous look, and the warden pulled out his credentials, announcing, "State conservation officer —you're under arrest for taking over your limit of trout."

Needless to say, there was no more haranguing about the culprit's home state, and nearby anglers seemed to enjoy the situation much more than he did.

During the 1968 grouse season, Officer Gerald Woodgate of Ord was patrolling in Garfield County and came upon a hawk in the road. Although a protected species, the hawk had been shot and its wings severed as souvenirs. Checking the area closely, Woodgate found a couple of Polaroid negatives, plainly showing four boys holding the hawk. After tracking the car to the highway where it turned east, the officer radioed a check station, alerting personnel to watch (Continued on page 54)

JUNE 1970 35

NEBRASKLAIand FESTIVAL OF COLOR PHOTO CONTEST

Start shooting and bag a prize. Open to all comers, pictures of state are must So, come snap your way to this fun-filled vacation

GRAB YOUR CAMERA and head for the action! NEBRASKAland Magazine announces its Festival of Color Photo Contest, designed to let you land a prize with a photograph that interprets Nebraska as you see it. The contest is open to everyone and anyone who can snap a shutter, excluding employees of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission and their immediate families.

Here are the rules:

1. All photographs must be taken within Nebraska's borders.

2. Entries must be in the following categories: A. NEBRASKAland Scenics. B. NEBRASKAland Wildlife. C. NEBRASKAland Events. D. NEBRASKAland Outdoor Recreation. E. NEBRASKAland's People.

3. Submissions may begin at once. The contest closes December 31, 1970. Winners will be announced in the March 1971, issue of NEBRASKAland.

4. Only color photographs will be accepted. These include: A. Original color transparencies 35mm or larger, from any color transparency film. B. Color prints of any size from any color negative film. Color negatives should not accompany entries, but must be available, on request, if the picture is chosen for publication.

5. Each picture must have a completed, official entry blank or facsimile attached. In addition, the complete name and address of the photographer must appear on either the slide mount or the back of the photograph.

6. NEBRASKAland Magazine shall be granted publication rights to any photograph submitted in the contest. Such publication will carry the photographer's by-line, but no other compensation. Publication of a photograph prior to contest closing does not indicate it 36

NEBRASKAland will be selected as a prize winner in the final judging. Nor will publication exclude the photograph from final judging. As many entries as quality and available magazine space permit will be printed monthly.

7. All entries, except final prize-winners, remain the property of the photographer. They will be returned at the close of the contest, provided a stamped, self-addressed envelope accompanies the entry.

8. Winning entries become the property of NEBRASKAland Magazine.

9. Entries will be judged by members of NEBRASKAland's Art and Photographic staffs. All decisions will be final.

10. The Grand-Prize winner will win a thrilling, 14-day, fly-drive vacation, touring scenic and historic NEBRASKAland for himself and his immediate family. First prize in each of the five categories will be a spring or fall weekend holiday at a Nebraska state park for himself and his family. Second prize in each category will be a bound volume of NEBRASKAland magazine, while third prizes will be two-year subscriptions to NEBRASKAland. For details see box at right.

To help you determine in which category to enter your pictures, we offer the following suggestions:

NEBRASKAland Scenics is the place for nearly any picture with the surface of the land as its center of interest. A vista of the Wildcat Hills, rolling farmlands, or the Omaha skyline at sunrise qualify.

NEBRASKAland Wildlife accepts every non-domestic creature that creeps, crawls, swims, runs, or flies. A photo of a column of ants, a prairie dog chomping on a dandelion, a duck springing from a pond will find a ready home in this category.

NEBRASKAland Events encompasses photos of action-packed interest at state and county fairs, festivals, and celebrations of all kinds. Don't forget the dozens of rodeos all over the state.

NEBRASKAland Outdoor Recreation refers to hunting, fishing, scuba diving, waterskiing, hiking, trail riding, camping, and any other activity that makes use of the outdoors.

JUNE 1970 GRAND PRIZE

14 fascinating, fun-filled days touring scenic and historic NEBRASKAland for the grand champion and his or her immediate family. This "perfect" fly-drive vacation features:

a Frontier Airlines flight from that airline's terminal nearest winner's home to Omaha, tour starting point, and back again at journey's end

two weeks' use of 1971 air-conditioned auto-mobile from Hertz Rent-A-Car of Omaha

lodging at Holiday Inns throughout NEBRASKAland

$500 expense money courtesy of BankAmericard

OTHER PRIZES

First place in each category wins an exciting spring or fall weekend holiday at the Nebraska state park of their choice for winners and their immediate families, including lodging, swimming, horseback riding, and other available park facilities.

Second places win handsome, bound volumes of 1970 NEBRASKAland Magazine—a $10 value.

Third places win free, 2-year subscriptions to NEBRASKAland Magazine —a $5 value.

37  

NEBRASKAland's People includes ethnic groups in colorful native costumes, or character portraits of the different races that make up the state. A businessman at his desk or a rancher or farmer at his chores all fit this category.

Since this is a full-color contest, your pictures will need a certain amount of technical excellence. Proper exposure, sharp images, pleasing compositions, and dramatic use of color all help to put your ideas across in a forceful, attention-getting way.

Camera movement may ruin what could be a fine picture. So, wherever possible, the camera should be braced against a solid object —a tree, the corner of a building, or the hood of a car. If no steadying object is handy, brace your elbows against your sides, hold your breath, and squeeze the shutter release as gently as possible. A tripod is fine insurance against camera movement but it isn't necessary for a clear photograph.

Just to prove that some rules were made to be broken, there are times when deliberate camera movement can be the salvation of a picture. When fast-moving subjects such as rodeo, sportscar racing, or a speeding waterskiier are involved, people who own simple cameras with fixed shutter speeds are often disappointed because moving subjects are badly blurred against a relatively sharp background. One way to cope with the problem is to swing the camera with the subject, keeping it centered in the finder, and, while following through in this manner, tripping the shutter. The background blurs out, while the subject remains relatively sharp. Surprisingly, the effect of speed is actually captured in the picture.

An overexposed color picture looks weak and anemic because too much light struck the film. Underexposed pictures appear muddy and dark because of too little light. Unless variable exposure was used to produce a special effect, any pictures showing these faults are not likely to be examined very closely by the judges.

Use of color is important too. A touch of red somewhere in a color picture adds a certain spark of excitement, even though other hues are present in quantity. However, gaudy or flamboyant color is not necessarily pleasing color. Rainbow brilliance is perfectly at home in pictures of the midway at the State Fair, but the mood of a misty morning on the Platte River would better be pictured in soft, muted tones of blues and greens.

Composition applies to the visual unity of your picture. Place your subject in the frame so the eye finds it instantly. This applies whether your subject is a bold one like Chimney Rock, or something less imposing. Walk around your subject, study the different angles and lighting effects in the camera finder. Look at it from ground level and from an elevation. Examine the effect at close range and then back away. Settle on the camera placement that presents the subject at its best. Then trip the shutter.

Watch backgrounds when you are working with a subject quite close to the camera. Usually, the less cluttered the background, the stronger the image becomes. Unless background objects add something to the story-telling value of the picture, they are best eliminated by changing camera angles. Except in rare instances, you can do without telephone or electric wires cutting across the sky or going through someone's head, or the church steeple that appears to grow out of someone's head.

Few good photographs are made by accident or by poking the camera out of a car window and snapping 38

NEBRASKAland JUNE 1940 whatever happens to lie beyond. Most good contest pictures will be the result of your giving some thought to what you want the photograph to tell.

In most scenic photos, it is desirable to include a figure to give scale to the mass. Normally, the figure should be far enough away to be quite small, since if it is too close, it competes with the scenery for attention, and you have something that is neither scene nor portrait. Let the figure be busy with something, not standing with his eyes fixed on the camera. You want him to appear unaware that there is a camera within a dozen miles. This tip, incidentally, applies to 99% of all photos of people. Any action appropriate to the subject being photographed adds interest and improves the chance the picture will be considered in the final judging.

Even though you adhere to contest rules and stick to the hints on how to make a reasonably uncluttered picture, you may still wonder which ones will stand the best chance of placing high in the contest. The judges will be looking for those that, through accident or design, awaken some positive reaction in the mind of the viewer. If the beauty and feel of wideflung spaces in NEBRASKAland are effectively presented in your scenics, if dignity and pride and joy of life are apparent in the faces of your people of NEBRASKAland, the pictures cannot help but be looked at a second time.

So, show us a laughing teenager having fun in the swimming pool at Ponca State Park, the pounding waves of McConaughy, or the rush of a startled deer heading for cover. Show us the beauty of your farmstead at sunset on a winter day, the flashing color of a powwow at Winnebago, or the tense features of a 4-rTer as his calf is being judged at the State Fair. Show us the wild action of a cowboy astride a brahma bull at a Burwell rodeo, a hunter and his dog working an autumn-frosted canyon, the bustle of an industry, or the quiet of an isolated town. All of these are worthy photographic subjects. And, within the fabric of NEBRASKAland there are countless others.

So, study the contest rules again. Then, start the entries pouring in. The judges are waiting. THE END

OFFICIAL ENTRY BLANK NEBRASKAland Photo Contest State Capitol Lincoln, Nebraska 68509 Name Street City State Zip Code Number in Family Category Where Taken Camera Used F/stop Shutter Speed This photograph is submitted with the understanding I agree to be bound by the rules of the NEBRASKAland Color Photo Contest as published in NEBRASKAland Magazine. For additional entry blanks use above information or write NEBRASKAland Photo Contest, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska 68509. Signed. 39

VIZSLA-POINTER SHOWDOWN

Idle banquet chatter leads to Fairbury match where issue is decided on hunt

by Steve Kohler

THE TAN COAT of the vizsla blended into the dry December grass. We followed the dogs as they worked in and out of a small draw, thick with plum brush and elm, where the flashy white of the second member of our dog duo, a big spotted English pointer, was a contrast to the brown surroundings. As he emerged near the head of the gully he was joined by the vizsla on the grass-covered hill running up from the draw.

Seeing the dogs on the hill, we were convinced that the quail were somewhere else than in the draw so we hurried toward the end of the brush. Joe LaBass and I were on the left side of the cover, and farther back on the right were Jack Kenney and Clayton "Bud" Berggren.

Suddenly, quail were erupting from the edge of the brush between us and the dogs as a covey flushed wild. A gun boomed to the right when the birds rocketed over the brow of the hill. Two birds, late on the takeoff, were targets for Joe. I could tell he was shook as he fired wildly at the first bird disappearing over the hill, then whirled and sent another charge from his 12-gauge after the second one as it zoomed back down the gully. He didn't touch a feather. Since I had elected to carry a camera instead of a gun, all I could do was watch.

"Did you guys get one over there?" yelled Joe. "They sure surprised me." "Yeah, me, too," chimed in Jack as he and Bud appeared on our side of the brush. "I didn't stand a chance with the one I shot at."

Bud called in Spike, his eight-year-old English pointer, commenting, "I don't think those birds were coveyed up yet. They were all scattered out when they took off."

Bud, a city electrician in Hebron, told us earlier that he hadn't hunted that year without getting a limit of quail. We figured he knew his hunting.

"They may have just returned from feeding and flown directly into here. NEBRASKAland As calm as it is today, the dogs could pass quite close without getting a whiff of them," Jack ventured.

Jack, who had just delivered a baby before our hunt, is a doctor in Fairbury. He was the host for our dog match on the Little Blue River near Fairbury, and owner of Beau, a three-year-old vizsla.

"There's a milo field over the hill where they could have been feeding," added Joe, our official guide and impartial contest judge.

Joe's job as county supervisor for the Farmers Home Administration puts him in close contact with farmers and their land, so he was a natural as a guide. He had also lined up Bud and his pointer, Spike, to hunt with Jack's Beau.

"I saw about a half dozen of those birds fly back up by that field," Joe continued. "Let's go see if we can find them."

That was the slow start of a rather unusual quail hunt that began about 200 miles from where we were standing. The idea was born in Broken Bow during the Annual One-Box Pheasant Hunt.

As part of my job as a photographer with the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, I was there covering the one-box hunt for NEBRASKAland. At the awards banquet I was talking to some of the shooters on the Nebraska team. Among them was Jack Kenney, and naturally the talk was about hunting.

As the conversation progressed, Jack made some statements like: "We have the best quail shooting in the state," and "Why don't you come down to Fairbury and I'll show you a real quail hunt."

The conversation shifted to hunting dogs, and everyone agreed that a pointer or setter was the only breed to really hunt quail with. Everyone, that is, except Jack. He said, "I have a vizsla that is all the quail dog I need."

Jack's declaration had raised some controversy in the group, especially since the vizsla breed was relatively JUNE 1970 new to Nebraska and not well known as a quail dog.

I don't know if Jack made any converts that night, but he started me thinking about a possible story for NEBRASKAland - a match between a traditional quail dog — a pointer — and Jack's vizsla. Jack agreed to the match, but it was the following year before I arrived in Fairbury to hunt.

It was 10:30 a.m. as we drove northwest from Fairbury. Jack explained why we were getting such a late start. "Usually, about 8 a.m. the birds head for milo or corn fields to feed, and when they're done they head back for the heavy cover along the river or in fencerows. We want to be sure they're back."

Joe stopped the car about a half mile from the river and we let the dogs out. Within five minutes we were surprised by the covey that flushed wild.

Now we approached the milo field in a loose line with the dogs bounding ahead. Expecting some action at the edge of the field, we were disappointed when the dogs broke into the open without a point. Jack returned my what-the-heck-is-wrong look with a shrug of his shoulders. Then I almost stepped on a tight-holding quail that exploded in my face and headed over the milo field. My "There goes one" was punctuated by a blast from Jack's 20-gauge automatic as he collected the first bird of the day.

No sooner had Beau completed a perfect retrieve than another nervous bird whirred out beside Joe. This time our tall guide calmly dropped his target with one shot.

"The dogs aren't getting the scent," called Bud as he took Joe's quail from Spike. "I can't figure it out, unless it's just too dry this morning."

We looked in vain for the other birds we knew should be there. Then Joe suggested we head for heavy cover down by the river. I couldn't resist a detour past the car to pick up my shotgun. Slinging my camera around my neck, I turned the polychoke on my 12-gauge pump to "improved" and hurried to catch up.

We worked a wide strip of cover sandwiched between the river and a cut milo field. Jack mumbled, "I hope the scenting is better down here," as he followed Beau along the fencerow.

Then his tone became excited as the tempo of the vizsla's tail wagging increased. "Beau is on to something! Watch out!"

Beau locked into a point and we closed in. When the covey flushed, two birds shot across the milo. I managed to drop one and was swinging on the other when it fell to a blast of 7 1/2's from Joe, who collected his second bird. Jack also scored his second.

There were about 15 birds in the covey and they went only about 100 yards up the fence row before putting in again. Both dog contestants put in some fine work as the vizsla, then the pointer, zeroed in on singles. One fell to Jack and another to Bud, who broke into the scoring column.

As Joe shoved a shell into his gun he said, "I think we had better let up on this covey. It's a small one, and I like to leave at least 10 birds so they can build back up next year."

As if they understood, the dogs immediately left the fencerow and headed into thicker brush and trees near the river. They hadn't gone 50 yards when Spike coasted to a stop. Beau swung around and locked in. It was some picture, the two dogs frozen on point while Bud and Jack approached. Unfortunately, Joe and I were still crossing the fence when the covey busted out toward the river. Bud made a nice double, but Jack drew a blank when the bird he picked took advantage of a convenient tree trunk.

It was a big covey, about 25 or 30 birds, and when we began finding the singles, the action really started. Bud was first to score when Spike made a striking point right at the edge of the river bank. The bird was under the cut of the bank, almost in the water, (Continued on page 64)

41

Portraits of the Past

THIS MONTH, NEBRASKAland presents the second and final selection of American Indian portraits, courtesy of Rinehart-Marsden Studio in Omaha.

The product of F. A. Rinehart, early Omaha photographer, the photographs are again accompanied by Indian poetry by Frank V. Love of the First Reformed Church of the Omaha Indian Mission at Macy.

Like those appearing in the May issue of NEBRASKAland, these photographs, too, were taken at the Trans-Mississippi and International Exposition, held in Omaha in 1898.

NAMES Standing Soldier Eagle Chief Red Sleeve Black Hawk These names beat Brown Smith and Jones all to heck WAR PAINT AND CHRIST My lance silent My arrows for play My ways are turning The white flood has come The old prophets told us The ears of many were closed He spoke to me He called me son He said come and eat Now I feel good Never more hungry No more sad, no fighting THE RED MAN'S BURDEN When foreign shores knew chaos Hiawatha taught democracy When mercenaries killed foe and friend Black Hawk forbade Englishmen to torture prisoners When a white captain would have died Pocahontas risked her life to save his When Lewis & Clark headed West, Sacajawea with her babe led the way When Custer's pride overruled reason Sitting Bull replied at the Little Big Horn When Ishmael could find no friend among his own Queequeg became his bedfellow and redeemer When men, women, and children starved at Plymouth Massosoit and Samoset brought corn and meat When the great curtain of time is pulled back and all is made known what burden will you bear? 42 GOOD MEDICINE Somewhere way off There is the great Buffalo Spirit He makes my arrow true My heart strong My mind clear My people clean When I stand up in my tepee The cedar smoke is sweet This is good medicine A FADING LEAF The leaves are falling again Soon frost will cling in their place Across the street, Harry Huiswaard Will be raking leaves and counting Harry doesn't talk much about religion, Just the leaves and the weather The leaves are old now, so they fall Harry is not young, only seventy-seven Soon the leaves will be gone Harry, too, will no longer lift the rake Where will Harry go... Leaves, leaves, and more leaves HOMEWARD Man! God....... I hate to go home this time. When I hit the Reservation line My lips wont hold their shape The old tears will start to flow And see the trees around the yard and all the familiar things I know My family and all our friends standing around Dont know what to say... Dont know what to do... Man, I hate to say good-bye It just wont be the same anymore Please dont put 'em in the ground Just kinda hold it off awhile Man, I hate to come home this time FRIENDS If a man has many some that cry when you share the gift of your selfhood Then there must be enemies too Those that hang on you draining all you have Others merely using your usefulness to flood into an unweeded garden There are friends ...and then there are friends God give me the insight and gift to know the difference NEBRASKAland      

50 NEBRASKAland

Red Buffalo

Like a wild herd, fire stampeded across the prairie in 1910, leaving destruction in its path

By Faye Musil

RED BUFFALO, the Indians called it. And, in the spring of 1910, prairie fire swept across the plains leaving smoking, blackened crops, animals, and homes in its wake— all because one man preferred life as a loner,

Names have been lost in time, but western Nebraska legend has it that in the early years of this century a man we'll call Bill Springfield moved into the ranching country around Antelope Flats,60 miles north of the North Platte River — alone. His neighbors paid him a visit, to be friendly, and to warn him of an unwritten law in the Sand Hills, The "law" required a man to burn a firebreak only when his neighbors could help control it. Being a self-sufficient man, Bill snarled something like, "And what if I don't want any help?" His neighbors took the hint and left.

Spring wore into summer, and Bill built a house and a barn. He harvested hay and put it up. Then, to protect his investment, he began to plow trenches for a firebreak.

His protection consisted of two rings plowed around the house and barn, one ring inside the (Continued on page 62)

JUNE 1970 51

CHANGING FACE OF CONSERVATION

(Continued from page 17)

break the basic food chain necessary to maintain the gulf as one of the world's great natural fish traps.

Some say it's already beginning to happen. North America's largest cesspool, Lake Erie, is well known to all of us. Why not the gulf?

Most of us are acutely aware of the dangers of a poison when consumed by living creatures, but how many of us have ever stopped to consider the even greater threat —the changing of whole environments. A poisoned critter can get well, but destroy his home and nothing will save him —except a zoo!

We farm the land clean. We no longer tolerate the sunflower, the thistle or pigeon grass. With clean farming we create a new environment of hundreds of thousands of acres of single kinds of crops — perhaps wheat, corn, soybean or cotton. We create an ideal situation for that particular insect that specializes on certain types of crops.

Because the threat of damage is increased so profoundly we flood our fields with chemical sprays — sometimes once, sometimes eight to ten times a year. We keep the detrimental insect problem in hand, but along with it we destroy the beneficial insects.

The young of bobwhite quail or pheasants or grouse, simply cannot survive without the supercharged protein foods that insects alone can provide. Thus, even though we find only minute traces of an insecticide in the young bobwhite, he may ultimately die.

Insecticides and herbicides accomplish two things — they eliminate insect life at a critical time of year and they transform a habitat made up of many parts into a habitat made up of a single part.

Wildlife cannot survive in a single-purpose environment anymore than it can survive in your living room.

In Wyoming and other western states, chemical sprays are being used to convert hundreds of thousands of acres of sagebrush to prairie grasses —the death knell for antelope, sage grouse and even the mule deer.

In the Rocky Mountains a subtle change is in the making. From New Mexico to Canada, mule deer and elk are being subjected to the old squeeze play. In one mountain range after another, populations are beginning to level off, and some biologists are disturbed by the marked decline in ability of some former great game ranges to carry even a static population.

In the Rocky Mountains we plant productive old burns to pine, skipping the natural brushlands which normally follow. And we wind up with sawdust and 2 by 4s — but no game. Oklahoma annually plants 200,000 acres of native rangelands to Bermuda grass — the perfect formula for eliminating about 100,000 bobs each year.

Even the wily trout has a problem. In the Black Hills of Wyoming and South Dakota, 2,600 miles of trout stream have declined to less than 200. And in other states, dwindling stream flows give evidence of future problems.

As long as we raise more people, we work the lands harder — always trying to close the food gap — and we never will. In the meantime, Mister Bobwhite and his wild companions dwindle and dwindle until one day it's, "Do you remember the good old days when...?"

Mister Sportsman, we are in trouble. Do you know the culprit? The problem rides under the guise of "good conservation," the dollar sign and a booming population of people.

Don't hit the panic button! Not yet. Don't pressure your game department to restrict hunting and fishing seasons. This doesn't help. It actually compounds the problem by creating an illusion that by saving wildlife we've found a solution This kind of misconception just clouds the issue.

Look at the facts!

All of those wild birds, animals and fish are declining because of free use of pesticides, environmental pollution, clean farming, drainage and the manipulation of water. Even such things as forest management and the control of fire have in many instances created more wildlife problems than they help to solve.

Have we got problems? Hunters take a harvestable surplus which has almost no effect, other than beneficial, upon wildlife. It is true that some big game seasons are designed to reduce populations and this is necessary.

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Most range and forest management plans are designed to grow trees and grass — not wildlife. A hundred animals or a hundred fish, there is still a surplus to be harvested. Sportsmen should stop fighting ghosts and learn who the real enemies are.

Study the prairie state of South Dakota. Look at a good example of the problem.

Just a few years ago this state carried 300 pheasants per square mile within the better range. The population skid started in the 1940s and plunged to a low of about two million birds by 1966 — the lowest level in 30 years. The decline was classed as a public disaster.

What happened? Upheaval in the game department. Accusations and counter-accusations. Irate citizens, irate legislators. You name it, everything that could happen did happen.

You can't drop from thirteen million birds to two million without blaming somebody, even if it's the wrong man or animal. It just "ain't" done in our great society. But who to blame?

Since the game department was the handiest, they were raked over the coals just on general principles. Because the little red fox eats a pheasant once in a while, he got a good going over too. And, of course, the old standard —the cotton-picking hunting seasons were just too liberal.

Finally, after a long drawnout hassle, we came to the real culprit. And a feeble voice of the minority out of hundreds of thousands of sportsmen, tourist promoters and landowners suggested that, perhaps, clean farming with its multitude of chemical sprays just "might" be the problem.

Might be? Hell, it was the problem! It always has been! There are enough data and facts floating around to sink a battleship!

As director of a game department, it isn't easy to keep my composure when confronted with people who contaminate or change the environment with one hand and yell bloody murder about limits being too liberal or seasons too long on the other.

It's time we recognized that, all over the United States, with all kinds of wildlife, the clean, antiseptic, manicured and single-purpose environments — all under the guise of good wildlife conservation — are destroying wildlife ten times more efficiently than rifles or shotguns ever did.

In the U.S. we spent 20 years poisoning every prairie dog in sight. Then we scratched our collective heads wondering what happened to the black-footed ferret -a beautiful, lithe little animal that depends almost wholly on the prairie dog as its basic food source.

Can you live without food? Throughout much of Texas and north through the Dakotas to the Canadian line, programs are being designed by federal, as well as private interests, to change a varied habitat of shrubs, trees, forbs and grasses to pure waving stands of introduced and domestic grasses. It's a beautiful sight to a white-face cow but JUNE 1970 the death knell for antelope, deer and sage grouse.

Farther west, in our Rocky Mountains, old forest fire burns with their unsightly dead snags, nothing but grasses, choke-cherry, kinnikinnick and aspen glades offend the eyes of forest managers.

So, what do we do?

We bulldoze the dead trees littering the ground into neat windrows and we plant evergreens to speed up nature's processes. At the end of a few years a beautiful stand of pine develops — the chokecherry and aspen can no longer compete and they fade out of the picture.

From game range to pulpwood in a decade. Was it a good trade?

It's a simple function of economics. It's a sight easier to place a price on a board foot of pine than a cubic foot of water or a ruffed grouse.

We no longer manage "wild" forests, we farm them. In time, perhaps, we may even farm most game birds and animals. Perhaps the word "wildlife" will have little meaning in that future decade.

It's a well-documented fact that modern and scientific wildlife management, paid for by the hunters, has restored more wildlife than has ever been lost, but only in those areas where the habitat is suitable. Unfortunately, we are losing habitat a whale of a lot faster than we can adjust or find solutions.

Wildlife has always needed crusaders — people willing to stand up and be counted. It's so easy to say "a little bit of pollution or habitat destruction won't hurt." But remember, tens of thousands of "little bits" can add up to a catastrophe. Few people realize the tremendous effect upon the environment that man is intentionally causing. We no longer manage timber stands in our national forests. We literally farm them with tremendously efficient and sophisticated tools that can treat thousands of acres in a day. The true wild environment is fast disappearing and I dread to see its going.

The United States contains some two-thirds billion acres of public lands for the recreational use of its citizens. I've got a saddle horse and a pack mare and each year I see a little bit of these 770 million acres. A couple of years ago it was the Gila Wilderness area in southern New Mexico, and last year the Popo Agie River in the Wind River Range. And each year I find the land a little less wild.

Only in the most distant muskeg or lonely mountain ranges of northern Canada do we find the stillness and loveliness of the true untrammeled wilderness. The wild country is a symbol of man's earliest ancestry when he stepped from the pages of the past. What sportsman really wants to let go of this heritage?

We face a problem, friend. We can't afford to argue economic values and exchange a bobwhite with an acre of Bermuda grass. We simply cannot continue to compromise wildlife — again and again.

The list of species in trouble grows annually and the problem compounds itself. Is it because wildlife is not worth saving? If we accept the idea that we can't favorably equate a bobwhite with a pound of beef or a pheasant with a bushel of corn, then perhaps we are lost.

53   Travel the Safe Telescoping Trailer Way,

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TAKE A SPIN WHERE THE WEST BEGINS NEBRASKAland

The cure concerns a universal problem. It is not local but national in scope. It is deeply involved with a sky-rocketing human population, abroad as well as at home. As the world of people grows, the more we try to feed them and this means more intensive land-use at home.

If we are successful in keeping more people alive, then we must place greater and greater demands upon our basic resources to feed more people in the future. And this means less wildlife. We are fitting people into cities like sardines in a can and the general agreement is that "expansionism" is good for us.

Is it?

Are we really interested in quality existence? Are we on a runaway course of more and more people crammed into great compartmentalized colonies within artificial playgrounds?

Is wildlife becoming old-fashioned?

I don't know the answers but I do know this. All state game departments have competent people who know the problem and some of the answers. Give them your support. Don't be afraid to speak out. Honor yourself as an individual and give your identity a chance to be recognized.

You don't have to be a hunter or a fisherman. If you thrill to the song of a bird, exult in the beauty of the high and wild country or walk with God in the fields and forests, it's your battle too.

If wildlife means anything to you, get off your fanny. Join a state and national conservation organization. Work with your legislature and congressmen. Ask your department what you can do to help.

Don't be a spectator! Get down on the field and join the team. THE END

CORNSTALK CONSTABLES

(Continued from page 35)

for the four teenagers. The officer then went to the check station himself, and shortly afterward the four "suspects" stopped in. At first they denied their misdeed. But, confronted with the photo evidence, they confessed. The boy who shot the hawk was later fined $55 for the violation.

Not all violators are strangers to the officers, for some of them live in the same areas. One spring, long after the close of duck season, Officer John Schuckman, stationed at Crofton, heard shooting in a marsh and decided to investigate. There, crouching in the brush, clutching a smoking shotgun and a couple of ducks, was an acquaintance of the officer.

Upon seeing the law, the culprit choked, "Hi, John-I just had the urge to shoot a couple".

Heavy duck activity in the area was just more than he could resist, he explained, as he received the citation.

NEBRASKAland

One conscientious, dedicated turkey hunter related a story to Conservation Officer Cecil Avey, Crawford, which is fortunately far from typical, yet certainly has its humorous side. The hunter trailed a turkey through the timber along Cottonwood Valley in the Pine Ridge. But when the bird crossed a county road, two other hunters, driving their cars in opposite directions on the road, spotted the gobbler. Each jumped out and shot at the bird. Of course, both claimed the prize. Violently possessive, they both carried the bird back to the cars, their argument nearly ending in blows. While the first two were arguing, a third motorist-hunter happened by, stopped, and listened to the fracas. He inspected the bird closely, then discreetly carried the turkey to his car and drove away. Several minutes passed before the two combatants realized the bird was gone. Jumping into one car they gave chase, but too late. The original hunter, though disappointed at his own lack of success, felt it was more than offset by witnessing the whole affair.

On opening morning of the 1961 deer season, Officer Avey watched two hunters stalking the same deer along JUNE 1970 Soldier Creek, also in the Pine Ridge. As the four-point buck spooked across an open area, both riflemen fired and the deer crumpled. Since the hunters were unable to locate the animal, Avey joined them and pointed out the deer, where he saw it fall. A disagreement over ownership followed, but the officer finally convinced them to decide the matter by a toss of a coin. While the winner happily toted his buck off, the loser explained that earlier that morning he had assisted in another hunt and had lost that deer, too.

Departing, Avey got only a short distance up the road when he spotted a two-point buck less than 100 yards off the road. He backtracked to the hunter and brought him to the spot. But, the fellow was so flustered he lodged a round in his rifle chamber and spent about a minute pounding and jerking the action. The deer, however, simply stood watching the proceedings. Then, just as the hunter took aim, another rifleman across the creek shot the deer, dropping it in its tracks. Avey left the three-time loser to ponder his ill fortune, not knowing if he ever did score that season.

Many other situations are most notable for their unusualness. Take the officer who checked a couple for fishing permits and the woman had hers pinned to her bra.

"Bet you never saw one pinned there before," she told the officer. Then she explained that she had no pockets or purse and left her tackle box in the car. So, wanting to keep the permit with her, picked the most logical place-to her at least. She was right, for the officer hadn't seen that before, or since.

The life of a conservation officer is not all laughs, however. They participate in manhunts for escaped prisoners and other wanted persons. They are on call for civil disturbances or emergencies. They enforce traffic laws, render aid to sportsmen in the field, present programs and talks to many groups and organizations each year. They also patrol large territories, protecting wildlife from illegal hunting, watching for marijuana pickers, and otherwise enforce fish and game laws of the state. In what spare time they have left, they may teach gun safety to youngsters, be active members of local sportsmen's clubs, assist in various conservation projects, and, in most cases, lead everyday lives like other people.

But, until the time all people recognize the importance of all aspects of conservation, it will be necessary for officers to continue seeing that lawbreakers are brought to justice. THE END

Outdoor Calendar HUNTING Rabbits-Year-round, statewide. Varments-Year-round, statewide. State special-use areas are open to hunting in season the year-round unless otherwise posted or designated. FISHING All species-Hook and line, year-round, statewide Archery-Game fish, through November 30, sunrise to sunset. Nongame fish, year-round, sunrise to sunset. Hand Spearing- Nongame fish only, year-round, sunrise to sunset. Underwater powered Spearfishing - Nongame fish, year-round. STATE PARKS Nebraska's four major parks-Chadron, Niobrara, and Ponca, located near towns of the same names, and Fort Robinson State Park near Crawford-are open from May 15 through September 15 for recreational purposes. Ponca, Chadron, and Fort Robinson offer overnight accommodations and camping areas to hunters during the big-game and turkey seasons. Contact park superintendents for reservations. 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.

KING OF THE MOUNTAIN

(Continued from page 18)

Association farm team there as a pitcher-outfielder. The Cards didn't know what he could do, and frankly, neither did he, Bob recalled later. Luck was on his side, however, when his manager, Johnny Keane, took an interest in him and began to shape his career. By the end of the season, Gibson appeared in 8 games, pitched 43 innings, won 4, and lost 3. Then it was over, and he was Globetrotter property.

Gibson is quick to point out that he was never a star on the "Trotters". He clowned like the rest, but that was part of the game in Trotterland. Gibson knew pretty quickly that the Globetrotters were not for him. But he didn't let Bing Devine, the Cardinals' general manager, know that. The Cards were worried about Gibson playing basketball in the off season, and they told him so. The result was that they made up the difference in money he would make playing basketball and he quit to go into baseball full time.

That was 1958. And that spring, Bob received an invitation to spring training in St. Petersburg, Florida. Inflated with success, he headed south to what must have seemed certain stardom. As he remembered, however, he wasn't in Florida long enough (Continued on page 59)

55

Where to go

Buffalo City, Sand Hills Museum

YOU'RE NOT LIKELY to see a liquored-up cowpoke hurled through a plate glass window at the "Purple Sage" dancehall during your visit to Buffalo City, but those with vivid imaginations can certainly picture the incident clearly enough. That's how well the frontier town, now under construction, makes the Old West come alive. And, the whole fantasy is courtesy of two people, Mr. and Mrs. William Stites of Nebraska City.

Years of hard work and plenty of hard cash have gone into the making of this JUNE 1970 re-creation of Nebraska the way it was before the turn of the century. And, while the town may never attract big business in the form of factories, it will have a special appeal to thousands of NEBRASKAland visitors each year.

Located one mile east of U.S. Highway 73-75 about 6V2 miles south of Nebraska City, Buffalo City, as the Stites call their creation, may never be complete, however. They plan to continue building as long as there are memories to recreate. Nonetheless, there is plenty to enjoy right now.

The front section of a two-story hotel, complete with elaborate lobby, is just the first phase of an eventual magnificent hotel-restaurant. An old frontier adage was that Boot Hill held more citizens than many a town. Buffalo City is out to beat the odds with food in the early tradition, only better. And, while eating facilities are small now, there are plans to expand to satisfy a growing population of visitors. Future rooms will be leased just as in the hotels of old, although facilities will be a might better. Several other buildings around town will feature similar accommodations. Even the second floor of the bank building, which is being finished with bricks from the original Nebraska City foundry built in 1877, will have "rooms to let".

Next to the hotel, and just kitty-corner from the bank, the Purple Sage seems to await dust-dry cowpokes, dry from months on the range. A good share of it's realness comes from an antique bar with mirror back, an elevated stage, a balcony, and tables of the period. One can almost hear the rinky-tink piano and join in the riotous goings-on that the spot might have elicited long ago. On occasion, the Purple Sage is open for private parties.

Shops around town add to the overall magnetism of Buffalo City. A general store overflows with antiques to delight any collector. But, present displays are only a fraction of the thousands of objects stored away in back rooms all over

KING OF THE MOUNTAIN

(Continued from page 55)

to even see the Cardinal stars. He was reassigned to Omaha and Johnny Keane. About that time, one of the Cardinal management was quoted as saying that Gibson could throw a baseball through the side of a barn —if he could hit the barn. If Gibson was becoming known for his power and fast ball, he was also known for his lack of control. And that's probably why he ended up back in Omaha.

His Nebraska stint was short-lived, however, and he was reassigned to Rochester, New York. Although he wasn't too wild about the idea of Rochester, it was where he picked up more control and experience — enough to again be invited to the Cardinal parent team training in Florida where he picked up the nickname "Hoot".

Still it wasn't all smooth sailing, but things kept falling mostly right for the big right-hander who could now hit the barn. Not only that, he could probably demolish a good share of it.

As time wore on, Gibson's name came up more and more frequently. His real claim to fame came, though, when he hurled the Cardinals to their 1964 World Series victory, establishing a record of 31 strikeouts along the way. After the smoke cleared, Gibson was tagged the most outstanding performer of the World Series by Sport magazine.

Triumph is a fleeting thing, and when the Cardinals donned their uniforms again in Florida in 1965, it had flown. Through player trades, changes in club management, and a plain cold streak, the team finished 7th, 16% games out of 1st place. The following year was little better. Players were traded, managers were fired or quit, and the cold front moved in again. Gibson rode home with a 21-12 record that year, but still labeled it a bad year because of injuries. And the Cards came in 6th in the National league —12 games out of 1st. For the St. Louis ball club, lightning had struck twice in the same place. But the last bolt was the herald of a bright season on the horizon, though no one seemed to know it at the time.

By the time things opened up the next spring, the entire Cardinal lineup was on top of the game. Everything looked good and Gibson had the "feel" of a prime season within arm's reach. Clairvoyance may not run rampant in the dugout but someone knew something ahead of time. They must have. Six games and six wins launched the 1967 season. From then on, there was no stopping the Cards. But there was a way to stop Gibson. And it happened against the Pittsburgh Pirates.

Pirate Roberto Clemente slammed a slider right down Bob's throat, or rather into his right leg. Gibson went down in pain but flagged off medical help, claiming he wasn't hurt too badly. He later said he thought the leg was simply bruised. Walking the next batter, he gave up a pop fly to the next. The third batter after the mishap was Donn JUNE 1970 Clendenon. Gibson remembered following through and coming down hard on his right leg. He felt something snap and he sprawled off the mound, his leg broken. Later, medical reports noted the drive had cracked the bone, which the follow-through snapped. To Gibson the question was how long he would be out. Seven weeks and four days later he was back pitching—with 3 1/2 weeks left in the season. He finished with a 13-7 record and the Cards walked off with the National League Pennant and headed into another World Series, this time against the Boston Red Sox.

It is doubtful if any other single game or series of games has caused so much excitement in Nebraska in its long history of sports. Bob Gibson became a household name, even to those who knew nothing about baseball. And, he was undoubtedly becoming many other names to Bostonians. He leveled them in the first game. The second fell to the Red Sox with Dick Hughes pitching for the Cards. St, Louis zipped back with a win in the third game and Gibson nailed down the fourth. Steve Carlton dropped the fifth game to the Sox and Dick Hughes gave up the sixth. Gibson, who had predicted the Cards would take the Series in five games, climbed his mountain once more to shut out the Red Sox and cop his second World Series in four years. It was a good season-1967. Gibson was again the top man of the Series as far as Sport magazine was concerned. And, he tied the World Series record for the most consecutive complete games, plus tying the record of allowing only 14 hits in 3 Series games. It was a good year-a year of triumph. It may never come again, but it told the world that Bob Gibson had arrived.

Not leaving matters to themselves, in 1968 Gibson held all batters facing him to an average of 1.12 earned runs per game —the lowest earned-run average in the history of the National League. Then he went on to shatter the record of a 17-strikeout shutout. The Cards lost the series in 1968, but Gibson was again one of the top names in the stadium.

In 1969 the New York Mets, always a tough team for the Cardinals, edged them out of the Series, but not out of the hearts of myriad baseball fans. And, Nebraska's Bob Gibson was right in there pitching, a place in which he is likely to remain for a long time to come. Monarchs are not easily dethroned. THE END

CATS IN THE CEDAR

(Continued from page 23)

sporadically in the almost dead-still water. Of course that was the way all of the fish caught there had bitten, so I expected to pull in another 10-incher. But suddenly my line began to play out a little faster. I waited, letting the fish take all the line it wanted. A few seconds ticked off before I set the hook. The rod almost jerked out of my hand. The fish felt like a living snag as it started to run. There was nothing I could do to stop it. Line zipped off the reel for what seemed an eternity before the drag began to slow the lunker.

Suddenly, he did something very strange for a catfish. About 40 yards downstream, he shot from the water right at the edge of a half-submerged tree. Turning, he started back upstream, moving almost at will. He suddenly tried to go deep. But with the help of the high bank, I could pull almost vertically, and in a few crucial moments he began to tire. For the next five minutes, my line somehow avoided protruding tree branches and submerged logs as the fish's dashes for freedom lessened. A final five minutes and the fish was close to a short sandbar at the base of the high bank. Still, he eluded the net for several minutes in a last futile try for freedom in the inky night. But finally the river gave him up and an eight-pound catfish lay in the net. The snag-infested river was defeated. It had lost an eight-pound fish to a six-pound test line on a tiny rod and reel usually used for bluegill. The fisherman had won — but for how long?

The next day I decided to try the morning but I had no luck; not at first. Small fish were not even biting, so I set a limit of 10 a.m. as my time to head home. At 5 minutes before 10, I got my first bite. Again, I had a small spinning rod with six-pound test. And, just as the night before, the line began slackening and tightening spasmodically. I didn't wait for him to take line this time, but instead I struck immediately. My rod bent almost double. Line spun off the reel and I was helpless to stop it. I ran along the high bank, following the fish downriver. Luckily, he stayed in the middle, away from snags for the first critical minutes. By running the opposite way from the fish, I kept out as much line as possible, making it impossible for the fish to break my line by any sudden rushes Finally, after about 10 minutes of see-sawing back and forth, he was close enough to be netted. A struggling 10-pounder lay in the net, another victim of the light rod and reel.

Two more days of fishing, my last for the fall, produced several more fish, some running to five pounds, and putting a fitting end to this wild week of fishing. Why the fish were biting that week was probably due to a combination of factors. First it was the beginning of that fall time when fish begin to up their feeding habits in preparation for winter. However, the main reason was undoubtedly the flood, for it had washed out gravel pits, natural lakes, and countless farm dams. The result was many fish which remained unsettled for several weeks, contributing to one wild week on the Cedar River. THE END

59

Roundup and What to do

NEBRASKAland Days heads a fun-filled month of outdoor festivities and action-filled celebrations

JUNE CHARGES INTO Nebraska with droves of outdoor festivities. The biggest of these celebrations is NEBRASKAland Days when North Platte becomes the hub of all western activity. On June 15, the Miss NEBRASKAland Pageant kicks off a week-long schedule of events with a bevy of beautiful girls.

Kathy Schultz, left, Miss NEBRASKAland of 1969, and this month's hostess, will be on hand to crown the new western queen. A spring graduate of Hastings College, Kathy majored in English and secondary education, and plans to teach in the fall. She is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Schultz of Hastings. She graduated from Hastings High School.

Besides her title as Miss NEBRASKAland, Kathy was Miss Adams County in 1967 and competed with girls from other Nebraska counties as a finalist in the Miss Centennial Nebraska Pageant.

Kathy is secretary of her sorority, Sigma Tau Sigma. She is a member of Eastern Star and a synchronized swimming group. She was on the yearbook staff in college. Miss Schultz lists sewing, riding, swimming, creative writing, traveling, and work with children among her favorite pastimes.

Besides the beauty pageant, NEBRASKAland Days offers the Frontier JUNE 1970 Review, a nightly stage show featuring the best of the West. Starting Thursday, the thrills and spills of rodeo will also become part of the evening's entertainment.

That same day, the NEBRASKAland Days Parade and the Buffalo Bill Luncheon will pinpoint Old West activities. Some well-known western celebrity who will reign over coming action, will be presented at the luncheon.

A horse pulling contest, antique and classic car parade, best western-dressed kids' parade, muzzle-loading rifle meet, and a free barbecue are only a few of the major activites of this seven-day event.

Two rodeos launch their own mid-month extravaganza. On June 6 and 7 the Little Britches Rodeo in Ogallala gets youngsters in on the action. Five sizzling events, from barrel racing to goat tying, help prepare kids for the nationals.

High school competition rides into Bassett on June 12 and 13 with five events for boys and two for girls. And to keep the western action moving, four rodeos after NEBRASKAland Days round out the schedule. The first is the Nora rodeo. Next is the Seven Valley's Rodeo in Callaway followed by the State High School Championship Rodeo in Harrison, and the Ponca competition.

National action will invade Nebraska with the College World Series slated for Omaha, June 12 through 19. For eight hard-hitting days, top college teams will vie for honors in one of America's favorite sports, baseball.

For the spectator, thrills of snarling engines, coupled with the ever-present danger of a crash, Cornhusker Raceway in Omaha is the scene. On the 14th and 21st of June, Nebraska's biggest city will host auto racing with all its excitement. Other tracks throughout the state will be opening throughout the month.

Another favorite summer sport, for participators rather than spectators, is golf. Besides the weekend mornings at Nebraska's many greens, two tournaments will test the talents of golfers. The first begins on the 20th at Seward and ends on the 21st. Capping the action is an open tournament in Sargent on the 21st.

The old-time traveling circus is becoming a thing of the past. No longer do children wait many days for the circus to come parading through town to the spot where the Big Top is to be set up. But part of this colorful past still survives with the performances of the Shrine Circus across the state. Instead of using circus wagons, shows now travel in trucks. Children of the McCook area will be able to see the first performance June 5.

But the outdoor action is only beginning, for the state will host numerous trap shoots, several horse shows, auto races, a barbecue, and a horseshoe tournament, all in June. The Niobrara canoe races will bring back days when Indians and trappers plied Nebraska's waterways.

The state Campvention in Grand Island will bring campers from all over the state into the third city for three days. Members of the National Campers and Hikers Association will meet at Fonner Park for a full schedule of activities and old-fashioned campfire get-togethers.

A list of ethnic festivals dots the June events schedule, starting with Kolacky Days in Verdigre. Both Kolacky Days and the Czech Festival in Clarkson will feature Czech bands and Old World meals.

During the Swedish Festival in Stromsburg, native costume will reign. A smorgasbord will tempt the taste, while a carnival and horseshoe contest will keep the action moving.

June is a marriage of action and color in NEBRASKAland. From the union comes a month of eventful festivals, beauty pageants, memories of pioneer days, and a lot of fun.

What to do 1-30 —except Mondays —Children's Zoo, Lincoln 1-7 —Bellevue Days, Bellevue 2-5-4-H Club Week, Lincoln 5-6 —Shrine Circus, McCook 6 — Registered Trap Shoot, Bellevue 6-7 —Little Britches Rodeo, Ogallala 6-12 —Cornhusker Boys' and Girls' State, Lincoln 7 —Niobrara Canoe Races, Valentine 7 — Registered Trap Shoot, Holdrege 7 — Registered Trap Shoot, Roscoe 7 — Registered Trap Shoot, Norfolk 7 —4-H Horse Show, Sutherland 7 — Platte Valley Quarter Horse Show, Lexington 11-13 —Miss Nebraska Pageant, York 12-13-High School Rodeo, Bassett 12-14-State VFW Convention, Ogallala 12-14 —State Campvention, Grand Island 12-19-College World Series, Omaha 13-14 —Kolacky Days, Verdigre 14 —Art Workshop Opening, Brownville 14 —Open Horseshoe Tournament, Crete 14 —Quarter Horse Show, Ogallala 14 — Auto Races, Cornhusker Raceway, Omaha 15-21-NEBRASKAland Days and Buffalo Bill Rodeo, North Platte 19-20 —Swedish Festival, Stromsburg 19-21-Rodeo, Nora 19-21-Millard Days, Millard 20 —Plum Creek 4-H Horse Show, Lexington 20-21 - Golf Tournament, Seward 21 —Open Golf Tournament, Sargent 21 —Horse Show, Howells 21 —Auto Races, Cornhusker Raceway, Omaha 21 —Lincoln Boat Club River Trip, Lincoln 21 —Registered Trap Shoot, Beatrice 21 —Registered Trap Shoot, Kearney 21— Registered Trap Shoot, Alliance 21-22-Seven Valley's Rodeo, Callaway 23-25 —York County Centennial Days, Gresham 24-Swedish Festival, Axtell 24-26 —American Legion State Convention, Chadron 24-28 —Nebraska State High School Championship Rodeo, Harrison 25-July 11 —District 4-H Camp, Seward 26-28 —Czech Festival, Clarkson 26-28-Rodeo, Ponca 26-July 6 —Ft. Robinson Post Playhouse, "The Tender Trap", Crawford 27 — Big Sky Jubilee, Anselmo 27 — Horse Show, Brady 28 — Registered Trap Shoot, Lincoln 28 — Horse Show, Grant 28 —Barbecue, Exeter 28-Registered Trap Shoot, North Platte THE END 61

COUNTRY KIND OF SUMMER

(Continued from page 20)

fullness. Summer tenders such a feeling of permanence that the passage of time seems marked only by the number of stacks still to be put up. This is the season we eat, sleep, and dream about hay!

The hot, sweaty days spent in stacking great mounds of dried grass and clover always seem more worthwhile after a soothing dip in the pond and a picnic supper spread while we fish. But we don't stay long, for with dusk come clouds of mosquitoes to torment the unwary. We head down the familiar path home, watching pink-tinged, powder-puff clouds that sit at the edge of a brilliant sunset, made twice as lovely by its watery reflection. The rest of the world grows softly dim and a last sleepy trill is heard from a meadowlark, just putting itself to bed.

Our wild animal neighbors continue to provoke interest, even during the busiest of seasons. Last summer there was the pet fawn that displayed an endearing personality along with his sandy dappled coat, until he outgrew the need for human dependence and wandered away with others of his kind. This year's bounty was two little cottontails, caught when their mother was unavoidably killed in the hay field. They were soon turned loose in a safer place, however, despite a small girl's pleading, for a rabbit is self-reliant at quite a young age, and we would rather watch our wild friends in their native environment than keep them caged.

The curlews are an interesting bird, and sometimes dangerous if their nests in the grass are disturbed. Their long, sharp beaks are used to good advantage in a dive upon any invader. One pair of parents unwisely built a nest close to the road and spent a good deal of time flying before each car that passed, seemingly convinced that their circling, calling, soaring tactics were leading the shiny metal intruder away from their fledglings.

Traveling to town one evening we stopped to watch a few young deer near the edge of the road, only to discover two very agitated does and several more fawns across the highway. Apparently the group had become separated and the mamas were trying to induce the inexperienced offspring to cross over to them. We waved at an approaching car which slowed and gave the deer the needed motivation to dive through the fence and scamper gracefully across the pavement, where they rejoined their companions. Instead of bounding off as we expected, they all stood together, alert gray statues, watching us until we reluctantly drove away. We still wonder if those two does were babysitting!

Nature's noises seem relatively quiet to us when compared with city sounds. But, visitors often exclaim that the "musical" calves in the corral, the mobs of twittering birds outside the windows at dawn, the eerie cacophony of coyote calls (two can sound like ten), and even crickets seem loud to unaccustomed ears.

Someone told us that growing flowers in this area was a lost cause, which immediately aroused stubborn instincts and caused "green thumbs" to throb. We were determined to grow a nice lawn and surround it with colorful borders. With some hard work and Mother Nature's cooperation we reaped fragrant harvests of golden glow zinnias, marigolds, roses, sweet peas, bachelor buttons, peppermint pinks, giant sunflowers, cosmos, hollyhocks, iris, gladiolus, violets, daisys, and lilies of the valley! Bouquets of cut flowers went to the little white church on 62 Sundays, won first prizes at the county fair, and adorned the tables for a large banquet. But most satisfying to us were the sweet-smelling centerpieces that graced our own table.

Of course, city gardeners seldom have to contend with inquisitive calves that walk across a newly seeded lawn! But, our only other problems were caused by our trio of dogs who tried industriously to rid our sod of tunneling moles, and only succeeded in creating some unsightly excavations. Their services not with-standing, we succeeded in attaining a nice, grassy expanse instead of the sandpile we started with. The Sand Hills are famous for growing grass!

The hard work of summer is soon forgotten, pushed aside by word pictures which convey to our minds the crystal cleanness of a new-washed world, after the turmoil of a sudden thunderstorm. Every blade of grass wears a crown of silver droplets and the fresh, crisp smell of wind waving through a sea of wet grass is unforgettable.

After a day spent working cattle, we gather around a stock tank to water our horses and josh one another, for our spirits are high with a job well done. The horses drink deep of the cold, clear water and we watch the ripples that spread into ever widening circles to meet across the tank. The breeze quickens and the windmill creaks with renewed vigor, sending fresh spurts of water gurgling from the spout. We lean far out under the fresh running water to cleanse dusty faces and satisfy deep thirsts.

Our horses raise dripping, velvety muzzles and stare, ears pricked, at the curious cows that inevitably gather around. We assure a tired young daughter that she did just fine on her first all-day cattle drive, and she is proud and content as we remount. The horses sense a release of tension with their jobs complete and kick up their heels in a groundcovering lope, heading home.

Yes, sweet summer will linger on — long after the warm days are spent, the last rodeo attended, the last moonlight ride and watermelon feed finished. Summer will live on in memory forever. THE END

RED BUFFALO

(Continued from page 51)

other. Then the area between the rings was to be burned off, leaving a barren path. Such a firebreak left nothing to ignite. And, it was — hopefully — too wide for fire to jump.

A high wind could make the firebreak useless, however. But Bill, like other Kinkaiders, could only hope the wind would be calm. Any spark that crossed the "burn" might ignite the other side. Or, a flaming tumbleweed might roll over the plowed ground like a torch.

Bill sparked the grasses between his fire rings — without help. He soon learned that fire in dry prairie grass was too much for one man to control. As the flames grew, Bill Springfield's fire jumped the outside ring and started its sweep across the summer-hot prairie, devouring everything in its path. With NEBRASKAland no rain in sight along the shimmering horizon, the North Platte River was the closest possible firebreak.

The blaze spread across the plains, threatening other ranches. Everyone turned out to help contain the burning, a matter of fighting the side fires. The leading inferno was always out of control and could only be allowed to burn itself out. Families, with what belongings they could save, fled ahead of the blaze. Flames rolled across the dry summer grass like a huge carpet, gaining width with each mile.

It burned low, no higher than a big hound dog. But, whipped by the wind, the flames could travel faster than a horse could run. Settlers fled their homes, pursued by the ominous roaring sound, like a thousand stampeding buffalo. Fear was a hot breath on their necks.

Rabbits, coyotes, cattle, horses, and people raced to escape the burning holocaust, while those with safe homes helped fight the fire. Days passed with no relief from the stifling heat or the acrid smell of smoke. Armed with burlap bags, brooms, saddle blankets, or even old bits of clothing, the settlers rushed put to meet an enemy as terrible as any war. Faces blackened, tongues and throats swollen from dryness, the men dragged home only when exhausted arms and backs could no longer lift the dampened bits of cloth used to flail the fire. Mechanically, men raised and lowered aching arms, beating at the flames. Silently and desperately they fought to save their families and their homes. They were gone for days at a time, and when they returned they dropped into bed, slept a whole day, and were gone again, like black phantoms. Whenever waiters-at-home saw someone riding up they put on the coffeepot and prepared a meal for an army.

As the conflagration devoured mile after mile, women and children found their various ways to escape. A firebreak offered protection — so did a new soddie. With windows and doors closed, the makeshift house could withstand burning around the outside while the family inside remained relatively cool. But an old soddie was another matter. Everyone had heard tales of people who roasted alive in their sod shacks.

Only one person died in the Springfield fire. A small boy, 10-year-old Tommy Case, was bringing in the cows. He carried his saddle, for he planned to catch his horse. But the fire caught him still afoot.

He smelled smoke, and saw the sky growing darker. The sun was nearly hidden by the gray cloud. Like a red-orange sunset, the fire came up on the horizon and burned its way closer. Unable to catch a mount, Tommy covered himself with his saddle, the only protection he had. When the head fire caught him, he burned to death.

But there was not yet time for Tommy's funeral. Fire still raged across the plains, unabated by this human sacrifice. Fire fighters tried the only thing left, the desperation measure of a backfire. They plowed a trench in the path of the oncoming flames and then started one of

VIZSLA-POINTER SHOWDOWN

(Continued from page 41)

and Bud had to practically stomp on it to get it out.

Both dogs looked impressive as they continued to locate bird after bird. I heard Jack say, 'This is when quail 64 hunting is really fun, when the dogs start working singles."

When the smoke cleared, the fellows counted up their take. The 3 of them had raised the total to 14 and I had found the range on another which joined the first in my game pouch.

"That was some nice shooting," said Joe to Bud, who had become the deadeye of the group.

I had to agree, but Jack and Joe were doing all right, too. We decided to swing back along a creek and then head into town for lunch. Jack was walking next to me so I asked him, "What made you decide on a vizsla?"

"I can't have a dog and just leave him in a pen. This dog is in the house a lot and he's a friend. Some dogs lose their desire to hunt when you keep them in a house, but a vizsla will lose his desire if you don't give him a great deal of attention. He'll think you don't love him and he simply won't do anything for you, then," he replied.

To my question of why he liked the vizsla's hunting style, the Fairbury doctor answered, "A vizsla is easy to control. He's too worried about me and keeps coming back to see where I am. I don't have to do a lot of calling in. Since I'm a weekend dog trainer, I need one that wants to be with me and not somewhere else."

As I reflected on Jack's answers, I looked over and saw Spike frozen astride a large brushpile next to the creek.

"I can hear them peeping in there," Joe whispered as we hurried over.

The next thing I knew, Joe was on the brushpile jumping up and down. A bird squirted out and rocketed down the creek straight at Jack and me. We both whirled and fired futile shots as the brown-and-white streak whizzed by. Our sheepish looks weren't really necessary as not many hunters would have scored on such a shot.

We joined the others at the brushpile where we shared a laugh and where Bud, Jack, and Joe filled out their limits of six quail each. Between shooting my camera and gun, I had managed to down three.

We had been in the field less than two hours when we loaded the dogs and headed back to Jack's. As we rode I queried Bud about his dog.

"Spike has a little age on him so he doesn't range quite as far as when he was younger, but a pointer naturally ranges farther than a dog like a vizsla. I like this in a dog," he said.

When I asked him if he kept his dog in the house sometimes like Jack, he replied, "Pointers are more high-strung and not too good as a family pet. Spike is definitely not a family pet. He's just about a one-man dog."

Later, we sat at Jack's house talking over the hunt and enjoying lunch. Joe pretty well summed up my feelings about the vizsla pointer match when he gave his verdict as judge.

"I think they're both good. They both worked really hard, or we wouldn't have our limit. I like both dogs." I agreed with Joe. I liked both dogs, too. THE END

NEBRASKAland

Outdoor Elsewhere

Quitting Time. After hunting feverishly all day the opening day of deer season without even spotting one deer, a Minnesota hunter decided to take his frustrations out on a big tree about 100 feet away. The fellow shouldered his new rifle and emptied it on the tree. After he quit firing, another hunter stepped out from behind the tree, apparently figuring it was quitting time, too.— Minnesota

Pollution Kills Fish. Polluted waters continue to kill fish in almost every state in the United States. An estimated 15,300,000 fish were killed in 1968 by identifiable pollution sources in 42 states, an increase of 31 percent over 1967. Pollution from municipal sewers and treatment plants accounted for 6,950,000 fish deaths in 122 separate incidents. Industrial wastes were responsible for the highest number of incidents, 177 in all, with 6,400,000 fish kills to their discredit. These 2 categories accounted for 88 percent of all fish known to be killed, but the 15 million figure may be only a fraction of those fish actually killed from pollution. — Washington, D.C.

Record for "Homing Instinct." One of nature's most challenging secrets is the natural homing instinct possessed by many of her creatures. The record for homing instinct was established by a Manx shearwater, a migratory sea bird, that was captured from its nest on the coast of Wales. The bird was flown to Boston by jet, and released. Wouldn't you know it? In 12V2 days, the bird was back in his Wales nest, 3,050 miles across the Atlantic Ocean. — Wales

Unequal Expenditures. As most everyone knows, a good family budget is well balanced. However, overall American expenditures are quite unbalanced in some areas. For example, in 1968 the 66 American public spent $9.7 billion for tobacco products, $15.5 billion for alcoholic beverages and over $19.1 billion on gasoline and oil. But, that same year federal, state, and local government expenditures throughout the nation for our natural resources, including agriculture, totaled less than $7 billion. - Washington, D.C.

Grumbling Hunter. On the second day of the deer season last fall, a Wisconsin hunter burst into a sporting-goods store and asked to buy a moose license. "Can't sell you one. We don't have any moose," the proprietor explained to the hunter. "Well," spouted the sportsman, "two days ago you sold me a deer license, and you don't have any deer either". Grumbling, the hunter left the store. — Wisconsin

A Masked Bandit. A Pennsylvania woman called a game warden for assistance with a pesky raccoon that was raiding her garbage can and making a terrible mess every night. The warden suggested that she fasten the lid with a spring so the raccoon couldn't get into the can, until he could come over and trap the bandit for removal. The lady called back the next day to say that she didn't know for sure if the spring worked or not, because the whole garbage can was gone. Now that's downright thievery! — Pennsylvania

The Bear Facts. On a certain golf course in Ontario a rather unusual club is standardly issued to each group of players. The club is a .30/30 carbine and its use is for bear shots if necessary. It seems bears are often seen wandering about the course, and the players need the gun for absolute protection. — Ontario, Canada

Jump Shooting. A New York duck hunter was carefully eyeing his decoys waiting for some action. Then, after a bit, he was so comfortable he fell asleep. The hunter awoke a little later and was surprised to see several mallards swimming around his decoys. It suddenly dawned on him that he should try to bag a couple, so he jumped to his feet to shoot. But, his legs were still asleep, and he fell awkwardly and loudly out of the blind, sending the ducks scurrying to safety. —New York

Bass Hunters. Fishing for bass is one thing, but how about hunting for them? It sounds strange, but two Missouri hunters did just that. While hunting doves last fall, one of the fellows got off a great shot. But the dove fell square in the middle of a farm pond. His buddy rigged up a rod and reel he happened to have in the car and began casting for the bird. On the first cast, he reeled in a 2 1/2-pound bass. The second cast brought in a one-pounder. To top it all off, they never did retrieve the dove.— Missouri

NEBRASKAland